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And lo, He Has Not Fallen But Leapt
by gena
And lo, He Has Not Fallen But Leapt
"They're so fragile," James whispered, "so very fragile. I just want to - help them." Tall, handsome, his boyish face shining with innocence, James turned to the dark haired woman at his side.
"You do," his companion assured him. Together they walked the corridor of the hospital. Occasionally James would reach out a hand, his fingers gently brushing a cheek, and the suffering person would turn, eyes serene, to smile at him. James smiled back. "You don't have much time here, James," she said and laid her hand on his arm. "Don't get so attached, it's not good for you." James nodded but his attention had already fallen on a young girl, curled on a hospital bed. Her huge green eyes stared from a pale thin face, she clutched her mother's hand and cried as the pain became unbearable. He moved toward the pair, his own dark eyes shining with empathy. The dark haired woman watched him move away. "James," she whispered, "James, be careful."
"I'm Doctor Wilson," James said and slipped his hand into the little girl's. She stopped crying, eyes wide as she stared up at him. James smiled.
*******************************
"What the fuck do you want?" Dr. Gregory House glared at the nurse who had entered his room. He could barely sit up and his eyes were glassy from drugs, pain and anger, but he wasn't about to let anyone know how helpless he felt. He didn't deserve this. He hadn't asked for this. Why the hell was he going through this? It was his choice. If he'd been wrong he would have died, so what? It was HIS choice.
"I just -" She nodded towards the mess of broken glass and scattered food on the floor. The dinner he had wiped off the bedside stand in a fit of rage. It had sapped the small amount of strength he had, pissed off Stacy and now brought a nurse to investigate. She quickly cleared the debris and stalked out of the room muttering about doctors making terrible patients.
"She's right you know," a soft voice said.
House jerked his head towards the corner of the room. He hadn't heard anyone enter but then again he'd been distracted by the red hot flares of pain shooting up his leg. "Wh-what do you want?"
The figure shrugged. At least House thought he shrugged, there was some kind of movement there in the shadow. "You want to talk?"
"Fuck you," House snarled. He closed his eyes, leaning back, holding himself as still as possible, breathing through the pain, concentrating on filling his lungs and quelling the nausea which threatened to overcome him. Sweat trickled down his back, making it itch but any movement took his breath away. Sharp jabs of agony accompanied each beat of his heart almost making him wish it would stop. He had to swallow repeatedly, fighting the urge to scream, struggling to focus on keeping it all at bay but House didn't know how long he could do it. He couldn't move, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't hang on. It hurt so bad - more than anything he could remember. Random images snapped and popped in House's mind, times as a child when he'd hurt himself and how bad the pain had been then. He knew his father had thought him weak, crying over scrapes and cuts, and when he'd nearly passed out after spraining his ankle, the cold contempt in his father's blue eyes had pierced him like a blade. It wasn't until he'd grown up and become a doctor, that Greg House discovered there were people who possessed a rare condition which made them feel pain more acutely than others. The knowledge hadn't soothed the phantom pain then nor could it rid him of real pain now.
"I can make it stop,' the voice whispered.
"Stop?" House blinked. Whatever they'd given him before had worn off and they wouldn't give him anything else for another hour. House knew, he'd tried to tell them about the pain but no one would listen. Blessed numbness, he craved the peaceful sensation of floating away. Just the thought that the pain might stop made him dizzy.
"Yes, I can make it stop," the figure said. The shadows moved again and House tired to fix his eyes on his visitor but the room shimmered out of focus. A moment later breath whispered across his cheek and the voice said softly in his ear, "I could end your pain." House sighed. The quiet voice resonated throughout his body, smoothing the sharp agony radiating up from damaged nerves. "If you wanted," the voice cajoled, "I could help you."
