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Gregory House was an idiot.
An idiot for many reasons in his life, about what would take far too much time to explain, but he was an idiot. He knew the outcome of going on this road trip with Wilson. This, final escapade, of life and joy. He had told himself that’s what it was going to be because that was the plan.
He had no idea what he really signed up for, and what it would bring. For the first time in House’s life, he had failed to predict the future, and that might as well have made him an idiot.
For the first few weeks, they get as drunk as physically possible every night and wake up passed out in a different place every time. It could be a motel room, a back room in a strip club, you name it; they woke up there.
“I want to go to Illinois,” Wilson says, gazing out across the Vermont forest window as he shoves eggs into his mouth.
“Ah yes, Illinois, I also want to see farmers having intercourse with their cows and eat potatoes,” House responds without missing a beat.
“My grandparents are from there,” Wilson says, ignoring him.
“Really? I thought your grandparents died in the holocaust.” He smirks a little bit.
“Yes, House, my Grandparents died in Nazi Germany, that’s why I was never born, and am currently a figment of your imagination.”
House takes a bite of waffle, “You have to give me a better reason than that to go to Illinois, Wilson, it’s the most boring place on earth.”
Wilson shrugs, “It’s just a state I haven’t been to.”
“Fine, but I'm taking you somewhere after.”
They are on the road to Illinois within the hour. House rides side by side with his best friend, cool Vermont air blowing harshly across his face. He blasts 80’s music from the speaker he picked up, and watches Wilson on his left drive next to him and nodded his head to the beat.
“Come on,” House says when they get off their motorcycles in New York, “Let’s get shit faced.”
Wilson doesn’t respond, “you have to get into the clubs early to claim the hookers with big tits,” he tried again. No response. Finally turning with a smug smile, he sees Wilson hunched over on his bike, staring blankly at the pavement.
“Oh come on tumor lung you’re slowing down the party.” House lets the seconds tick by before hobbling over to his friend. “Wilson,” he says, crouching down.
“Ha-a-ving t-trouble brea-breathing,” Wilson gasps, eyes filled with tears.
Suddenly drastically more concerned, House crouches down and reaches into his bag for an albuterol inhaler he had brought for when this day came. “Here,” he says, handing it to Wilson who takes it immediately and within seconds is breathing normally again.
“Thanks,” he mutters out from pale skin.
House hesitates for a moment, not wanting to be rid of this phase of the trip just yet. He doesn’t want to retreat to sleeping in motels every night, though admittedly it would be good for his leg. He glances at Wilson, who is heaving through his tumor ridden lungs and makes his decision.
“Let’s turn in for the night.” He says, offering Wilson his arm. He takes it.
“Are you sure?” Wilson says bitterly.
“I can always get a hooker to come to our room.” House smiles, and Wilson understands the sentiment.
They check into the nearest grimy motel where the yellow paint peels off the wall. House takes a bite of a pop tart (their dinner) and flicks a paper football into Wilson’s plate. He stares at it for a moment before bringing the untouched meal to the sink and dumping the food down the disposal.
House doesn’t want to talk about it. Loss of appetite is a symptom of dying, after all, so he doesn’t think it really requires addressing. When Wilson sits back down at the table, House flicks another football at his head, and Wilson smiles a little before flicking it back.
After watching a few hours of television, casually sitting on the worn brown couch together, Wilson hobbles to one of the beds and climbs in.
“You gonna change?” House asks.
Wilson doesn’t respond, he’s already asleep.
House turns off the television and stands. This was a mistake. He clutches his thigh as a searing pain passed through him and he falls to his knees. He controls his breathing to make sure he doesn’t wake Wilson and takes double his usual Vicodin dose before lazily stripping and collapsing on the bed next to his friend.
House is awoken from his drug-induced sleep with the sound of coughing, wet and loud. This fit lasts several minutes and is followed by several deep groans of pain and sniffs.
He has dreaded this moment for a long time. He is suddenly very aware of the Vicodin bottle in his left pocket and begins to walk over to Wilson.
In a moment of vulnerability, he asks, “Are you ok?”
Wilson just blankly stares at him and nods slightly. House puts the Vicodin back in his pocket and hobbles back to bed. Another time.
“I miss having a piano,” House says, stepping out of the shower the next morning.
“I certainly miss you playing at two am before I have to wake up for a 6:30 consult.” Wilson chuckles, but there is something sad in his eyes.
The truth is, they both miss that. They miss normal. House misses Princeton Plainsboro. He misses medicine. He misses harassing Chase, misses Wilson blow-drying his hair in the morning, macadamia nut pancakes, and his old fireplace in 221B. Hell, House even misses clinic duty.
Well, maybe not so much.
Regardless, he hates Wilson being sick. This is good for them though, it’s a good way to go out.
They head back out on the road.
Days go by. They stop in Pennsylvania twice, Ohio three times, and Indiana twice before reaching Illinois. House is prepared to stop and find a motel, as the sun is beginning to set, but Wilson has other ideas. Wilson keeps driving, almost like he knows where he is going.
Wilson pulls down small streets and quaint towns, following a path House does not know but is interested to find out. When the sun is breaking on the edge of twilight and all the trees are bathed in an orange glow, Wilson stops at the edge of a forest trail.
Wordlessly, Wilson gets off his bike and looks back to make sure House is following. The walk quietly through the forest, listening to the buzzing of mosquitoes. House is sure Wilson knows all this walking hurts him like hell, so he pops two Vicodin knowing that whatever Wilson shows him will be damn well worth it.
When they do stop, it is in front of a glistening lake. Oak trees line the edges along with batches of pink and yellow wildflowers. There is a small, worn wood bench next to a particularly large oak. Wilson sits on it and House follows, groaning at the tension being relieved from his ankle. He watches the water for a while before turning to Wilson to see what the big deal about this place is, and which of his first girlfriends he kissed here.
That’s when he sees Wilson. Really sees him. His greying brown hair is gently rustled by the breeze, his hands are resting on the armrest and his leg respectively, and his face is reflecting the warm sunset. Tears glisten in his eyes.
House is about to make a joke about his manly tears, but he gets interrupted.
