darkdreamer | Losing It, Chapter 34 :)

Hi, all :) Here's the latest chapter of Losing It. :) As I'm sure most of you can tell, this fic is nearing its conclusion :) Thanks so much for all your kind words along the way :) I'm looking forward to your thoughts on this chapter in particular, and you'll know why as you read it :P Hope you enjoy :)

*hugs*
DoS

Title: Losing It
Betaed by: zeppomarx

Rating: R
Pairing: sort of House/Wilson, story is mostly focused on a twisted relationship between House and Wilson, though a non-sexual one; House/Cuddy friendship
Summary: After Amber's death, Wilson is having trouble moving on, he cant bring himself to forgive his former friend for the part he played in her loss. All he can think about is vengeance. House is willing to do anything to earn back Wilson's friendship, and this proves to be a recipe for disaster.
Warnings: abuse, violence, dark themes, mild language, *very* dark Wilson throughout

Chapter 34
Caring Too Much

“Just slow down for a minute and think about what you’re doing.”

House kept his voice quiet and calm, wary eyes watching Wilson closely as he paced back and forth in front of him with shaky, frenetic steps. House’s gaze shifted between Wilson’s taut, anxious expression and the gun held tightly in his white-knuckled hand, as he tried to calm him, to talk him back to a place of reason and sanity.

“If you do this,” House continued slowly, “you can’t come back. You shoot somebody, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison, or on the run, or maybe in some foreign country where your first language is somewhere around third or fourth. Good luck with that.”

“Yeah,” Wilson sneered, stopping his pacing as he turned toward House, the gun waving dangerously as he gestured wildly with his hands. “Too bad I’m not brilliant enough to speak seven languages like you, right, House?” He rolled his eyes with a cold, bitter laugh as he added, “Freakin’ genius, and the thing you’re best at is destroying everything and everyone around you. I found that out first hand when you ruined my life.”

“I didn’t ruin your life, Wilson,” House insisted, boldly meeting Wilson’s eyes, his voice quiet and even.

“Please,” Wilson scoffed. “You’ve destroyed every relationship I’ve had since I’ve known you. You’ve nearly cost me my career – even my clean criminal record – more than once…”

“Yeah, but apparently those things don’t mean that much to you anyway.” House shrugged, his tone scathing, defiant. “Do they? Let’s talk about the things that do still matter to you.” He paused for a moment, meeting Wilson’s eyes in a clear challenge. “Amber’s death was an accident. I didn’t kill her.”

Wilson’s face flushed with rage, and he took a threatening step closer to House, pointing the gun at him again.

“Don’t you dare… speak her name!”

“Why not?” House snapped back, well aware that it would be wiser to hold his tongue, but unable to hold back the accusation in his voice. “Somebody ought to! She’s what this is all about – right?”

Wilson’s voice was warning, trembling with rage. “Shut up, House…”

“Because I’m starting to forget. You haven’t mentioned her in a month!”

“Shut up!”

Wilson came at him in a rush, slamming the pistol down across House’s face and knocking his head back against the couch behind him. House struggled against the blinding flashes of light and color that obscured his vision, raising a hand to his swollen, bleeding mouth. Before he could recover, Wilson had grabbed his collar with one hand, pressing the gun to his head with the other.

“That’s it,” he hissed in a furious whisper. “We’re done.”

House flinched at the click of the revolver, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the shot, certain that Wilson was right.

It’s over… I’m dead…

A sound from across the room drew Wilson’s attention abruptly away from him, and House opened his eyes in surprise as he felt the gun removed from his head. He looked up to see that Wilson had turned his back to him and was staring down at the guard on the floor, who was stirring slightly, a low moan reverberating from his throat.

“Shit.” Wilson turned back toward House with accusing eyes. “That sedative should have had him out for hours.”

House shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I didn’t prepare the dosage.”

Wilson swore again under his breath, hurrying toward the fallen guard, who was gradually returning to consciousness. Wilson crouched beside him, his hands scrabbling frantically along the floor where House had injected the guard, searching for the discarded needle. Finally he found it, raising it to find that it was still more than half full.