"I w-was right," House whispered. "It - would have - I could have -gotten - better. They didn't - have to - do this to - me." The shadows seemed to gather, not with sinister intent but like family enfolding him, soothing the anger, pain and fear. House could feel threads of his life spinning outward, unreeling and drifting around the room. Images from his boyhood fluttered like paper kites, tethered to his memory by gossamer strings. He could remember the wonder with which he'd viewed the world then, the shining promise which had been like a gift. That slowly dimmed, his wonder tempered by disappointment and regret, but still there in the drive to understand everything he saw, to fit it all into a picture he could understand and thereby control. House could feel his companion beside him through it all, through the years of his childhood and adolescence, the young man he had been and the man he had become. A warmth emanated from this unseen presence, a comfort House had rarely known before. Together they witnessed the whole of his life unspooling right up until the moment he knew something was horribly wrong with him, right up to the bloodclot which had nearly ended his life, and cost him any chance of having Stacy's love. Searing pain burned along his nerves, igniting his entire being, consuming his mind and body in one blazing burst of agony. House rode it out, feeling the heavy change in his leg, and the dragging weight of knowing nothing would be the same again. Pain became his world until he could feel nothing but it, wanted nothing but release and still he held on. Time stretched, eternity wavering with the echoed cry inside his head, his pain raged on and on until some pre-ordained mark had finally been reached and then as quickly as it had begun it started to recede, not so much as to be gone but enough that he could think again.
Panting, slowly coming down from that unbearable pinnacle, House imagined a hand held out to him, a grasp that promised the end of his pain, the end of everything, all he had to do was take it. It would be so easy to accept what was being offered, whether it was real or not. Cuddy had told him that the pain would be with him to the grave, never, ever going away and probably getting worse as he aged. He would have to accept that from this moment on his life would be defined by his limitations, by as much pain as he could endure, by the damaged muscles which would never hold his weight. Other memories arose like drowning sailors in a choppy sea; sculling on the river, racing across a lacrosse field, strolling the links with Stacy, racing up stairs, a thousand pleasures done without thought, without pain sinking below the surface never to be known again. House blew out a thick breath, a sound that resembled a sob. Some part of his brain knew that none of this was any more real that the memories he's just seen, but another part of his brain couldn't dismiss it. His leg felt nearly normal, merely as if he had sprained his knee or something. If he was hallucinating then he was hallucinating being nearly pain free for the first time in a week and he really wanted to know why. "Why - why should I choose you?"
The figure moved again, the scrape of a chair echoed in the room and the mattress sank under the weight of the shoes which were now propped there. House reached up, fingers brushing the light.
"You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
House flicked on the light, struggling to blink the figure into focus. For a moment the shadows seemed to part and he could see a man seated beside him but not clearly enough for him to get more than a glimpse of brown eyes and a hazy impression of the man in general. "I could say because I'll take you to a place where you'll never know sorrow or pain again but I'm not sure you'd believe me." Unfathomable dark eyes bore into House's, and though kindness swam brightly within those brown pools there lurked beneath that placid surface a predatory watchfulness that reminded House of a large cat, one extremely dangerous but readily amused. Real or not, House realized more hinged on this little tte--tte than he'd suspected and if he were to emerge unscathed he would need to play his cards right.
Instead of continuing, the figure glanced towards the door. The night nurse bustled back in, her gaze sweeping over the array of monitors House was hooked to, and amazingly passing over the chair at his side with no obvious notice of the figure seated there. "She can only see me if I wish it," the man said. He winked at House then cleared his throat.
"Oh, doctor," she said, visibly starting, "I didn't see you there." She gave him a long, lingering look, blushing pink but unable to hide a sudden flare of desire in her eyes.
"It's okay," he said smiling shyly, his own complexion reddening slightly, "I was just keeping Dr. House company. How's he doing?"
Her smile dimmed, eyes quickly darting to House before skittering away. "Fine, just fine."
"Not a very good liar," House observed as she left. He fell silent, his own keen gaze studying his visitor. "So what's she see when she looks at you? Tom Cruise? Brad Pitt? Gotta be something to get that reaction. Hell, she's seen me naked and never so much as blinked."
"I'm sure she lusted in her heart."
"You can't tell?" House peered deeper but still couldn't make out more than a vague man sized shape.
"Not clairvoyant." House scowled and the figure chuckled. The shadows, denser black than the dim room around them, swirled suddenly and resolved themselves into a tall, handsome, doctor, his boyish face shining with innocence and his ID badge proclaiming him Wilson, James, Oncology department. "So, wanna call me Jimmy and I'll call you Greggy?"
