Everything will never be OK
House looked around the room, all quiet and motionless. He rolled to his back; his leg gave a stabbing shriek. He clenched his fists. Beside him, Chase shifted and let out a weak moan. It was then that House noticed that his fingers were firmly closed around Chase’s wrist. He frowned at his hand; something about the gesture seemed wrong. It was controlling and fucked up; that’s how his dad used to grab him when…
The memory vanished, sunk back into the fog his mind had become.
He sighed in frustration and let go of the other man’s wrist. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the timid constant of Chase’s breathing.
In and out.
Young body curled on its side in childlike rest.
In and out.
A desolate siren blared in the distance.
House opened his eyes and turned to the clock on the intensivist’s bedside table.
4:45.
Great.
He got up.
They were waiting for the patient to get out of surgery when Cuddy appeared. She opened the door but didn’t step in. House recognized the look she gave him; guilt mixed with uncertainty.
“He’s here, he’s clearing out his office,” Cuddy murmured and then she was gone.
House remained there, stunned into stillness. He didn’t hear the shrill sound of the phone nor the sigh of the conference room door as Foreman pushed it open.
“House!” Foreman tried for the third time.
The diagnostician finally looked at him. “What?”
“The procedure’s done, they’re testing the samples,” said Taub, who was standing a step behind the neurologist.
“Get Chase.”
“Patient’s fine, there was nothing abnormal; Kutner’s getting the report from him.”
“Are you deaf? Get Chase in here!” House snapped.
Five minutes later Chase strode into his office, file in hand. “Here’s the chart. My money’s on Cholesterol Embolism.”
House didn’t respond. The intensivist left the folder on the table and sat down. “What’s wrong?”
“Wilson’s here,” he said simply.
“Where?”
“His office. He’s leaving.”
“Have you talked to him?” asked Chase carefully.
“No, Cuddy told me.”
“House,” he began. “Go talk to him.”
The diagnostician shook his head. “I- He’s leaving.”
“Hasn’t left yet,” the intensivist reasoned.
“He hates me.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
House shook his head. “Maybe I should let things as they are.”
Chase scoffed. “Things are pretty shitty as they are, House. You’re a mess without him; you’re thinner, your drinking got heavier, you punish yourself by not taking your pills, you’re miserable. Not to mention the fact that you’ve been sleeping in my bed or making me crash on yours for a month now.”
The older doctor glared at him.
“Not complaining.” He sighed and stood up. “You’re not a coward, House. Go tell him you can’t live without him.”
He was at the door when the diagnostician spoke. “You got your key?”
Chase nodded once, firmly. “Yeah.”
Wilson’s office was open. The oncologist was sorting the books on his shelves into different cardboard boxes.
“Don’t leave,” House said from the doorway.
Wilson looked up at him, mildly startled. “House.”
“I need this friendship.” He blurted it out before he could give it a second thought. Chase was right, this man had been the only constant in his life for such a long time; he couldn’t give him up so easily. He had to at least try.
Wilson let out a loud sigh and collapsed onto his chair.
They hadn’t spoken to each other in almost five months.
House stepped in and closed the door.
“It should have been me,” he began. He knew it was ridiculous and probably insulting to say it but he needed to hear it out loud. He had whispered it to himself so many times; reminded himself he did not deserve to wake up in the morning because he was so bitter and miserable and jaded and just so fucking lonely.
“It wasn’t,” the oncologist said, silently agreeing with him.
“You won’t forgive me.” It was a quiet statement; tiny and mostly sad against the evening air.
“You didn’t kill her.” Wilson covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. “But you are partly responsible for her death. I can forgive you for that, I know I will. There’s no way you could have known what was going to happen.”
“But,” supplied House.
“But I don’t know, I can’t.” It still hurt too much to rationalize it. He wasn’t angry at House; he had been, at some point, months ago; but now he just felt tired and disappointed, so devastatingly disappointed.
The crash, and House to some extent, had murdered the possibility of Amber. She died and he had been left to wonder if she had been the one. He loved her, but they were still getting used to being in love with each other, still figuring things out, getting used to each other, maybe for good.
“Not now,” he whispered. He wasn’t ready to let go of that lost potential.
