Tender Mercies (House/Wilson, Wilson/Tritter, R)
Title: Tender Mercies
By: daasgrrl
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship, Wilson/Tritter implied
Rating: R for themes
Word count: 5,400
Summary: Sequel to Rough Justice. Can be read alone, but you may have to concentrate. House receives a disturbing phone call.
Warnings: Deals with the aftermath of sexual trauma, but nothing too graphic.
Beta: Thank you to evila_elf for primary beta and to noydb666 for perfectly pitched encouragement, final edits and reassurance.
Notes: Thanks very much to everyone who asked for a sequel. I admit, I didn't have any initial intention of writing one at all, but after a couple of days it started calling to me, and kicked into full gear once I realized how it had to go. It's impossible to please everyone, and it may not be quite what you expected, but in my head it couldn't have turned out any other way. Special thanks to lamentables for sanity-saving search terms. Also, I believe brynnamorgan's sequel is still in the works as well, so if you don’t care for this one there’ll be another along shortly *g*. I'm looking forward to see what she comes up with!
Despite the subject matter, I personally think that in comparison to “Whac-a-Mole”, this fic is almost sunshine and puppies. Almost.
Tender Mercies
Jinx was making her way seductively up the beach in an orange bikini when House’s cell rang. House knew immediately it would be Wilson. A few minutes past nine on a weeknight; it couldn’t possibly be anybody else, unless someone had unexpectedly died. He grabbed the phone, and a glance at the caller display confirmed his suspicions. Trust Wilson to ruin the best part of the movie just because he needed someone to talk to. He answered it absently, keeping one eye on the screen.
It must be nice for you, having such a… devoted friend. The gravelly voice on the other end was definitely not Wilson’s, even though his caller display continued to insist on it. After the initial flicker of confusion, he recognized who it was and immediately wished he hadn’t. Tritter.
House could have predicted that Wilson would be next in line for questioning, given the pointed remarks Tritter had made about forged prescriptions. The bottles would have led to the scripts, and Tritter would have almost certainly have noticed the handwriting discrepancies. Naturally, he would have rushed to show them to Wilson. Had Wilson, perhaps accidentally, perhaps deliberately, given him away? You should probably drop by and pay him a visit. Now. That would explain the note of smugness in Tritter’s tone. But not the strangely worded message. Or why he was calling using Wilson’s phone instead of his own. However, House’s demands for more information received no reply, and the sound of a small thud combined with an noticeable change in the transmitted acoustics made him realize that Tritter had gone.
House did all the obvious things first. He called back, but the line was still open, and it went straight to voicemail. Then he tried the hotel switchboard. At least he knew exactly where Wilson was living; after the deception with Grace he’d made sure he kept better tabs. If nothing else, it had enabled him to make entertaining jabs about Bibles and the helpful way the phone directories were always creased open to ‘Escorts’. The hotel operator put him through to Wilson’s room, and he let it ring a while, but there was no answer. Then he tried the hospital, just on the off-chance, and ended up ordering an indifferent nurse to page Wilson and have him call House’s cell, urgently. By this time, James Bond had successfully managed to charm Jinx out of the orange bikini altogether, but House had completely lost interest.
If you can find it in your heart to care about him at all. Tritter’s words had almost sounded like a challenge. Was Tritter gambling that House would care, or that he wouldn’t? For just a moment House considered staying exactly where he was, and not falling into whatever snare Tritter had clearly laid out for him. But Tritter’s possession of the phone continued to nag at him until he shrugged on the jacket and picked up the helmet. If Wilson was going to answer his page, he would. Meanwhile, he would try the hotel first, and then the hospital.
It might be nothing but a psychological game of cat-and-mouse - Wilson might be happily ensconced in a bar somewhere, and the phone might have been merely lost or stolen. But it was also possible that Wilson was genuinely hurt or incapacitated. A less-than-rational part of his brain suggested that Tritter might even have killed him, and be setting House up for a murder charge, but he managed to embarrass the thought into submission. More likely, Tritter just wanted to catch House breaking the speed limits again, so he made sure he drove with exaggerated caution, his gut churning with fury and apprehension all the way.
