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Breaking Point
by Ana
Wilson woke with the alarm. He hit the button to turn it off and rolled over on his back, staring at the ceiling. He thought about getting up, but his body didn't want to obey, so he just stayed there. When he turned around again he saw that thirty minutes had passed. He shook his head, willing himself to move. After a few tries, he managed to get up.
The hotel room looked bleaker than ever, and he found himself hating it desperately. He remembered being in House's place, watching TV and listening to the piano, feeling warm and content. Now he shivered with the cold sterility of his room and wondered why he even bothered anymore.
He put on his pants and socks, lacking the energy for a shower. At this point he no longer cared about his appearance.
He stood in front of the mirror, marveling at his reflection. He looked older; defeated. He'd once told House all he had was his job and their screwed up friendship. Now he'd managed to lose both. Sure, Tritter had released his account, given him his car back and his license to prescribe meds once he'd agreed to testify, but his practice was still a mess, and he was quite sure House hated his guts for setting up the deal. A deal House had no intention of taking despite Wilson's pleas.
Sitting in the closed toilet seat, Wilson wondered how things could have gotten so fucked up. All he'd wanted to do was help House, but he could see now that he'd gone about it completely wrong. He shouldn't have kept the truth about the quad patient from him; he shouldn't have ignored the request for Vicodin. He'd been so sure he was doing the right thing, and look where it got him. To an empty hotel room, a messed up practice and a shattered friendship.
He shouldn't be surprised, really. After all, he had a history of failed relationships. Eventually, no matter how hard he tried, he always fucked things up. His good intentions always led him to a hell of his own making. And he'd accused House of wanting to be miserable. Oh, the irony.
Wilson stood up, brushed his teeth and stared again at the mirror. He shaved, feeling detached and distant from everything, peed, washed his hands and looked back at the mirror.
The face staring back at him was almost a stranger. In a moment of rage, he punched the mirror, hating the man reflected there.
For a moment he just stared at the little bits of blood pouring from his hand, then collapsed on the floor, blind panic making it hard to breathe. Tears gathered and fell, and soon he was sobbing hard, body shaking, eyes closed, fists clenched. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of overwhelming pain - since he'd come back to Princeton to find House had lost a part of his leg and most of his spirit.
Now, lying on his bathroom floor, Wilson bit his lip at the agony of losing everything that mattered to him, knowing that most of it had been his own fault.
A long time later, the panic subsided, leaving him tired and numb. He tried to get up and cut his hand on a piece of glass on the floor. He stared at it in fascination, then picked it up and absently used it to cut a small line on the inside of his right arm. Blood seeped out, but he hardly felt any pain.
He remembered Tritter showing him the forged prescriptions, and the shock he'd felt that House would do that. He remembered Chase's bruised jaw and his dismay that House had actually hit him. He remembered Cameron berating him for selling House to Tritter for his own selfish reasons, and the little voice in his head that said maybe she was right, and it had been about getting his life back, not helping House. He remembered Cuddy's incredulity that he would make the deal, her refusal to help force House's hand; having to practically beg her to back him up at least, to try to talk House into it. He remembered Chase and Foreman looking at him like he was a traitor. He remembered the anger in House's eyes when he told him what he'd done, and Tritter's self-satisfied smile.
And while the memories flashed before his eyes, he kept cutting into his arms and watching the blood flow. He imagined the memories flowing along with it, absolving him of his mistakes, as if he could pay for all of them with his blood. On and on he kept cutting, feeling increasingly weaker, the edge of his vision getting darker, and still the blood poured.
"House, I'm sorry," he whispered, right before he passed out, slumped in the floor, surrounded by his sins; drowning in them.
*****
The maid came in to clean the room at 11 am. She didn't notice anything wrong until she opened the door to the bathroom.
She screamed as she saw him lying in a pool of blood, and was unable to move for a while. Then, collecting herself, she rushed to the phone and dialed 911.
*****
The ambulance took him to Princeton Plainsboro because it was closest. The nurse who rushed over to assist the paramedics recognized him immediately. "Call Dr. Cuddy!" she said to another nurse, as the doctors began working on the patient.
*****
Cuddy looked in horror at Wilson's pale face and the multitude of cuts on his arms. Some were only superficial, but some were deep enough to have caused a great deal of damage. Most of them were in his right arm, going from just above the wrist to almost all the way to his shoulder; and a few on his left, mostly shallow cuts, as if he hadn't had enough strength to do more. As the doctors worked on getting much needed blood into him, Cuddy could only stare, thoughts racing. Oh God don't let him die, she prayed.
Long minutes later, Wilson was stable. It looked like he was going to make it, but she wasn't sure it would be enough. She had him taken to a private room, left instructions to be notified of any changes immediately, and went to talk to House.
He was in the conference room, marker in hand, writing in the white board. Foreman, Cameron and Chase looked at her when she entered, but House ignored her entirely.
"House," she said, voice shaking just a little.