“You’re so dead, House,” he muttered without turning as he tried to steady his hands, preparing to inject the rest of the clear fluid into the guard’s arm before he awakened.

“Yeah,” House scoffed quietly. “More dead than I already was?”

Wilson didn’t answer, his mouth set in a taut line as he depressed the plunger on the syringe, then removed the needle from the guard’s arm. He watched anxiously as the semi-conscious man drifted back into unconsciousness, before tossing the needle down again and rising to his feet, shoulders slumping with relief.

“Oh, trust me, House,” he replied at last, his voice low and dark. “I can make this a lot worse for you than it was already gonna be…”

His voice trailed off as he turned to face House, and his eyes went wide in surprise at the sight that met his eyes. The drawer in the endtable beside the couch was open, empty, and House was still crouched against the side of the couch – but in the few moments it had taken Wilson to deal with the guard, something vital had changed.

House had taken his own gun from the drawer where he kept it – and it was trained steadily on Wilson. House’s mouth twisted upward into a grim, humorless smile, eyes solemn and certain as he met Wilson’s gaze.

“Can you?” he challenged softly. “I’m starting to doubt that.”

*************************

“Hello? House?”

Cuddy’s voice was eager, anxious, as she heard the click as House’s phone was answered. But relief was swiftly replaced by disappointment when only silence met her words.

“House!”

Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, removing the phone from her ear and glaring at the screen.

You want to avoid me, House? When I’m the only one on your side right now? Fine!

She was about to hang up, when she caught the muffled sound of voices on the other line. She put the phone back to her ear, listening closely, but the words were muffled, too quiet to make out.

The voices, however, were unmistakably familiar to her.

House – and Wilson.

As she listened, Wilson’s voice rose to an almost frantic pitch, and the dangerous level of fury she heard in it made her stomach drop. She listened closely, focusing her attention on the voices to try to make out the words. Finally, she thought she could hear House’s voice, slow and clear and even, and the words he spoke sent a shiver down her spine.

“… you can’t come back. You shoot someone, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison…”

Wilson’s got a gun? God… House!

Her hands trembling, Cuddy quickly disconnected the call, and dialed the number for the police.

Come on, House… Keep him talking… Help is on the way…

*************************

Wilson was startled for a moment, but then his expression faded into a pitying smile as he took a slow step closer to his intended victim. “House… do you really think you can shoot me?” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think you can.”

House’s hands, his voice, never wavered, as he kept the gun aimed steadily on Wilson. “I think you’re seriously underestimating my instinct for self-preservation.”

Wilson let out a quiet huff of laughter, rolling his eyes as he replied with clear sarcasm, “In spite of all the clear and undeniable evidence as to just how strong that instinct is. Right. No. That’s not what I meant.” He paused, his smile fading as he explained, “I emptied that gun weeks ago.”

House did not miss a beat, replying immediately. “I know. I found it unloaded last week. That’s when I knew I’d better make sure it was loaded from then on.”

Wilson was still slowly drawing nearer to House, the gun still aimed at his head, apparently unbothered by House’s words. He shook his head, something resembling a twisted affection in his eyes.

“I still don’t think you can do it,” he observed softly. “I don’t care anymore whether you live or die. You know that.” He was quiet a moment before adding, “Unfortunately, I don’t think you can say the same. You care too much, House. You can’t shoot me.”

“I will,” House insisted. “If you come any closer.”

Despite House’s calm threat, Wilson kept moving forward. He was only a few short yards away from House by now, and did not seem inclined to stop.

“Go ahead, House,” he said in a voice barely over a whisper, a cold smile on his lips. “Shoot me. Kill me.” He raised his eyebrows in a challenge. “Can you?”

House steadied his grip on the gun with both hands, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he didn’t answer.

“That’s what’s so pathetic about all of this,” Wilson sneered as he continued to edge closer to House. “You’re still so desperate to fix things – to make it like it was before. But that’s never going to happen, House. Those days are over. But you still think of me as all you’ve got – so you can’t do it.” Wilson shrugged, a mocking smile rising to his lips. “You might as well turn that gun on yourself – because you have nothing left to live for. I know you can’t kill me – but you’ve been slowly killing yourself for years now. Why don’t you just do us both a favor and end it the easy way?”

