Fic: For Auld Lang Syne (House/Wilson)
Title: For Auld Lang Syne
Author: bittereternity
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,023
Spoilers: Season 8, up until 8.21. Doesn't take the 8.22 sneak peeks into account. Mostly.
Summary: The night before House goes back to prison. House and Wilson try to deal with the aftermath.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The title and the cut-text are taken from Robert Burns' famous poem Auld Lang Syne. I thought it would be quite fitting in this case.
Notes I haven't written anything for House in ages, but I felt like I needed closure before the show ends. Concrit welcome.
They don’t talk about this.
Conversations only happen in the pouring rain and in moving vehicles. There is nothing to say in front of beer bottles and half-finished pizza boxes. House’s apartment is still the same, the couch is still a little lumpy and perhaps a little worse for wear and everything else screams of too many memories.
They lean forward simultaneously to grab the last slice of pizza. House’s fingers brush against his and he forgets to breathe just for a second, halts for the smallest fraction and lets it go. House lets go a second later, and they lean back on the couch together. On the television, they discuss the weather and the impending elections and things that don’t matter.
They still have hours before the parole officer shows up. Hours, Wilson thinks, and we can change the world, do something.
Instead, he picks up another bottle of beer and puts his feet up on the table. Or, we can just be.
+
“I’ll do this for you,” Wilson says an hour later, and his lips are pursed into a thin, determined line. “I’ll start the chemo right away.”
“This is not what you want,” House replies, surprised.
They’re both paying attention now, conversations like this have a way of leaving bitter tastes in their mouths.
“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Wilson almost flails vehemently, and at another place and another time, House would have pointed and laughed. Now, he concentrates all his efforts on sitting still. “How am I supposed to sit back and do nothing?” How am I supposed to leave without seeing you?
“You would do that for me?” House tilts his head to get a good look.
Wilson smiles and his eyes crinkle and new lines form around his mouth. “Always,” he replies, and smiles until his jaw hurts and he can feel his teeth gnashing together.
It becomes very hard to swallow very fast and House looks away. “Don’t,” he finds himself saying, and his hand finds Wilson’s and he gives it a little squeeze.
“Don’t,” he repeats.
+
Echoes of former conversations linger between them and they don’t move from the couch. It gets chillier and they run out of beer, but there is sanctity in their silence that neither dare disturb.
I need you to tell me you love me, Wilson had begged a while back, and he had cried until he was hoarse and just for a second, prayed to a God that didn’t give a damn. Love me, he had thought over and over again, begging for someone to listen. Love me because I have no one left and I’m dying and I’m alone and this is not fair. Love me because I would have loved you back.
And House had seen him break down and he had opened the car door to sit with him anyway. House had sat there with heartbreak in his eyes and a prescription of vicodin that he hadn’t reached for. And he had refused to say goodbye.
They don’t talk about that either.
They operate through actions now. There are glances that are stolen a little too often, and hands that brush against each other a little bit more and then there’s silence.
You’re a miserable bastard who probably deserves my fate.
But I love you anyway.
+
It’s far too dark when House rises and decides to go to bed. The guy on the television has been replaced by someone else in black and white from an entirely different era.
“We need more time.” Wilson speaks up just before House turns to go to the bathroom.
House resists the urge to bang his cane against the wall. “We don’t have time,” he snaps, and the bitterness is still there, bubbling just beneath the surface.
“I will look into other treatment options,” Wilson tries again, and there’s a sigh in his voice somewhere. “I can’t… do this otherwise,” he says almost to himself, and his voice falters.
House turns so swiftly that he almost loses his balance whilst striding over to Wilson.
“No,” he breathes, and they are oh so close and Wilson can feel House’s breath falling rapidly on his shoulder. “I’m not going to let you live just as a favour to me. I won’t - can’t- owe you that.” House looks at him, undeterred, and almost lifts his hand to reach towards him before abruptly going in to his bedroom and slamming the door.
I’m trying my best to let you go, House doesn’t say, as he sits on a bed that’s far too cold.
You’re an idiot but I’m trying.
And I’m still not going to say I love you. Not yet.
+
He hears Wilson entering ten minutes later, rubbing his neck and lingering at the door as if any of the self-imposed boundaries matter.
House doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe as he feels Wilson sitting next to him. They’ve all said too many things, too fast and too often. They still have twenty years’ worth of memories they won’t relive.
Wilson reaches up to stroke House’s hair, even though it’s cut short and doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Tell me you’ll live for me,” Wilson says, and he tries his best to smile even though his vision gets a little blurry and he hides his shaking hands in House’s hair.
House looks straight ahead and clenches his cane.
‘Tell me,’ Wilson’s voice verges on begging but there’s no shame in needing anymore.
“Sorry, goes against all my principles.”
Wilson sighs and holds on to him tighter and looks at House until he can no longer see the individual lines on his face; keeps looking until House’s face blurs in front of his eyes.
House backs down from the intense scrutiny and folds his hands on his lap. Five extra seconds of interlude and he feels like he can breathe again before he matches Wilson’s gaze.
Wilson is still looking at him with those eyes, and his hands move down to graze against House’s stubble. Give some something, he pleads silently, let me breathe.
House takes a deep breath and unclenches his hands. “For you, always,” he murmurs into Wilson’s chest.