***
Tritter was finally gone. Wilson had not dared to move while he had been in the bathroom; he’d lain there listening to the soft murmur of Tritter’s voice through the closed door, not knowing if the man made a habit of talking to himself, not caring. Even though he held the envelope in his hands, it would not truly be over until Tritter actually left. If he shut his eyes and huddled down enough, surely nothing more could happen to him that night. For once, it worked. Tritter had touched him on the shoulder, and Wilson had forced himself not to react, not to invite anything further. Then Tritter had said something low and soothing before finally leaving the room. Wilson heard the slight creak of the room door hinges, and allowed himself to breathe again.
He had felt so vulnerable, lying there with all his clothes in disarray. After another couple of breaths, he let go of the envelope and slowly, clumsily, managed to pull his pants and shirt back into some kind of order, even doing up his belt, taking back a small fraction of control over his body. When he was done, he felt less exposed, but he was still so very cold. And the prospect of getting up and turning down the bed defeated him, so he settled for reaching over to drag the other half of the bedspread over himself as a temporary cover. It was thick, and heavy, and its weight lent him a little comfort. He was still shivering, but he felt a little better, a little safer. He thought he should feel something more, some sweeping rush of relief that the man was gone, but there was nothing but the chill and an all-pervading numbness. After a while, he became aware of a phone ringing somewhere close by, but he had nothing to say to anyone, and very soon it stopped.
***
House paused outside Wilson’s room, eyeing the propped-open door with suspicion. If he’d had any doubts that right here was where Tritter wanted him, the spatial equivalent of a welcome mat had completely quashed them. He pushed the door open cautiously, eyes adjusting to the dim light after the brightness of the hotel corridor.
“Tritter?” he yelled. “You wanted me here, I’m here. Where’s the body?”
There was no answer, but there was a shape curled up in the bedspread, which was wrong side out, the pale cotton underside showing. He could see what looked like Wilson’s hair, and the edge of a shirtsleeve, but the shape hadn’t seemed to respond to House’s voice. A sudden chill ran though him, which he immediately suppressed. Dead drunk, probably. Or asleep. Considering he was still wearing his work shirt, probably the former. Was that how Tritter had extracted a confirmation of House’s forgeries? Jimmy, never try to outdrink a cop.
“Wilson?”
There was a slight moan from the bed, which sounded something like a ‘no’, and Wilson seemed to curl himself in even tighter. Alive, anyway, although of course House had never had the slightest doubt in that regard, and it wasn’t relief coursing through his veins. Just aggravation.
“Go away,” he heard Wilson mutter. Conscious; aware; verbal. House mentally checked them off his list and breathed a little easier.
House moved closer to the bed to get a better look. Wilson was on his side, one arm curled around his head, and there were no immediately visible signs of blood or vomit, though of course the bedspread was cocooning the rest of his body. There could well be substantial bruising though, if Tritter had succumbed to his desire to beat the crap out of someone, and had fastened upon Wilson as a worthy substitute. House sat down on the edge of the bed and touched Wilson on the shoulder, intending it as a signal he was going to start checking him, but Wilson immediately shrugged him off with some force. It was a good sign. If Tritter had hurt him, it couldn’t have been too badly.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“So you… just forgot to change before you went to bed. Or get under the covers properly, for that matter.”
“I was tired.” House didn’t believe him for a moment. He couldn’t smell any alcohol on Wilson‘s breath, so that ruled out another possibility.
“If you’re fine,” he invested the last word with the sarcasm it deserved, “why did you let Tritter have your phone?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did he have it?”
“He called you.”
“Yes.”
There was another small sound from Wilson that might have been a groan. Wilson’s entire demeanor disturbed him, but he appeared to be lucid, and not in severe pain, or in any immediate danger. House didn’t know quite what to make of it. Before he could push harder, he needed to establish the situation.
“He came to see you.”
“Yes.”
“About the scripts.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Still without looking at him, Wilson pushed a yellow envelope out from under the covers, and House took it. He tipped out the contents and stared at them - a collection of small, horribly familiar pieces of paper, neatly collected in a plastic folder and stamped with dates. They all appeared to be the originals he’d torn from Wilson’s pad, and a quick mental reconciliation indicated they probably represented the sum total of his forgeries. So Tritter had found his evidence… and given it to Wilson? That made no sense at all.
“How did you get these?” House demanded. “Tritter brought them to you, didn’t he?”
There was no answer, and the chill was suddenly back, although it was nameless.
“Wilson?”
“House. Just take them. Get out.” And now Wilson’s voice was as brittle and strained as he’d ever heard it. It was the same voice that heralded recent deaths and imminent divorces. And there seemed to be none of the anger House would have expected from his betrayal of trust. If Wilson had yelled at him about forging the scripts in the first place, that would have at least been understandable. But there was nothing there but resignation.