"Busy," he replied, studying the whiteboard.
The fellows had noticed from her expression that something was wrong. "What happened?" Chase asked, beating Cameron by a few seconds.
Cuddy looked at them, then back at House. "Wilson was just brought in. It looks like he tried to kill himself this morning." House went still and turned slightly, but not enough to face her. "Maid found him bleeding to death on the bathroom of his hotel room," she said, trying to get a reaction out of him.
Cameron and Chase let out startled gasps. Foreman looked stunned.
"He's stable now, but it was close. Too close." She kept her eyes on House, but he was now staring at the floor as if it contained to answers to the universe. "House?"
"Yeah," was all he said. He turned back to the board, cane twitching slightly in his hand. Other than that, he gave no sign of his feelings in the matter. Cuddy was beginning to wonder if he even had any.
Disgusted, she left the diagnostics office and walked briskly back to her own. Sitting at the desk, she stared at the papers waiting to be signed, blinking away the tears. She took a deep breath, tried for a moment to keep her composure, then gave up and let herself cry.
*****
After Cuddy was gone, Chase looked at the others, who were just as flabbergasted as he was. He would not have considered Wilson to be the suicidal type. But then, considering the way things had gone lately, it shouldn't be so surprising.
House was still just standing there with his back to them, gripping his cane tightly, muscles tense. Chase wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind.
"Right," House finally said, gaze glued to the board. "Get an MRI and a LP. And try to get a better history. One that has some truth in it."
Chase stared at his boss as if he'd lost his mind, seeing the same look on Foreman's face. The man's best friend had just tried to kill himself and he was ordering tests? Chase hadn't thought House could be this cold. Not when it was Wilson, anyway.
"House," he tried, but the glare he received made him drop it.
"Go." He waved a hand, dismissing them, and started walking to his office.
"House," Foreman tried as well, and was also stopped with a deadly glare.
"Go! Get out of here! Go do your jobs."
Chase and Foreman looked at each other, both somewhat surprised that Cameron hadn't said anything, then got up and left.
As soon as they were far enough away from diagnostics, Chase spoke, "I'm going to check on Wilson."
"We've got tests to do," Cameron said.
"What's the matter with you? Wilson almost died."
She shrugged. "Apparently that's what he wanted."
His jaw dropped in surprise. It was not at all what he expected her to say. "That's cold. When did you become such a bitch?" Of all people, he'd expected Cameron to be a little more sympathetic.
"We have a patient to treat."
"Fine. You take care of the patient. I'm going to see Wilson. Foreman?"
"I'll come with you."
They glared at Cameron, but she simply shrugged again and went to get the tests.
Chase and Foreman stepped into the elevator. "Can you believe her?"
"Must be PMSing or something."
"Poor Wilson." Chase sighed.
"Yeah," Foreman agreed. "In his place, I'd have ratted House out much sooner. Bastard doesn't deserve his loyalty. Especially after being screwed over. House had it coming."
"Yeah."
They found Wilson's room, checked the chart then examined Wilson themselves, cringing at the mess in his arms. Chase decided to stay, in case Wilson woke up, and Foreman went to help Cameron with the patient.
House was nowhere to be found.
*****
After the fellows left, House stood alone in his office without a clue what to do. He walked out to the balcony and spent several minutes staring unseeing at the world outside. For once in his life there was silence inside his head. He could not think a single thought. It was as if everything had been sucked out, leaving nothing but blank terror.
He turned, blinking away some annoying moisture - it was the sun light - and saw Wilson's darkened office. Moving as if in a daze, House hopped over the dividing wall and entered. He took a moment to look over the place, noticing the missing knickknacks, the half-empty desk - usually stacked with patient files and administration stuff - and the messy air of it. The pens were scattered, and the papers were untidy, shoved around and rumpled. The remains of a sandwich had been stuffed in a shelf, where the books were misaligned. Wilson was always such a neat freak, but it looked as if he'd left in a hurry and hadn't bothered to put things in their proper place.
Maybe he knew he wouldn't be coming back.
House closed his eyes and collapsed on the chair, running shaking hands through his hair. He'd known Wilson for over ten years. The man had always been a rock. No matter what House said or did, how many patients died or how many wives and girlfriends left, he had always managed a weak, slightly self-deprecating smile and moved on. Ready for the next round, the next patient, the next doomed relationship.
Not anymore.
He hadn't seen Wilson since the deal with Tritter had been arranged, two days ago. He hadn't wanted to. He'd been angry, feeling betrayed, and he'd avoided Wilson like the plague. He'd had no intention of taking the damn deal, but now...
What else was there to do, really? Tritter wasn't going to go away, that much was clear. Wilson wouldn't help him anymore, and Cuddy was at the end of her rope as well. House was tired. So damn tired of all this crap.
Yesterday - hell, even this morning - he had been filled with righteous indignation that Tritter insisted on this stupid vendetta. His pride would not let him admit to the slightest mistake. Now, he couldn't find it in himself to care anymore. Maybe he should just shove his pride. What did it matter anyway?
