Losing It, Chapter 38

[darkdreamer]

Okay, guys, thanks to my wonderful beta misanthropicobs , I have two updates for you again today :) I hope you enjoy them, looking forward to your comments on them :)

*hugs*
DoS

Here's the first:

Title: Losing It
Betaed by: misanthropicobs

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 38
The Last Word

 

When House awakened the next morning – in an inexplicably peaceful, pleasant mood – it took him a moment to remember where he was… and a moment more to remember why.

And abruptly, the sense of peaceful euphoria faded away into an anxious, unsettled feeling.

I shot Wilson… He’s in the hospital… maybe dying…

He rolled over in the bed, feeling strangely bereft when he realized that he was alone in it. He would have expected to feel a sense of relief at not having to face Cuddy for what could have been a painfully awkward, uncomfortable morning; instead, he found himself wondering why she’d left without saying anything, and wishing she was still there.

Pathetic… such a pathetic, ridiculous thought…

However, his analysis of his own reactions lacked the venom it might have held any other morning. He let out a soft, ironic laugh, shaking his head as he sat up and started to get out of bed. He froze when his eyes fell on a folded sheet of paper on the night table, with his name written on it. He picked it up, unfolding it and reading the words written there, in Cuddy’s neat, feminine handwriting.

House Greg,

Had to go to work, and check on Wilson. Sleep as long as you like, and stay as long as you want when you get up. Eat anything you like, I’ll go shopping after work. Don’t worry about coming in at all today, you need your rest. Give me a call when you We’ll talk later, when I get home back to the apartment home.

Cuddy Lisa

He couldn’t help but smile as he analyzed the thoughts and rethoughts that had clearly gone into the brief message. He pictured her, sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully measuring each word of her simple missive. He folded the note up again and set it on the bedside table, grimacing as he tried to remember where he’d left his cane – then noticed it, leaning against the edge of the nightstand. His smile widened slightly with affection and gratitude.

Thanks, Cuddy…

Despite his gratitude, however, he had no intention of taking advantage of the hospitality she had offered. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was just past nine. House rose from the bed, a bit more slowly than usual due to his soreness from the fight with Wilson. He gathered his clothes from the night before and got dressed, stopping on his way out the bedroom door to tuck Cuddy’s note into the pocket of his shirt. He didn’t stop for coffee or breakfast, just quickly finished getting ready and headed for the door.

He had a very specific mission to accomplish.

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

He avoided the busy, well-trafficked entrance into the clinic, instead choosing a less popular side entrance only a few feet from an elevator. The elevator carried him to the floor he selected, which was usually fairly quiet this time of the morning. He was relieved to reach his destination without impediment, apparently unrecognized by any of the handful of people who had passed him in the hall – mostly family members of patients.

The police guard at the door, however, posed a slightly greater problem – but nothing that a spare lab coat from the supply closet couldn’t solve. The police would surely not allow a random civilian into the room, especially if they realized that said civilian was the victim of the man they were guarding.

One of the suspect’s physicians, however – well, that was a different matter entirely.

House nodded to the officers, breezing past them into the room before they could notice anything out of the ordinary, closing the door behind him. He drew the blinds, then took in a deep, steadying breath and turned to face the bed.

A swift rush of mingled emotions assailed him at the sight of Wilson, sleeping in the hospital bed, appearing far more frail and helpless and vulnerable than he had the last time House had seen him. His face was bruised, his lip split from the fight, and House couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of pride at the knowledge that despite his disadvantage, he had clearly held his own.

Pride, however, was far outweighed by guilt and grief for all they had lost.

He swallowed back his emotions, squaring his shoulders and steeling himself to do what he had come here to do. Picking up Wilson’s chart from the tray at the foot of his bed, he scanned it quickly as he made his way to the IV stand beside the bed. Carefully, he adjusted the dial on the morphine being pumped into Wilson’s veins, turning it down gradually, watching Wilson’s face for any sign of a reaction.

The bullet had punctured a lung, and Wilson had required emergency surgery to repair it in order to save his life, and a breathing tube to spare the damaged organ any unnecessary effort while it was healing. He had also needed a transfusion to replace the blood he had lost, and enough morphine to help him sleep through the worst of the pain, until he was recovered enough to be taken into custody by the police.

However, House didn’t want Wilson asleep at the moment.

After a few moments, Wilson’s face twitched, his brow furrowing, as he let out a quiet groan of pain. House waited until Wilson’s eyes opened, looking up at him with a dull expression of pain and confusion, before dialing the morphine up again, just a little – just enough to ease the pain, without sending Wilson back into unconsciousness.

“Morning,” he remarked flatly, not meeting Wilson’s eyes as he took an instinctive step backward, away from the bed. “Time to wake up. I need you conscious for the next few minutes… but there’s no reason that you should suffer during those few minutes.” He frowned, reconsidering, before amending, “Well… there is a reason… but I still don’t want you to, believe it or not.”

He was quiet a moment, forcing himself to meet Wilson’s eyes, taking in the gradual recognition and understanding in his slowly sharpening gaze. Wilson’s eyes were wary, fearful, watching House’s movements as he paced slowly at the foot of the bed.

“The breathing tube’s a nice touch, though,” House continued quietly, unable to suppress a slight smirk of satisfaction that was justified, if a bit cruel. “Gives me a chance to have my say without being interrupted… or having the shit kicked out of me.”

His smile swiftly faded, his voice becoming somber and starkly honest.

