Fic: Thinking It Over
Title: Thinking It Over.
Characters: House, Wilson
Spoilers: End of Season 4 and the beginning of Season 5. Ish
Warnings: Angst.
Word Count: 837 words
Summary: House takes a few moments to think.
Disclaimer: Don’t own House. It all belongs to David Shore and co.
He sits in his office, thinking of all that’s happened in the last few months, all that was, all that could have been: Wilson and Amber, the bus. He’s thought it over lots in the two months that have passed. He’s imagined every possible way it could have played out a thousand times over and a thousand times again.
Turns out, no matter how hard you imagine that it will, nothing changes. No matter how long you spend convincing yourself it’s a bad dream, the moment when you can wake up and find out it’s not real never comes. But House, of all people, should know this already.
But his two months of thinking and empty wishes are over now. Wilson, as he’s been told numerous times, is back. He’s not quite ready yet, though. Wilson can wait just a little longer.
Amber never mattered to him. He never cared about her. He’d never really liked her. But Wilson did. And when he found out, it was then she started to matter. Because he knew he’d have to fight against her for Wilson. Amber wasn’t like any of Wilson’s previous girlfriends or wives. Amber was different; she was something new. He remembers the conversation in the restaurant.
“Oh my God! You’re sleeping with me!”
He remembers Wilson agreeing with him after.
He’d thought of it as unfair at the time; Amber didn’t need Wilson like he did. She was young; she wasn’t as broken as he was. She could move on, find another Wilson. House couldn’t. He was stuck here, with his leg and his Vicodin and his pain.
In hindsight, maybe she deserved him more. All House had ever done was mess things up for Wilson - stealing scripts to get himself pills, constantly borrowing money. He remembers when Volger had kicked Wilson off the board because he’d stood up for House. With Amber, Wilson had seemed happier.
Life shouldn't be random ... lonely, misanthropic drug addicts should die in bus crashes. And young do-gooders in love that get dragged out of their apartment in the middle of the night should walk away clean.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair.
He’d almost been glad when he’d remembered it was Amber that was with him on the bus; Amber with the mystery symptom. It could have been his chance to win Wilson back, forever.
Wilson mattered. Wilson not hating him mattered. He’d thrown himself after diagnoses in the hope that he could find one that fit before it was too late; in the hope that Wilson wouldn’t hate him because he’d saved her. He couldn’t think of anything worse than having Wilson hate him, even though he knows he deserves it. So he’d done everything he could to save her, even risking his own life.
None of it had worked. There was nothing he could do.
He remembered when he’d woken up to find Wilson in his room. It was the night he’d come out of his coma. House didn’t know how long he’d been there, standing by the door, watching. They were both stood there, Wilson by the door and House in his bed. He’d felt like calling out to Wilson, telling him how much he meant, saying he was sorry, but he couldn’t manage it. It was that look. He couldn’t summon up the strength to speak, and by the time he could, Wilson was long gone. House couldn’t help but wonder if he was gone forever.
He wasn’t gone forever. Not yet.
He looks at the wall at the far end of his office, the one that connects to Wilson’s office. Wilson’s in there, he can feel it. It’s almost time. Just a few more minutes, he says to himself.
He’s thought about talking to Wilson before now. He’s thought about it plenty. He’s limped all the way to Wilson’s apartment, summoning up the courage to go and see his friend, his best friend; his only friend. He never quite manages it though. One nagging thought always holds him back.
What if he really does hate me? What then?
He can’t bring himself to deal with that. It hurts too much to even think about for long.
But he can’t put it off any more. He’s waited as long as he can, and now Wilson’s back he’s going to have to talk to him. Better to pretend he’s being cold and callous House, as normal, than have his feelings totally exposed. Better to talk at work, where it doesn’t have to be about how he feels and what happened. It doesn’t have to hurt if all they talk about is Wilson’s cancer kids.
He knocks back two Vicodin, and reaches for his cane. Heart racing slightly, he tried to mentally prepare himself as he limps out of the office and towards Wilson.
Taking a deep breath he lays a hand on the door and takes a moment to compose himself before walking in.