He sat in Wilson's office for a couple of hours, shivering in the dark. He took a Vicodin out of habit, though he could hardly tell if his leg hurt over the ache in his chest. Eventually, he got up on stiff legs, cane arm weak and trembling, and pushed himself to the door.
There was no one in the diagnostics' office, and no one tried to stop him as he left the hospital. No one even so much as glanced in his direction. It took an eternity to reach his bike. He put the helmet on automatically and started the engine.
He drove like a maniac, half hoping someone would run him over, but he arrived at the police station in on piece. For a moment he contemplated going in there and beating Tritter to death with his cane. It would be immensely satisfying to hear bones breaking, to hear that son of a bitch beg for his life. He thought of all the places he could hit that would cause the most pain. He would smile at the bloodied body and watch the bastard's life slowly fade away. And he would say it was for Wilson, for making him do that. For ruining everything.
But it would be a lie. As much as House wanted to blame Tritter - because it was his fault, damn it! - the truth was that House was just as guilty. He didn't want to admit it, but there it was. Fuck.
With a deep breath, he shook off his murderous thoughts and went in. Wilson had done his best to keep him out of jail, the least he could do now was make sure the effort hadn't been in vain. It didn't take long to find Tritter, who looked surprised to see him.
"Dr. House." His voice was full of contempt.
"I'll take the deal," House said quietly, keeping his eyes on the floor.
Tritter said something else House didn't hear. He sounded like he was gloating, enjoying his victory, but House didn't care.
"What do I have to sign?" he asked when Tritter finally shut up.
The cop hovered while House took the papers, looked it over without much interest, and signed them with a surprisingly steady hand.
Once done he began to walk away. Tritter was still talking. House didn't pay attention. He heard Wilson's name and faltered a bit, but recovered quickly and kept going. Tritter followed him out, going on and on about his having learned an important lesson.
Yeah, House thought, I guess I did.
Maybe I don't want to push this until it breaks, he had told Wilson in Atlantic City. He'd meant it, but obviously that wasn't enough. Everyone has a breaking point. It took a while, but he had finally found Wilson's. It was a knowledge he could have lived without.
Without another word, he got on the bike and drove back to the hospital.
*****
Foreman was sitting at the conference table alone when House entered his office. He didn't look happy. "Where the hell have you been?"
House ignored him.
"Wilson went into cardiac arrest."
House stumbled and had to grip his desk to keep from falling over. His hands tightened on the edge but he said nothing.
"We got him stabilized again, but it took a few tries." Foreman continued, though House could barely hear him over the buzzing in his ears.
He kept his back turned, trying to make sense of the words. Wilson was not dead. He wasn't dead. Thank God. With his eyes closed, House took a shaky breath.
"He's being monitored but hasn't regained consciousness since he was brought in."
House noticed his hands were trembling on the desk. He didn't turn around.
"Chase is sitting with him. We thought it'd be better if he wasn't alone when he woke up."
House bit the inside of this cheek, still silent.
"Cameron is taking care of the patient." He paused. "The cops were here earlier, said they had to do an investigation. They've ruled it a suicide, since there was no evidence of anything else."
It was getting harder and harder to draw a breath, but House didn't move. His body seemed to be frozen. Temporary paralysis, he thought idly, a symptom of fear.
Foreman continued. "He's in room 216," he said, and then added after a beat, "in case you're interested."
House heard the door open and then Foreman was gone. He stayed where he was for long minutes, eyes closed, concentrating on just breathing. When he finally moved, holding on to the desk to get to his chair, the room was spinning.
It took forever to reach the chair, and he fell gracelessly into it, exhausted, as if he'd run a marathon. His mind remained numb. Even the pain in his leg, his ever-present companion of so long, seemed to have deserted him.
House let his head fall onto the desk.
*****
"House."
He opened his eyes to darkness.
"House!"
Lifting his head took an enormous effort, but he managed to focus on Cuddy's face eventually. For a few seconds he couldn't remember what had happened, but Cuddy's strained expression brought it all back in a hush.
Wilson.
"What?" he growled, hoping nothing else had happened. He didn't think he could stand it if it had.
She stared at him as if by doing so she'd be able to see into his head.
He wanted to ask about Wilson, but was too afraid of the answer.
"Are you planning on seeing him?"
If she wants me to see him, House thought, then he's not dead. If he's not dead, then... The thought didn't go any further; he was too tired and scared to go there now.
"House?"
"Yeah." He didn't know what he was saying yes to, though. His usual brilliance had disappeared and he could think of nothing else to say.
"The deal expires tomorrow. What are going to do?"
"I've already accepted it." There was defeat in his voice, though he couldn't tell if it was for the deal or the state of his friendship with Wilson.
"Good," Cuddy said. She came closer and squeezed his shoulder. "It's going to be all right."
"Yeah, sure it will. And pigs will fly." Even his sarcasm came out more tired than biting.