It’s enough for right now.
+
Author: bittereternity
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,023
Spoilers: Season 8, up until 8.21. Doesn't take the 8.22 sneak peeks into account. Mostly.
Summary: The night before House goes back to prison. House and Wilson try to deal with the aftermath.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The title and the cut-text are taken from Robert Burns' famous poem Auld Lang Syne. I thought it would be quite fitting in this case.
Notes I haven't written anything for House in ages, but I felt like I needed closure before the show ends. Concrit welcome.
They don’t talk about this.
Conversations only happen in the pouring rain and in moving vehicles. There is nothing to say in front of beer bottles and half-finished pizza boxes. House’s apartment is still the same, the couch is still a little lumpy and perhaps a little worse for wear and everything else screams of too many memories.
They lean forward simultaneously to grab the last slice of pizza. House’s fingers brush against his and he forgets to breathe just for a second, halts for the smallest fraction and lets it go. House lets go a second later, and they lean back on the couch together. On the television, they discuss the weather and the impending elections and things that don’t matter.
They still have hours before the parole officer shows up. Hours, Wilson thinks, and we can change the world, do something.
Instead, he picks up another bottle of beer and puts his feet up on the table. Or, we can just be.
+
“I’ll do this for you,” Wilson says an hour later, and his lips are pursed into a thin, determined line. “I’ll start the chemo right away.”
“This is not what you want,” House replies, surprised.
They’re both paying attention now, conversations like this have a way of leaving bitter tastes in their mouths.
“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Wilson almost flails vehemently, and at another place and another time, House would have pointed and laughed. Now, he concentrates all his efforts on sitting still. “How am I supposed to sit back and do nothing?” How am I supposed to leave without seeing you?
“You would do that for me?” House tilts his head to get a good look.
Wilson smiles and his eyes crinkle and new lines form around his mouth. “Always,” he replies, and smiles until his jaw hurts and he can feel his teeth gnashing together.
It becomes very hard to swallow very fast and House looks away. “Don’t,” he finds himself saying, and his hand finds Wilson’s and he gives it a little squeeze.
“Don’t,” he repeats.
+
Echoes of former conversations linger between them and they don’t move from the couch. It gets chillier and they run out of beer, but there is sanctity in their silence that neither dare disturb.
I need you to tell me you love me, Wilson had begged a while back, and he had cried until he was hoarse and just for a second, prayed to a God that didn’t give a damn. Love me, he had thought over and over again, begging for someone to listen. Love me because I have no one left and I’m dying and I’m alone and this is not fair. Love me because I would have loved you back.
And House had seen him break down and he had opened the car door to sit with him anyway. House had sat there with heartbreak in his eyes and a prescription of vicodin that he hadn’t reached for. And he had refused to say goodbye.
They don’t talk about that either.
They operate through actions now. There are glances that are stolen a little too often, and hands that brush against each other a little bit more and then there’s silence.
You’re a miserable bastard who probably deserves my fate.
But I love you anyway.
+
It’s far too dark when House rises and decides to go to bed. The guy on the television has been replaced by someone else in black and white from an entirely different era.
“We need more time.” Wilson speaks up just before House turns to go to the bathroom.
House resists the urge to bang his cane against the wall. “We don’t have time,” he snaps, and the bitterness is still there, bubbling just beneath the surface.
“I will look into other treatment options,” Wilson tries again, and there’s a sigh in his voice somewhere. “I can’t… do this otherwise,” he says almost to himself, and his voice falters.
House turns so swiftly that he almost loses his balance whilst striding over to Wilson.
“No,” he breathes, and they are oh so close and Wilson can feel House’s breath falling rapidly on his shoulder. “I’m not going to let you live just as a favour to me. I won’t - can’t- owe you that.” House looks at him, undeterred, and almost lifts his hand to reach towards him before abruptly going in to his bedroom and slamming the door.
I’m trying my best to let you go, House doesn’t say, as he sits on a bed that’s far too cold.
You’re an idiot but I’m trying.
And I’m still not going to say I love you. Not yet.
+
He hears Wilson entering ten minutes later, rubbing his neck and lingering at the door as if any of the self-imposed boundaries matter.
House doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe as he feels Wilson sitting next to him. They’ve all said too many things, too fast and too often. They still have twenty years’ worth of memories they won’t relive.
Wilson reaches up to stroke House’s hair, even though it’s cut short and doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Tell me you’ll live for me,” Wilson says, and he tries his best to smile even though his vision gets a little blurry and he hides his shaking hands in House’s hair.
House looks straight ahead and clenches his cane.
‘Tell me,’ Wilson’s voice verges on begging but there’s no shame in needing anymore.
“Sorry, goes against all my principles.”
Wilson sighs and holds on to him tighter and looks at House until he can no longer see the individual lines on his face; keeps looking until House’s face blurs in front of his eyes.
House backs down from the intense scrutiny and folds his hands on his lap. Five extra seconds of interlude and he feels like he can breathe again before he matches Wilson’s gaze.
Wilson is still looking at him with those eyes, and his hands move down to graze against House’s stubble. Give some something, he pleads silently, let me breathe.
House takes a deep breath and unclenches his hands. “For you, always,” he murmurs into Wilson’s chest.
It’s enough for right now.
+