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Only Thing Left
by Lynnafer
"He can't take much more of this. He's maxed out on his morphine. Put him in a coma. He can be out through the worst of it."
"House, he's already said to take the leg. You're right, he can't take much more of this. The hypercalcemia is killing his heart. We have to fix this, now."
"Just put him out, we'll decide where to go from there."
House jogged along the tree-lined path, knees screaming from the impact of the newly frozen ground. It had been five years since Wilson's infarction and he still replayed the events of those days in his mind during his morning run. And he used it to push his middle-aged body to the extreme. He flogged himself for his role with the pain in his knees, the aching muscles and burning lungs. He hadn't been thinking straight. All he wanted was to spare Wilson from the pain after the bypass. He'd forgotten about Bonnie. Wilson's second wife had also been his medical proxy. Too stubborn to listen to House's plea to wait it out and too vain to listen to Wilson's demands to take his leg, she'd gone with Cuddy's suggestion to cut out the dead tissue. If only. If only House hadn't put him in that coma. Maybe he'd have recovered, or he'd walk tall on a leg of plastic and titanium. Or maybe yet, Wilson would be dead. If only someone had diagnosed him properly in the first place.
He showered in the hospital locker room, turning the water as hot as it would go and fiddling with the shower head to increase the pressure. The water beat down on his, violent and scalding, further punishing his flesh. He scoured his skin roughly with the wash cloth but couldn't seem to get clean. Somedays, he managed not to think about the uncleanness, his unworthiness. Middle age found Greg House alone (Stacy had left him somewhere in the drunken haze after Wilson's infarction) and professionally stunted. God knows why Cuddy kept him on. He worked alone, out of a small office tucked into a corner of the fourth floor. He continued to take on the strange cases that seemed to plague the hospital, just like before. Most of the time, he managed to save them at the last minute just like before. House knew though, that it was not like before. He'd missed the most important diagnosis of his life and hadn't been as confident since. No one blamed him for the death of the OTB woman. How could anyone have figured it out with all the self-medicating she'd been doing? House hadn't even considered Munchausen's. Everything had pointed to aplastic anemia. And so he'd fried her immune system, a death sentence once the infection took hold. He should have thought of infection. He should have thought that Wilson's pain was more that just a pulled muscle. He should have thought of the consequences of that coma.
Dressing in his usual uniform of jeans, T-shirt and rumpled button down, House made his way to his personal hell. He knew today would not be one of the good days where seizures and heart attacks could make him forget, if even for a moment, the events of those days. Today, it would play through his head in vivid detail and five-point surround sound. He couldn't remember if he'd brought in the mail this morning, but the image of the white, strained face of a man in excruciating pain and the jagged purple line of a fresh surgical scar just wouldn't fade. Bonnie hadn't made it through that first year. Whether guilt or disgust at the remnants of her husband, it didn't matter. Wilson hadn't opted for the amputation out of deference to her. House assumed he kept his leg now out of spite and probably some form of personal guilt. He supposed it was easier to tell innocent children and teary eyed women they were going to die if they had a visual cue as to how awful your own life was.
On his way to the dungeon that was his office, House saw Wilson coming off the elevator. In his left hand was a state of the art, ergonomical cane, complete with little white rubber tips, lest he mar the newly waxed floors. His mobility was surprisingly good. He'd gone through six months of physio with that stupid optimistic smile on his face. He did yoga now. Everyday. Like a religious obsession. House was not an idiot though. There had to be pain. Wilson would never show it though. There were days, however, when a couple ibuprofen wouldn't come close to cutting it. On these days, Wilson would not emerge from his office. Not until he heard the squeaking steps of House's sneakers in the hall. He would invite himself into House's car, his home. He never said anything about the pain on those nights, but maybe he drank a little more than usual. Not that House noticed since he in turn would drink a lot more than usual so he wouldn't have to see. And in the morning, he would run even harder and further. Run until he threw up and everything hurt like hell. He'd never feel Wilson's pain, but he could create his own easily enough.
Wilson approached him with a smile and gossip from the nurse's station. House made the requisite crude remarks about Nurse Brenda's reported new beau from radiology. When Wilson dropped some papers while trying to juggle them and his cane, House merely stepped over them and continued on his way. He couldn't treat his crippled friend any differently than anyone else. Even if that strange, limping gait and cleverly concealed pain were his fault.
In his office, he sat down, muscles burning, and opened the file a nurse had forced into his hands as he'd passed. He stared at the ER's test results. It didn't add up. White count was up, but blood and urine cultures came back clean. Kidneys were functioning normally, but the patient was still going into congestive heart failure. He ruled out his first diagnosis for every case. It definitely wasn't an infarction. He pushed himself back out of his chair and felt his knees shift in their sockets, bones grinding. It hurt like mad and he relished it. To further his torment, he headed in the direction of the patient's room. He'd have to do his own tests and break the patient's spirits until he figured out what he was lying about. House could tell that wouldn't satisfy his guilt today. He'd find Wilson for lunch. He needed to watch the man limp down the hallway, maneuver his way awkwardly through the cafeteria line and carefully lower himself into on the orange plastic chairs. An accidental bump against Wilson'' right thigh should be enough to bring that flash of pain to his wide brown eyes. That look would give House the crushing chest pain of a full-blown panic attack that he needed to make it through the day.