“My grandfather and I used to come here together all the time,” Wilson says, not taking his eyes off the water. “Told me stories, life lessons.” Wilson plays with his beige pants. “He died of colon cancer when I was fifteen.”
“Is that why you became an oncologist, Jimmy, to help people like old grandpa,” House says sarcastically.
Wilson just smirks a little, “yes.”
There is silence.
“He wanted his ashes scattered up here, the rest of the family wanted him buried in the church cemetery.” Wilson kicks the dirt. “The night of the funeral I replaced his ashes with dirt and snuck up here to do it myself.”
“Stealing your grandfather's ashes, how poetic.”
They watch the sunset go down a little more. “I buried a time capsule next to that tree that night too,” he says, gesturing to the tall oak next to the bench.
House stands and walks over to the tree. He jabs the bottom of his cane into the dirt and smiles at Wilson. “Here?”
It takes fifteen minutes to dig it up, and by then the sun is set and they work by phone light. Households the light as Wilson digs, naturally.
Wilson gently pulls up a worn wood box from the ground. “It’s still here,” he says, slightly entranced.
“What did you expect some homeless man to come dig up the pictures of you and your toddler size yamaka?”
House sits on the ground next to Wilson and they open up the box.
Though worn from the years, they pull out the following objects: A worn picture of Wilson and his grandfather sitting on the bench, a golden watch, a locket with a picture of Wilson’s mother as a child, a letter, a photo of Wilson and who House can only guess is Danny, and a picture of Wilson and a boy House has never seen in his life. The last one,
WIlson holds gently as if it is worth everything in the world. He gently brushes off the dirt and smiles.
“Who is it?” House asks as gently as possible.
Wilson looks at it for a while, no tears to be seen though he looks sad. “Tommy Henley.”
House rolls his eyes as hard as possible, “Oh, yeah, that explains everything.”
Wilson doesn’t answer him, just tries to tuck the photo in his pocket but House grabs his wrist and steals the picture. He looks at it more closely.
It is a teenage picture of Wilson and ‘Tommy’. They are lying side by side on the grass and Wilson is looking up at the sky. Tommy is gazing at Wilson with a small grin, watching him as if Wilson was the only thing worth looking at. Who took the picture, House has no idea, but what he does know is that there is a lot more than meets the eye here.
House hands the picture back. He’s confident Wilson will explain eventually. They move to the worn, yellow letter.
April 24, 1982
Dear James Wilson,
What is life like where you are? Is it better there, are people nicer there? Do they care about people like me and Tommy anymore? I must be an idiot, it’s not like you can answer these. Grandpa died yesterday, I snuck up here with his ashes which I’m sure you know. God would want me to do what Grandpa wished, even though Ma doesn’t. I was thinking, maybe you should be a doctor. Someone that helps people with cancer. I think Grandpa would be really proud if you did that. I just want to make him proud. He was the only one that knew about me and Tommy.
God, James, don’t forget Tommy. I hope to grow old with him, but maybe that’s just not meant to be. The world certainly doesn’t think it should. Hopefully, you find a pretty wife though, have a few kids. Ma would love that. Only 16 and she’s already ranting about grandkids. Anyway, I only ask one thing of you future James. If you’re dying, well, when you're dying, take the person you love up here. I don’t know if that'll be Tommy or some woman (maybe Jillian?), or maybe someone else I haven’t even met yet. But take them up here and dig up this old box. Kiss them and tell them you love them, hold them as you die. I want to be happy like Grandpa, that’s all he wanted of me.
Sincerely,
James Wilson.
When House looks up from the letter, he looks at Wilson with sad eyes. “What happened to Tommy?” he asks.
“Joined the army right out of high school. Got killed on his first deployment.”
They don’t talk anymore about the letter. House cannot look at the future that they’re now being denied and admit that they could have had anything other than the friendship he already knows. If he could look down that road which is now closed and see something else there, always glimpsed but never reached for, never acknowledged, it might really break him for good, so they leave the lake with the box in hand and spend the night in a nearby motel.
It’s not until three months in Nevada later that Wilson coughs blood into a napkin. They are eating breakfast at a roadside diner, piles of food on the plastic table when Wilson has the coughing fit.
He has been having more intense coughing fits recently, so House continues eating his eggs and pretends to ignore the attack. After looking at the napkin, Wilson freezes, House knows, and his bright blue eyes flash out the window. He rests his scruffy chin on his hand and watches as the leaves rustle, pretending he doesn’t feel a stabbing pain of dread in his gut.
Wilson does nothing, simply tucks the bloody napkin into his pocket and dives back into his waffles, easily picking up their previous conversation about where they are going next,
ignoring the situation entirely.
That’s what they had been doing these past three months. Ignoring everything. Being friends for so long, they learned some things are better left unsaid. A year ago, they had dug into as many small events in each other’s lives like they were world ending, but when the real stuff hit them, Wilson was always there by his side while House brushed it off as nothing. Now that Wilson needed help, he was left with silence. It’s not like House doesn’t know he’s a shit friend, and that Wilson is better off without him, it’s just that he’s a selfish bastard who can’t live without him.
If they didn’t talk about cancer, it wasn’t a problem. But now, Wilson has coughed up blood, and that makes everything a little more real.
Wilson pays for breakfast when they finish, and they walk out of the diner no different then they were when they went in. That’s what House tells himself, anyway.
“I get to take you to my special place now, remember?” House says as they mount their motorcycles.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
House drives them to an airport.
“Where the hell are you taking me? I only have a few months left I can’t spend it in a foreign country.”
“Relax Wilson,” House says, buying tickets. “You'll want to see this.”
They shuffle onto the plane first because of House’s handicap and stuff their few things into the overhead compartment.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Wilson says between coughs.
“I can.” House says happily.
The first five hours go by smoothly. Wilson barely coughs at all, which is surprising because the altitude change should have made a big difference in his lung pressure.
While House watches television on his small television screen with one headphone dangling out, he feels Wilson’s head fall gently against his shoulder in sleep. House, being House, almost shakes him off but decides against.
“Good,” he thinks to himself, “This is good.”
Ten minutes later Wilson wakes in a start. House has been drifting off as well, so he is jolted awake by Wilson's movements. They make eye contact, and House can see the sharp fear in his eyes.