“What happened?” he said again, gentler now, torn between irritation and fear. “Wilson, look at me.”
“Which part of ‘get out’ didn’t you understand?” Defiant as they were, the words came out almost as a whisper.
“I’m not leaving until I’ve looked you over. Tritter dragged me all the way out here for some reason, and I’m betting it wasn’t to make sure I got the evidence back all nice and safe and sound. What did he do, rough you up a little?”
“Nothing,” Wilson said, so softly House had to lean forward to hear. “I let him.”
“Let…” House trailed off. Immediately, he flipped the covers back to take a better look, ignoring Wilson’s weak attempts to stop him.
“What did he do to you?” House demanded again, his worry coming out as raw anger now, louder than he’d intended.
He’d never seen Wilson cry. Not when Grace died, not when his uncle died, not when his marriages broke down. If there had been tears, Wilson had considerately shed them alone. But now, even with his face hidden, there was no mistaking the silent dripping onto the coverlet, the slight hitching of Wilson’s breath.
House didn’t waste time with non-essential comforting. He left Wilson’s face alone, but he ran one hand quickly over his scalp, checking for swelling or contusions. Nothing. Then he pulled out his shirt, deeming it easier than unbuttoning, and scrutinized his bare back for injuries, again, finding nothing. Wilson put up a small resistance, but he insisted on keeping one arm protectively over his face, which limited his range of movement, and it was a losing struggle. Finally, he seemed to give up and lie still, and House went to flip him over. It was only then, in the relative calm, that House noticed the traces of blood and the clear streaks of drying liquid on the pale cloth of his shirttails, the slight remaining odors of musk and latex. Immediately, he froze, his brain already having leapt to a conclusion the rest of him was unable to handle.
“No,” House said flatly, as though saying it would make it true.
Wilson shook his head. “I let him,” he whispered again.
House just sat there, for once in his life uncertain as to what to do, his need and duty to examine Wilson warring with his fervent desire not to know, never to know. He let his hand rest gently on Wilson’s back, rubbing in small circles, unsure whether he was calming Wilson or himself. The implications would have to wait; right now, he had to focus.
“There could be… you need to show me,” House said at last.
Slowly, Wilson lowered his hands, and they went back to the buckle of his belt with obvious reluctance. He continued to keep his face very carefully averted.
***
Wilson lay completely still as House examined him, although there was still the occasional shaky intake of breath. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been; there was some tearing and he had bled, but no more than as from a few minor cuts. The anal tissues would heal quickly, and there would be no lasting damage - at least not physically. House left him for a moment with an order to lie still and went to wash his hands, and fetch a damp cloth from the bathroom to clean up all the traces of blood and lubricant.
“He said he’d be careful,” Wilson muttered into the pillow when House told him he’d been relatively unharmed.
House merely shook his head, not wanting to think about it, not wanting to imagine Tritter touching Wilson like that. He couldn’t have imagined, much as he loathed Tritter, that the man could be depraved enough to offer such a deal. And the fact that Wilson had gone through with it, willingly, appalled him. Getting thrown in jail for unlawful possession would have been the perfect opportunity to push House into facing the consequences of his own actions, as Wilson would no doubt approve of, and yet when it came down to it, Wilson had chosen to protect him, at a huge cost to himself. Would House have done the same in return? But then that wasn’t even really a question, was it? Wilson could no more forge a prescription than he could hold together a marriage.
He cleaned Wilson up as gently as he could, and then watched as Wilson reached down to carefully pull all his clothes back into place, stains and all. Slowly, he bent to cover Wilson up again, and then he sat back on the edge of the bed, absently stroking Wilson’s back through the covers, struggling to process everything.
House remembered the shock of arriving home the previous day to find everything he owned strewn carelessly across the floor, watching Tritter stride through the mess clutching his prize triumphantly. The man was not going to be content until he had destroyed anything House had ever laid claim to. His freedom. His home. His job. Now, with Wilson, Tritter had shown himself merciless.
“You should… report this to someone,” House said, finally, knowing how ridiculous he sounded even as he was saying it.
At last, he managed to catch a glimpse of Wilson’s eyes, and they were dull and flat, as though he had been through so much humiliation already that there was nothing more left to fear. Worse was the choked laughter, bordering on hysterical, coming from a face still streaked with tears.
“You mean - I should go to the police?”
