Title: Grieving
By:
daasgrrl
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: YABD - Yet Another Bloody Deathfic. Sorry to those who think the fandom already has too many.
Word count: 5x100, excluding titles
Notes: I’m not actually a member of
housefic_pens as yet but I stole the
linked drabble challenge from the other people who were doing it, so I thought I’d mention it. Thanks to
evila_elf for giving it a read through. Indirectly prompted by someone on my f-list, who can probably guess who they are.
Denial
The privacy curtain is an ugly green, but everything else seems overwhelmingly white. Pillow, sheets, covering sheet, the pallor of Wilson’s face. No more tubes or wires; Wilson doesn’t need assistance now. House stands awhile, then pulls up a chair. He can be patient when he wants to be. He’s going to stay here and wait for Wilson to give in and draw breath again, for his eyes to flicker open, his mouth to quirk up in a triumphant smile at the success of his deception. And when he does, House is going to kill him for wasting his time.
Anger
House doesn’t blame fate, or chance, or the universe. He blames Wilson. Blames him for the uncomfortable suit, tight under the arms. Blames him for the stupid fucking speech he has to make, the ridiculous amount of crying he has to endure around him. He never thought he'd be here, and yet he’s here all the same. House always knew that beneath Wilson’s saintly exterior there lay a selfish, inconsiderate bastard, and this is merely a final confirmation. Anyone else would have had the grace not to let this happen. House doesn’t say this, not now, but he wants to.
Bargaining
It always hits him in that in-between state just before he wakes up, brain working, eyes shut. If he holds still, he can hear him - the toilet flush, the shower running, the goddamned hairdryer. In that time he can almost believe it’s just been a bad dream brought on by broken sleep and Wilson’s experiments with Thai cooking. He’ll get up to find him in the kitchen, spooning cereal into his mouth, pausing only to shake his head at House’s lateness. If he promises to appreciate Wilson better, this time, maybe he'll be there. But, as he discovers, not today.
Depression
He’s fine. He really is, and he wishes people would stop looking at him like that. Steiner works next door now, and that’s fine too. The cases keep coming in, and he works on them like he’s always done. Cameron hovers around him inexplicably, Chase makes him coffee before he even asks, and Foreman keeps trying to provoke him, but they don’t mean any harm, so he allows the former two, and ignores the latter. He’s even doing all his clinic hours, so he doesn’t understand why Cuddy seems to get more agitated every time he sees her. He’s fine.
Acceptance
Visiting the cemetery is the most singularly pointless rite of remembrance that he can think of. He doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not like the dead are hanging out six feet under, drinking coffee, waiting for visitors and keeping score. If Wilson’s around, he’s as much in House’s cutlery drawer as anywhere else. But he goes. Sometimes he doesn’t even mean to. He gets on the bike without a destination in mind and ends up here. He never stays long, and he doesn’t bother leaving a rock. It’s not like any of it is really for Wilson, after all.