“Wilson what is it?” he asks, a little panicked, “What do you need?”
Then he starts to cough. They start as low, breathy gurgles as to try and contain the fit, but quickly emerge into loud, wet, hacking growls that House can feel in his own chest.
“Wilson, take a deep breath ok?” He says, placing a hand on either side of Wilson’s face.” When the next cough comes out though, a stream of blood and mucus pour out, dripping down his chin and into House’s lap.
“Can you keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep here!” A fat, old man says from across the aisle.
“Keep it down! How about you keep it down asshole! He has cancer. Anyone else want to complain!” House’s eyes are ablaze. Wilson is still hacking into his shoulder, even worse than before.
“Sir, what can I do?” A brown-haired flight attendant says.
“Get a bowl and some towels. There’s an inhaler in my carry on, the blue one, I need that too.”
“sor-” Wilson tries so say, but his skin is going pale.
“Shut up, Wilson, it’s fine.” The flight attendant hurriedly hands him the things he needs.
“Do you need anything else?” She asks, eyes full of pity.
“Yeah you can stop giving us the pity look and screw off,” House growls, helping Wilson to take the inhaler.
After a few moments, the coughing slows down and House begins to wipe the blood and mucus from Wilson’s chin and his lap.
“She was trying to help,” Wilson says raspily.
“She was being a bitch,” House says, handing Wilson a cup of water. He drinks it greedily.
When Wilson is finally calmed down and breathing as easy as he can, House doesn’t let go of him. Neither of them says anything about it, and House wordlessly offers his other earbud to Wilson. He accepts, and they watch Meatballs leaning on each other’s shoulder.
They quietly walk out of the plane a few hours later. House takes three Vicodin, and they barely make it to a hotel to check-in before they both passed out on the bed in the corner.
House has trouble falling asleep. He grips the Vicodin bottle in his hand and listens to the raspy breath of the man next to him. House had taken his usual amount of Vicodin with him planned for the long trip, except maybe a little more for when…. Well he had brought enough to get him through and give most of it to Wilson when it gets bad. He had tried to ignore the fact that once he started driving a motorcycle everywhere and sleeping in shitty motel beds every night that his leg would get worse. He was taking double his usual amount of Vicodin behind Wilson’s back, and the pain was only numbed a little with every pill. At this rate, he would be out long before the deed needed to be done, and that wasn’t an option.
He takes another few pills and falls asleep.
A mere two hours later House is awoken from his drug-induced sleep with the sound of coughing, wet and loud. This fit lasts several minutes, and is followed by several deep groans of pain and sniffs. He has dreaded this moment for a long time, but House sits up and scooches over to Wilson who is hunched over a bowl filled with blood and fluid and sits next to him.
Wilson doesn’t move, not even when House places a hand on his back, and hands him two Vicodin with the other.
“House-,” he begins to decline.
“Wilson, don’t make this complicated. Take the goddamn pills.”
“But you need them,” Wilson says, making eye contact. House feels nauseous at the defeat in his brown eyes.
“I have plenty stored,” House lies, pretending to smile through the throbbing pain in his leg. Wilson takes them, and soon he falls asleep still sitting up. House eases him back onto the bed and doesn’t fall asleep again. He is too focused on making sure Wilson is still breathing. But for now, he sleeps.
All is still.
Being back in Japan floods House with memories he had repressed deep down inside him. In no way had he ever thought he would be back here voluntarily, if at all, but Wilson had shown him something deeply profound, and he was going to die anyway.
So here they are.
“So where are you taking me, House?” Wilson asks. House suddenly notices his cheeks are clinging closer to the bone. This makes him hesitate to respond for a moment as he allows the wave of nausea pass through his stomach.
“It’s not fun if I tell you.” He says, plastering on a classic fake smile.“Koko de tomatte,” (Stop here) he says to the taxi driver, who pulls over next to a busy hospital building.
“You're taking me to a hospital?” Wilson says, confused, “I thought we were avoiding those.”
“We are.” House says, leading him inside.
“Dono yō ni watashi wa anata o tasukeru koto ga dekimasu?” (How can I help you, sir?) A nurse in white says.
“Watashitachi ga michi o mitsukeru koto ga dekiru tedasuke suru hitsuyō wa arimasen,” (no need to help we can find the way) House says back, limping over to the elevator.
“Kobayashi riku wa mada yōmuindesu?”(is riku kobayashi still a janitor here?) House asks an employee in the elevator with bated breath.
“Sono yogore wa 3-nen mae ni shinda. Amarini mo yoikoto, ōku no yōmuin no shigoto o shita koto ga nai. Anata ga sutaffu no daibubun ni tazuneru araba hirotsuna scoundrel.” (that piece of dirt died three years ago. Good thing too never did much janitor work. Filthy scoundrel if you ask most of the staff.) She replies smugly, eyeing the foreign man carefully. House’s hand grips tightly on his cane.
“You’re a piece of dirt yourself,” he mumbled in English. Wilson has no idea what they are talking about and decides he’d rather not know.
The elevator is coming close to a stop at the floor House pressed when the door opens and an old, grey-haired doctor enters. House’s jaw almost drops.
“Isha Fukuda?” (doctor Fukuda?) House asks in the most child-like voice Wilson has ever heard him speak in.
“Hai, sore wa watashidesu. Watashi wa anata o shitte imasu ka?”(yes, that's me. do I know you?) the doctor says.
House is still in shock when he answers. “Gregory House.”
Doctor Fukudo thinks for a moment before smiling, “Greg,” he says, “how have you been?”
“I’ve been alright,” House says back.
“Who is this?” he asks, gesturing at Wilson.
“James Wilson,” Wilson says, stretching out his hand to be shaken.
“How did you meet each other?” the doctor asks Wilson with a curious glint in his eyes.
“We met at a conference a long time ago, then worked together in the same hospital.”
The doctor smiles broadly, “Yes, I know all about it. House is the best diagnostician in America!”
“He was,” Wilson says.
“And your father?” Dr. Fukudo asks House directly this time.
“My father-” House hesitates. “He’s dead.”
