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After the Fall
by Mer
James Wilson dropped the phone back on the cradle, his father's words echoing in his mind. His brother. Michael. Dead. They were words he'd been expecting to hear for the better part of a decade, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. Or understand.
He'd told his father he would drive over right away, but he couldn't. Not yet. Going there, seeing his parents would make it real and he didn't want it to be real. He wanted to keep pretending that Michael was out there somewhere, happy and content. He didn't want the last words he'd ever said to his brother to be, "Leave then, you sonofabitch."
He opened the door to his balcony and stepped outside. Across the way, the lights in the Diagnostic department were dark. House and his team must have left for the day. The band around his chest twisted a little tighter. He walked over to the low brick wall separating his balcony from House's and leaned against it, looking out into the night.
He wished House were there, complaining about Cuddy or regaling him with tales of stupidity from the clinic. He wished he could think about anything other than his older brother lying dead and broken on a morgue table. Suicide, his father had told him. Death by falling. He had spent enough time in the emergency room to know what that could mean.
He wondered what had been going through Michael's mind in those last moments, whether he had been thinking about his family, if he ever thought about his family. What had he felt as he stood at the edge of the roof and readied himself to step forward? Wilson climbed onto the outer wall of the balcony, balancing carefully with one foot anchoring him on the dividing wall.
The wind was cool on his face. It was a beautiful night. That seemed wrong somehow. It should have been storming, the heavens lashing out in grief. Last night had been beautiful as well. He remembered sitting on the balcony after work, sipping scotch with House. It had been such a normal day.
He looked down at the courtyard below and wondered how high up he actually was. Forty feet, maybe. High enough. He didn't need to be higher to understand the strange combination of fear and anticipation that Michael must have felt before he took the final step. Or perhaps he was too drunk or stoned to know anything except that it was all going to end.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Wilson froze, but his heart started pounding, the fear wiping out the anticipation. He thought House had left for the night. "I'm getting some fresh air," he said, aiming for casual.
"You can get fresh air on the ground," House said calmly, no trace of his usual sardonic tone.
Wilson didn't move. He didn't think he could make his legs work. He wondered if this was what limbo was like. Can't go forward, can't go back. His heartbeat ratcheted up another notch. There was nowhere for him to go. He stared out into the night. It would be so easy just to take the last step. He hoped it had been easy for Michael. He hoped he had found freedom in that final moment.
"James, look at me."
It was always dangerous when House used his formal given name. Wilson knew how it looked. He would never be able to convince House that he hadn't intended to jump. He wasn't sure he hadn't. He could hear House's uneven footsteps approaching. There was a heavy thunk as House rested his cane against the wall.
"I'd join you," he said calmly, "but my days of climbing fences are over."
Wilson looked down and turned his head slightly, bringing House's face into his peripheral vision. He didn't like what he saw, but it was enough to pull him back. He stepped towards House, making his decision. House's hand wrapped around his ankle, the long artistic fingers surprisingly strong.
"Why don't you join me," he suggested gently.
Wilson lowered himself carefully onto the dividing wall, legs dangling on House's side of the balcony. House transferred his grip to Wilson's arm, pulling him upright. But suddenly Wilson's legs refused to bear his weight and he slid down the wall to the ground, nearly toppling House over with him. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to contain the sudden shaking that seized his body.
House lowered himself carefully down and sat shoulder to shoulder with him. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
Wilson shook his head before burying it in his arms. He didn't trust his voice not to shatter if he tried to speak. House's hand dropped on the back of his neck, on the spot where the tension always built up the most. That simple touch did shatter him.
"What happened?" House pressed. "You're scaring me," he said when the silence stretched out between them.
Wilson took a deep breath and sat up. "I wasn't going to do anything stupid," he said, when he thought he could talk without breaking down. "I just wanted to feel what it would be like."
"For whom?" House asked precisely, as if formal grammar could exert some control on the situation. "You? Not much to feel once you hit the ground. Unless the fall didn't kill you and I can tell you anything you want to know about living in pain." He didn't give Wilson a chance to respond. "How about for the poor sap who found you? Or the ones who watched and could do nothing? Or everybody you left behind wondering why?"
That was more than Wilson could bear. "I know how that feels," he said, voice cracking. "I wanted to know how he felt." He could almost hear the gears turning in House's mind.
"Your brother?" he asked finally.
One of the best things about being Greg House's friend was that you never had to waste time explaining things. He could add information up faster than anyone else he knew. Wilson nodded, knowing that House would understand.
"Tell me," House demanded, but there was compassion in his voice.