"Take a few days to try to work things out before you check into rehab. Your team can handle the patient. For once it seems like they are doing fine on their own."
House nodded absently. He grabbed his ball and tossed it from hand to hand just to have something to do.
"Go see him." With an awkward pat, Cuddy left him to his thoughts.
*****
It was late. Night had fallen hours ago, but House was still in his office with the lights out, staring off into space. No one else had come to give him any more news, so he assumed Wilson was still alive and doing relatively well for a guy who had almost bled to death. He didn't know if Wilson was awake or not, and was afraid to go see him, in case he was. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to his friend. Platitudes and comfort had never been his thing. At this point, he thought Wilson would need something better than sarcasm and flippancy. Wilson would need a friend, and House was suddenly aware of how lacking he was in that respect. That he hadn't even seen this coming, and had never even considered what Wilson had been going through with the Tritter mess, was proof enough that he was a shit friend.
Regret was not something House often felt, but he couldn't help the little voice in his head currently telling him he was an ass. Maybe things wouldn't have gotten this bad if he hadn't been such a jerk. And the worst part was that he wasn't sure he would do anything different, even if he had another chance.
"House?"
Foreman came in but didn't turn on the light. "I thought you might like to know that Wilson woke up a few minutes ago. He didn't feel much like talking, but he seems to be doing better."
"Yeah, thanks," House said softly.
"Also, the patient is responding to treatment, might be out of here tomorrow."
"Okay." He didn't even know what he patient had, nor did he really care. After the news on Wilson, House had left the diagnosis for the fellows.
Usually, work was a good distraction, a way to keep his mind off other, often unpleasant, things. Today, though, there had been nothing that could distract him from what had happened to Wilson. He was too tired to even think, felt too sucker-punched to focus on someone else's problem.
"Are you going to see him?"
House looked at Foreman, but it was too dark to see his face. His voice was soft, tentative, and, oddly enough, non-judgmental.
"What did he say?" House asked in the same soft tone, though what he really wanted to ask was `did he ask for me?'
"Nothing much. Seemed a little confused at first, then claimed he was tired and wanted to sleep. Cuddy tried to get him to say more, but no luck. Chase offered to stay with him a while, but he said he was fine."
"And Cameron?"
"What about Cameron?"
"Didn't she say anything? Wasn't she there to hold his hand or something?"
Foreman shrugged. "She didn't seem very interested in him at all, really."
"Cameron? The one who wants to save everybody? Who annoys us with her constant caring all over the place?" Strange, House thought. However, instead of his customary detachment over a puzzle, he found himself angry on Wilson behalf. He of all people deserved her consideration. What had he ever done to Cameron?
Foreman simply shrugged again. "I'm going home." He waited, but when House said nothing, he spoke again. "Go see him."
Yeah, that was all everybody said. But what was he supposed to do when he got there?
*****
The view into the room was unobstructed. House stood outside, absently tapping his cane on the floor, watching Wilson. He appeared to be sleeping.
With a deep breath, House silently pushed the door and made his way to the bed. He was surprised by how pale and fragile Wilson looked. His arms were covered in bandages, there were IV drips carefully attached and several monitors kept track of his vital signs. For the moment everything seemed all right.
House grabbed the chart and sat in a chair in the corner to look it over. He realized now that he had only the minimum of information about what exactly Wilson had done to himself. With a sickening feeling in his stomach, House read the dry and clinical description of the numerous self-inflicted wounds, and everything else that had happened since Wilson had been brought to the hospital.
His hands shaking slightly, House tried to make sense of it. The wounds didn't seem to have been very coordinated. As a doctor, Wilson would have known exactly where to cut, so House could only conclude that he hadn't really meant to kill himself. Or maybe he had wanted to give himself some time to reconsider. Or maybe he'd wanted to die slowly. Or...
Fuck!
That line of thought wasn't helping anything. House still had no idea what he was going to say to Wilson when he woke up. Considering, of course, that Wilson would want to speak to him at all. Less than 24 hours ago, he had been mostly sure that, whatever happened, he and Wilson would be all right. Now...
How strange that House had spent a lifetime questioning the reality of love, while, really, for a long time, he had unconsciously believed in it. All the tests he had put Wilson through, trying to prove that love was a lie, and it was he himself who had failed to love, to be there for his friend when he needed it most.
He stayed in the room for several hours, reading the chart over and over again, as if it could tell him what to do. Every time he looked at Wilson he felt a strange pang in his chest, the unaccustomed guilt. Despite everything, he had never meant to hurt Wilson.
The sun was beginning to rise when he finally left the room and made his way back to his office. He picked up his ipod and portable TV and went to Wilson's office. He told himself it was because the couch there was more comfortable, and not for some silly sentimental reason, like wanting to be near his friend's things, on a place that felt a bit like him.
It took a while, but eventually the tension of the day caught up to him and he fell into an exhausted sleep, using Wilson's lab coat as a blanket.
