The Last Mile, Part 3 of 3
Title: The Last Mile (Part 3 of 3)
Author: ExtraBitter
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: Implicit slash, a lot more angst, extended double entendre, backlighting, and a very sad metaphor.
Summary: After a very long and trying day, House and Wilson end up in the same place. Conclusion.
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply
Notes: I scrapped the original part three because, although it had some bits that I loved, it didn’t suit the story. This was not easy, and it probably shows. It should have been done a week ago. I might post some of the good bits as pseudo drabble.
Read Part One
Read Part Two
“Explain the change, the difference between what you want and what you need.” R.E.M., I Believe
By the time House got to the edge of town, clouds covered the sky. The weight in his leg transferred to the rest of his body, as if his bones were made of a toxic metal that would eat away his flesh from inside, slowly, until nothing was left of him but skin and hair.
He stopped in front of his own building and cranked the parking brake into place. The grinding teeth of the gear contrasted with the soft splash of rain on the top of the car. House sat for a moment, feeling the stillness of it all.
Inside, he went straight for the bottles. Vicodin alone wouldn’t dull him enough to get him to sleep. He had to sleep. His eyes burned and his head hurt.
He collapsed onto the couch with as much force as he could muster, not much, just enough to shake himself. In five years, he had become a really good cripple. He knew exactly what his body could take, and what it couldn’t, even if nobody else did.
Wilson piloted his car toward House’s apartment, his head full of words. So many words, most of them sounded like sorry. He was sorry, but he wasn’t. Part of him knew that he couldn’t have stopped the ill winds inside him from blowing, and the other part knew that deliberately hurting a person you loved was the most grievous of sins. He did love House; there was no denying it. He didn’t know why, or even how, but he did know.
In his head, out of his mind, Wilson drove. The rain fell now, landing fat drops of water that refracted the streetlights through his windshield. It was beautiful, the light shining at the edges of each drop, rolling down, meeting each other. He absently turned.
He was going to make this right.
House sucked back the whiskey and let it scorch his throat. He let thoughts of the past push away thoughts of the present. The past was done; so was the present, but at least he knew he couldn’t change the past. He saw the Wilson who had picked up the pieces of his life after Stacy walked out and put them back together, the man who pushed him back to living. He saw Wilson standing opposite him, today, never breaking contact as he shoved the cane back in his hand.
As if House could forget the cane; as if he could forget Wilson. How much whiskey would that take?
Something appeared in the harsh light from the front of Wilson’s car. He felt his bumper scrape over it, and hit the brakes, hard. The wheel bumped against the something, and it did not resist. The thing was made of flesh. The thing had bones and muscles. He wrested himself from the dry comfort of the car, all the wood and leather money could buy, and flung himself down on the pavement to see.
A dog, some kind of shepherd, lay there, trapped underneath his car; its pale eyes fixed forward in death, just inches away. He looked at the dog with a doctor’s fascination. It wore no collar. Rigor was setting its body into a grim twist. How long had the animal laid in the street, broken and bleeding, before death came to bestow infinite mercy?
He pressed his whole hand into the dark, glossy puddle until he touched the rough pavement. The blood was neither warm nor cold; it was slightly clotted, and it clung to his hand. Wilson studied the dog’s face. Somebody must have loved him, once. Maybe even today, maybe every second of his life until a door opened, then closed, and he ran. Somebody must have loved him.
He turned his palm up and looked too long at the thick layer of blood. He felt oddly cold, for a summer night. His heart raced, and he felt light headed as he stood up. Shock, he realized. He was in shock. He began to hyperventilate.
He wiped his hand on his shirt, leaving a deep red streak across his shoulder. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. The sky fell again, and he had to get out of that place. There was only one way. He screwed his eyes tight as he started the engine and moved forward. The car made a horrifying thud as it rolled over the body and hit the road: once, again, in quick succession.
What had he done?
That sick sinking, his heart in the pit of his stomach, would it be the same if had he not known what his tires were crushing? He had no choice, and that was the saddest part of all.
Apparently the booze wasn’t working any better than the painkiller. House stood up and pointed himself toward the bedroom; he stumbled a bit. So maybe it was working. The couch would be good enough. One stiff drink and a pill wasn’t enough to knock him back for long, but the leading edge of the buzz hit him just right. That’s what he needed, the hurt. Nights like this, the feeling of a dagger going in from point to hilt, cutting with both edges, that hurt was the only thing that kept him together.
Nights like this? Who was he kidding? The only thing that compared was when Stacy left, and he had seen that coming, even wished for it at the time.
He thought back to the friend who left him today, Wilson, with eyes and lips set in cruel, parallel lines. House shut his eyes and saw the same man, Christmas last, smiling shyly as he draped his arms around House’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.
“I’d better go,” he had said, wistful and quiet. House thought about what he wanted to say, stay. Stay with me, and we’ll deal with the rest later. But he didn’t, he said nothing and watched Wilson put on his coat and pull the door behind him, so gently that it didn’t latch.
House wondered when the crash would come. The mix of chemicals that held it at bay would wear off. He wanted to cry, just one stupid tear. Wilson and all those years were worth one stupid tear, but he had nothing left. The crash was coming, and he had nothing left. He welcomed sleep’s dark call now, but in the morning, in the light when he came to….
Commotion at the door roused him, pounding, and frantic cries sounding out his name. Please, please! He knew that voice, as well as he knew his own. The door shook and shuddered, then nothing.
House stumbled toward the door, and opened. Wilson, soaked and desperate, said the word once more, and then he looked up. His face showed an elemental human need that House had seen before, but only in pictures of people he didn’t know. This was Wilson. This was different.
House warred with himself for a split second, but no longer. Something was wrong, and no matter what else had happened, history dictated that if Wilson needed anything, that thing must be done. There could be no room for pride between them. He stepped aside.
House noted the blood on Wilson’s shirt. “You hurt?” He reached out to touch the stain. He pulled back the collar and breathed a sigh of relief at his finding: smooth, unbroken skin. Clumsy, swaying without his cane, he worked at the buttons and pushed the shirt away from Wilson’s wet shoulders. It fell in a heap on the floor.
Wilson looked at his hand, at the blood, stretched his arm out to show House the red under his fingernails, caked around his cuticles, etched into the lines of his palm. What House saw was the expression in Wilson’s eyes, and he wished none of it were his fault.
“Come with me,” he said softly. He led Wilson into the bathroom, hooked the cane over the edge of the sink and turned on the tap. The harsh sound of fast, hot water filled the room. Steam clouded the mirror. Wilson just looked down.
House pumped too much soap into his left hand and reached for Wilson’s sullied right. Wilson was either unwilling or unable to help him, which did not matter to House. He slipped his other arm around and took Wilson’s hand in both of his, working the soap deliberately into a thick lather.
He slid his fingers in between, to rub away the blood from whatever Wilson had been doing. He didn’t need to know; all that mattered was the cleansing, everything else was behind them. Wilson inhaled, sharp and frightened, and leaned back into House’s chest, as if he’d come out of the fog in his head.
House wished he knew what he was supposed to say, something reassuring, probably, but he wasn’t at all sure himself, and he never seemed to manage faking it. “S’okay,” House whispered tentatively. “I’ve got you.” That had the benefit of being true.
The blood was gone now. House moved his hands to Wilson’s wrist, without really thinking. Bubbles and fingers crept half way up Wilson’s forearm as House moved his fingers gradually, up and down, up and down. The fluid motion lulled them both.
Wilson leaned his head against House’s shoulder and a sound, half sob, half moan, came from somewhere deep within him. He reached back with his free hand to touch House’s face; remembering, like a blind man.
House’s fingers retraced their path through the soap one last time and guided Wilson’s arm under the water. Three clean, pink hands, warm from the tap, came clean.
House went for a towel, but Wilson turned around. He leaned in and hid his face in the crook of House’s neck. His wet hands soaked the back of House’s t-shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. He cried quietly, for the dog he left dead in the road, for House, and for himself. He cried for all those suckers he couldn’t save; he cried for the ones he could save, because they had to go on in this crazy world.
“Me too,” House said once Wilson’s tears subsided and they had a bit of space between them.
“What for?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “You were right. I read the thing in the Times, everything you said… I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” House admitted. “And I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I deserved it. I was…” Wilson searched his brain for a word to describe exactly what he’d been.
