Wait and Watch
Title: Wait and Watch
Author: madwriter223
Summary: Can't really say much without spoiling. DeathFic.
Rating: R
Pairing(s): slight House/Wilson (if you squint)
Feedback: I don't write deathfics much, so some critique would be appreciated.
Author's Note: Yup. Another post-finale one from me.
Wait and Watch
The bottle was sitting in front of him, the golden liquid inside his glass sloshing slightly. House couldn't look away from the small waves, ignoring the fact it was his own hand trembling that was forcing the liquid into movement.
He knew it was a bad idea to drink, especially by himself, especially with his still healing skull, but he's too tired right now. He couldn't sleep and the bottle looked so inviting, sitting there all alone, like he was. His only friend.
Wonder what's Wilson doing right now? Is he also sitting alone? Is he still angry at me? Will he talk to me now?
He reached for the phone, dialing the familiar number. Does he still hate me?
It was five rings later before he heard the oh-so-missed voice, heavy with sleep. “Yes?”
“Wilson, it's-”
“The bastard who I don't want to talk to ever again, I fucking know!” was yelled into his ear, and the call ended abruptly.
Yup. A little voice sounding suspiciously like his father whispered into his ear. He still hates you. And after what you did, he always will.
He dropped the phone and rubbed viciously at his ears, shaking his head for good measure. The hallucinations were getting more annoying. He glanced at the corner of the room, and there was Wilson, standing half in the shadows, hate setting his eyes aflame.
And stronger.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
The Wilson sneered at him, his voice malicious. “You should have died instead of her!” he said, and disappeared.
House blinked, and looked at his barely touched glass, the mere sight of the scotch making him nauseous. “I know.” he whispered, placing the drink on the table. “I know.”
His hands were shaking harder now, all the way up to his elbows, and he folded them across his middle, tucking them under his armpits, leaning forward. He knew what this preluded - he already had nine seizures after the deep brain stimulation, so he knew exactly when to worry.
His gaze landed on the discarded phone, but he made no move to reach towards it. He knew he should. He should pick up the phone, dial 911, ask for an ambulance to come over and haul his seizing carcass over to PPTH and let Cuddy pick up the bill.
Yup. That was definitely what he should do.
He was just about to untangle his arms and do that, when a bone-deep weariness settled over him, and he slumped forward, resting his forehead on the coffee table. He was so tired.
Something brushed against his temple, and he found the strength to lift his head slightly.
A feminine hand rested against the table-top in front of him, and he assumed there was another against his head, brushing through his hair. He allowed his gaze to travel up the wrist, across the lean arm and up to the familiar face that shouldn't be there.
“Hi, Amber.” he muttered, then dropped his head back down, letting out a deep sigh.
Amber was silent for a moment. “You should stay a little longer.” she then whispered. “Let him say good-bye.”
He couldn't contain a snort. “...my body won't survive that long a wait.” he muttered miserably, shaking his head. He felt her hand move back, trailing gently across his still healing skull.
“What will happen to Steve without you?” he heard her ask, and a fresh pain blossomed in his chest.
“I had a seizure when I was feeding him.” he whispered, barely noticing the tears that sprang free from behind his lids. “He's dead.”
She was silent for long moments, waiting for him to continue. He eventually opened his mouth, asking the one question that plagued him since he last saw her. He opened his eyes, gaze strained on the carpet, concentrating on holding his tears back. “Why did you send me back?”
“He needed you.” It was her time to sigh this time. “I had hoped he would recognise that. I wanted him to be happy.” She paused, briefly, and he could practically feel the remorse in her next words. “You can't always get what you want.”
He gave a week laugh at that, but it turned into a single sob. “I'm so tired.” He bit his lip, hating the weakness in his voice. “I'm just so tired.”
“I know.” she whispered, and scooted closer to him, laying her head against one of his shoulder blades. Her fingers continued to gently trail against his scalp. “Just close your eyes, and dream. I won't leave you. We'll wait for him, together.”
For once, he did as he was told, allowing darkness to cloud his world. He took comfort from the warm weight resting against his back, from the soft hand carding through his hair, from the promise of not being alone. He felt his body tightening in preparation, the shakes spreading into his whole body, then his world truly went dark.
He never felt his head cracking against the table's edge.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Wilson was crouched in front of two graves, back curled into a miserable ball, hugging his knees to his chest. Silent tears trailed down his cheeks as he stared at the cold tombstones.
“I killed you both, didn't I?” he sniffled loudly, then his features scrunched up in pain and he pressed his face into his lap, sobbing brokenly.
House sat on the grass some way behind him, watching his best friend's mourning form. One of his arms was bent to reach his shoulder, petting Steve's warm body and securing him there at the same time. Hector whined softly as he watched his former master, then lay down next to House's bare feet, resting his head on his front paws. The man made a sympathetic noise, and scratched behind the dog's ear with his free hand.
A slender finger brushed against Steve's fur, bumping into his own, and he lifted his gaze. Amber stood next to him, her sad eyes fixed on his own, and he immediately understood the silent message in them. They had to wait.
He returned his gaze to Wilson, watching helplessly as his best friend cried in front of their graves.
So wait they would. Wait and watch, making sure Wilson was alright.
It was all they could do for now.