Chapter Text
In the moment after Wilson pulled the trigger, time seemed to freeze.
House was vaguely aware as the door was broken in from the outside, and three armed police officers burst in, guns drawn. Several voices spoke at once, urgent and rushed and too loud in the deafening silence following the blast.
House’s racing thoughts, seeking some sort of a plan to get out of the imminent danger he’d been in only moments before, faded into a roaring cacophony of shock and panic, only one word comprehensible amidst the din.
No, no, no!
And suddenly, everything began to fade to grey around him, his body shaking uncontrollably, just as a female officer approached him.
“I think he’s having some kind of seizure.”
The expression of alarm on her face was the last thing he registered, her words coming to him as if from underwater, as the world fell away and he slipped into unconsciousness.
*****************************************
It seemed like only seconds later that House awakened, in the quiet, sterile whiteness of a hospital room. He blinked into the brightness, looking around and trying to regain his focus. For a few confused moments, he was not able to remember how he’d come to be there, or why.
And then, it all came flooding back in a rush.
“Wilson!”
House sat forward quickly – too quickly, as evidenced by the sudden dizziness that overwhelmed him – but Cuddy was immediately at his side, one hand placing gentle pressure on his shoulder and pushing him back against the bed.
“Don’t,” she advised in a soft but warning tone. “You’ve had three seizures in the last twenty-four hours. You shouldn’t move too quickly, or try to get up…”
House hadn’t even realized she was in the room.
And at the moment, she wasn’t the one he was concerned with – and he hated himself for being concerned about him.
He just came into your home with a gun – just threatened your life – he’s put you through hell over the past four years – and all you can think about in this moment is whether or not he’s okay?
You are so irreparably fucked up – and he’s the one who fucked you up.
House tried to slow the racing of his heart, tried to fight back the fear that filled him for the man who’d been the center of his world for more than the last four years – but it was a useless effort.
So… why can’t I stop loving him?
“Wilson,” he repeated urgently. “Where… what happened to…?”
The expression of dread on her pale, tired face, the hesitation on her parted lips as she struggled to find the words – they were all the answer he really needed. He wished she wouldn’t, wished she’d just leave him alone to his grief – but Cuddy felt the need to voice the truth he already knew, anyway. She drew in a deep, shaky breath, forcing the words out in a rush, as if afraid that if she waited even a moment longer she’d lose the strength to say them at all.
“He… he didn’t make it, House. He was dead before he reached the hospital.”
And in that moment, something deep within House seemed to shut down.
********************************************
Cuddy braced herself for the worst as she forced herself to answer House’s question, to tell him the news that she knew would be devastating to him, despite the hell that Wilson had put him through over the past few years.
Of course, she had no idea exactly what “the worst” might be when it came to House.
She’d rarely seen him display any kind of open emotion, but she couldn’t imagine his reacting to Wilson’s death with anything less than shock… grief… anger… confusion… some kind of open reaction to what, regardless of anything that had happened between them, had to be the greatest loss he’d ever experienced. No matter what Wilson had done to him, Wilson had been a huge part of his life for twelve years, and the biggest part of it for the last four. Wilson was possibly the person House had loved more than anyone else, ever – and now, he was gone.
Forever.
“Good.”
Cuddy blinked, startled by the sharp word, and the cold, bitter smile that had formed on House’s lips.
“Finally. He’s out of my life for good now.”
Cuddy shook her head slowly, struggling to find the words to respond. Finally, she managed in a cautious, trembling voice, “House… I know this is… a lot to process, and… you’re probably… confused, but…”
“I’m not confused. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep for a little while, if that’s okay with you.”
The tone of House’s voice made it clear that he really didn’t care all that much whether or not it was okay with her, and he pointedly rolled over on the narrow hospital bed, turning his back to her. She opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say that would be helpful, or effective in the least – so finally, helplessly, she turned and walked away, leaving House to deal with things, or not deal with them, in his own way.
***************************************
It was the shock of witnessing Wilson’s suicide, in combination with the recent head injury, that had triggered House’s first seizure. Then, the physical trauma of that seizure had led to the others that followed. Cuddy insisted that he stay in the hospital until she could be sure that he was stable and on the way to a full recovery. Thankfully, other than a few minor bruises from Wilson’s manhandling, he didn’t have any other injuries from which to recover.
Physically, anyway.
Cuddy was beginning to worry.
The entire time he stayed in the hospital, House remained distant and closed off, not showing even the slightest trace of emotion – not about Wilson’s death, or the loss he had to be feeling over it; not about the abuse he’d endured, or the recent threat to his life, or the relief he was probably feeling to know that he was finally safe again. Whenever Cuddy mentioned Wilson’s name, House just answered in monosyllables and changed the subject as quickly as he could.
When House was recovered enough to go home, Cuddy insisted, despite his protests, on driving him herself.
“I’m not a child,” he grumbled as she followed him through the front door of his apartment, carrying what meager belongings he’d had in the hospital in her arms. “I could have gotten those on my own just fine.”
“I just want to help,” she sighed, pushing the door shut with her foot. “Humor me.”
House grunted something incomprehensible in response as he made his way to his sofa and promptly deposited himself on it – for all his insistence that he needed no help, seemingly willing to leave her to put away his things on her own. She put his dirty clothing in the hamper in the bathroom, ignoring the fact that it was empty, though the floors in the living room, bedroom, and bathroom were all littered with discarded clothing.