*****
He was drowning. All around him the water got higher and higher, and there was nowhere to go, nothing to hold on to. The room was dark and the only sound was the rushing of the water, rising steadily. There was a door, but it was locked, and no amount of force seemed to be able to open it.
When the water came up to his neck, he panicked, trashing around frantically, desperately trying to get out. Now it was up to his chin, then his nose. In his panic, he couldn't help but swallow it.
It tasted like blood.
Wilson woke up with a gasp, heart pounding, and sat up. Where was he?
Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings. He was in the hospital. He remembered it now. He's seen Cuddy, and Chase and Foreman. They had all been here. Asked him questions he hadn't answered because he didn't think he knew the answers.
Christ, what had he been thinking? He looked down at his arms, almost completely wrapped in gauze. He vaguely remembered cutting into them, again and again, hoping it would somehow make things better.
Yeah. Suicide is such a perfect solution, he thought bitterly. Oh, well, it's not like anyone is going to care at this point. He was nothing but a traitor, after all.
Oh, fuck. House.
The clock on the wall said it was 9 am. The deal had expired. What would Tritter do now? Wilson had already decided that there was no way in hell he was going to testify, but that was no guarantee that House would stay out of jail.
God, what a mess.
A nurse came in to check on him. He tried to remember her name. Amy? Annie? Ally? Something like that. She smiled and asked how he was feeling.
"Fine," he said automatically, though he was sure his own smile was somewhat strained.
"Dr. Cuddy will be here soon. Is there anything else you need?"
Wilson shook his head. At least Cuddy would know something about House.
It wasn't Cuddy who showed up first, though, it was Chase. "How are you doing?" he asked.
"Where's House?"
Chase took a seat next to the bed. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. You should worry about yourself now." He picked up the chart to examine it.
"I need to know where he is."
The young doctor looked at him with a sad expression. Wilson began to get really nervous. Could House be in jail already? He didn't think Tritter would waste any time. Without his testimony, Wilson figured Tritter's case was weak, but he had made a statement, even if he had every intention of saying he'd done so under coercion and it was all a lie.
Before Chase had a chance to answer, however, Cuddy walked in.
"Good morning, James." She tried to smile, but it seemed strained. He couldn't remember the last time she'd called him by his first name, which probably meant something wasn't right.
"Where's House?"
She sighed. "James, I..."
"Just tell me where he is, damn it. Did something happen? Is he all right?"
For a moment Cuddy stared at him like she'd never seen him before. "He's fine, as far as I know. Still a bastard, of course, but that's not likely to change any time soon." She paused and shot a look at Chase, who nodded at him and disappeared out the door. "All right, James." Taking the chair Chase had vacated, she focused entirely on him. "Do you want to talk? Is there anything I can do for you?"
Wilson was still processing the news that House was okay, most likely not in jail. It took him a while to remember what Cuddy was talking about.
"Oh, no, it's okay, I'm fine. Really." He wondered how much she actually cared. "I'm sorry. You know... about the deal. I don't know what I was thinking. It was a stupid idea. But I'm not gonna testify. I'm sure there's another way to get out of this mess..."
"James," Cuddy interrupted. He noticed her eyes were moist and his voice trailed off.
"I mean... I didn't..."
She was staring at him again. It was making him nervous. Wilson was confused, wondering if the world had gone nuts, or if it was just him. He felt strange, off, like a weird kind of emotional jetlag.
"House took the deal," she finally said, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
It was his turn to stare. "He... he did?" Seeing his surprise, she nodded a confirmation. "Why? What changed? Did something happen?"
Cuddy bit her lip and took a deep breath. When she looked at him again, the tears were back in her eyes. "Yes, James. Something happened." She reached out and took his left hand.
"What? What happened?" Wilson tried to think of what could have changed House's mind, but nothing occurred to him. Whatever it was, he thought, it was probably bad, judging by Cuddy's expression, and her insistence in calling him `James'.
God, he was tired.
Dropping back into the bed, he waited for the answer, trying not to think of the worse. At least House wasn't going to jail, though, considering the last few days, rehab might be just as bad. He still believed the pills were a problem that had to be dealt with, but he realized now that there was very little he could do about it. If House refused to get help, even rehab wouldn't do him any good, except piss him off even more.
"Everything will be all right," Cuddy said.
"Yeah, sure. Everything is just great."
"We'll all get through this."
"Yeah, sure," he repeated. Easy for you to say, Wilson thought bitterly, you aren't the one who lost your best friend. "You still haven't told me what happened."
"House finally got his head out of his ass, that's what happened," she said with a touch of irritation. Then she deflated again. "James, I'm so sorry."
He didn't know what she was apologizing for, but he didn't care. He was tired of this conversation. He had the information he'd wanted, now all he wanted was to go back to sleep. It had been a long time since he'd had a decent night's sleep. It was finally catching up with him.
"Thanks for coming by. I'm really tired now. So, if you don't mind..."