“Will you at least reconsider staying?” House asked warily.
Wilson gave him a painfully long look and nodded he couldn’t deny he needed this friendship too. “I can do that.”
The diagnosis department was deserted; the conference room was tinted mauve with the last traces of sunlight, and House’s office, blinds closed, was drenched in darkness. Chase sighed, he was about to turn back to the elevator when something caught his eye. A small shadow went up into the air only to fall down again.
House’s tennis ball.
He stepped inside.
“Thought you were gone,” he commented, sitting on the bookcase by the door.
“It was Cholesterol Embolism,” said House and threw the ball at Chase. “Kutner owes me 10 bucks.”
“Good news,” said the intensivist, throwing the toy back.
“Your shift ended three hours ago.”
“Had an emergency,” he explained as he caught the ball once more. “You were gone when I woke up, this morning.”
“Pain.”
“Had you taken your pills?”
House didn’t respond but the round shadow flew in Chase’s direction once more.
“He needs time,” said the diagnostician, some minutes later, without interrupting their game.
“We knew that could happen. Is he still leaving?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” Chase threw the ball once more, but this time House didn’t catch it, it hit the blinds and fell on the top shelf of the unit behing the desk.
“Idiot.”
Chase got to his feet and crossed the room. He stood next to House and offered him his hand. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
House’s mood improved in the next couple of days. Wilson wasn’t officially back but it was only a matter of paperwork.
“So,” House began as he slid into bed. It was Thursday night, or Friday morning more like it. He had fallen asleep on the couch while he watched The Godfather. He pressed himself against Chase’s back and wrapped his arms around the slender torso. “Are we gonna have sex or what?”
The intensivist turned his head with a sleepy frown. “I’m not-, are you-”
“Kinsey,” House murmured impatiently. It’s not like they didn’t sleep tangled like vines more often than not.
Apparently it was all the sexuality talk Chase needed, for he dropped a sloppy kiss on the diagnostician’s jaw, closely followed by another one on the corner of his mouth. House let him roll onto his back so their lips could meet properly.
Chase broke the kiss and sighed. He pecked House on the chin. “Not tonight, my shift starts in three hours.
The diagnostician thought of throwing him off the bed, but instead he just settled against him.
Things were ready to get better.
The memory vanished, sunk back into the fog his mind had become.
He sighed in frustration and let go of the other man’s wrist. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the timid constant of Chase’s breathing.
In and out.
Young body curled on its side in childlike rest.
In and out.
A desolate siren blared in the distance.
House opened his eyes and turned to the clock on the intensivist’s bedside table.
4:45.
Great.
He got up.
They were waiting for the patient to get out of surgery when Cuddy appeared. She opened the door but didn’t step in. House recognized the look she gave him; guilt mixed with uncertainty.
“He’s here, he’s clearing out his office,” Cuddy murmured and then she was gone.
House remained there, stunned into stillness. He didn’t hear the shrill sound of the phone nor the sigh of the conference room door as Foreman pushed it open.
“House!” Foreman tried for the third time.
The diagnostician finally looked at him. “What?”
“The procedure’s done, they’re testing the samples,” said Taub, who was standing a step behind the neurologist.
“Get Chase.”
“Patient’s fine, there was nothing abnormal; Kutner’s getting the report from him.”
“Are you deaf? Get Chase in here!” House snapped.
Five minutes later Chase strode into his office, file in hand. “Here’s the chart. My money’s on Cholesterol Embolism.”
House didn’t respond. The intensivist left the folder on the table and sat down. “What’s wrong?”
“Wilson’s here,” he said simply.
“Where?”
“His office. He’s leaving.”
“Have you talked to him?” asked Chase carefully.
“No, Cuddy told me.”
“House,” he began. “Go talk to him.”
The diagnostician shook his head. “I- He’s leaving.”
“Hasn’t left yet,” the intensivist reasoned.
“He hates me.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
House shook his head. “Maybe I should let things as they are.”
Chase scoffed. “Things are pretty shitty as they are, House. You’re a mess without him; you’re thinner, your drinking got heavier, you punish yourself by not taking your pills, you’re miserable. Not to mention the fact that you’ve been sleeping in my bed or making me crash on yours for a month now.”
