Title Waiting
Rating PG
Pairing House-Wilson
Word Count 1,020
Spoilers 311 - Words and Deeds
Summary House learns to appreciate Wilson.
A/N First fanfic I wrote in a long time, and first for House. Originally posted here: http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/984695.html


1

…Never ending pain. Too bad there weren’t all-you-can-eat varieties of pill bottles. But there was enough alcohol to give the illusion of endless supply.

He knew better. Not to mix drugs and alcohol. Not to push everyone away – Stacy. Cuddy. Wilson. Not to give Tritter more ways to destroy his life.

Wilson probably would have told him he was being a hypocrite.

“House!” Speak of the devil. He wished he would stop that noise. Wilson said something else, but House was too drowsy to know what. He had a headache, too.

House opened his eyes and could feel something cool drying on the side of his face. The expression on Wilson’s face distracted and confused him for a moment. The clack of the pill bottle by his head made some sense of it all.

As the footsteps moved away, House relaxed a bit, assuming Wilson was going to help him, as always. The door slammed shut. “Help yourself,” it said, since actions were louder than words.

2

He would never change his ways and would keep on getting fired. He would also keep on getting hired. Although he hadn’t expected to be hired by an undergraduate he slept with a decade ago.

She dressed the same way – possibly less – had the same flirty smile as she told him to stop staring. He corrected her, saying he was “admiring.”

Scattered between interesting cases would be run-of-the-mill diseases, clinic duty, and worst of all, teaching classes. He would have to keep reassuring idiot doctors and nurses that, yes, he knew what he was doing and, yes, he was insane.

He would eat lunch alone in his office every day.

But Cuddy would eventually talk him into socializing, although he was only interested in being able to legally shoot at lawyers and other doctors. He would end up being the one shot, and spending a few less hours alone each day.

And he would continue his newfound hobby of harassing the handsome young doctor, who had a ring on his finger and a woman without one at his side, until they eventually fell into something resembling a friendship.

3

So much for trusting doctors. While in excruciating pain, he had still out diagnosed them. Any satisfaction he may have felt was eaten away at by the pain and realization of muscle death.

Stacy had tried to illustrate the irrationality of his decision, but he knew he was acting as stupid as any lying patient. He knew better. He was grateful to see Stacy’s face fade away to black.

The ominous feeling he had upon waking grew worse when he saw Stacy’s face. Wilson was there, protecting her. She retreated in tears, hoping he would be more rational, less angry, that they could talk.

But that would never happen. They all could feel it. And he knew Wilson hadn’t been there to protect Stacy as her friend, but to save House from self-destruction.

4

He pretended to be bitter about Stacy leaving after only five months. On one level, he knew he did all he could to push her away. On another, he was glad she was gone; on yet another: she wouldn’t be affected by his misery any further.

Most of all, he would have liked for her to come back.

Of course, everyone knew about his personal life and gave pitying looks. Looks always directed at his cane or useless right leg. He didn’t want their pity – he was still a better doctor, and now he had his own department to run and a little more freedom.

But there were the idiot fellows, each one questioning him every step of the way. And he would always question their decision to work under him, popping open the bottle of his vicodin.

He hated the sympathetic looks he got when he did that, but, fortunately, most people lacked the ability to speak as their faces contorted into that despised expression. He’d also get what he wanted a lot faster, as well.

The only high point in his day was screwing with Wilson, who’d pretend to hate it. His wife had finally left him, and they were both supposed to be miserable, but somehow they forgot that little detail at times.

5

The second time he had awoken from a coma, Wilson and Cuddy were by his bed. He had dreamed they betrayed him, but looking up, there were only two relieved faces – one streaked with always silent tears and the other barely holding them back.

All he could think about was the hallucination; he told the one person who could speak to, the one person he could tell everything to.

He had asked himself whether anyone would miss him if he died. Sure, Cameron acted like she cared, but now he knew – really knew – that Wilson would always be there.

Except now he wasn’t. Wilson had been right; House pushed too far. Now the last person who tolerated him was fed up, and he was lying on the floor of his apartment, in his own vomit, alone.

House slowly rose; if he didn’t, he’d be alone again, for the rest of his life.

Epilogue

House sat in a cell, but he actually felt – happy? And not so much because he would only be there for the night rather than ten years. He would continue to practice medicine, and better than anyone else.

Sure, he had an addiction he couldn’t kick, still cheated and lied, and could only get himself to apologize in the most ambiguous manner. But Wilson was still able to understand him, and he was still there.

“Goodnight, House,” Wilson said with a smile. They would be okay. Not perfect, but okay. Wilson was willing to wait for sincere change, not matter how gradual.

An uncharacteristic smile spread across House’s face as he replied, “Goodnight, Wilson.”

Death brings into focus what’s important in life, as it flashes by in a person’s last moments. Every time House thought he would die, all he saw was Wilson. And every time he made it out alive, Wilson was there, waiting.