Chapter Text
House isn’t all for his self preservation. He’s the human incarnation of a sacrificial suicidal lamb that blindly follows the promise of sunlight. Instead he’s shoved down further into the dark cold moonlight. The eyes on him as he tries to eat more. Anything that would at least feed the stomach he refused to acknowledge. It’s grown accustomed to being neglected and now with the affection of nutrition it gets rejected. All flushed down as he vomits till he is just dry heaving acid out. Blood is there too, blood is always there.
On his arms as it heals. Always picking and scratching at his arms, legs, hips and shoulders. They heal uncomfortably. His body is trying to stitch itself together. The urge to cut is there. Always there. Always whispering when he’s alone with his thoughts. Not to feel something that’s stupid. Such a girly thing to do, House thinks. But to distract from the internal and external pain. Isn’t it all internal?
He can delude himself into thinking he is okay, he will be okay. He can be happy in the far future. But reality comes crashing onto him. House is still the same man he’s always been. He hasn't changed and will never change. You can’t change the fundamentals of a person. But Wilson wants him to, says so in whispers in daylight. Encouraging him to stay alive a little longer. If it weren’t for him he’d be dead by this month. If it hurts him to live it’s at least Wilson’s fault. It’s his fault he loves him so much he’ll live forever if he must for him. All for him, always and forever. A sad reality he must endure.
A memory flashes from the trenches of his mind. “That’s not normal, House.” He says softly and sweetly. Sickeningly sweet. The kind of sweet where you’ve eaten too much Cotton candy and have to throw up. Doesn’t James think that he fucking knows? This isn’t typical. Nothing about him is typical. “Really? I think this is the most sane thing I've ever done.” House isn’t wrong. This is one of his least self destructive actions he could be doing right now. He could be overdosing on the floor. Vomit threatening to kill him right then and there. Of course if Wilson hadn’t been here. If he was back into his own world away. Ideal and frightening all the same. Wilson tightens his grip on the table. As if his strength alone could break it in half. “I…I don’t know if I can keep watching you kill youself. Breaking off bits of you piece by piece hoping that something gives.” House is just cutting himself. Bleeding till it crusts over. What is there to worry about? The worst is infection. Or death he supposed. Nothing is really wrong with this. What's the fuss? “So don’t. Leave the keys by the bowl.” Big puppy eyes meet his own cold like Pluto. Devoid of emotions. A carefully crafted mask that’s protected him for years. A mask that’s hurt him for years.
Wilson takes his bluff, dropping the keys on the counter. He walks away slowly because the world has slowed. Panic has engulfed his mind. This was the final straw. This was it. All there’ll be when he revisits the past is regret and sorrow. No one to blame but himself. No one to save him. A voice whispers he doesn’t need saving because he’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s fine, he's fine, he's fine. “I don’t think I can fight.” A rare edge of real vulnerability. He’s a manipulative piece of shit that’ll die before he watches Wilson leave forever. Not if he’s crying. The memory is horrid and keeps haunting him.
Though his anger has subsided since his last “temper tantrum” as Wilson calls them. Cuddy does too, but it’s different. He doesn’t know why it’s different from Cuddy but it is. Feels more funny when she does. When Wilson says it he feels small like when he was a child scared of making loud noises. Best not to piss off his parents. Both stressed and ready to take their anger out on him verbally. Sometimes physically. When Wilson says it sounds a little too much like Blythe.
Chase is looking at him like he’s dying. He drops rehab pamphlets on his desk. All ranging from here in the area to all the way to London. It’s all very funny. It’s not but it is. Maybe it’s because his heart hurts that now they decide they care. Foreman does his best not to look at him like he’s something scary the man wants to forget in the dark. But the two men huddle together whispering when they’re alone with Camron with a laptop in between the three. They all look at him with fear. Same fear Blythe had in the darkest moment of his childhood, when she spilled out her false apologies.
House doesn’t want their care. it would be nice to see but it burns his eyes when he sees a glimpse of it. He doesn’t know why he’s like this. He just is. Maybe if he was born different he’d be the kindest man they’ve ever known. Maybe that’s just bullshit. They are lying about everything. Every touch, every nice word said is a lie. If a mother cannot love her child why should the world. If she cannot love him he’ll be a monster she’ll hate to have made. House doesn’t acknowledge this but he feels it. His chest tightens with a loving touch that sends him into a panic haze of danger. This will hurt too much. That touch will turn into boiling water that drowns him.