House flinched at the cruel words, undeniably hurt by Wilson’s calloused, vicious suggestions. He didn’t lower his gun, didn’t look away – but he didn’t fire, either. His voice was low, hoarse with unshed tears, as he replied haltingly.

“You don’t know it right now, Wilson… but if this goes down like you want it to… you won’t have anything left, either. You lost somebody – yeah. That’s sad. But instead of getting over it and moving on with your life like you should have, you spent the next few months systematically destroying everything else in your life that was worth anything.”

House was aware that Wilson was still advancing, but he just kept talking, keeping the gun trained on Wilson, but unable to bring himself to pull the trigger.

“You don’t think I’ll shoot you, because you’re all I’ve got left… and if you shoot me, you lose everything, too,” House continued. “So the way I see it – in about thirty seconds, either way this goes, one of us is going to lose everything…”

He was quiet a moment, swallowing hard. Wilson was only a couple of feet away now. His voice was soft, heavy with regret and tragic affection when he finally spoke again.

“… and I care too much to let it be you.”

Wilson’s eyes widened as he recognized something in House’s eyes, and saw the older man’s finger tighten on the trigger of the gun in his hand. Wilson’s hand shot out to slam his gun into House’s hands, forcing him to release the weapon with a cry of pain, and sending the gun skittering across the floor and into the far wall.

Immediately House reached up to catch Wilson’s hand, pushing it away from him. Wilson had the advantage of better leverage and greater strength, but House struggled against him as he tried to take aim again, both hands locking around Wilson’s left hand to keep him from regaining his deadly aim.

Wilson’s right hand shot out to backhand House, hard, and he fell back against the couch, but did not let go of Wilson’s hand. He was desperate, fighting for both their lives, and determined despite his disadvantage to keep Wilson from accomplishing his deadly goal. House jerked downward on Wilson’s hand as he fell, pulling the younger man off balance and onto his knees on the floor. Pressing his advantage, House yanked him closer to him, bringing the fight to a more even level.

For a few tense minutes, they struggled in near silence, no breath or strength to waste on words, their very lives at stake, grappling for control of the weapon in Wilson’s hand. House struggled blindly, unable to see the gun or which way it was pointed, as the upper hand seemed to pass back and forth between them with each passing moment.

All at once, a deafening blast rang out in the quiet room, and both men froze.

House wasn’t sure which of them had been shot at first. He blinked, eyes wide and shocked as he stared at the mirrored expression on Wilson’s face. For an instant, he recognized their old familiarity in Wilson’s eyes – that certainty that he knew exactly what Wilson was feeling without a word, and Wilson was reading him just as well.

The moment was larger, more intense and powerful than any of the conflict that had passed between them these past few weeks.

Breathless, heart pounding with fear and adrenaline, House forced himself to look down at the space between them. His stomach clenched with dread, and he knew that regardless of the outcome, there would be no relief. Either he was shot, and in too much shock to feel it yet, or he had shot Wilson.

House wasn’t sure which option was worse.

His eyes gradually made sense of the gun in Wilson’s hand, his own hands turning it back toward Wilson’s stomach… the seeping red stain that was swiftly overtaking a large portion of Wilson’s rumpled white dress shirt… the frighteningly pale appearance of Wilson’s face as he sank back onto his knees, and then collapsed to the floor on his back, wide eyes staring in shock and disbelief.

House was barely aware of the distant pounding on the door of his apartment – too focused on the thunderous roar in his ears, the piercing ache in his chest as his heart shattered into a million bleeding fragments on the floor at his feet.

TBC...

hit counter

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

californiaquail.livejournal.com

Oh God...

From:

bonomania.livejournal.com

...just to back you up on that...

Oh my...

*More coherent comment later* :o
x

From:

californiaquail.livejournal.com

If House shot Wilson, even by accident, he's going to hate himself, especially if Wilson dies.

Thanks Spike, for making this ten times more interesting than last night's episode.

From:

Losing It, Chapter 34 :)

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags