Ficlet: Usually, You Cut Them Out
Title: Usually, You Cut Them Out
Characters: Wilson, mentions of House, Cuddy (but it's really House/Wilson)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 860
Summary: What if Wilson's thymoma were diagnosed while House was a fugitive?
A/N: Written (belatedly) for the sick_wilson Mini-Camp Picture Challenge.
A/N2: This is the picture I was given:
Wilson kind of hated himself for thinking about House at this particular moment. He wasn’t surprised, of course. It was what he did, and who he was. Even now.
But it occurred to him that a normal person would not do this. He’d seen many, many normal people react to a cancer diagnosis, or news of a recurrence, or the moment they’re told, I think we need to talk about hospice. Their responses ran the gamut, naturally, but he was pretty sure none were this pathetic.
A normal person wouldn’t wander to his car then just sit there, thinking he should pick up cat litter on the way home. Or maybe he would. That wasn’t too odd.
But no one-no one-would sit there and mostly think about some psychopath who’d almost killed a few people with his car, then casually limped away into oblivion. With a big fucking smile on his face.
No one would do that.
And yet, Wilson found himself staring at the steering wheel and wondering if House would’ve noticed something wrong. At the very least, the nagging little cough would’ve pissed him off, and he would’ve bitched until Wilson gave in and did something.
And House definitely would’ve pounced on the rash. When it first appeared, Wilson had stopped rolling up his shirtsleeves. House would never have let that pass.
But House wasn’t around anymore. So when the cough started, when the rash flared then faded, when the hoarseness crept into his voice, Wilson had done what he’d always tried to do: Ignore, bury, pretend.
Except this time, it had worked. Because House was gone.
Cuddy was gone, too. Maybe she would’ve noticed something, Wilson thought vaguely. He quickly pushed that aside, though. She’d been right to leave. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to start over, away from this. Any normal person would.
No, it was House’s fault. If he’d been here, Wilson would never have gotten away with ignoring the fever. He would never have been able to wait till the chest pain became so bad Sandy found him leaning against a wall, almost doubled over.
She’d forced him to go to the ER, where an ECG showed “nothing wrong with his heart.”
Wilson almost laughed now, remembering how relieved he’d been, for a fleeting moment-until a little voice reminded him it didn’t matter anyway.
He put his hands on the steering wheel, just to do something. It really didn’t matter, he realized.
Even blaming House was pointless.
What if he’d acted on the symptoms sooner? It wouldn’t have made a difference. He was sure the thymoma had already spread to his pericardium by the time it made itself known.
At least that’s what he presumed, from what he knew about malignant thymoma. It was so rare he’d never actually seen a case first-hand.
This time, Wilson did laugh a little.
Another thing he knew about thymomas: Usually, you can just cut them out. Not in his case, though. Straight-up surgery wasn’t an option. But there was always induction chemo, then surgery, then radiation. Bim-bam-boom.
Oh, and maybe some more chemo on the tail end, too. Boom.
Wilson tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He was already tired, just thinking about it all. That was pathetic, too, he had to admit. But it was true.
Plus, when people are treated for cancer, they usually have someone at home to help them. Sometimes they didn’t, of course. When Wilson had patients like that, he’d make sure they had a visiting nurse, or a personal care worker to help them with day-to-day things, if they needed.
He supposed he could do something like that. But then people would know he was alone.
Wilson kept tapping the wheel. Maybe he should call Cuddy. He’d like to talk to her, and maybe she’d come back and-
He shook his head. No.
That would be the most selfish move he could make. Cuddy had enough to worry about, with a preschooler and a new job. And a whole life ahead of her.
And she wasn’t the one he really wanted anyway.
Pathetic.
Honestly? Brown had said. This is the first malignant thymoma I’ve ever seen.
He wanted Wilson to see Kondo at Sloan-Kettering for his treatment. On one hand, that sounded good-especially since it meant no one at work would see him. On the other hand, it sounded like a lot of trouble for something that might not work out.
And things had a way of not working out.
Wilson knew he should start the car. Sarah needed her insulin. And pretty soon someone would notice him sitting there. Or maybe no one would.
It took him another moment to realize he was crying. Well, there were tears on his cheeks. He pressed his lips together and shut his eyes, thinking that would make it stop. Instead, it seemed to make things worse.
It had been years since he’d last cried, so it felt strange at first. But then he told himself this was normal; this is what people do when they’re going to die. And if that wasn’t really his reason, it didn’t matter. He’d always been a good liar.
-End
Characters: Wilson, mentions of House, Cuddy (but it's really House/Wilson)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 860
Summary: What if Wilson's thymoma were diagnosed while House was a fugitive?
A/N: Written (belatedly) for the sick_wilson Mini-Camp Picture Challenge.
A/N2: This is the picture I was given:
Wilson kind of hated himself for thinking about House at this particular moment. He wasn’t surprised, of course. It was what he did, and who he was. Even now.
But it occurred to him that a normal person would not do this. He’d seen many, many normal people react to a cancer diagnosis, or news of a recurrence, or the moment they’re told, I think we need to talk about hospice. Their responses ran the gamut, naturally, but he was pretty sure none were this pathetic.
A normal person wouldn’t wander to his car then just sit there, thinking he should pick up cat litter on the way home. Or maybe he would. That wasn’t too odd.
But no one-no one-would sit there and mostly think about some psychopath who’d almost killed a few people with his car, then casually limped away into oblivion. With a big fucking smile on his face.
No one would do that.
And yet, Wilson found himself staring at the steering wheel and wondering if House would’ve noticed something wrong. At the very least, the nagging little cough would’ve pissed him off, and he would’ve bitched until Wilson gave in and did something.
And House definitely would’ve pounced on the rash. When it first appeared, Wilson had stopped rolling up his shirtsleeves. House would never have let that pass.
But House wasn’t around anymore. So when the cough started, when the rash flared then faded, when the hoarseness crept into his voice, Wilson had done what he’d always tried to do: Ignore, bury, pretend.
Except this time, it had worked. Because House was gone.
Cuddy was gone, too. Maybe she would’ve noticed something, Wilson thought vaguely. He quickly pushed that aside, though. She’d been right to leave. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to start over, away from this. Any normal person would.
No, it was House’s fault. If he’d been here, Wilson would never have gotten away with ignoring the fever. He would never have been able to wait till the chest pain became so bad Sandy found him leaning against a wall, almost doubled over.
She’d forced him to go to the ER, where an ECG showed “nothing wrong with his heart.”
Wilson almost laughed now, remembering how relieved he’d been, for a fleeting moment-until a little voice reminded him it didn’t matter anyway.
He put his hands on the steering wheel, just to do something. It really didn’t matter, he realized.
Even blaming House was pointless.
What if he’d acted on the symptoms sooner? It wouldn’t have made a difference. He was sure the thymoma had already spread to his pericardium by the time it made itself known.
At least that’s what he presumed, from what he knew about malignant thymoma. It was so rare he’d never actually seen a case first-hand.
This time, Wilson did laugh a little.
Another thing he knew about thymomas: Usually, you can just cut them out. Not in his case, though. Straight-up surgery wasn’t an option. But there was always induction chemo, then surgery, then radiation. Bim-bam-boom.
Oh, and maybe some more chemo on the tail end, too. Boom.
Wilson tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He was already tired, just thinking about it all. That was pathetic, too, he had to admit. But it was true.
Plus, when people are treated for cancer, they usually have someone at home to help them. Sometimes they didn’t, of course. When Wilson had patients like that, he’d make sure they had a visiting nurse, or a personal care worker to help them with day-to-day things, if they needed.
He supposed he could do something like that. But then people would know he was alone.
Wilson kept tapping the wheel. Maybe he should call Cuddy. He’d like to talk to her, and maybe she’d come back and-
He shook his head. No.
That would be the most selfish move he could make. Cuddy had enough to worry about, with a preschooler and a new job. And a whole life ahead of her.
And she wasn’t the one he really wanted anyway.
Pathetic.
Honestly? Brown had said. This is the first malignant thymoma I’ve ever seen.
He wanted Wilson to see Kondo at Sloan-Kettering for his treatment. On one hand, that sounded good-especially since it meant no one at work would see him. On the other hand, it sounded like a lot of trouble for something that might not work out.
And things had a way of not working out.
Wilson knew he should start the car. Sarah needed her insulin. And pretty soon someone would notice him sitting there. Or maybe no one would.
It took him another moment to realize he was crying. Well, there were tears on his cheeks. He pressed his lips together and shut his eyes, thinking that would make it stop. Instead, it seemed to make things worse.
It had been years since he’d last cried, so it felt strange at first. But then he told himself this was normal; this is what people do when they’re going to die. And if that wasn’t really his reason, it didn’t matter. He’d always been a good liar.
-End