“You were like me,” House finished. They looked at each other then, with clearer focus than they had had in months. House grabbed his cane and ran a hand over Wilson’s damp hair.
House left Wilson standing in front of the sink, knowing he would take as long as he needed. Thunder answered lightning in the distance. Raindrops lingered on the windowpane. The storm was passing. House opened the window to let in the sounds and the scents the soft, steady rain that remained. He always loved the rainy summer nights that were a constant, no matter where he went.
He listened and breathed, remembering that he had something to remember, which was oddly comforting. He felt neutral, maybe even a little past neutral, it happened from time to time; most of all, he felt calm. He noticed the light from the bathroom reflected in the window as the door opened. Wilson stood there for moment, silhouetted. House’s breath stuck in his chest. Wilson’s feet were bare; that probably meant he was staying.
“Tired?” House asked him, turning around, although he could clearly see the answer.
“I’m burning my clothes in the morning,” Wilson said after a second. He never took his eyes off House.
“Not the jeans,” House insisted as he crossed back to the other side of the room. “You’re unbelievably hot in those jeans. If I were a high school girl I’d put your picture up in my locker.” House yawned a little, ruining the effect of his grin.
“You’re tired, too,” Wilson stated. He looked pointedly at the bed, then back at House.
The night would keep its own counsel.
Epilogue
At daybreak, House opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his hand, clasped with Wilson’s, palms facing and fingers entwined, resting calmly on his pillow. The sight warmed him. He might have chided himself if he weren’t so damned happy at that point.
They would still probably have to have a conversation, but he’d deal with that. At least he’d try. House wondered what would happen when Wilson opened his eyes, but for the moment, he watched Wilson sleeping, making note of Wilson’s slightly parted lips and a dark spot on the pillowcase. Wilson drooled! House turned over this tidbit with glee as he sank back into his pillow.
When House woke a second time, Wilson had pulled their hands to his side. He paused the light kisses along House’s radial artery long enough to say good morning.
It wasn’t supposed to be this easy, House thought. “You’re here,” he said.
“I’m home.” Wilson's smile lit up his whole face, and maybe the entire state of New Jersey. House had to smile back. It was about time.
Maybe it was that easy.
Author: ExtraBitter
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Warnings: Implicit slash, a lot more angst, extended double entendre, backlighting, and a very sad metaphor.
Summary: After a very long and trying day, House and Wilson end up in the same place. Conclusion.
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply
Notes: I scrapped the original part three because, although it had some bits that I loved, it didn’t suit the story. This was not easy, and it probably shows. It should have been done a week ago. I might post some of the good bits as pseudo drabble.
Read Part One
Read Part Two
“Explain the change, the difference between what you want and what you need.” R.E.M., I Believe
By the time House got to the edge of town, clouds covered the sky. The weight in his leg transferred to the rest of his body, as if his bones were made of a toxic metal that would eat away his flesh from inside, slowly, until nothing was left of him but skin and hair.
He stopped in front of his own building and cranked the parking brake into place. The grinding teeth of the gear contrasted with the soft splash of rain on the top of the car. House sat for a moment, feeling the stillness of it all.
Inside, he went straight for the bottles. Vicodin alone wouldn’t dull him enough to get him to sleep. He had to sleep. His eyes burned and his head hurt.
He collapsed onto the couch with as much force as he could muster, not much, just enough to shake himself. In five years, he had become a really good cripple. He knew exactly what his body could take, and what it couldn’t, even if nobody else did.
Wilson piloted his car toward House’s apartment, his head full of words. So many words, most of them sounded like sorry. He was sorry, but he wasn’t. Part of him knew that he couldn’t have stopped the ill winds inside him from blowing, and the other part knew that deliberately hurting a person you loved was the most grievous of sins. He did love House; there was no denying it. He didn’t know why, or even how, but he did know.
In his head, out of his mind, Wilson drove. The rain fell now, landing fat drops of water that refracted the streetlights through his windshield. It was beautiful, the light shining at the edges of each drop, rolling down, meeting each other. He absently turned.
He was going to make this right.
House sucked back the whiskey and let it scorch his throat. He let thoughts of the past push away thoughts of the present. The past was done; so was the present, but at least he knew he couldn’t change the past. He saw the Wilson who had picked up the pieces of his life after Stacy walked out and put them back together, the man who pushed him back to living. He saw Wilson standing opposite him, today, never breaking contact as he shoved the cane back in his hand.