“I’m sorry. I’ve told you that before, several times, and I don’t think you believed me… but I’ll say it just this last time, and then… well, what you choose to believe is up to you. I’m. Sorry. Sorry about Amber… sorry you lost her. I… I know it hurts, and… and it hurts me, too… for you…”

He swallowed hard, wincing at the unaccustomed openness and vulnerability of the words. He looked up at Wilson again through lowered eyes, watching closely for any reaction, as he softly continued.

“But it wasn’t my fault. And… I think you know that. I think you’ve always known it. Yeah, you’ve gone out of your way for me a lot over the last ten years. You’ve done more for me than you should have… more than I probably deserved. But… you chose to do those things, Wilson. I didn’t force you. No one did. When… when Amber died… you couldn’t stand it, because… because you thought it was your fault.”

House looked away, blinking back unbidden tears of sympathy at the wince of pain in Wilson’s eyes – pain that he knew was not physical.

“It wasn’t,” he clarified, his voice low and husky with repressed emotion. “It wasn’t your fault… but you blamed yourself, because of… because of the choices you’d made. Because you were always there for me, even when you shouldn’t have been… and if you hadn’t been… I never would have called you that night.”

He was quiet a moment, allowing the words to sink in for both of them.

“You haven’t been punishing me for Amber. You blamed yourself for that. No… this has been about the past ten years. About all the other things you’ve done for me that you shouldn’t have had to, and all the things I’ve cost you, or almost cost you. You’ve been punishing me for our whole friendship, Wilson. All the things that have bothered you for the last ten years, all rolled into one colossal explosion of frustration and anger – and it almost killed us both.”

Wilson was watching him closely, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, his cuffed wrists jerking uselessly against the sides of the bed. The expression in his bleary, red-rimmed eyes was inscrutable, and House couldn’t tell whether he was trying to get to him to shut him up, as he’d done so many times during the last few weeks, or just trying to escape the painful truth of House’s words.

Either way, he was out of luck.

This time, Wilson was the one with no escape.

“Thing is…” House went on in a voice of practiced calm, eyes lowered momentarily before focusing sharply on Wilson’s face again. “… you’ve caused your fair share of damage, yourself – and I’m not talking about the last few weeks.” He paused, drawing in a deep breath. “I can’t count the times you’ve whispered and plotted behind my back – with Cuddy, with Tritter…” House watched closely, gauging Wilson’s reaction as he continued cautiously.

“… with Stacey…”

Wilson’s flinch, his suddenly averted gaze, was all the answer House needed to a question ten years old. A grim smile formed on his lips, his shoulders slumping with disappointment as he nodded once in resigned acceptance.

“You knew,” he stated quietly. “I thought you might have. She wouldn’t have made a decision of that much importance without discussing it with you.” His voice softened, tinged with hurt and betrayal, as he confessed, “I’m… not sure I want to know… what advice you gave her. What your… opinion was. All that matters is that you… you didn’t warn me. Didn’t tell me what was going to happen. Let her go behind my back and… and…”

House shook his head, his words trailing off as his throat closed up, and he lowered his head again, raising a hand to his eyes momentarily before rolling them heavenward with a bitter, painful laugh.

“You know… all this time, you’ve done your best to make me feel like I was so… so irreparably screwed up that you shouldn’t have even wasted your time. Our friendship is an… ethical responsibility. That’s what you said, isn’t it? The saintly Dr. Jimmy Wilson, doing the right thing by the damaged, miserable, worthless Dr. House, who didn’t deserve the incredible honor of his friendship. But you’ve stabbed me in the back, more than once. You’ve betrayed my trust… again and again. You even went so far as to take the things you knew about my childhood… my family… things I told you in confidence, and never told anyone else… and use those things against me… use them to control me and manipulate me… and I… I’ve overlooked it… because…” His voice lowered to a whisper as he came to a shameful realization even as he spoke. “… because… I didn’t think I could do any better. I didn’t think I deserved you.”

House was silent for a moment, glancing up to Wilson’s eyes, which were studiously averted. Wilson had gone very still in the bed, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, very deliberately resisting showing any reaction to House’s monologue. House’s next words, however, spoken with a cold smile of bitter irony, caused a distinctly visible flinch, as they struck their mark with deadly accuracy.

“You know, I think I can say in all honesty, Wilson… I really don’t deserve your friendship.”

House turned and headed back toward the door, opening the blinds again in preparation to leave. He knew that the police outside would just assume he’d closed them for the patient’s privacy, for some procedure he’d needed to perform, and wouldn’t suspect what had really taken place inside this room. At the door, he turned before opening it, somewhat disappointed when Wilson still refused to look at him.

“On the other hand,” he relented slightly, his voice soft and sad, but not without a heavy dose of irony. “I never should have put up with it. Maybe if I hadn’t… enabled your addiction… things wouldn’t have gotten to this point. In a way, it’s… my fault as much as yours.”

He hesitated, a soft smile touching his lips as he spoke. “I’d… like to think that, once you get out of… whatever prison or mental hospital they send you to, you might regret all this, and I could forgive you… and we could be friends again.” His smile faded, a dull finality in his eyes as he spoke the last words he would speak to the man who had been his friend, his confidante, and almost… his destroyer.

“Too bad I’m a realist.”

He walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him – without seeing Wilson’s dark gaze turn back toward the empty doorway, or the silent tears that streaked his stricken, anguished face.

TBC...

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[dreamsofspike.livejournal.com]

it basically is ;) *shrugs* all that's left is an epilogue :P