Dr. Fukudo pats House on the shoulder and leans over, “I'm sure you're happy about that.’” He says with a knowing smile as the doors open. “I’m sorry you couldn’t see Kobayashi,”
the Dr. says one last time. “You remind me of him.”
House stands wordlessly in the elevator as it continues to go down. The basement.
House limps out into the shadows and immediately banks left. He has walked this path many times before. Wilson follows as he limps around hallways, back rooms, and finally freezes before a large janitors closet.
“Is this the janitor you told me about that night. The one who was the doctor?” Wilson says, air catching in his throat.
House nods, and opens the door. There is nothing abnormal about the closet. There are mops, dustpans, towels, and cleaning supplies. House maneuvers through it though and clears a large vent at the back.
“Do you trust me, Wilson?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.” he says, but he is unsure.
House places his cane up against the wall and jiggles the vent cover off its screws. Taking two Vicodin and handing one to Wilson, he starts to climb through the vent. Wilson follows reluctantly.
House comes out the other end and stands. Memories flood back into his head as he looks around. Everything is as it once was. An old hospital bed he had brought in piece by piece lays dust-covered in the corner of the small room. On a makeshift desk of cardboard and buckets sit piles of medical textbooks, each with a thick layer of dust on top. There is a lamp, and a few old bowls there too. Diagrams of anatomy and photographs are tacked across every wall, all wrinkling and yellow. The bed is still not made, as though someone had either just woken up or left in a hurry.
Wilson is floored.
“House, did you live here?” he asks, gazing at his friend in wonder.
“I came here when my father was angry at me.” He says, limping over to the textbooks and flipping through the pages. Wilson doesn’t have to ask to know the answer to his question is yes.
“This is amazing.” He says, running his fingers over the diagrams on the wall.
“It’s not impressive or anything.” House says, “Doctor Fukudo got me the textbooks and diagrams. The janitor helped me study them.”
Wilson looks over at the three pictures hanging above the cot.
“The janitor that worked here, everyone hated him because he was different. But whenever a patient had a condition they couldn’t figure out, they always came crawling back to him.”
Wilson is listening, but his attention is focused on the pictures.
“He is why I’m a doctor.” Wilson stops and looks at his friend, whose eyes are brimming with unfallen tears. “Don’t look at those,” House says weakly, not really meaning it at the pictures.
Wilson does though. The first one is a picture of a young House and his mother, standing on a grassy lawn and smiling. The second one is a picture of House, a little older, maybe 15 or 16, sitting at his makeshift desk, the back of the janitor facing the camera as he helps House study. The third picture is House, the same age as before, sitting very close to a Japanese boy with black hair.
“Who is this?” Wilson asks, and he suddenly realizes this is going exactly like in Illinois. He holds his breath.
“It’s not important,” House says tiredly.
“Tell me,” Wilson looks into House’s eyes, “I want to know.”
House hesitates, “Kaito Fukudo,” he says sadly.
“As in Dr. Fukudo?”
House nods.
“What happened to him?” Wilson touches the curled up corner of the picture.
“When my father got stationed in Egypt, we had to leave pretty quickly.” House swallows, “I didn’t get to say goodbye to him. He wrote me a few times while I was in Egypt, but I never replied.” he stops.
Wilson gives him a moment, waiting for what comes next.
“Two months after I left, Dr. Fukudo sent me a letter. Kaito was dead. A disease they were too late to recognize. He hadn’t been in pain but-”
“What is it, House?” Wilson asks, stepping toward him. They are walking a thin line of trust right now.
“He was asking for me, and I didn’t even reply to his letters.” House looks down at the floor. “I couldn’t even be a good-” pause, “friend- to him.”
Wilson hugs him. They are both surprised by the gesture and House almost pulls away, but the weight of everything; Wilson’s cancer, his failure at life, his constant childhood abuse from his father all comes crashing down on him at once and he grips Wilson back just as hard. remain this way for a while, silent tears streaming on each other’s shoulders.
“You know what disease he died of Wilson?” House asks, pulling away.
“What?”
House following laugh is pained, “Erdheim- Chester.”
Wilson smiles at him. They take the pictures with them when they leave.
They go to a bar that night that’s filled flashing lights and young people, the air smelling of weed and vomit.
“Give us the strongest stuff you have,” House said, leaning against the neon pink countertop. It turns out that the strongest stuff they have sends them deep into a drunk high within two glasses, and so Wilson tugs House’s arm to dance out on the flashy dance floor.
They are crowded around drunk teenagers so engrossed in their matters own mindless groping they don’t even notice the two middle-aged men next to them.
“If we’re lucky,” House says with a giddy twinkle, “a few of these girls might be legal.”
“If God says it so,” Wilson jokes, just to piss him off a little.
“Oh, Wilson, I have reason to believe God wouldn’t care if they were of age. Just ask some of the catholic priests.”
Wilson laughs, a deep belly laugh, and then-House is too, and they couldn’t care less about the music playing. Then he starts coughing, because why would anything go right for them? He tries to hide it at first, playing it off as a normal fit, but he can tell it’s not. It feels like his lungs are on fire, and he is suddenly very aware of House’s hand on his shoulder and cease of laughter.
Wilson holds his chest as the coughs rake through his body, and his head begins to spin.
“Wilson,” House says, placing his other hand on Wilson’s neck to pull him closer. “Wilson come on, we gotta get out of here.”But he is too far gone, and Wilson collapses in a heap onto the dance floor. House tries not to panic.
The music has died down, and the once preoccupied teenagers are looking at him with fear.
“He has cancer alright you STD carrying twinks,” he says, ignoring the searing pain in his leg as he picks up his friend and limps out of the bar.
He gently lowers Wilson to the ground outside and feels for a heart rate. He takes a sigh of relief when it’s strong, and begins to clean up. House wipes the blood from his chin and fixes the mop of hair on Wilson’s head. If he does it longer than he needs to, no one has to know. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pill bottle.
“House,” Wilson says after a minute, drawing House out of his stupor.
“Right here dickhead,” he says, gripping his cane like a lifeline as he pushes himself up.
They limp together to the sidewalk and hail a taxi, heading back to the motel. They drink more beer, and watch Japanese movies without subtitles. Wilson tries to guess what they are saying, and House laughs stupidly at every wrong guess. They fall asleep at 2 am on the queen-size bed in the corner.