When she came back into the living room, House had the television on – but it was on mute, and he didn’t seem to be really watching it. He did seem to be doing his best to completely ignore her, so she didn’t speak to him as she set about busily straightening up his messy living room, carrying armloads of laundry to the bathroom, and picking up empty beer bottles and dirty dishes and transporting them to the kitchen.
A random scrap of paper near the door caught her attention, and she picked it up, already heading toward the trash can across the room before she’d even looked at it. But then, she did look at it – and she froze in her tracks, her stomach lurching, her eyes welling with tears as she realized what she was looking at.
It was a very old picture of House and Wilson, taken at some much happier time in their history. Wilson was smiling a cheesy, public smile toward the camera, while House was stubbornly glaring, one hand reaching out as if to forcibly take the camera from whoever the unlucky individual was who was holding it.
The picture was creased and worn thin, its condition giving the impression of much handling, its crumpled corners and rounded shape suggesting that it might have been tucked away in someone’s pocket – out of sight, but never out of reach, or very far out of mind.
“What’s that?”
She looked up, startled, to see that her reaction had earned House’s attention. She hesitated a moment, uncertain as to whether or not it would be good for him to see this picture, and to experience the memories it might bring back.
She decided that it didn’t matter; it wasn’t really her decision to make.
Cuddy crossed the few feet that separated them, holding out the picture for him to take from her hand. He stared down at it, blinking in surprise, his lips slightly parted.
“It’s… it’s not yours?” she asked, frowning, puzzled.
House shook his head slowly. “I threw them all away, after… when we broke up. This… I don’t know where this came from…” House frowned, his gaze lifted from the photograph and staring off at the wall, focused on something Cuddy couldn’t see. “He must have had it with him when he came here the other night. In his pocket, or…” He shook his head again. “I can’t believe the police wouldn’t have found it – unless they just assumed it was mine, but… I can’t believe… can’t believe he…”
His voice trailed off, and he abruptly crumpled the picture and shoved it into his own pocket, rising to his feet and stalking off toward the kitchen.
Cuddy finished the thought in her own mind, her heart aching for her friend, and the confusing feelings this discovery must have brought back. For all the damage he’d done, all the hurt he’d caused, Wilson had continued to pine over House, to harbor hope that their relationship might be restored; and this crumpled, damaged picture – for all its wear, now a more accurate representation of their relationship than it had ever been – was just more evidence not only of his dangerous obsession, but of the genuine love that Wilson had once felt for House.
Cuddy followed House into the kitchen, concerned with how he might react to whatever he was feeling in that moment. She was unsurprised to find him taking a bottle from the refrigerator and popping off the cap.
“You’re recovering from a serious brain injury,” she reminded him sternly. “The last thing you need to be doing is drinking…”
“I don’t give a shit,” he snapped, raising the bottle to his lips and draining half of it before lowering it again.
Cuddy opened her mouth to protest – then flinched at the unexpected wet, shattering sound as the bottle flew from House’s hand to smash against the far wall, its contents spilling out across the counter and the floor. Then, a moment later, House dropped his cane to the floor as his knees buckled under him, and he swiftly followed it down. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, as he raised one hand to cover his face, a low, terrible keening sound falling from his lips.
Cuddy stared in horror for a long moment before pushing herself into action and going to her knees beside him, reaching out to put one arm around his back, the other rising to grip his wrist and try to pull his hand away from his face.
“House,” she whispered. “House, it’s all right…”
“What about this is all right?” he demanded angrily through his tears. “How is it all right that the person I loved more than anything in this world just blew his own brains out right in front of me? How is it all right that he did it on the same night he came here determined to kill me rather than to let me walk away from him? How is it all right that I… that I still…”
His words choked off in agonized frustration, and Cuddy found herself automatically uttering gentle shushing sounds, her hand on his back running soothingly up and down.
“It’s not all right. None of it is,” she agreed softly. “None of it… should have happened the way it did. But… it is all right for you to miss him. To… to grieve for him. To still love him, no matter what he did…”
“That’s stupid,” House insisted, the tears still streaking his face, incongruous with the stubborn disgust and anger that filled his voice. “Anybody showed up in the clinic talking that way… taking up for some abusive asshole… and I’d tell them they were a freakin’ moron…”
“We all are, sometimes,” Cuddy pointed out. “Love… love makes us that way, sometimes. But that’s okay… as long as you don’t let that love destroy you. And… you didn’t, House. When it mattered, you were strong enough to walk away...” She hesitated before adding, “And, when it mattered, and he could choose between your life and his… Wilson chose yours. In a way, he was strong enough, too… and so were you… and that’s what you have to remember.”
“That’s bull shit,” House muttered, shaking his head. “What he did wasn’t strong. It was weak. It was a coward’s way out. He just knew it was the one way…” He swallowed hard, drawing in a shuddering breath before forcing the rest of the words out, “… the one way he could know I’d… I’d never forget him…”
“You won’t,” Cuddy agreed, shaking her head sadly. “But… I don’t think you’d really want to.”
House didn’t say anything after that for a long while, just stayed there on the floor, his body shaking with the sobs that tore from him as he struggled to catch his breath and regain his composure – and Cuddy stayed there with him, doing her best to be the friend he needed, despite her own feeling of uselessness and inadequacy in the face of his grief.
She knew it would take a long time for House to get past all that he’d lost and resume some type of normal life – but the fact that he was allowing his own grief now was the first step down that long and difficult path he was facing.
And she had no intention of letting him face it alone.