The older doctor glared at him.
“Not complaining.” He sighed and stood up. “You’re not a coward, House. Go tell him you can’t live without him.”
He was at the door when the diagnostician spoke. “You got your key?”
Chase nodded once, firmly. “Yeah.”
Wilson’s office was open. The oncologist was sorting the books on his shelves into different cardboard boxes.
“Don’t leave,” House said from the doorway.
Wilson looked up at him, mildly startled. “House.”
“I need this friendship.” He blurted it out before he could give it a second thought. Chase was right, this man had been the only constant in his life for such a long time; he couldn’t give him up so easily. He had to at least try.
Wilson let out a loud sigh and collapsed onto his chair.
They hadn’t spoken to each other in almost five months.
House stepped in and closed the door.
“It should have been me,” he began. He knew it was ridiculous and probably insulting to say it but he needed to hear it out loud. He had whispered it to himself so many times; reminded himself he did not deserve to wake up in the morning because he was so bitter and miserable and jaded and just so fucking lonely.
“It wasn’t,” the oncologist said, silently agreeing with him.
“You won’t forgive me.” It was a quiet statement; tiny and mostly sad against the evening air.
“You didn’t kill her.” Wilson covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. “But you are partly responsible for her death. I can forgive you for that, I know I will. There’s no way you could have known what was going to happen.”
“But,” supplied House.
“But I don’t know, I can’t.” It still hurt too much to rationalize it. He wasn’t angry at House; he had been, at some point, months ago; but now he just felt tired and disappointed, so devastatingly disappointed.
The crash, and House to some extent, had murdered the possibility of Amber. She died and he had been left to wonder if she had been the one. He loved her, but they were still getting used to being in love with each other, still figuring things out, getting used to each other, maybe for good.
“Not now,” he whispered. He wasn’t ready to let go of that lost potential.
“Will you at least reconsider staying?” House asked warily.
Wilson gave him a painfully long look and nodded he couldn’t deny he needed this friendship too. “I can do that.”
The diagnosis department was deserted; the conference room was tinted mauve with the last traces of sunlight, and House’s office, blinds closed, was drenched in darkness. Chase sighed, he was about to turn back to the elevator when something caught his eye. A small shadow went up into the air only to fall down again.
House’s tennis ball.
He stepped inside.
“Thought you were gone,” he commented, sitting on the bookcase by the door.
“It was Cholesterol Embolism,” said House and threw the ball at Chase. “Kutner owes me 10 bucks.”
“Good news,” said the intensivist, throwing the toy back.
“Your shift ended three hours ago.”
“Had an emergency,” he explained as he caught the ball once more. “You were gone when I woke up, this morning.”
“Pain.”
“Had you taken your pills?”
House didn’t respond but the round shadow flew in Chase’s direction once more.
“He needs time,” said the diagnostician, some minutes later, without interrupting their game.
“We knew that could happen. Is he still leaving?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” Chase threw the ball once more, but this time House didn’t catch it, it hit the blinds and fell on the top shelf of the unit behing the desk.
“Idiot.”
Chase got to his feet and crossed the room. He stood next to House and offered him his hand. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
House’s mood improved in the next couple of days. Wilson wasn’t officially back but it was only a matter of paperwork.
“So,” House began as he slid into bed. It was Thursday night, or Friday morning more like it. He had fallen asleep on the couch while he watched The Godfather. He pressed himself against Chase’s back and wrapped his arms around the slender torso. “Are we gonna have sex or what?”
The intensivist turned his head with a sleepy frown. “I’m not-, are you-”
“Kinsey,” House murmured impatiently. It’s not like they didn’t sleep tangled like vines more often than not.
Apparently it was all the sexuality talk Chase needed, for he dropped a sloppy kiss on the diagnostician’s jaw, closely followed by another one on the corner of his mouth. House let him roll onto his back so their lips could meet properly.
Chase broke the kiss and sighed. He pecked House on the chin. “Not tonight, my shift starts in three hours.
The diagnostician thought of throwing him off the bed, but instead he just settled against him.
Things were ready to get better.