"You do and I'll knock you back to whatever psychosis from which you've sprung." House regarded the delusion his mind had somehow conjured, surprised he'd picked such a mild looking character. All his normal fantasies involved chiseled, severe looking types usually wielding whips and the like. Being ill must be taking a toll on his creativity. "Back to the question at hand," House prodded, "I take it you're some kind of Grim Reaper and if I take your hand I'm really accepting death."
Wilson shifted, clearly uncomfortable with House's description. "I'm not Death," he said, "I'm more of a - well, I'm more of a Good Will Ambassador. I like to think I'm helping people. I offer relief from the suffering."
"Uh, like - death?" House asked.
Wilson glared at him and if he hadn't known the man was a figment of his own drugged and exhausted brain House thought he might have been truly intimidated. "I don't collect souls,' Wilson insisted, "I just prepare the way. I show people there's nothing to be afraid of, all they have to do - is let go." He ducked his head, long lashes sweeping down in a way that made him look young and vulnerable. "Some are afraid and I show them there's nothing to fear."
House mulled that over. "And what do you get out of all this," he asked.
Wilson looked startled. "What do I get?" He peered at House in obvious confusion. "I don't "get" anything. I don't require anything. I'm an immortal soul, not a mortal like you."
House knew the news that his companion wasn't mortal should have shocked him but it didn't really. "Uh huh," he murmured, still regarding Wilson with a critical eye. "So there's nothing you want here? Nothing this world could offer you, or tempt you with?" He'd been tempted, unconsciously drawn to something he hadn't known he desired and he'd seen the blush his night nurse had caused in the, well, for lack of a better word, angel. And right now that smoky gaze was quartering his face and exposed chest like he was prime rib in a butcher's window. Celestial being or not, Wilson had a few carnal interests of his own.
"No," Wilson said firmly, then seemed to catch himself, look away and clear his throat self consciously. "I sometimes - I want - I want to really touch a person," he said so quietly House had to strain to hear him over the beeping heart monitor. "I know I should thank the powers that are for allowing me to help but -" he lifted his hand, looking at it with so much sorrow, "I'm - lonely," Wilson admitted haltingly, "They all go on, they go to their families, to their loved ones and I -"
"Stay here," House finished for him. He'd never admit it but he felt sorry for the - angel - or whatever he was. He knew what it felt like, he'd been lonely for most of his life, until Stacy had come along, but now - now he knew that though he'd loved her, he'd never really connected with her. Stacy had her interests, career, friends, he had - House had his obsession, for a while it had been enough; spectacular fights, great make-up sex, someone there when he got home. Now he had nothing, but sitting beside this figment of his imagination - it didn't seem as bad as he would have thought.
The shadows thickened around Wilson, obscuring his form again as if he'd realized exactly how much he'd admitted to House. "Oh, that's mature," House griped. "Look, I really appreciate this - " He nodded towards his right leg, "I mean, it's refreshing not to want to gnaw my own leg off just to stop the pain, but dying just isn't in my plans."
Wilson sighed, the shimmering shadows clearing again so that he sat quite visible beside the bed. "It's not that simple," he said softly. "You're dying whether you plan on it or not." He motioned to the banks of monitors around House, "toxins are overwhelming your body right now. It's only a matter of time, House. I just-" Wilson moved closer, never physically touching House, but conveying a warmth House could still feel. "There's something about you." He stopped, looked away, then met House's gaze with a challenging stare.
House did not look away. A feeling of contentment filled him as he regarded the other man's face. He loved Stacy, even though he could not forgive her, love remained, but as much as he'd loved her there had always been distance between them. House had never been able to let anyone truly know him, to make himself vulnerable so completely by the act of opening up. He'd always had secrets, held things inside but Wilson's gaze drew them out. He could feel the walls of his heart crumbling, the shell he had constructed cracking. It wasn't painful, it was exhilarating, his heart began to race, his breath quicken, his palms sweat. "Wilson," he murmured, "I -" House stopped, the euphoric feeling abruptly disappearing. His chest ached, it felt like something heavy had been dropped on him, breathing became a struggle, his heart clanging against his ribs like a broken cog in some machine.
"House," Wilson moved closer, eyes wide and filled with panic as he glanced from House to the machines around him. A buzzing sound rose in a wail, making it hard for House to hear anything else. "House," Wilson said more urgently. "Take my hand. Take my hand and come with me!"