As if House could forget the cane; as if he could forget Wilson. How much whiskey would that take?
Something appeared in the harsh light from the front of Wilson’s car. He felt his bumper scrape over it, and hit the brakes, hard. The wheel bumped against the something, and it did not resist. The thing was made of flesh. The thing had bones and muscles. He wrested himself from the dry comfort of the car, all the wood and leather money could buy, and flung himself down on the pavement to see.
A dog, some kind of shepherd, lay there, trapped underneath his car; its pale eyes fixed forward in death, just inches away. He looked at the dog with a doctor’s fascination. It wore no collar. Rigor was setting its body into a grim twist. How long had the animal laid in the street, broken and bleeding, before death came to bestow infinite mercy?
He pressed his whole hand into the dark, glossy puddle until he touched the rough pavement. The blood was neither warm nor cold; it was slightly clotted, and it clung to his hand. Wilson studied the dog’s face. Somebody must have loved him, once. Maybe even today, maybe every second of his life until a door opened, then closed, and he ran. Somebody must have loved him.
He turned his palm up and looked too long at the thick layer of blood. He felt oddly cold, for a summer night. His heart raced, and he felt light headed as he stood up. Shock, he realized. He was in shock. He began to hyperventilate.
He wiped his hand on his shirt, leaving a deep red streak across his shoulder. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. The sky fell again, and he had to get out of that place. There was only one way. He screwed his eyes tight as he started the engine and moved forward. The car made a horrifying thud as it rolled over the body and hit the road: once, again, in quick succession.
What had he done?
That sick sinking, his heart in the pit of his stomach, would it be the same if had he not known what his tires were crushing? He had no choice, and that was the saddest part of all.
Apparently the booze wasn’t working any better than the painkiller. House stood up and pointed himself toward the bedroom; he stumbled a bit. So maybe it was working. The couch would be good enough. One stiff drink and a pill wasn’t enough to knock him back for long, but the leading edge of the buzz hit him just right. That’s what he needed, the hurt. Nights like this, the feeling of a dagger going in from point to hilt, cutting with both edges, that hurt was the only thing that kept him together.
Nights like this? Who was he kidding? The only thing that compared was when Stacy left, and he had seen that coming, even wished for it at the time.
He thought back to the friend who left him today, Wilson, with eyes and lips set in cruel, parallel lines. House shut his eyes and saw the same man, Christmas last, smiling shyly as he draped his arms around House’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.
“I’d better go,” he had said, wistful and quiet. House thought about what he wanted to say, stay. Stay with me, and we’ll deal with the rest later. But he didn’t, he said nothing and watched Wilson put on his coat and pull the door behind him, so gently that it didn’t latch.
House wondered when the crash would come. The mix of chemicals that held it at bay would wear off. He wanted to cry, just one stupid tear. Wilson and all those years were worth one stupid tear, but he had nothing left. The crash was coming, and he had nothing left. He welcomed sleep’s dark call now, but in the morning, in the light when he came to….
Commotion at the door roused him, pounding, and frantic cries sounding out his name. Please, please! He knew that voice, as well as he knew his own. The door shook and shuddered, then nothing.
House stumbled toward the door, and opened. Wilson, soaked and desperate, said the word once more, and then he looked up. His face showed an elemental human need that House had seen before, but only in pictures of people he didn’t know. This was Wilson. This was different.
House warred with himself for a split second, but no longer. Something was wrong, and no matter what else had happened, history dictated that if Wilson needed anything, that thing must be done. There could be no room for pride between them. He stepped aside.
House noted the blood on Wilson’s shirt. “You hurt?” He reached out to touch the stain. He pulled back the collar and breathed a sigh of relief at his finding: smooth, unbroken skin. Clumsy, swaying without his cane, he worked at the buttons and pushed the shirt away from Wilson’s wet shoulders. It fell in a heap on the floor.
Wilson looked at his hand, at the blood, stretched his arm out to show House the red under his fingernails, caked around his cuticles, etched into the lines of his palm. What House saw was the expression in Wilson’s eyes, and he wished none of it were his fault.
