You Betrayed Me.
Wilson knocked on the door... he knew House wasn't obligated to let him in at all; that, as a matter of fact, House probably wouldn't let him in... but he tried none the less, because there were things he had to say... because he was Wilson and Wilson never left.
"I know you're in there... look, I have to tell you something: I'm sorry."
"Since when is that good enough?" House whispered... a bullet was staring at him from the barrel of a gun... people often wondered what the exact last thoughts of those who commited suicide were:
Nobody Likes me.
It's the only way.
They'll miss me now.
See you soon...
Goodbye, cruel world?
but no... it actually was the moment of life or death! and in that moment, you keep it short:
Freedom.
Delivery.
God...
It's over.
I'm done...
Shit.
or even shorter: a sigh, a tear...
a smile.
***
Gregory House was smiling... lights danced in his bright blue irises as they looked at the gun:
It was a ticket to heaven... or hell, in House's case. At least he thought so: sounded like a lot more fun.
a ticket away from earth... from misery.
"House... let me in!" Wilson pounded on the door: he'd been through this once already... and it wasn't happening again!
Maybe House had overdosed or something... but Wilson wasn't going to walk away this time: it was his right, yes... but it wasn't him, and he proved that by standing there.
eventually... he just broke the door down, stormed inside and froze:
"House... don't... you don't have to... you can't just..." he stuttered when he saw House with the gun.
House sighed: "why are you here?" He pulled off the safety lock... ready to fire. and he was so... nuteral: he made it look as ordinary as feeding Steve McQueen!
"House..! no, don't do this... don't House... I'm sorry, I'm an idiot... you're not gonna do this, right? You wanted me here... I'm here, look!"
"Great, now leave." House said in a conversational tone. "Sorry isn't good enough, remember? I'd hate for you to see me die, though... all that braintissue flying around and stuff... oh wait: you couldn't care less, right? Last time I bared my brain, my only asset just so you had an answer... you could would've let me die if that would've saved her, right?"
"House... that's not true!"
an amused smile made its way onto House's face:
"Don't lie, Jim... you know I can tell. I'm just a brain, right? didn't have the answer you wanted, so you left. Won't give you the desired answer now either... so go on: walk away.
"No." Wilson inched closer: "You don't have to do this... not to prove a point."
House laughed: "This isn't about you, Wilson." House now looked up at Wilson for the first time: "Misery follows me." Wilson cringed. "I'm not gonna fight, Wilson. Why should I? There will be a next time... I'm not stupid; I won't be waiting around for it."
He placed the gun to his head.
"House! No!"
"Shut up, moron!"
Wilson leapt forward and impulsively did something he would live to regret forever:
He kicked House in the right thigh.
House folded into himself: his hands instinctively went to the thigh, thus dropping the gun... Wilson threw it away and then he restrained an angry House: "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, House... I had to do it... I'm sorry!" He was crying as he rubbed House's back and held him tightly... House cursed him, wished him dead... and he apologized at least a thousand times: this was the ultimate betrayal.
House's leg was sacred...
House wasn't really alive,
and Wilson wasn't really a hero...
both were simply there,
and neither knew for sure if that was good or bad.
***
Author’s Notes: By request; the second chapter of Holding On!
Still not sure about the lifespan of this thing… oh well: enjoy it while it’s there!
Fighting Chance.
House was sitting on his bed with a vacant stare in his eyes… Wilson had thrown all the knives out and the gun had found its place in the trashcan as well, but none of it seemed to bother House: maybe he really wasn’t desperate…
‘No. He was… he tried to kill himself.’ And Wilson was still certain of that as he leant against the wall opposite to his seemingly suicidal friend:
“How’s your leg?”
House shrugged, indifferent to Wilson’s words and Wilson’s presence in the room.
“Look, House… you can’t do this. Why are you giving up like this?”