Wilson doesn’t cough so much with House’s arm pressed against his chest.
House doesn’t believe in miracles. He never has. They are sorry excuses for false truth and used as the weak-minded. On the other hand, it is a miracle that Wilson’s symptoms have been mild for so long.
Sure, he’s been coughing like a lunatic, but they’re four months into this thing. He should be much worse. As soon as they get back from Japan, cancer finally catches up with its symptoms. Everything hits him like a freight train; nausea, weight loss, headaches, and pain. He starts to have good days where he can hike miles with a smile and bad days where he simply cannot get out of bed, stuck in a delirious state between sleep and consciousness. House sits next to him on the bed, feeding him Vicodin and feeling helpless.
It’s one of Wilson’s good days when House’s pager goes off.
He tells himself he packed it by force of habit, but that argument loses its merit when he has slipped it in his pocket every morning for the past five months.
Taking a walk in the park, Wilson instinctively checks his own pocket before a deeply sad look passed his face and he looks at House.
“Why did you bring that?” He asks
“I don’t know” and that’s the truth.
House wonders who paged him. Maybe it was Cameron, in all her sentiment and pity paying him for nostalgia. Maybe it’s Foreman who is signaling him he still knows he’s alive. Maybe it’s 13, wondering if he will still be there to help her. He looks down in shame because he won’t. Maybe it’s Taub, metaphorically calling to gloat about his daughters. Maybe it’s Chase, desperately searching for an answer for a case he just can’t figure out.
On the off chance it is Chase, he itched to get back to the motel room all day. When he is sure Wilson is asleep, he sneaks over to his laptop and signs in to chases charts. It isn’t hard to figure out the password. Sure enough, there is a case with endless tests taken and a dying patient. House smirks as he adds his diagnosis. He hasn’t lost his touch.
He climbs into bed with Wilson, who mumbled sleepily into the pillow.
“What was that?”
House rolls over onto his side and looks at him “just checking the news, a Florida man was sent to the ER because he was allergic to his horse’s semen.”
Wilson gives a wet laugh, “you haven’t checked the news in thirty years.”
“I’ve changed.” Which is true.
Wilson scooches closer, resting his hand on House’s chest. “People don’t change.”
They haven’t spoken about this new development in their relationship. Neither of them can pinpoint when they stopped renting two-bedroom rooms. They told themselves it was to save their depleting money. That doesn’t explain how they end up this close every night. They don’t talk about a lot of things.
“No, they don’t.”
On a Saturday afternoon, they (meaning House as Wilson continues to not eat his) eat breakfast at the same motel room they've been in for a few weeks.
“I want to go to New York.” Wilson says, sounding defeated.
“First you drag me to Illinois, and Now you're forcing me to go to New York??”
“Yes.” Wilson says, which House easily picks up as a mask for ulterior motives.
“What’s in New York, some large breasted hooker?”
Wilson shakes his head and looks down at the table. His hair is getting so thin.
“Oh my-” House realizes, “You want to go to Mercy and see Danny.”
“Yes.”
“But, why? I mean, you’re dying! I can’t go to New York, they'll recognize me.”
Wilson looks up from the table with sad eyes, “It was just a suggestion.”
House rolls his eyes, “Oh don’t give me that Wilson, you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t want to and now your guilting me into it because we’re both going to die soon.” House rubs his forehead.
“Wait,” Wilson interrupts. “Did you just say-”
“We’re going to die soon? Is that what I said? Yes, Wilson, of course, it’s what I said. I’m already dead to the world, I sacrificed everything to be with you, what did you think I was going to do when you died? Prance off back to Princeton and say ‘surprise! I’m not dead! Wilson is though, anyway let’s get back to work.’” House stands up, moving closer to Wilson so he can shout in his face. “This isn’t some happy ending where I move on after you die! I’m going down with you!”
To House’s wonder, Wilson doesn’t look surprised. No, he doesn’t look surprised at all. He looks like a man who had been clinging to the hope that what he knew would come to pass wouldn’t, and now that he has confirmation, he is forced to face that reality.
“I know,” he says, dropping his head into his hands. “God, I know.”
They stand in silence. After a moment, House reaches out with a rare gesture of affection and brushes Wilson’s frail and long hair from his face. “Let’s go to New York.”
They limp together to the parked motorcycles, and House doesn’t miss the look of dread that passes over Wilson’s pale face. He’s too weak to drive himself.
“Hey, kid,” House says to a nearby teen. He doesn’t acknowledge them. “Hey, dipshit, come here,” House says more firmly, resurrecting his doctor voice.
“What.”
“Mazel tov,” House says, placing the keys of his motorcycle into the wide-eyed kids hand. Wilson looks at him, confused, and then-House sits on Wilson’s bike and he knows exactly what's going on.
They ride to the nearest motel on the same bike.
It’s a long ride to New York. They stop frequently for days on end when Wilson cannot get up. They don’t waste these times though. House orders a pizza from room service and lies on the old, musty mattress with Wilson, watching terrible television shows and drinking up every second they have left.
When they finally do arrive at New York Mercy Hospital, Wilson is on edge.
“He’s either going to kill you, which is going to happen soon anyway, or he’s going to hug you and tell you he missed big brother Jimmie. Both cases end with you dying, but the second one is significantly more difficult on him,” House slaps the cane on the sidewalk, “Onward to the loony bin!” he says triumphantly, earning a small;; smile from Wilson.
Mercy is nothing like Mayfield. The patients are kept under much closer watch, but they do have cellmates. The walls and smells bring back memories for both of them, most of them happy days of their youth, trotting through the halls of Princeton with their whole life of being excellent, successful doctors ahead of them. The life that never came, of course.
“I'm here to see Daniel Wilson,” Wilson says to the Nurse at check-in.
“Do you have an appointment?” She asks.
“Ah, no I-” Wilson begins, but House interrupts him.
“This is his brother, James Wilson, and he has cancer and is dying. He would like to see his brother and say goodbye, so if you could please grant a dying man his wish, that would be just terrific.” House plasters on a fake smile.
The nurse seems very shaken, but nods and gestures at the waiting room chairs. “Wait here.”