"Yeah, of course." Getting up, she started to say something, but changed her mind and tried a smile instead. It didn't quite work. "I'll come see you again later."
"Yeah."
It took him some time to find a more or less comfortable position. He was used to lying on his side, but with the bandaged arms that proved to be too painful, so he had to settle for staying on his back. As he stared at the ceiling, he almost wished for his hotel room. Almost.
He spent some time going over the conversation with Chase and Cuddy again, trying to figure out what he'd missed, but exhaustion soon got the better of him and he fell asleep.
*****
House woke up stiff and sore. His leg was screaming, so he popped up two pills. He looked at the little orange bottle, realizing that he might not be getting any for a long time.
Rehab was going to be a bitch. Fuck.
After the pills started to take effect, he stood, trying to get circulation going again. Wilson's office was too small for pacing, so he had to settle for a stretch, which wasn't nearly as effective.
The clock on the desk informed him it was just after 11 in the morning. Cuddy was probably seething by now. He picked up his cell phone to check for messages, but the battery had died and his pager was nowhere to be found. There was a brief moment of panic when he realized that something might have happened to Wilson and there'd been no way to contact him, but then he remembered he's seen Wilson earlier, and he'd been fine.
He had just finished putting on his shoes when the door opened and Chase entered, stopping in surprise.
"House?"
"No, it's the fairy godmother."
Chase hesitated. "Hmm... Have you been here all night?"
"No, I just popped in with my nifty teleportation device. Stop asking stupid questions. What are you doing here?"
"I was going to get some clothes for Wilson. Cuddy said he keeps a change in his office."
Suddenly House found himself extremely angry. Who the hell did Chase think he was? Getting clothes for Wilson, sitting with him, being all concerned, that was House's job, god damn it. He was the best friend around here.
Yeah, and such a great friend he was too.
House closed his eyes for a moment then gestured to the desk. "Bottom drawer."
Chase regarded him warily as he retrieved the clothes. "Are you all right?"
"Just peachy."
"Right." Instead of leaving, however, Chase continued to stand there.
"What?"
Chase opened his mouth, but seemed to change his mind. "Patient's fine, by the way. He'll be discharged in a few hours."
"Fine. Whatever." He made a shooing motion, and Chase finally got out.
House sat back on the couch, suddenly tired. He rubbed his leg absently while he played with the Vicodin bottle, hearing the rattle of the pills. He contemplated taking another one, but decided to hold off a little longer.
It was nearly 1 pm when he left the office.
*****
House watched the room from a safe distance, gathering up the courage to go inside and see Wilson, his cane thumping restlessly on the floor. Dry-swallowing another Vicodin, House began to move, finally. He stopped a few times but eventually reached the door.
He was going to slide it open forcefully to make a grand entrance. However, his arm decided not to cooperate, and the just pushed it slowly. Wilson turned to look at him. Hastily, House dropped his head, avoiding what he was sure would be an accusing glare. He wasn't ready to face that yet.
Carefully, House made his way to the chair and sat, muscles tense as if ready for an attack. "Hey," he said, so quietly he wasn't sure Wilson could hear him.
Neither said anything for a while. Over the course of their friendship, there had been a lot of long silences between them, but none that had been as uncomfortable as this. House wanted to say something funny or silly to diffuse the tension, but he couldn't speak over the lump on his throat. He twitched his cane from side to side nervously, waiting.
"So..." Wilson broke the silence, then hesitated. House kept his eyes on the floor.
"So," he tried again, "I heard you took the deal after all." His voice was flat, defeated. House had heard that tone a few times, usually after Wilson lost too many patients, or delivered too many death sentences. It was a tone of resignation. House didn't like it at all.
He nodded.
"I'm sorry."
An apology was the last thing he'd expected, and he finally faced Wilson. The man looked like shit. Face pale and gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, hair messed up. For the first time House realized how much thinner Wilson was. They hadn't eaten lunch together in some time, but Wilson looked like he hadn't eaten at all in days.
"What the hell are you apologizing for?" It came out much more aggressively than he'd intended, though it was himself he was angry with, not Wilson.
"I... I shouldn't have made it in the first place. I'm sorry. I was trying to help, but... I guess I don't really know what I was thinking. I didn't mean to... I mean, I just wanted... I didn't want you to go to jail. It seemed like the only way."
House closed his eyes, gripping the cane hard. God, what a mess. Wilson sounded like a man facing the firing squad, about to die. God, he'd almost died.
"You idiot! What were you thinking?" He glared at Wilson, who recoiled as if he'd been slapped.
"I... I'm sorry. You don't have to take it. I mean, I'm not going to testify. Without that Tritter has nothing, really, I think... I'll say I was coerced or something..."
"God, shut up!"
Wilson did, looking down at his hands. House could see he was on the verge of a breakdown and cursed himself for being such an idiot. Way to go House, he told himself, kick the man while he's down, why don't you?
