misanthrope_md | (no subject)

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wilson

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The trek from the treehouse to the compound wasn't exactly one of House's favorite things to do in the dark, but he made it without incident. He was still a little worried about Jack, to be honest, but physically he was okay, and nanobots or not, the first thing House had thought when he'd seen Jack was, well shit, what does the other guy look like?

So when he'd found out the other guy was Wilson, he'd had to go check on him.

He walked into the clinic and flicked on the light. When he didn't see anyone right away, he walked around to the back room, the one he and Wilson used to share, and gently nudged the door open with his cane.

"James?"

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Wilson sat Indian style on the bed staring at the veins along the interior of his arm, lost in dark thoughts of escape. He didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear a thing until House's voice, familiar and timeworn, penetrated the fog in his head. "If you came to tell me you think I'm an asshole, I already heard." The words came out flat. Wilson simply had nothing left.

He didn't look up.

"What?" House walked into the room, but not too close to the bed. Something about the way Wilson was sitting, the tone of his voice, seemed to suggest he should stay back.

"I came to make sure you were okay. I... Jack told me about the fight, and he was pretty banged up, I thought you might be..." He realized now how stupid this sounded. The fight must have been hours and hours ago.

"Hurt," he finished lamely.

He turned his head up and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "Hurt. Yes." That was putting it mildly. "Remember how much your leg hurt before you figured out what happened? That's... I fucking wish he'd killed me."

"What?" House repeated, his eyes widening. That was a comparison he could understand, and he knew the nanos could only do so much.

He crossed the room, not caring about giving him his space anymore, and sank onto the bed beside him. "Where did he hurt you? Are you okay?" He had his hands on Wilson's arms, then his neck, head, checking him for injuries.

"My head, mostly, some internal bruising," he said softly as House looked him over. "I'm tired, House. I hate fighting. I never meant to..." He stopped and held out one of his wrists. "This is the only way I can think of to stop it."

"Stop it...?" House mumbled, still looking him over. But he stopped when Wilson held out a wrist, and he stared at it for a second, confused. Then his eyes flicked over to the knife sitting on the mattress beside him.

His stomach fell into his feet and for a second he thought he was going to throw up.

He put his hands on Wilson's shoulders and shook him slightly. "What are you thinking!" His own hands were shaking, and his eyes wide with fear.

"That if I were dead, I'd probably still love you, but it wouldn't hurt so much."

House froze. Then - "Oh, god."

He swallowed hard. "James - Jimmy - please. Please don't. I... I'm not worth it. I'm so not worth that. Whatever the opposite of worth that is, that's what I am." He was babbling to cover up how freaked out he was. Freaked out that he'd done this somehow, that James was broken and it was his fault.

Wilson bowed his head. "Don't blame yourself," he said.

The ache in his chest swelled. No machine could heal that kind of pain. "I let myself hope, and then it was gone, and then it got worse, and there was nothing and... it's about me, not you."

"I'm sorry I can't... make this easier. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do. It's not your fault, it's not my fault, it's just this fucking island." He closed his eyes. "Goddamnit! With all the shit it's taken away from me, it's trying to take my best friend again."

He hesitated only a beat before reaching out and pulling Wilson against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him. "I'm sorry I can't be what you need. I'm such a shit, James, really. You're better off."

WIlson clung to House, because House still wanted to live. "Friend," he breathed. That one word gave him something to hang on to. "I need a friend." He wanted it to be enough again.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course... shit. I'm sorry I haven't tried harder for that, I just - it was hard, you know, which wasn't your fault. But you already knew I was a selfish fuck." He sighed and ran a hand through Wilson's hair, thinking this would be a hell of a lot easier if he'd stop alienating everyone House cared about.

"You have a lot of people who need you." Wilson began to relax, but only a little. "Jack said you think I'm an asshole." Of all the things Jack said, all the cheap shots, that one hit the hardest. "I can live with you not wanting me, but if you don't like me, I've become something I don't know how to live with."

House sighed. "Sure, sometimes I think you're an asshole. Sometimes I thought you were an asshole back home. But I don't... you're a good person, James. A hell of a lot better one than I've ever been. And yeah, I talked some shit about you to Jack, before you came back. It was easier that way. It damn near killed me that you were gone, it would have been a hell of a lot worse if I was still in love with you than if I could pretend you were an asshole."

That wasn't the impresion Wilson got at all. He moved away from House and felt cold. "I would have done it," he said quietly. "Because I can't seem to stop trying to... prove that I'm not the same guy who fucked you over before. I never stood a chance with your lovers, and I think we both know that."

He wondered if he could convince House he was all right, wait until he left and then...he could go to one of the bathrooms. The blood wouldn't make such a mess in there.