So he’ll do what he always does, work. Work to distract from the problem. With a girl on the brink of death he barks out orders in a more soft tone. For a moment they are stunned by the sudden lightened mood that they all look at each other. An emotion he can’t place is there. Wordlessly they do what they’re told. Chase however stands still from his place. House quirks an eyebrow. “Are you going to move it? I'd like you to know I do indeed like my job.” Instead of doing his job, what he told him to do. He just hugged him tightly as if he would slip away into the night before he had time to say goodbye like some hospice patient. They stayed hugged together like that for a second or two before Gregory slapped his shoulder to get him off. “Alright perv boy. Stop groping me.” Similar to swatting a bug away. Chase sniffled, sulking away from him. He couldn’t sped off any faster. Though that might be his imagination. Gregory mercifully stayed silent, mostly because he was a tired man that was drained from all this sudden attention. An act too kind. He should do something unforgivable to correct this mistake.
Gregory lacked his usual taunts, a fact he’s grown more anxious of by the day. If he can convince himself he doesn’t care then that’s all he needs. The heart palpitations will go to his subconscious and the stress in his shaky hands will wither away into something productive. It has to. So House will roam the hospital floors like a ghost floating. Another dead body in the morgue. The colours in the world dulled to black and white.
Until Wilson grabs his arm, a gentle embrace his hand can do and demands his attention discreetly. A smile that aims to disarm his snarky remarks. “You're scaring the nurses with your mindless walking. They think you're up to something.” Wilson takes a breath before taking a moment to consider. Wilson came to him with care in mind and he didn’t want to run away from that. He’s unsure as to why, but it makes Wilson special. “Are you up to something stupid?” Taking this opportunity as it is he smiled. “No. I mixed our home grown skin in the lab into the ice. So everyone will be a cannibal.” A wild smile that made him look as crazed as rumoured to be. A beautiful lie that Wilson sighs at. A fond gaze befalls him that’s buried under all the exhaustion that being his friend must be. “Could you answer a question normally?” James asks but without heart. House hopes he doesn’t mean it. Maybe he’s too sensitive. “No.”
The two make their way slowly towards the cafeteria. Their boisterous laughter fills the hallways that were once filled in silence. It’s a slow revival of Gregory House. And he feels it. The colour on his skin returning and the warmth he missed. The scabbed skin begs for his attention like children. Bothersome to the point he can’t help but scratch his arms. Part of being alive is healing, he reminds himself. Something about that is beautiful. Wonderous or another stupid fucking quote that life is worth living. All robotic generic words you say. Pretty words without meaning. The fact that he wants meaning is a terrifying thought. He’ll look towards Wilson that gives him life because he’s a leech that needs him. There’s a glow to him, a small one and he can’t but smile with the man again.
They sit in their seats that House has spotted. One that eases the excruciating pain in his leg because of its closeness to him. it’s devoid of humans that would surround them. Makes this affair seem private even if it’s in a public space. The booth seating is like children’s blanket forts, a safe space only for them as cliche as that is. A roast beef sandwich for him with a side of an ice cream sandwich. While Wilson had fries with a standard cafeteria lunch. A really boring lunch. Salad with some boring dressing. They’ll argue and laugh.
No one speaks of House’s hesitation to eat his second favourite sandwich. Nor do they speak of his hesitation to steal and devour Wilson’s fries that he has yet to chastise him for. All of it feels off, an uncanny valley off. House is overthinking it all. He knows it. Fortunately the ducklings come to sweep in and save him from the awkwardness of it all. “We don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Camron says, has the balls to say to him for the rest of them that’s hiding behind her. They are scared children, he reminds himself. “What’s new? All of you have empty heads. Why not, oh I don’t know, try harder?” House asks with a small smirk. A hidden one of glee. Now he doesn’t have to eat with such a demanding audience. Camron sighs, “we tried. All the tests come back negative.”
“Well now you're breaking my arm. I suppose I could…help.” He says with renewed energy. Eager to see this mysterious illness. “My brilliance can’t be delayed.” He’ll say dramatically to make Wilson huff a laugh. House will speed off. (As much speed as a cripple can do)
Hours pass and the sandwich sits on his desk getting older. If a sandwich could get cold it would be. Eating could wait. So could the scratching. Healing wounds don’t need his attention when someone needs a god and gods don’t bleed. The case is losing too much blood but the wound isn’t anywhere to be seen. House is frantic, spreading every medical textbook on diseases out on the floor. If the words caught him just right he’d have it. Eyes scan the papers for anything that could semi match. House is blanking. He needs coffee in a cup or IV.