"N-no," House shook his head. "S-staying," he gasped. His vision had begun to cloud, the shadows of the room rushing back in like black water. Only Wilson's face remained clear, the chocolate brown eyes shining with longing, with desire, with - hope. House reached out, his hand held as steadily as he could, offering it to the being who had come to offer him solace from the pain. "St-ay with - me," he panted. Running footsteps echoed on the tile floor outside his room, the controlled chaos he knew so well. They would be there in a matter of seconds, he knew he was doing the right thing, his only chance of survival, not continued physical existence, but survival in all sense of the word, lay in Wilson's response. He might live but somehow House knew living without Stacy, without friends, without this mysterious creature beside him, it would be sadly lacking a purpose. He needed Wilson. He didn't know how he knew this, but he needed Wilson and Wilson needed him.
"I - if I do - I can't - it's for always," Wilson whispered, his expression torn between longing and fear. House watched him lift his head, a pleading look cross his mobile features as he stared at some distant point House could not see. Sadness then pain filled the dark eyes and for just an instant House thought he had lost everything. But then Wilson smiled at him and took the hand offered. "We'll be together," Wilson promised and man of little faith that he was, House still believed him. House squeezed the fingers in his. The room dimmed around him, shadows spinning faster and faster, a whirlpool that sucked the light from the room. House looked up, puzzled. Wilson appeared to be saying something but House couldn't make it out, a shrill monotonous tone drown it out. He struggled to hold on but could no longer feel the solid pressure of Wilson's hand in his. Blackness surged in like dirt thrown into an open grave and House had one last moment to ponder just how unfair it all was; Stacy's traitorous love, his own stubborn fear, and the newborn knowledge that he'd finally met his equal, his opposite, his other half.
There was no pain, no sight and the last sound House heard over the wail of the flatlining heart monitor was the sharp voice of Dr. Lisa Cuddy as she shouted, "Clear!"
*************************
House didn't open his eyes even at the sound of his office door opening. His leg ached, his whole body ached as if he'd been beaten. It had been a hellish week; two patients, four nights sleeping in his chair or on the floor behind his desk, Stacy and Mark snuggling like teenagers, and Cameron making him feel like crap. He felt as if someone had scooped his insides out, leaving behind a shell barely able to hold itself up on a cane.
"Hey?" Soft, hesitant and utterly appealing, Wilson moved into the room, his steps familiar, his presence bringing with it a sense of comfort House had never fully understood.
"You skulking around sleeping virgins for a reason?" House growled.
"What, did Superman fly backwards around the planet again," Wilson asked, "'cause you haven't been virgin anything in about two decades."
"Asshole!" House sat up, glaring. "It's been longer than that!"
Wilson shrugged. "You wanna go home now?"
"More than you know." House scratched a hand over his stubbled chin, fragments of his dreams coming back to him as he stared at the youthful face across from him. "I had the strangest dream about you."
"God," Wilson sighed, "not that one with the lederhosen again."
"I should never have told you that."
"No," Wilson said, grinning, "You shouldn't have. So, what was it this time?"
House continued to stare at him, a thoughtful look on his face. "I - I'm not sure." He fell silent for a moment, then said slowly, "It was about when we met, when I had the infarction. You -"
"No," Wilson said, "we met eight years ago, when we both started working here." His eyes locked with House's. "Remember."
House blinked. "I'm not senile, Wilson," he barked. "Of course I remember." Still he shook his head as if to clear it of faint images. "Let me get my stuff."
Wilson watched House gather his belongings. A sound in the corridor, a soft bell like voice, drew his attention. He turned to look at a tall, dark haired woman standing on the other side of the glass. "James," she whispered but he heard her plainly, "don't you miss all you gave up?"
Wilson shook his head. "No," he said just as softly and knew she heard, "no. I have what I need, what needs me."
"Talking to yourself is the first sight of senility," House pointed out. "As a doctor you should know that."
"Yeah? As a doctor you should know it'll be hard to remove that cane from your ass once I shove it up there." House laughed and together they walked from the office. In the hallway, Wilson slowed as they passed a young man in a wheelchair, his face contorted with pain. He reached out, his fingers grazing the silky locks of the young man's hair. The patient lifted his head, eyes serene, and smiled. Wilson smiled back at 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 Fox Television, 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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