House turned to Wilson: pure fury was leaking out from his bright blue eyes:
“Giving up? I’m giving up!? You didn’t even try to get over this! You have always had every little thing going for you and the one time it goes wrong you pack up, leave… curl up and cry so that everybody can feel bad for pathetic little Jimmy and I’m giving up!? You don’t even know me! Do you even know how much shit I had to go through to end up like this!? It wasn’t a choice Wilson: I went down fighting! And you can’t do that, can you? You’re too weak. And:” House laughed bitterly: “Here you are, after thousands of lectures about humanity… and you still think you’re any better than me because I don’t enjoy being miserable as much as you do!?”
Wilson stayed silent… his eyes had widened, his fingers where clawing at the side of his shirt but he stayed silent: he knew there was a truth in House’s words… even if it didn’t sound as blunt as House did: that was just House and he came there to redefine what House was…
House was blunt,
House was honest…
House was right.
“You enjoy it, don’t you? Being the damaged one in front of all those chicks? Everyone treating you like a kid because they think they can fix you? Like an invalid… like you have treated me since the infarction? Like you’re treating me right now!? Sucks, right? You know what’s worse? One day they won’t believe that you miss her… they’ll think it’s all between your ears! And then you’ll spring into action: then you’ll realize it sucks! And you’ll try to convince them, ‘cause you know it hurts… and you know what? They won’t give a fuck! ‘Cause it’s better for their state of mind if they have the stupid, little illusion that you’re even remotely alright! Oh wait: that isn’t your life… It’s mine! And I want you to get the fuck out of it! You were right, you know? We never really were friends… a friend wouldn’t have made me fight a losing battle just so he could feel better! And this? Your little heroic act? You know what you did? You kicked a cripple who was already down. Get out, Wilson.”
“So what, you can kill yourself? No, House… I’m a selfish, self-pitying bastard and I still can’t let you. I’m sorry about all the lectures… alright? And the pushing… but I wanted to help you!”
“Are you deaf!? Did you not see the gun? YOU CAN’T HELP ME!” House was panting… his middle-aged heart couldn’t harbor so much anger: he held his chest as it protested against his rage.
“House! Calm down… You’re going to… kill yourself.” Wilson sighed: the ghost of a smile appeared on his face.
“That was the objective, yes. Just let me do this, Wilson…”
Sensing less anger from House, Wilson left his spot by the wall and sat on the bed next to House:
“No, House… I didn’t mean to hurt you… but I couldn’t let you do it and I still can’t. I know it’s easier, I know you just want to leave but I can’t let you… and I won’t leave either, I’m sorry,”
“Wilson for god sake why do you want me to be in pain!”
“I don’t. I want you to be alive.” Wilson looked House straight in the eyes: he meant this. He wanted House to know he meant it.
“That’s the same thing.” House averted his eyes.
“It doesn’t have to be…”
“You don’t get it… you really don’t get it: the pain is going to be there forever… if I’m alive, I’m in pain… it’s that simple. And you can whine about me being horribly depressed and all but go figure.”
“I know…” Wilson sighed. “But death can’t be the answer.”
“I’m unorthodox, remember? I get the answers no one else can get: death is my answer. You can live through that… I obviously can’t.”
“You can live, House. And… I can, too.”
“In another city, with another job. You’re going to have to leave eventually… and so do I.”
“In twenty years maybe… 25 tops. And I’m staying: not eating would be too damn attractive without my lunch being there.”
“Whatever…”
With that, House laid down on his good side and waited for sleep to come and for Wilson to get the message.
He did, but sleep didn’t come.
House was alive,
And somehow… the fact that his couch wasn’t empty was comforting.
Wilson dreamt of Amber.
House didn’t dream at all… but the sound of a gunshot resounded in his skull.
Author’s Notes: some of my stories have a lack of dialogue… so I fixed that. Should I still go on?
Please comment!
Wilson to House?
Yeah! I really do!
Juan Francisco. 1780's look that House might have decided to wear..