House hung his head, defeated.
“And tell them... what? That I… traded myself to a cop in an attempt to keep us both out of prison? And that I didn’t enjoy it. Yeah, that’ll work.”
“But you… he didn’t have anything on you.”
Wilson’s face twisted into a grimace.
“He was here last night as well, the first time. I lied to him, said they were all mine. So he had me as well.”
“Well, that was stupid.” It came out more sharply than he’d intended.
“What should I have done?” Wilson demanded, his voice cracking again as he raised his voice to match House’s.
“ I don’t know! Not… not this!” House knew his rage was completely misplaced, but it was there nevertheless and had no place else to go.
The expression on Wilson’s face was unbearable, and House forcibly clamped down on his anger, hating himself. He looked away, turning his mind to other things.
“If you’re not going to… you probably want to take a shower,” he said, after a moment.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Wilson said, and there was a plea in his words.
“Yeah. OK.” House finally managed to look at him again. “You know my apartment’s still in pieces. The bastard trashed it looking for pills.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Tritter’s name, not at that point. “But I guess you knew that.”
“I figured.”
“I’ll…” House pointed vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe, “ go… get…”
Wilson had swung his legs around, and was finally sitting on the edge of the bed, moving tentatively as though testing his own weight. “Thanks.”
There was a small backpack on the floor of the wardrobe, and House quickly stuffed a couple of T-shirts into it. He added sweatpants and underwear, trying not to think too much. Then into the bathroom, where he threw things in off the counter mostly at random, although he made sure to get the toothbrush. An investigation of the undersink cupboard revealed a few extra items and he recognized Wilson’s phone, still open, the screen dark. House couldn’t bring himself to collect it; he just gave it a black look, and slowly shut the cupboard door on it. Then he carefully wet the edge of another towel and brought it with him.
When he came back out Wilson was on his feet, one hand resting on the back of the desk chair, just standing there looking for all the world like he’d merely fallen asleep in his clothes and just woken up, his face still a little puffed and blotchy. House handed him the fresh towel, and Wilson wiped his face, although it looked hardly better after he’d finished than when he’d started. Then he threw the towel onto the bed. House shouldered the backpack, and moved over next to Wilson, carefully keeping a non-threatening distance between them. He nodded towards the door.
“Yeah,” Wilson said. He sighed, and then forcibly straightened his shoulders, wincing a little. “Let’s go.”
House stayed close to his side on the way down the corridor, matching his pace to Wilson’s, and when Wilson reached out to lean on him a little, he did not pull away. They made their way slowly, by unspoken agreement, to Wilson’s car, House having already acquired the keys from the desk drawer. When Wilson started shivering again in the evening chill, House shrugged off his leather jacket and handed it to him without a word.
***
House sat on the couch, with a glass of whiskey in his hand and soft jazz coming out of the stereo, trying to corral his thoughts into some kind of order. Wilson was in the shower; by House’s watch he’d been in there for almost an hour. House had tapped on the door sometime after the thirty-minute mark and would probably do the same again in a few minutes’ time. He couldn’t blame Wilson for trying to wash Tritter off his skin. He remembered his own encounter, steel cuffs tight around his wrists as Tritter’s hands patted him down, cold air against his skin. The helplessness he had felt. And that had only been a small fraction of what Wilson had gone through.
The knowledge of what Wilson had done combined with the remaining disarray of his own apartment seemed perfectly matched to the jumble of his mood. For the first time in his life, House realized he really might be up against more than he could handle. He didn’t regret what he had done, exactly, only that he should have realized earlier what Tritter was. House knew himself well enough to acknowledge that he was an ass; but judging by his actions, Tritter was a full-blown psychopath. He would never stop until he had brought House to his knees. Perhaps literally.
He was startled out of his reverie when his cell rang. He set the drink down and reached for it instinctively, intending to switch it off, but froze when he saw the caller display. It was Wilson’s phone. Again. Which could only mean one thing. His imagination helpfully supplied Tritter coming back to the hotel room, trying the door, then flashing his badge at the desk clerk to gain admission when he found it locked. It was the last person he wanted to talk to right now, and yet he couldn’t ignore the call. Just in case it meant some new and even more unpleasant threat to his sanity. He answered it, his stomach already churning.
“You haven’t had enough fun for one evening? Or did you just miss the cuddling?”
“How is he?”
If House hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that Tritter sounded almost genuinely concerned. How do you think? he thought, but he wouldn’t give Tritter the satisfaction.