House cut out of work early. There was nothing interesting about an idiot who ordered cheap Viagra online and ended up with a lethal combination of crap in his system. Once home, he stripped down to his boxers and grasped the metal bar affixed across the doorjamb in his hall. As he hauled his body up over and over again, he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. In five years his hair had thinned and grayed slightly, but he was in better shape that he'd been in a decade ago. His punishing regime had hardened his body. He could see the flexing definition in his biceps, pectorals, deltoids and triceps as he continued his pull-ups, ignoring the stabbing in his hands from freshly broken blisters. Sweat dripping down his face, he held himself in the up position and watched his abdominal muscle ripple as he lifted his knees up to his chest repeatedly. He didn't stop until the trembling kept him from gripping the bar. He ran a bath and settled into the shockingly cold water. Before he soaped the day off, he sunk down into the tub and submerged his head. He wondered how long he could stay under water and if the burning in his lungs would get more intense with every second.
Wilson knocked at his door. He knew it was Wilson. The knock was too confident, not the meek, scared tapping of the delivery people who knew all too well what waited for them on the other side. House waited while Wilson yelled at him to open the damn door since his hands were full of Thai food. House opened the door but made no move to help. It wasn't expected of him, and when Wilson struggled with his cane and the bags, House's quick in drawn breath seared his still aching lungs. Wilson's diet contained more spicy food of late. He was using the endorphins released from consuming capsaicin as a pain reliever. House just consumed the whole chili peppers to revel in the sting they created on his tongue and the stabbing flames of the ulcer he was developing. The beer he chased the peppers with soothed his tongue but licked at the raw hole in his stomach lining with delicious pain. House noticed that despite Wilson's capsaicin intake, he was still reaching for his fourth beer and looked away from House as he shifted on the couch to his the flash of pain in his eyes.
Several hours spent on House's couch watching lesbian dramas had likely done nothing to help the pain Wilson was undoubtedly in. House could hear his breathing. It was shallow and quicker than usual. He was uncomfortable knowing there was nothing that could be done and there was no beer left in the fridge to numb his guilt. He turned his head from the television. Lesbian sex was doing nothing for him and Wilson was in his peripheral vision. He formed a fist and dug his nails into the flesh of his palm. Lost in his need to draw blood, House was startled by the hand that slapped down on his thigh and gripped it hard. His head jerked back to stare at Wilson. The man's face was flush with pain and House could see only that in his eyes and none of the intoxication he was sure Wilson had been aiming for. Wilson's eyes met his and seemed to be begging him to take the pain away. House's heart raced and his nails dug deeper. He'd done this to his friend. Broken him and put the pieces back in this painful order. He watched as Wilson's lips parted with a small gasp. The hand on his thigh was relentless, squeezing. House would have a bruise to watch Wilson's scar. His mouth twitched up at that thought. As if he'd been waiting for a subtle ok, Wilson crashed his mouth down over the slight smirk. House's mind whirled for a moment before it caught up with the situation. Wilson's tongue was invading his mouth, skimming his teeth and tangling with his own. And yet, the violent clamping on his thigh continued. When sharp teeth bit down on his lip he groaned. The teeth moved away at the sound, but House reached his hand up to hold Wilson's head in place. Soon he tasted blood in his mouth.
He didn't understand what they were doing, but the crash of his shoulder blades against the wall and Wilson's nails on his scalp felt so good he couldn't bring himself to stop it. He could taste the mingling of Wilson's sweat and the blood from this split lip as their mouths battled. When he finally opened his eyes, he was shocked to see the dark sanctuary of his bedroom surrounding them. His tired muscles trembled as he was pushed onto the bed. He could feel the matching trembling in Wilson's thigh and felt satisfaction with today's self brutality. He ripped the safe, boring shirt from Wilson's shoulders after he'd been divested of his own T-shirt. Wilson straddled him in a move he knew must hurt and House said a prayer of thanks to yoga as the hardness enclosed in their pants dragged against each other. Only a few inches above the searing pleasure, the sliver buckle of Wilson's belt dug into the flesh of House's stomach and he sighed at the sensation. Soon hands were forcing past belts and zippers, pushing fabric down to their knees. The room filled with the sounds of their combined hiss when their flesh met, but House could only hear the rush of blood in his ears. Squirming on the bed, he wriggled out of his jeans. He wanted to feel Wilson inside him now. He felt as if he'd been craving this all these years, even though the thought had just occurred to him. It had been so long since he's been touched, and Stacy had been so gentle before she'd left, afraid to break him further. He wanted to be used, taken roughly. Wilson. He'd caused Wilson five years of pain and now he'd pay and he'd do it gladly. He tried to roll away to offer his body as Wilson's means of physical release. An insistent hand on his shoulder stopped him and his fingers were drawn into the wet heat of Wilson's mouth.
He found himself holding Wilson tight to his chest, working his saliva slicked fingers into the broken man's body. Sweat dripped from Wilson's brow and his grunts echoed throughout the apartment. House was trying to be gentle, to not cause Wilson any pain. But when the man in his arms bore down on his hand and grunted again, house understood his place. The trembling in Wilson's leg had subsided and while his jaw was clenched and his breath was coming in short gasp, he was still hard against the forearm House held him with. House understood pain. He sought it out daily to draw his mind from the unbearable distress of his guilt. He would give that gift to Wilson. He pulled his fingers free and spat on his hand, slathering it over his cock that was aching to drive into a warm body. He didn't hesitate against that urge and thrust hard into Wilson, bracing the arching body against him and digging his teethe into the salty flesh of a shoulder. Pleasure coursed through his veins and dumped fresh waves of guilt into his nervous system. Wilson was sweating and groaning under him, teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure and House could feel only the pleasure. He wanted that burn and sting. He yearned to hoard it all for himself. It was the only thing he'd kept for himself.
Now it was all he had to give.
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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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