House gives Wilson a smug smile, “You don’t use the cancer card nearly enough, Jimmy.”
“Sorry, I don’t exploit my disability unlike you.”
“Tut-tut Wilson, I’m ashamed you would accuse me of such things.”
“Yeah, right.”
Ten minutes go by of House tapping his cane on the echoing tile in morse code to Wilson, who, being a boy scout, knows exactly what he is saying.
(.- .-.. .-.. / - .... . / ... .. -. --. .-.. . / .-.. .- -.. .. . ... --..-- / .- .-.. .-.. / - .... . / ... .. -. --. .-.. . / .-.. .- -.. .. . ... --..-- / .- .-.. .-.. / - .... . / ... .. -. --. .-.. . / .-.. .- -.. .. . ... --..-- / ... --- / .--. ..- - / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .... .- -. -.. ... / ..- .--.)
“Would you cut it out?” Wilson says, turning the page in his magazine.
“Is Beyonce a little too gay even for you?” House raises a mock eyebrow. Wilson rolls his eyes.
“James Wilson?” The nurse calls
“Oh thank god,” he mutters.
“Ah, Wilson, how could you be happy to not listen to the queen herself?”
“House, cut it out.”
The nurse stops House in the hallway. “You can’t go in, sir, family only.”
“Wha- oh me?” House puts on his innocent smile and breathy laugh, “No, I’m- I’m family!” he uses his good hand to grab Wilson’s, who sighs heavily. “He’s my husband. 27 years strong.” House gives Wilson the love eyes.
“Oh, ok then,” The nurse says, flustered, “You’re going to have to leave the cane out here though.”
House leans over to Wilson and loudly whisper, “Does no one have any respect for the disabled anymore?” Wilson groans.
“House, this is really important to me, can you please shut up for once?”
House sticks out his tongue, “You’re my husband, you should respect me.”
“Oh yes, us being married would go oh so well.”
“Ok,” the nurse says, “there are a few rules we need to establish, Danny is in a compromised state so you need to make sure you-”
“Yes, yes, we’re doctors we know the procedure let’s get on with it.” House scolds. The nurse seems utterly done with him but opens the door anyway.
“Dad?” the figure haunched on a bed in the corner says.
“No, Danny, it’s James,” Wilson says, stepping toward his brother.
“No, no, it has to be dad. YOU’RE WRONG!” Danny sits up with a crazed look in his eyes.
“Danny, please, it’s James, your brother. I just wanted to see you.”
“You lying.” Danny sniffs.
“I’m not lying,” Wilson assures, putting out his hands in an act of peace.
“You can’t be Jimmy! He came by here a long time ago telling me he would visit me more. He didn’t ever come back! You lying!” Danny says, pulling the hair on his head and pacing around the room.
House has been trying to stay out of this, but he can see Wilson on the brink of tears, which would cause a coughing fit, which would make this shit show an even bigger shit show. He couldn’t allow that.
“Daniel,” House says, firmly. “Look.” he takes a receipt from CVS for Wilson’s prescription out of his pocket and begins to fold it into origami. “See the paper? I’m folding it, see?
Look.” House limps over to Danny, who flinches away slightly.
“Who are you?” he says like a lost toddler.
House gestures at the emotional wreck of his best friend, “I’m Jimmy’s best pal, alright? How about the two of us become best pals. Don’t tell Jimmy though, he might get jealous.”
House finishes folding the receipt and hands that little flamingo to Danny.
Danny holds it and pets it, a smile beaming across his face. “It’s a duck!” he shouts happily. House nods, slightly annoyed. It was clearly a flamingo.
“Yes, it’s a duck.” He looks once again at Wilson, who’s eyes dance with appreciation and adoration. “Hey, Danny,” House says. Taking his attention from the paper. “Do you think you could talk to Wilson? He really wants to talk to you, like, super mega wants to talk to you. I think you’re pretty popular, actually.”
Danny shakes his head, “he- he left me, never came to visit!” Danny begins to distress, starting to crush the origami.
“Hey, hey, hey,” House says, reaching out to Danny’s hand and peeling it gently away from the duck. “It’s sort of my fault Wilson never came around, I had him really busy saving people’s lives.”
Danny blinks, “really?”
“Totally. He’s been begging me to take him here, but I just kept giving him work to do.” House hears a chuckle behind him.
“I guess I can talk to him,” Danny mumbles, not looking up from the duck. House wordlessly nods to Wilson, patting Danny’s hand before painfully limping back to his viewing post on the wall.
“Hey Danny,” Wilson says, stepping slowly forward.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“I’m really sorry we couldn’t come sooner, as my friend said, we’ve been really busy.”
Danny bobs his head in an odd sort of nod.
“I miss you a lot.”
A nod.
“Mom and Dad miss you too.”
No response.
Wilson makes the bold stretch for his hand, but Danny backs off. “Listen, buddy, they do. They miss and love you so much they can’t bear to see you here.”
No response.
“That’s why you have to get better, Danny. Mom and Dad really want to see you.”
Danny slowly looks up, “really?”
Wilson releases a small smile, “Yeah, really.” House smiles a little too.
“Will you come by more often, Jimmy?” Danny asks hopefully.
“Oh Danny,” he says, successfully picking up his hand this time. “I-” Wilson swallows, and House can see the tears pooling in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll make it back.”
Danny looked up, startled, “What?”
“I know buddy, I know, just listen-”
“Why did you come if you’re not coming back!” Danny screams, but House can tell he isn’t going to be violent, in fact, he collapses into Wilson’s arms, gripping tightly. “Why do you have to go?”
Wilson holds him just as tight and they begin to weep together, “I’m sorry Danny, I’m so sorry.” He pets his brother’s hair just like House pet’s Wilson’s. “I want to come back, I really do.”
“Than why don’t you?”
Wilson does not answer just holds him tighter. After a few minutes, the crying dwells down and they pull away.
“Promise me you’ll try and get better,” Wilson sniffs, placing his hand on Danny’s shoulder like a father would scolding his son.
“I will Jimmy, I promise.”
“Good.” Wilson stands, and clumsily makes his way over to House.