Something whispers in his head that he shouldn’t feel guilty for something he doesn’t know about or care. It’ll be a secret. He decided he was too sober for his liking. Downing three Vicodin pills was needed to have a clear mind to think. He needs it, he needs it, he needs it. Everyone knows it's better to diagnose a patient if he’s high. He’s better when he’s high. People don’t die as much if he’s high. Feelings go away. Vanish into the netherworld or go into someone’s netherworld. Fucking the feelings away work. Prostitutes don’t care about why he’s such a mess. That’s something intimate relationships do, ask why. Why this why that. A big conversation that he won’t entertain. Thoughts that wander away from a patient isn’t something a god would do. House chastises himself.
The girl with dirty blonde hair is cutting herself. Scars from ages ago and now. Blood pours from the wounds and onto the hospital gowns. Blood that goes unnoticed when she’s bleeding everywhere. Every hole that the body has. A real bad time of the month, huh.
But you can’t hide new cuts. Fresh and oozing and prime for infections. However the sting of it all feels as close to heaven as a demon could get. A price to pay for paradise. It’s the sad eyes thing that gets people to open up, he thinks. Not that his scratching at his arms had anything to do. Game can see game a mile away. It’s why when he discovered their shared habits he stayed far, far away. If he runs he might not have to acknowledge his own mental illness. Not have to know what the other team thinks of it all. Pitying or apathy. He’d rather they kill him instead of that. Still he rides the selfish train of relatability. This is about her. The girl will die, it might be in her brain. With a solemn realization he knows now it’s everywhere. There is no saving her as there is no saving him. Both are beyond saving or redemption. All they are fates to is time. A time that is a cruel cruel punishment. For they don’t have much of it.
Hours pass. It’s dark when the sun rises and light when the moon shines. At least he isn’t alone in his suffering. Neither are his patients. Unfortunately, she’s another body in the morgue. Wheeled off to cold drawers of bodies awaiting their last destination. Cremation, burial or help. How bleak. Reuse reduce recycle. What was all that effort for? He should’ve stayed home. At least a god could bleed alone in the safety of home. At least there was less guilt in that act than begging for help. Praying Wilson will understand the situation he’s in. A lot for someone he knows but what’s new?
When he stands he sees black. A vision void of light only static nothing. A void that stares back with an unforgiving gaze. Then he’s on the floor. Tired of everything. Tired of nothing. A bone deep sort of tired. He can’t get up, nor beg for help. Just like a sleepless dream he’s gone. Out like a light. House is on the floor. The man hits his head hard on the carpet flooring. A thump is heard and if he were awake he’d thought that he broke his head open.
Wilson was the first to notice something amiss. He was the first to be by House’s side. Calling desperately for nurses for help. The flow of this is a patient, do what you are trained for. Compartmentalizing that his friend, his best friend that he somehow cannot live without. A lover that might die a pointless death because no one was around for him. Not that the man wanted to be surrounded by people but at least help was available. They wheel him somewhere that Wilson mindlessly follows. “I'm a doctor, let me help damnit.” He’ll say as House is barely conscious to understand his surroundings. It’s all a blur. And no one noticed the uneaten roast beef sandwich. It sits getting more soggy. More uneditable.
In the dark of the night House hopes to meet another god that has felt suffering. For he cannot be the only god of pain and suffering. He needs help. He is in pain and the pain isn’t righteous nor justified. It’s agony for violence sake and he doesn’t know if he can go for any longer. Death is a mercy, but gods are ruthless.
House opens his eyes against his will, the light harsh on his eyes. It feels blinding. Too harsh. It should be dimmed, but he supposed that none made note of his preference. He wants to be angry but the pain he feels is so distracting. So he turns, tries to at least. Something is caught on his wrist. Refuses to let him roll. A hand comes and soothes the right hand from gripping too tightly against the bedsheets. Fuck. He can feel bandages on his arms, on his shoulders, on his hips and on his legs. It’s violating. Wilson says something but his head hurts. “Shhh. Let the cripple nap.” He’ll say that’s hopefully close to his usual sarcasm and snark. “You stubborn ass! You should’ve bit your pride and ask for help. God you could’ve died alone.” Wilson is going off, lecturing him about the dangers. He’s so worried, it’s the most worried he’s heard. Even with all the medical jargon there’s still that lurking fondness and care that doesn’t go away. He wonders if he can break it. If a god of suffering can’t break the curse of love what can?
House just may accept that Wilson does and truly love him with his whole heart. Not now. Not when his head throbs, but the way James keeps stroking his thumb over his hand. House says the three words that have been at the tip of his tongue. “I love you.” House will say with a small genuine smile. Wilson shocked for a moment makes him glad he’s restrained to the bed. Shock turns into a cross of love sick and the happiest he’s ever seen him. He’ll look down, shy. A small turning bigger and brighter. “You loveable bastard.” Wilson will say, kissing the top of his forehead. In this moment they don’t care about the eyes on them because it’s only them right now.