“I don’t know what he promised you, but the engagement is definitely off.”
“That’s good. You’re angry. You should be. I wondered whether you still had it in you.”
Tritter’s voice came in its customary pauses, with the slight sound of chewing in between. At that point, House would have happily rammed Tritter‘s nicotine gum all the way down his throat, just to demonstrate his remaining capacity for anger. Unfortunately, he lacked the ability to transmute through digital frequencies.
“I hope you choke on your own bullshit.”
There was a low chuckle in response, which only aggravated him further. Almost, he reached for the end call button, but Tritter’s next words held him back.
“Now you’re going to listen to me. Just for one minute. Not for your sake, but for Doctor Wilson’s.”
“Why? What else have you got planned? Going to plant some evidence, bring a few pals next time?”
Before he let anything like this happen again, he would kill Tritter. He swore he would. Maybe those mob connections would come in handy after all. However, he held on as Tritter continued, his voice calmly, deceptively reasonable.
“You see… at first, I thought you were a jerk just because you were crippled, and alone. It’s not an excuse, but it is understandable. So you took out your bitterness on other people. Made fun of them, pissed them off, just to entertain yourself, to validate your own existence. Because you didn’t have anything else to make your life worth living. But I was wrong. You’re even more of a jerk than that. Turns out you actually do have people who care about you, and all it means to you is that you can use that to take advantage of them. Throw all that stupid concern right back in their faces. I realize now you actually don’t give a damn about what happens to you. But you see, sometimes it’s not just about you.”
“So did you actually have anything to say, or did you just call up to lecture me? Because there’s a waiting list for that privilege.”
He thought he’d been through just about enough for one evening, but nothing could have prepared him for Tritter’s next words.
“I think… you’ll want to hear this. This is what I’m going to do for you, Doctor House. I’m going to leave you alone. I’m going to lose all the paperwork on you, the speeding ticket, everything. If you stay out of trouble, you’ll never hear from me again. But I want you to remember something, and I want you to listen carefully. If he hadn’t done what he did, for your miserable sake, I would have sent you to jail with a smile on my face and not one trace of regret. While you celebrate your freedom, I want you to remember that.”
House blinked, understanding the words but not quite believing what he was hearing. It made no sense. The only explanation could be that Tritter was playing with him, mocking him, mocking Wilson, and his anger came back in full force, emerging as sarcasm.
“You’re… you’re going to stop harassing me? Because you got to fuck him? Wow, he must be good.”
Rage was blinding him. He could barely see. However, Tritter didn’t laugh, or even raise his voice in response. He sounded completely, utterly serious.
“So crude. No. Because he let me do it. For his own sake as well, sure, but even the lies he told were yours. I can tell you never served, Doctor House. True loyalty, real self-sacrifice, is a rare and precious thing. Even under the circumstances, I have no choice but to admire it. Such a shame it’s wasted on you.”
It was only then, as belief and understanding seeped in, that House realized how badly he’d underestimated the man. Tritter had won, after all. By using his power to take everything out of House’s hands completely. By making the price of his mercy Wilson’s suffering rather than his own. By showing that sometimes, mercy could be even harsher than justice. House would have resisted him right to the end, regardless of the cost to himself, and Tritter knew that. Even if he’d ended up in jail, the fight would have kept him going. But House had no defenses against a man who was prepared to exact his revenge on someone else, and stick him with the guilt.
“You son of a bitch.”
“You be good, now, doctor. Because you never know who your next patient might be. Heard someone tried to kill you earlier this year. Next time, it might not be you that gets hit.”
A pause, then silence. House just sat there, staring at the phone. There still remained the smallest possibility that it could be some kind of twisted joke that Tritter was playing, but deep down he knew Tritter didn’t have that particular streak of cruelty in him, although he had plenty of other forms. He had meant exactly what he said. If anything, that was the joke. To force House to question every assumption he’d ever had - about Tritter, about Wilson. About himself.
“House? Was that…?”
He looked up to see Wilson standing behind him, clad in a white T-shirt and sweatpants, hair wet and tousled from the shower. He looked a lot better, but his face was still very pale and drawn. One hand rested lightly on the back of the couch.
“Yeah,” House said. Wilson flinched, and looked away. House couldn’t help noticing that he was standing exactly where Tritter had stood the day before, bottles in hand. He spared one final curse for the way the man had so effortlessly invaded his life. “How much did you hear?”