When they both glance back, it is as though Danny’s memory has been wiped of the last few minutes of conversation. “Bye Jimmy’s friend!” He says cheerfully, the smile on his face not matching the tears in his eyes.
“Goodbye, Danny.”
With one last look, they leave.
That night, they spend the night in a hotel, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms as Wilson cries. House thinks he stopped crying about Danny a few hours ago, and the brunt of his disease is hitting him in the face. House just holds him tighter, fearing that if he loosens up, he will lose Wilson forever.
“Thank you,” Wilson mumbles out, a hand gripped in House’s T-shirt.
“It wasn’t hard, distract him with the paper and then-”
“No, just. Don’t explain. Thank you.”
House nods, and their eyes catch. It’s well past two in the morning, and the city’s street light flickers through the window casting a faint glow onto Wilson’s face. His brown eyes wet and puffy, but they lock with House’s all the same.
This is it. They are sitting on the edge of a cliff. If they stay on the edge, everything runs its course the way it should. Two best friends dying together. If they jump off the cliff, headfirst into the abyss, who knows what would happen to them. House likes to think this is the worst-case scenario. Wilson dying. The truth is the worst-case scenario is Wilson dying and hating him. This is a far worse fate. It’s too late though, he's already leaning in.
Their lips almost touch. They remain there, eyes shut, and House is sure this is the most important thing he will ever do. They jump off the clip when their lips meet. They don’t kiss each other, just remain there in this peace between a kiss or an accident. It’s Wilson though, that starts to move. They kissed slowly, re-learning how to do it after so long, and
House pulls away.
“I love you, House,” Wilson says breathily, foreheads resting together.
“I always knew you were gay.” House jokes, and they both begin to laugh hysterically at the stupidity of it all. Their situation, that it took so long to do this, the fact they’re doing it in a shitty hotel room mere weeks away from Wilson’s literal expiration date.
Wilson doesn’t even cough that much after the laughing fit. They each take two Vicodin and fall asleep to the sounds of the bustling New York City and the calmness of each other’s breathing.
When House wakes up, Wilson is gone. The spot next to him is still warm though, so House gently opens his eyes. Instead of sight, his ears are flooded with the steady pattern of noise through the open bathroom door.
Heave, Cough, Cough, Spit, Vomit, Spit, Cough, Cough
He begins to sit up, but his leg is suddenly screaming and he has to swallow down the guttural groan of pain from his mouth. The strain of containing it causes him to break out into a sweat, and he hastily reaches for the Vicodin. House lets the relief wash over him as he brushed his hand through his (Mostly grey now) black hair.
He listens to Wilson’s misery cycle for a few minutes so they painkillers set in before standing and shakily limping to the bathroom. He hesitates but places a firm hand on Wilson’s back.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson spits into the bowl, “did I wake you?”
House shakes his head, “no, I was getting up anyway.”
Heave, Cough, Cough, Spit, Vomit, Spit, Cough, Cough
House does nothing, simply keeps his hand on Wilson’s back, and half an hour, two hours, maybe six hours (he’s lost count) later Wilson rolls away from the porcelain prison that’s splattered with blood and vomit to lean against the wall and breathe heavily.
House begins to leave to get a cup of water, but suddenly there is a weak grasp on his wrist, “Don’t go,” Wilson sputters, eyes half-closed.
“I was going to get water-”
“Don’t-” Wilson breathes for a moment, “Don’t want any.”
House sits on the floor next to Wilson and gently takes his hand. They sit in silence, quietly enjoying their newfound intimacy and dreading the conversation that will inevitably come next.
“Maybe we should find somewhere more permanent,” Wilson suggests.
House turns his head. He is so utterly unfamiliar with intimacy and affection. It’s not like any hookers wanted to be held, (not that he wanted to hold hookers anyway) and Cuddy, well, she’s another story. The thought of anyone, especially a man, touching him is far too reminiscent of his father, and it makes House’s skin crawl.
Somehow, though, it’s different with Wilson. He tests the waters, and leaned their foreheads together, doing his goddamn best not to heave at the sickening smell of bile and death coming from Wilson. House closes his eyes and nudges their noses.
“Where did you have in mind?” He asks.
Wilson nudges back, “I’m not sure.”
“That’s useful.”
There is a silent pondering.
“How about Vermont?” House says.
“Vermont?”
“We could get an OK plot of land for the money we have left. No one would bother us, it’s nice there.”
“Ok,” Wilson says, “Vermont it is.”
While they ride to Vermont, Wilson tightly hanging on to House the entire time, House soaks in every breath. He is acutely aware that their time is limited, and every turn they make and bridge they cross brings them closer to the end.
They travel as slowly as possible, stopping at local diners that Wilson doesn’t eat at, and taking the long routes through towns and cities. In every motel they sleep in, they curl up together, breathing the same air, even though Wilson is running out of it, and the feel of each others heartbeat.
They are easily able to buy a small plot of land in Vermont and spend a chunk of money to have it furnished. It is a one-bedroom, one-bathroom log cabin with a view of the forest. The wood is old and creaks when either of them steps on it, and the tiles in the bathroom are stained yellow, but it is what it is, and it’ll do just fine. House had a piano brought in, which sits next to the wood fireplace. A sofa faces the television, they chose not to go with armchairs.
There is a comfortable queen-size bed in the bedroom, along with two nightstands and an IV hook. The kitchen is also small, but it gets the job done.
The days pass by quickly, taken up entirely by Wilson sleeping, coughing up blood, Dry heaving (because he has no food in his stomach to vomit), and dry lipped kisses dispersed in between. Wilson doesn’t have good days anymore. They are simply non existent.
That’s why, on a Saturday, when House wakes up to find Wilson standing at the Window looking at the forest, he knows they have reached the end.
Doctors have never been able to explain the sudden wave of energy that passes through patient's hours before their deaths. Many attribute it to God, some give the credit to adrenaline, whatever it is; House knows it when he sees it.
“So, this is it then,” Wilson states matter of factly. He is an Oncologist, he knows all about the energy burst.
House doesn’t answer, just wraps his arms around Wilson’s thin waist and pulls him closer.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Wilson suggests, House agrees. He wraps Wilson in a thick winter jacket even though it’s 50, and they slowly make their way through the forest.