“Come with me,” he said softly. He led Wilson into the bathroom, hooked the cane over the edge of the sink and turned on the tap. The harsh sound of fast, hot water filled the room. Steam clouded the mirror. Wilson just looked down.
House pumped too much soap into his left hand and reached for Wilson’s sullied right. Wilson was either unwilling or unable to help him, which did not matter to House. He slipped his other arm around and took Wilson’s hand in both of his, working the soap deliberately into a thick lather.
He slid his fingers in between, to rub away the blood from whatever Wilson had been doing. He didn’t need to know; all that mattered was the cleansing, everything else was behind them. Wilson inhaled, sharp and frightened, and leaned back into House’s chest, as if he’d come out of the fog in his head.
House wished he knew what he was supposed to say, something reassuring, probably, but he wasn’t at all sure himself, and he never seemed to manage faking it. “S’okay,” House whispered tentatively. “I’ve got you.” That had the benefit of being true.
The blood was gone now. House moved his hands to Wilson’s wrist, without really thinking. Bubbles and fingers crept half way up Wilson’s forearm as House moved his fingers gradually, up and down, up and down. The fluid motion lulled them both.
Wilson leaned his head against House’s shoulder and a sound, half sob, half moan, came from somewhere deep within him. He reached back with his free hand to touch House’s face; remembering, like a blind man.
House’s fingers retraced their path through the soap one last time and guided Wilson’s arm under the water. Three clean, pink hands, warm from the tap, came clean.
House went for a towel, but Wilson turned around. He leaned in and hid his face in the crook of House’s neck. His wet hands soaked the back of House’s t-shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. He cried quietly, for the dog he left dead in the road, for House, and for himself. He cried for all those suckers he couldn’t save; he cried for the ones he could save, because they had to go on in this crazy world.
“Me too,” House said once Wilson’s tears subsided and they had a bit of space between them.
“What for?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “You were right. I read the thing in the Times, everything you said… I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” House admitted. “And I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I deserved it. I was…” Wilson searched his brain for a word to describe exactly what he’d been.
“You were like me,” House finished. They looked at each other then, with clearer focus than they had had in months. House grabbed his cane and ran a hand over Wilson’s damp hair.
House left Wilson standing in front of the sink, knowing he would take as long as he needed. Thunder answered lightning in the distance. Raindrops lingered on the windowpane. The storm was passing. House opened the window to let in the sounds and the scents the soft, steady rain that remained. He always loved the rainy summer nights that were a constant, no matter where he went.
He listened and breathed, remembering that he had something to remember, which was oddly comforting. He felt neutral, maybe even a little past neutral, it happened from time to time; most of all, he felt calm. He noticed the light from the bathroom reflected in the window as the door opened. Wilson stood there for moment, silhouetted. House’s breath stuck in his chest. Wilson’s feet were bare; that probably meant he was staying.
“Tired?” House asked him, turning around, although he could clearly see the answer.
“I’m burning my clothes in the morning,” Wilson said after a second. He never took his eyes off House.
“Not the jeans,” House insisted as he crossed back to the other side of the room. “You’re unbelievably hot in those jeans. If I were a high school girl I’d put your picture up in my locker.” House yawned a little, ruining the effect of his grin.
“You’re tired, too,” Wilson stated. He looked pointedly at the bed, then back at House.
The night would keep its own counsel.
Epilogue
At daybreak, House opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his hand, clasped with Wilson’s, palms facing and fingers entwined, resting calmly on his pillow. The sight warmed him. He might have chided himself if he weren’t so damned happy at that point.
They would still probably have to have a conversation, but he’d deal with that. At least he’d try. House wondered what would happen when Wilson opened his eyes, but for the moment, he watched Wilson sleeping, making note of Wilson’s slightly parted lips and a dark spot on the pillowcase. Wilson drooled! House turned over this tidbit with glee as he sank back into his pillow.
When House woke a second time, Wilson had pulled their hands to his side. He paused the light kisses along House’s radial artery long enough to say good morning.
It wasn’t supposed to be this easy, House thought. “You’re here,” he said.
“I’m home.” Wilson's smile lit up his whole face, and maybe the entire state of New Jersey. House had to smile back. It was about time.
Maybe it was that easy.