“You were… casting aspersions on his mother.”
“Oh, that wasn’t the good bit.” House smiled grimly. “You’ll love this. Apparently, he’s decided to… go away.”
That got Wilson’s attention; he turned back, eyes wide in surprise. “What?”
House shook his head. “You heard. He’s going to drop everything, stop hanging around the hospital, scaring the staff.”
“But… why?”
“Something about loyalty and sacrifice. Yours, that is. I stopped listening after the first part.”
“And you believe him.”
“Yes.”
It took a moment for the news to sink in, but House tried to leave no doubt that he was convinced it was true.
“That’s… great,” Wilson said at last, cautiously.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t… sound… happy.”
“What’s there to be happy about? I screwed up. Big time. And you got hurt because of it.” House leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring into space.
Wilson hesitated, then leaned over a little and laid a hand on his shoulder. After a brief pause, House reached back to cover it with his own.
“Better than both of us,” Wilson said.
“What kind of a pathetic argument is that?” House glanced up at him briefly before resuming his brooding.
“A logical one? One I thought you could appreciate.”
“I hate this. I hate that he could do this to me. I hate that you thought you had to…” he grit his teeth, unable to finish the sentence.
“You just can’t stand anything to be out of your control,” Wilson said, gently.
“I don’t need this. I don’t need to be… rescued like this. Like a child who can’t be held responsible for his own actions. Who lets someone else take his punishment because he can’t handle it himself. You shouldn‘t have lied for me. You should have let him put me away. Out of everyone’s misery.” His voice was heavy with self-loathing.
He felt Wilson’s hand squeeze his shoulder, and looked up to see Wilson smile, just a little.
“And would you ever… ever have forgiven me if I’d done just that?”
There was no argument House could make to that, and they both knew it. He looked at Wilson with as much conviction as he could manage.
“Maybe?”
“Right.”
Wilson had always known him too well. House looked at him a moment longer, wondering at the many whys of their friendship, and then Wilson squeezed his shoulder once more before letting go. “I’ll just… go grab some blankets,” he said, gesticulating with the other hand.
“Take the bed.” House looked up at him. “I probably won’t be using it tonight, anyway.” Not when there was a couch to brood on and most of a bottle of whiskey still left on the table.
There was a long pause, and Wilson bit his lip nervously. “It’s okay… if you need to sleep. I could probably… use the company.” Then he ducked his head and walked off, without looking at House again.
House stared after him, decoding slowly, and after a few more moments he pushed himself off the couch. The bedroom was dark, although there was still enough ambient light from the still-open blinds to see by. House was mildly surprised to see that Wilson had taken ‘his’ side, and buried himself conclusively under the covers, and so House carefully made his way to the other, the side he still mentally tagged as ‘Stacy’s’. Slowly, he eased his way onto the bed, until he was sitting on top of the blankets, his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, his weight evening out the depression of the mattress between them. He sat there, lost in thought, staring down in the darkness.
He wondered how long Wilson would take to heal from this, or whether he ever really would. It wasn’t really over; once the initial shock had worn off Wilson was in for a bumpy ride. And that was even before he got around to yelling at House for stealing his pad in the first place, which would surely happen eventually. All House could do was to be there, for as long as Wilson might need him, and hope he understood. Somehow. He knew what Wilson had done would both humble and haunt him for a long time. House thought he had hidden his heart safely away - in an egg, in a duck, in a well, in a church, on an island in the middle of the ocean - but Tritter had found it just the same. Had held it for one night, beating, in his hands. And squeezed.
“You’re a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot,” House muttered at last. Then a moment later he sighed, and added, “And I’m sorry. About everything.”
He wasn’t even sure Wilson had heard him. Wilson was lying on his side, curled slightly towards him, his eyes closed, still. But then House saw him reach out one hand, tentatively sweeping it over the bedsheets. It came to rest next to the denim over his damaged thigh, and House reached out and laid his own hand on top of it. Wilson’s hand closed gently on his.
“Would have… missed you,” Wilson mumbled sleepily.
And that was the answer to the big question, the one which had remained unasked all this time. It was true that House didn’t have anyone else in his life; but right now, neither did Wilson. All they had was each other, as poor compensation as that might be. At that moment, it seemed to House as though it might almost, almost be enough. He sat like that in the darkness for a long time, watching as Wilson’s fingers slowly relaxed once more, and his breathing finally evened out into sleep.