He didn't know where to start. How did you articulate the incomprehensible? "The police called my father today," he started hesitantly. "They found Michael in an alley. He was living in a flophouse in Trenton and last night he climbed up to the roof and just stepped off." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears burning for release. "My father had to identify his body." That set the tears free and he gasped back a sob. "Why didn't they call me? Why did they make him go through that?"
House sighed and rubbed the back of Wilson's neck gently. "I'm sorry. But at least you have some closure now. It must be a relief after all these years."
Wilson pulled away. He had known House couldn't possibly understand, but that didn't keep him from being disappointed. "You think it's a relief to know that my brother died in despair?" He scrambled to his feet and climbed over the wall to his side of the balcony. "I have to go see my parents." He walked towards his office, wondering if House would try to stop him, wondering how he was going to face his parents, wondering how close he had really been to stepping off the edge before House came.
"Wilson!" House called out.
He turned around slowly. House was standing against the wall, leaning forward. He had never seen House look that worried before. He found himself walking back to him without having made a conscious decision.
House reached out and grabbed his arm. "Let me come with," he said.
Fresh tears burned the corners of Wilson's eyes and he looked down, not wanting House to see more evidence of his weakness. "Why?" he whispered. House's hand on his arm tightened and he looked up.
"Because you need me," he replied simply.
And, oh god, it was true. He stood there, unable to move or speak, trying not to cry, because men don't cry and they certainly don't cry in front of Greg House. Except House looked as though he were about to cry himself and that didn't make sense, because it wasn't his brother who was dead. It wasn't his brother who had stood above a filthy alley and stepped into eternity.
He wondered what House had thought when he walked onto the balcony and saw him balancing on the wall. "I wasn't... I would never..." His voice trailed off, not sure if it were true or not. He couldn't do that to his parents; he couldn't do that to House. But there had been a moment when he hadn't been thinking about anything except the oblivion at the end of the final step.
"You'd better not," House retorted, jabbing Wilson in the chest with one finger. "I don't want to have to tell your parents that two of their sons took the easy way out."
That broke through the grief to ignite a flame of anger. Anger was good. Anger was better than pain. He pushed House back, though not hard enough to make him lose his balance. "You don't know how he felt. You don't know what his life was like."
"You think I don't understand pain?" House shouted back. "That there aren't days when I think I'd be better off dead?"
The words hit Wilson like a physical blow. The death of his brother was a fresh wound, sharp and stinging, but he knew in time it would fade to the dull ache that his loss had long been. Just the thought of losing House stole his breath away. "What do you want from me?" he whispered.
"I want you to tell me that when I'm gone, when your parents are gone, you'll still be here."
Sometimes it frightened Wilson how well House knew him. Sometimes it was the only thing that anchored him to reality. Wilson lifted his chin and gazed defiantly into House's eyes. "What would be the point?"
For once House was the first to look away. "Then I guess we'll both have to live forever."
The air rushed back into his body and he slumped against the wall, drained and exhausted. House grabbed his arm again, anchoring him physically as well as emotionally.
"I worry about you," House whispered.
Wilson's stomach hollowed. That wasn't supposed to be the way their relationship worked. Wilson worried about House and House... House did things that made Wilson worry. Not the other way around. "There's no need." The look House gave him made him flush with guilt. "You don't have to worry about me."
House's hand clenched almost convulsively on his arm. "You work in one of the most stressful fields in medicine and you lose more patients in a month than I treat in a year. You've had three marriages fail and you have no support network, because you're afraid to burden your family with any more troubles. You have no real friends, because I suck up all your time and energy." House's fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of his arm. "And I push and pull at you, and one day I'm going to break you, and I don't know how to stop myself."
Wilson pulled his arm free, but didn't move away. "For every patient that dies, another one lives. And for those that do die, I can at least give them some measure of peace and comfort. I've married three good women and they've loved me. And maybe that love didn't last, but it existed. Sparing my parents pain isn't a burden and neither is being your friend."
House held his gaze, his sharp eyes searching Wilson's face. "I wish I could be a better friend to you."
"You're the best friend I could ever imagine." It was the truth. House was frustrating, maddening, sometimes even dangerous. But Wilson was only ever truly comfortable in his presence. "I'm sorry I scared you."
House scowled. "Do it again and I'll push you off the roof myself."
Wilson couldn't help it; he laughed. It seemed wrong, but it felt right. "Always have to be in control, don't you."
"Damn straight." House cocked his head to the side, still studying, still assessing. "You all right?"
"No," Wilson replied honestly. "But I think I can see my parents now." The thought of facing them brought the grief flooding back, but it was bearable now. He could be strong enough for them. House was strong enough for him.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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