“This was a good idea, thank you for taking me here,” Wilson says.
“I thought it would be fitting.”
“Why is that?”
“I've lived a life of isolation, seems right I would die somewhere secluded.”
Wilson nods in understanding. They continue to walk, words expressed by the death grip on each other’s hands. A few hours later, Wilson is panting and beginning to cough.
“Let’s go back,” House says, but Wilson sits in the grass. The sun is beginning to set.
“Let’s just, sit here for a while,” Wilson says wistfully, gazing at the warm orange sunset.
House sits next to him. They watch the sun break the crest in the horizon.
Their last sunset.
“Somehow, I always knew it would be you,” Wilson says.
“Was it my dashing good looks?”
Wilson chuckles, “God, House, we wasted so much time.”
“No, I believe it was you who had the three ex wives.”
“I was dead set on commitment, stability, all the things I couldn’t get from you.”
House doesn’t deny it.“It was like what the woman said with the open marriage, I was getting 90% from you and looked desperately for the other 10% thinking that was the most important part.”
“Are you saying i’m only worth 90%? I mean I always saw myself as more of a 95-”
“House, I mean it.” Wilson takes his eyes off the sunset and looks at House. “I’m so glad I threw that bottle into the mirror.”
They lean into each other, absorbing the feeling of the outdoors and the sun, the last sun they will ever see, peak down into the dark sheet of night. House stands and helps Wilson up.
They slowly make their way into the cabin, and House helps Wilson sit on the couch. Without missing a beat, he walks to the kitchen and grabs two glasses. He fills them with water and sets them on the coffee table. He goes to his coat pocket, where he takes out the small pill bag, just two of them, and clinks them into a dish that he sets next to the glasses. He lights a fire in the fireplace and walks over to the piano.
Wilson watches him with a smile from the sofa.
House places his fingers on the keys, feeling their familiar texture and weight for the final time.
“I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would meet her connection
At her feet was her footloose man”
House sings and plays the keys, watching Wilson from across the room.
“No, you can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you find
You get what you need”
He swings his head around, smiling and singing. Wilson is singing too, the fire crackles in the background.
“I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she was gonna meet her connection
At her feet was her footloose man”
Wilson makes drum stick motions with his hands.
“You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you might find
You get what you need”
Wilson stands weakly and makes his way over to the piano. House scooches over, and they sit together. They belt out the rest of the song as loudly as possible.
“You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need, oh yeah….”
They tune trails off and soon the fire is the only sound in the room. Deciding on one more song, House positions his hands on the familiar keys and plays the song he wrote in High School. He pours every emotion, every experience, everything he has into every note, and when he finishes, Wilson leans into him and they just exist together.
“Thank you,” Wilson says, the beauty of the music and the heaviness of their situation resting on his weekend heart.
“For what?”
“For bailing me out of jail,” Wilson says, it’s supposed to be funny but it’s too serious of a situation to be.
“What can I say, Wilson,” House says, a glossy smile dancing on his lips, “I can’t resist an interesting situation.”
They sit quietly for a while longer. House can hear his breathing slow down. Slowly, he grips his cane and stands to pat the piano twice before limping over to the couch. He watches Wilson try to stand from the bench, and fail, his thin legs shaking from the exertion. House drops the cane and goes back.
Wilson’s eyes are glazing over, and full of shame but House picks him up with a small groan and limps over to the couch.
Instead of putting Wilson down, he sits down on the couch with Wilson still wrapped around his arms.
“How can you be so comfortable with this?” Wilson asks
“I know I have the leg, Wilson, but carrying isn’t that hard,”
Wilson dryly swallows, “You know that’s not what I mean.”
House presses his nose into Wilson’s greying hair and breathes in. It smells like coconuts, pencils, and coffee. It brings House back to their days of living together, their complicated yet simple life of working side by side.
“You ate the vegetables in your lunch so I could have the chips,” Is House’s answer to the question.
“What?”
“You let me have what I wanted from you, symbolically, the chips represent that.”
Wilson sighs, “and your point?”
“I never let you have anything of mine. I was a selfish bastard. You could have been friends with anyone you wanted, why did you choose me?”
Wilson’s eyes slide shut, and he breathes heavily through his nose. “Because you were the only person who wasn’t fake.”
House doesn’t need further explanation. Without disturbing Wilson, he reaches to the coffee table and grabs the dish and water. Wilson opens his eyes and stares at it.
“As I always said,” House says, picking up two of the pills with shaky fingers, “Pills are yummy.”
Wilson scoffs and picks up the other two. They don’t take them right away. Wilson’s hands grip them firmly, but House’s hands shake like leaves in the wind. He tries to hide them, but Wilson takes them in his own bony ones and steadies them. They lean forward and press their foreheads together.
“You're sure about this?” Wilson asks him. House nods. He reaches for the phone and sends the text to Foreman.
They take the pills. They’ll be dead within a half-hour.
House closes his eyes and moves his head, dancing around Wilson’s lips Slowly and tenderly, showing how he feels in the best ways he can. Their lips meet briefly.
“Do you think we lived a good life?” House asks with a slur.
“We saved a lot of lives, and helped a lot of people.”
“Oh Bullshit,” House says, “I never helped anyone, all I did was make the people around me miserable.”
“Yes,” Wilson replies, “You did.”
“Really, we’re dying together like Romeo and Juliet and you're telling me I was an asshole?”
“You were an asshole,” Wilson laughs, “But that’s what made you special.”
House watches him, and feels the warm tear slipping down his cheek.
“I love you,” he says heavily, gripping Wilson’s hand tighter, “It’s always been you, Wilson.” He swallows.
House can see Wilson beginning to slip into unconsciousness, but he smiles a little and his face relaxes as if because of House’s admission he can finally sleep. House pulls him tighter as he feels himself slip. He pushes the hand not holding Wilson’s into his hair and rests their foreheads together one last time.
He may have ruined his relationship with Cuddy, gotten arrested, and put into rehab, but through it all there was Wilson, and, really, that’s all he needed the whole time.
House slips away into the night with Wilson in his arms, the only sounds the singing crickets outside.
That’s how Foreman finds them on Sunday with a sad smile on his face.