“My patient is still fighting in the feminist trenches...”
Characters: House, Wilson
Spoilers: End of Season 4 and the beginning of Season 5. Ish
Warnings: Angst.
Word Count: 837 words
Summary: House takes a few moments to think.
Disclaimer: Don’t own House. It all belongs to David Shore and co.
He sits in his office, thinking of all that’s happened in the last few months, all that was, all that could have been: Wilson and Amber, the bus. He’s thought it over lots in the two months that have passed. He’s imagined every possible way it could have played out a thousand times over and a thousand times again.
Turns out, no matter how hard you imagine that it will, nothing changes. No matter how long you spend convincing yourself it’s a bad dream, the moment when you can wake up and find out it’s not real never comes. But House, of all people, should know this already.
But his two months of thinking and empty wishes are over now. Wilson, as he’s been told numerous times, is back. He’s not quite ready yet, though. Wilson can wait just a little longer.
Amber never mattered to him. He never cared about her. He’d never really liked her. But Wilson did. And when he found out, it was then she started to matter. Because he knew he’d have to fight against her for Wilson. Amber wasn’t like any of Wilson’s previous girlfriends or wives. Amber was different; she was something new. He remembers the conversation in the restaurant.
“Oh my God! You’re sleeping with me!”
He remembers Wilson agreeing with him after.
He’d thought of it as unfair at the time; Amber didn’t need Wilson like he did. She was young; she wasn’t as broken as he was. She could move on, find another Wilson. House couldn’t. He was stuck here, with his leg and his Vicodin and his pain.
In hindsight, maybe she deserved him more. All House had ever done was mess things up for Wilson - stealing scripts to get himself pills, constantly borrowing money. He remembers when Volger had kicked Wilson off the board because he’d stood up for House. With Amber, Wilson had seemed happier.
Life shouldn't be random ... lonely, misanthropic drug addicts should die in bus crashes. And young do-gooders in love that get dragged out of their apartment in the middle of the night should walk away clean.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair.
He’d almost been glad when he’d remembered it was Amber that was with him on the bus; Amber with the mystery symptom. It could have been his chance to win Wilson back, forever.
Wilson mattered. Wilson not hating him mattered. He’d thrown himself after diagnoses in the hope that he could find one that fit before it was too late; in the hope that Wilson wouldn’t hate him because he’d saved her. He couldn’t think of anything worse than having Wilson hate him, even though he knows he deserves it. So he’d done everything he could to save her, even risking his own life.
None of it had worked. There was nothing he could do.
He remembered when he’d woken up to find Wilson in his room. It was the night he’d come out of his coma. House didn’t know how long he’d been there, standing by the door, watching. They were both stood there, Wilson by the door and House in his bed. He’d felt like calling out to Wilson, telling him how much he meant, saying he was sorry, but he couldn’t manage it. It was that look. He couldn’t summon up the strength to speak, and by the time he could, Wilson was long gone. House couldn’t help but wonder if he was gone forever.
He wasn’t gone forever. Not yet.
He looks at the wall at the far end of his office, the one that connects to Wilson’s office. Wilson’s in there, he can feel it. It’s almost time. Just a few more minutes, he says to himself.
He’s thought about talking to Wilson before now. He’s thought about it plenty. He’s limped all the way to Wilson’s apartment, summoning up the courage to go and see his friend, his best friend; his only friend. He never quite manages it though. One nagging thought always holds him back.
What if he really does hate me? What then?
He can’t bring himself to deal with that. It hurts too much to even think about for long.
But he can’t put it off any more. He’s waited as long as he can, and now Wilson’s back he’s going to have to talk to him. Better to pretend he’s being cold and callous House, as normal, than have his feelings totally exposed. Better to talk at work, where it doesn’t have to be about how he feels and what happened. It doesn’t have to hurt if all they talk about is Wilson’s cancer kids.
He knocks back two Vicodin, and reaches for his cane. Heart racing slightly, he tried to mentally prepare himself as he limps out of the office and towards Wilson.
Taking a deep breath he lays a hand on the door and takes a moment to compose himself before walking in.
“My patient is still fighting in the feminist trenches...”