"I wasn't talking about the stupid deal," he said, more softly. "I was talking about this..." he waved a hand, indicating the hospital room. "Why would you do a stupid thing like this?"
"I didn't... I mean, I didn't mean... I wasn't really trying... it's just... it was an accident..."
"An accident? Slipping in the bathtub is an accident. Cutting your arms to shreds is NOT an accident!" His voice had risen, so House made an effort to calm down. Yesterday, when he'd sat in this same room going over the chart, he'd been able keep mostly calm, but now all he could remember was the stark terror he'd felt when Cuddy had announced the news.
"I'm sorry," Wilson whispered and, to House's horror, began to cry.
Oh, shit, House thought. After a moment of hesitation, he got the chair closer to the bed and awkwardly patted Wilson's shoulder.
He didn't think he'd ever seen Wilson cry like this, in great big sobs that seemed to be torn out of his body, and he found he didn't like it at all. For some reason - probably dust - his own eyes were beginning to tear up as well. With a deep breath, he got himself into the bed and pulled Wilson to him.
For once he was going to be the support, and let Wilson lean on him. It was only fair, after all.
"It's okay," House said, holding his friend as carefully as he could, "it's okay. It's all over now."
House did his best to be comforting and reassuring, and eventually the crying stopped.
"Hmm." Wilson pushed him away a little, though not hard enough to actually move him. "Sorry about that. I'm... I'm not feeling very well." Wilson said, blushing slightly.
"Don't worry about it."
They both avoided looking each other in the eye, until House decided they had to talk about things. He hated talking, but he figured he could make an exception in this case, because it was Wilson. And a distraught Wilson at that.
"Look, I'm sorry about dragging you into this mess. I'm sorry for forging the prescription in the first place. I can only say that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Tritter is an ass, but he's gone now. I took the deal and... well, I guess we'll see how that goes."
Wilson was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Okay, who are you and what have you done to House?"
It was supposed to be a joke, but House didn't think it was funny this time. He remembered taunting Wilson about cheating on Julie just to amuse himself, and Wilson saying he might actually need a friend. And he'd said Wilson had made a mistake in thinking House would be that friend. At the time, he hadn't wanted to hear much about Wilson's problems, and had changed the subject every time Wilson had brought it up while they were living together. Now he wished he'd listened. Now he wished he'd been more honest with his friend, that he'd talked about important things. Maybe if he had, Wilson wouldn't have had to go to such extremes. Maybe this whole thing could have been avoided.
Maybe.
"I can be a... friend. Occasionally. Despite popular opinion." Not to mention evidence.
"Cuddy said... she said something happened, something that made you change your mind about the deal, but she didn't tell me what it was. Is everything... I mean, did Tritter do something else?"
It was House's turn to stare. "God, you are an idiot. Did you lose some brain cells along with all that blood? Are you brain damaged? `Cause you didn't use to be so stupid. What happened? You happened, you moron! What, you think my best friend tries to kill himself, and that means nothing?" God, what a mess. Wilson couldn't possibly think he wouldn't care, could he?
"I didn't really try..."
"Whatever! You could have died, you idiot! What the hell were you thinking?" And there he was, shouting again. Because that was really going to help.
"I wasn't really thinking... I mean..." Wilson was almost stuttering now. House had never seen him like this. "I thought you hated me..."
If House hadn't been paying close attention he wouldn't have heard that last part, but he did and he felt his heart break. After all the shit he'd inflicted on Wilson over the years, if anyone deserved to be hated, it was House.
"I don't hate you," he said softly. "I may think you're an idiot, but... I was just angry, and being an ass." House looked Wilson straight in the eye and willed himself to convey as much sincerity as he could. "We're still friends, right?" He hated how small and scared his voice sounded, so he cleared his throat and tried again, this time with more conviction. "We'll be okay."
Wilson nodded.
The silence stretched for many minutes, but it was much less uncomfortable than before. House began to relax a little, absently rubbing Wilson's arm. His friend sighed and relaxed as well. Within minutes, Wilson was asleep.
House found a better position without disturbing the other and settled in. It wasn't like he had anything else to do anyway.
*****
The next time Wilson woke, he found House sitting in a chair by the bed, playing his videogame with the sound off.
"Hey," he said.
House looked up for second, then turned his attention back to the game. "Damn. You made me lose. I was almost at level 20." He switched it off and put it back in his jacket pocket.
"Sorry," Wilson said, though he wasn't sorry at all. God, he'd missed this. Joking around with House, talking about nothing important. He smiled a bit and tried to sit up. He winced in pain and felt House's arm go around him to support him.
After a moment of silence, House spoke. "You look like crap."
Wilson chuckled. "You're not exactly the picture of beauty either, you know."
"Yeah, but scruffy and unkempt looks good on me. You, on the other hand, look like you lost a fight with a lion."