"James, please," House grabbed his arm. "Please. I don't know what to do to make this better."

Neither did Wilson. He thought of things to say as House's fingers bit into his arm, questions to ask, but none of them would actually make anything better. After several second of agonizing silence, he realized something.

"I have no idea what being your best friend means here." Emotions tangled in his voice: sadness, anger, and a faint thread of hope that he hadn't lost everything.

"The same thing it meant before?" House offered weakly. "Someone to have my back? I could use a friend that I'm not... you know. What if it all blows up in my face? And I promise I'll try not to be a complete hypocrite. You can tell me all about your uh, conquests and I'll be as lewd and encouraging as I was at home. Even if it's, you know. What's his name."

"At home, that meant you accused me of cheating on my wife, even when I wasn't," Wilson reminded House, perking up a little. "It meant we were part of each other's lives, no matter what else might be going on. Can you do that now?"

"Yeah," House said truthfully, "I can. I mean, assuming..." He sighed. "Look, I don't know what's going on between you and Jack, but I have a feeling that you're equally to blame. I'd rather the two of you don't hate each other because that makes things very difficult for me. But it's okay, I don't need my best friend and my lovers to like each other as long as they're not... you know. Actively hurting each other."

There was no way the fault was equal. No remotely objective observer would come to that conclusion. "I never thought you'd leave them, not for a second," Wilson said. "I just wanted to be able to let you know what was on my mind instead of letting it eat away at me, but ever since I found out about them, I've felt like I had to ask for their permission before talking to you."

The truth was that Wilson didn't feel like a friend to House, more of a dead weight some times. At that moment, the good times they'd shared seemed lost forever, even with House sitting right next to him, calling him friend.

House frowned. "Honestly, James. When have you ever known me to be a in relationship like that? You make it sound like I'm whipped or something. Sure it would be nice if you could all get along, but I really don't care that much. Jack can just deal with it. But, look."

He sighed. "Jack's never... been jealous before. I don't think he quite understands the emotion or how to deal with it. So if you, uh, said that you... he probably overreacted."

He wasn't sure what to say about Jack. Deep down, Wilson still respected him, and wanted him to be happy. The relationship with House had all the earmarks of one of his marriages: needy, jealous, intense and insecure. Then came the chafing.

"I'm going to ask you a hard question, and I need you to try to tell me what you really think. Don't just say it's complicated; that much I know." Wilson took a deep breath. "Does he know you love him. Not on the surface, but down in his bones."

"Wouldn't that be a better question for him?"

Way to evade the question, he thought. "I don't even know how you perceive what I want, House. What you think is a mystery," he said. "Maybe this isn't the best time to solve it."

"Okay..." House said, "well. I guess I can say this. I do think that Jack knows I love him, because I think it's the first time he's known it."

He put a hand on Wilson's arm. "I'm happy."

Welson slipped down from the bed onto the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees. Nothing was going to change. House was saying what he thought he had to say, but... nothing would change.

"I'll deal with it," he said. "I always do."

House's head dropped.

"I'm sorry, James," he said quietly. "I honestly am. But I don't know what else you want me to do."

"I want you to be my best friend again, here. I want you to tell them that... that I matter to you."

Which didn't sound like much, but it was.

"I will," House said.

"Hey. Are you going to be okay?"

Wilson believed House this time. "I'm going to try. Don't expect too much."

House slid off of the bed and crouched down beside him. It hurt his leg but he didn't care.

"I know this is a stupid reason, but I'm completely serious. James, if anything happened to you... I'd never forgive myself. It would completely break me. I know that you think you're not as important to me or whatever, but... believe that at least. Okay?"

"I know I'm important to you. Some days that's the only thing I know," he admitted this without hesitation. "It's just, that didn't matter for a while."

He laid a hand on House's knee. "I didn't think how this would affect you. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm just glad I - " He didn't even want to finish that thought. "I could... stay here with you until you fall asleep. If you want."

Wilson had no idea of the time, or how long they'd been talking. He wanted to tell House to go. Every minute he delayed packing up all those pointless feelings, they could still come up and bite him in the ass. Again. But House seemed like he wanted to do something, his version of a grand gesture.

"I'm tired," he said, much as he had at the beginning. "You can turn out the light and sit with me for a few minutes if you like."

"Okay," House said, and he pulled himself up to sit at the foot of the bed. As he settled himself, he palmed the knife.

As Wilson slid under the sheet, he noticed that the knife was gone.

He was glad. He didn't fully trust himself, even now.

He laid down and his body began to slip into something approaching comfort almost immediately. He'd been keyed up for hours. He hung on, listening to the sound of House breathing.

"I've got your back," he said in a dreamy, distant voice. "You've got mine."

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