"Yeah." Wilson couldn't think of anything else to say, so he closed his eyes and breathed in House's presence. When he opened his eyes again, House was looking intently at him, wearing his `working on solving the puzzle' face. Wilson didn't want to be a puzzle, but he wasn't going to complain now. At least House didn't hate him. He hadn't lost his best friend after all.
Thank god.
"We need to talk."
The words were so odd coming from House that it took Wilson a moment to process them. "Yeah, I know."
He was feeling better now, not quite as close to the precipice as he'd been earlier. With his new clarity of mind he realized how utterly stupid he'd been. It was hard to even believe how fucked up he'd felt that he'd do what he did. Still, he felt strangely detached from it, as if it'd happened to someone else. Obviously he had some issues to deal with. But now all he cared about was that House was here, and he wasn't going to jail.
"I'm sorry, House," he said. Rehab might not be prison, but House had hated the idea just as much.
"Oh, for fuck's sake. Stop apologizing, you idiot."
"House, just let me say it, okay?" he pleaded. "I need to say this."
House pursed his lips but nodded anyway.
"I'm sorry for making the deal. I know it's not what you wanted, but I seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Wilson..."
"And I'm sorry I didn't believe you about the pain coming back. I was wrong to dismiss you like that. I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I certainly never meant for things to go the way they did."
He'd begun the speech looking at House, but by the end he was staring at his hands twitching in his lap, picking at the bandages around his arms. It was important for him to make this point. Even though he was not so out of it that he thought the whole thing was his fault, he did recognize his part in it. He'd let House down when his friend had needed him the most. And then threw him to the wolves, no matter how well intentioned he'd been.
"I... I'm sorry," he finished, the words drying up in his throat.
The silence stretched uncomfortably. Wilson wished House would say something; yell at him, make a sarcastic comment, anything really. The wait was making him nervous, and feeding his insecurities. He was going to need some therapy, he thought distantly, somewhat disgusted with himself.
"It wasn't your fault," House finally said, not looking at Wilson. "Let's just forget the whole thing now, okay? Just go on like before." There was a certain note of pleading in his voice, something vulnerable in his hunched shoulders.
As much as Wilson wanted to let it go, however, he couldn't. It would be impossible to go on like before. And anyway, it couldn't be meaningless. They couldn't have gone through all that crap, all that pain, for nothing. Sweeping it all under the rug was not an answer. Wilson, at least, had learned something. He wasn't always right, he didn't always do the right thing, and he couldn't change House if House didn't want to be changed. The horse and the water and all that.
"Just forget it? You really think that's the best solution?" He couldn't keep the weariness out of his voice, the awful sense of defeat that, after everything, nothing was resolved.
"I..." House fidgeted uncomfortably. "You know I'm no good with this stuff. What do you want from me?"
Wilson shook his head. "I don't know. I just need to know you're gonna be okay."
"I'm not the one who tried to kill himself."
"House, you've been killing yourself for years."
House apparently had no response to that, and the silence lingered, even more uncomfortable than before.
"What do you want from me?" House asked again, voice so low Wilson had to strain to hear him.
"I just want you to be well. I want my friend back. The one from before. The one who wasn't drowning in pills and alcohol." Wilson reached to take House's hand. "I worry about you. There's got to be a better way. I'm asking you to try. I know I've no right to demand anything from you, and I know that all my good intentions can't make things better, but... I'm asking you, House, to give this a chance. I'm asking you not to let it have been for nothing. I promise I'll be with you every step of the way. Please."
He waited, blinking the moisture from his eyes as discreetly as possible.
For a long time House said nothing, just stared at their joined hands. Finally, he nodded. "Okay." He stood and came over to sit in the bed next to Wilson, leaning against him and closing his eyes. In the course of their long friendship, they had rarely touched, except when they were drunk, but Wilson found he enjoyed it quite a bit.
Smiling, Wilson closed his eyes too, feeling truly relaxed for the first time in longer than he could remember. We're gonna be all right, he thought, and sent out a prayer of thanks.
*****
House closed his suitcase and took a last look around his bedroom to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Not that it would matter, of course. If he did forget something, Wilson could bring it to him tomorrow. In truth, he was stalling. He had taken the deal, and promised Wilson he would make a real effort to find a less destructive pain treatment. He'd meant it, but that didn't mean it was going to be easy. House was not looking forward to the next few weeks.
Still, he owed it to Wilson, and to himself as well. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't have a death wish, and he could see now that the path he had been walking was going to lead him to disaster sooner or later. In fact, he was lucky all he had to worry about was rehab, as opposed to prison.
Over the last couple of days, after Wilson had been discharged from the hospital and moved back in with House, they had begun to mend some fences that had been left to rot for too long. For the first time since the infarction, House felt hopeful about the future. It was still tentative and cautious, but he felt that he and Wilson were actually getting closer, and he wanted to see where it was going.
"House?" Wilson called from the living room.
"Yeah, I'm coming."
The one good thing about hitting rock bottom, he thought, was that the only way left to go was up. And he and Wilson were going to make the upwards climb together.
End.
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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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