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"It's time."
For a moment, House just stares at the TV in front of him, refusing to look toward Wilson. He wonders briefly if he can just… ignore the words, ignore the situation, but he knows he can't. As much as he would like to, they had agreed that the moment those two words are spoken, it's over. He doesn't want it to be over - he hates it, god, he hates this entire situation - but it's not his choice. It's Wilson's. And House has to give him what he wants, and needs, and asks for. After everything they'd been through, everything Wilson had done for him, House owes him that. But it doesn't keep him from instinctively shying away from the situation, ducking his head and keeping his mouth clenched shut tight as he struggles to remove his gaze from the flickering, colorful shapes on the screen. They freeze in place after a second - he hears the click of the pause button as Wilson grabs the remote - but House still can't force himself to look away yet.
"It's time," Wilson repeats, his weak voice wavering but determined. House wants to squeeze his eyes shut and block everything out, if only for a moment. Instead, he lifts his head again, but he only really looks over when his partner speaks up again, "and I need to tell you something."
Reluctantly, he glances back at Wilson, then instinctively drops his gaze to the shivering, white bundle of fur curled up in his lover's arm as Wilson sets the remote down to curl both hands around it securely. The kitten they'd found only a few hours ago, formerly pathetic and sickly looking, now seems rather active and bright and excited; House stares as it shoves its tiny nose against Wilson's chest with a quiet purr that wasn't too hard to hear in the eerie silence of the motel room, with the TV paused and the air conditioning off. He sees the effect the affection has on Wilson, as he snuggles the kitten closer and kisses the top of its head with a small smile.
Wilson stays silent for a moment, and so does House. It's not rare these days, even around his lover - hell, especially around his lover. It's somewhat easier to mirror Wilson's condition, his mood declining rapidly the sicker Wilson becomes. It's easier because they're both miserable, equally miserable in their own ways. It's comforting for him, knowing that Wilson isn't the only one suffering right now. He doesn't know why. But it's comforting, it is, to… hurt.
The sadness, the pain, the fear and dread and grief, all of it… it's comforting, and it's nice, and it's familiar. By now, it's familiar. So familiar, in fact, he doesn't really remember a time when he wasn't feeling like this. He doesn't remember a time when he wasn't feeling this kind of loss, this kind of emptiness. Maybe it's always been there, but he's not sure anymore. He just knows it's there, it exists and it's not going away. It's addicting. Not 'high' addicting, but it's addicting. In the end, he decides, he doesn't need to understand it. It's not a puzzle worth solving, not now. There's no puzzles worth solving. Nothing will ever be the same again - nothing's the same now. He'd thought this would be hard to adjust to, but it was actually a pretty easy pattern to fall into. The silence. The caretaker role he'd adopted on the road with Wilson. It was easy. It suited him.
Now that it's coming to an end - right here, right now - House doesn't know what he's going to do with himself. But this isn't about him, is it? No, this is about Wilson. Tonight is about Wilson.
The bed creaks as he stands on surprisingly steady feet. His leg hurts, it always hurts, but he moves from his bed to the bathroom with practiced ease regardless. It's not too bad today, all things considered. Fine enough so he doesn't think to grab his cane, using the wall for support for the most part until he reaches the bathroom. Then he curls his fingers around the towel rack and opens the small closet beside the door, sifting through bar soaps and small shampoo bottles until he finds the tiny box all the way in the back. Fumbling fingers wrap around it, tugging it loose and knocking over a few of the bottles as he does so, but House simply shuts the closet door before anything can tumble out. Then he sinks back, and clutches the box to his chest with shaking hands. It's a fine tremor, not unnoticeable, but nothing too profound either.
There's a bitterness on his tongue now, a coppery kind of taste that makes him think of blood. He's not bleeding, it's just there, just existing in the back of his mouth. He swallows it down along with what feels like the rest of his saliva, leaving his mouth painfully, terrifyingly dry. The amount of grief he feels is astounding. He hasn't even inserted the needle yet. He hasn't even given Wilson the dose that would stop his heart. He hasn't even killed his lover. Not yet.
Then again, it's not shocking, is it? Because both of them knew this was coming. House wonders, incredulously, for a moment, if he really expected himself to only grieve after it was done, after Wilson was gone. Maybe he had. But clearly that's not the case. No, this sadness, this pain, this haze that's been hanging over him, the pain he clings to like a liferaft now - it's grief, and it's been there since the beginning of these last five months. He's been grieving the loss of his lover since day one, even though Wilson had been by his side the whole time. His chest shudders with every inhale as he heaves himself away from the wall, blinking back a startling amount of wetness in his eyes, and rubs the back of his wrist across his face slowly.
He hears Wilson speaking to the cat when he enters, a hushed murmur of words House doesn't catch. But he doesn't ask about it when Wilson falls silent upon seeing him, studying the hesitant smile that his lover offers him. He crosses the room, using various pieces of furniture and the walls for support, and shuffles over to shut the curtains and lock the door. The room is trapped in a hushed buzz, a hum that's almost too silent for human ears to pick up on. It feels appropriate for the moment. A surreal kind of feeling encompasses him, like he's trapped in a dream - or worse, a hallucination - as he turns back to face Wilson again, but doesn't move.
Wilson's gaze flicks down to the box after a moment. Words can't describe his expression.
House merely watches, feeling as helpless as he'd been for the past five months, as Wilson slowly drags his tongue across his lips. Then, with a shuddering breath that seems to make his entire body quiver, the other man shifts to push himself to sit up, one-handed. It doesn't take long for House to make his way back to him, discarding the box on the bed and kneeling across on his good leg to help Wilson sit up. No words are spoken, none are needed. He pulls Wilson upright and stuffs a few more pillows behind him for support, then eases himself onto the mattress. It dips under his weight, and Wilson tilts toward him a little, but he doesn't move far. He shifts the kitten from his chest to his lap, and House reaches out to grab the box, cradling it in a similar manner, as if it's as precious and tender as the white ball of fur in Wilson's hands.
He unhooks the latch with his pinkie, while Wilson smiles down at the kitten. The expression is weak, pitiful, a hollow echo of the beaming smiles House remembers. Pain inflates in his chest like a balloon, but he swallows it down carefully and curls his fingers around one of the syringes, plucking it out of the box and easing a morphine bottle out with it. "What're you gonna name her?" Wilson finally asks, brushing his thumb across the kitten's head. House frowns to himself, shutting the box again, and glances over toward the kitten himself. She can't be more than a few weeks old, maybe not even that. Her eyes are glued shut, tiny ears pinned to her head. House figures she can't hear anything yet. It takes a good while for kittens to gain hearing - but if the way her nose twitches and trembles as her head turns in Wilson's direction is any indication, she can smell. He wonders if she can smell the cancer in his chest, if that's why she keeps burying her nose against his shirt when she gets the chance. "House? You okay?"
House frowns to himself, but he flicks his gaze back up to Wilson after a second. He wishes he has an answer, he wishes he feels brave enough to offer one, to open his mouth and speak. Now that he's thinking about it, he doesn't remember the last time he actually said anything.
He doesn't need to, though. Wilson frowns back at him, his smile gone. He looks kind of like he used to then, all disapproving pout and concerned furrow of his brow. "You're not keeping her."
House looks back down at the kitten, weak and pathetic and curled in Wilson's hands. He doesn't know how to tell Wilson he doesn't plan on being around long enough to raise a cat. So he keeps his mouth shut and considers his options for a while, staring down at the kitten. Maybe he doesn't have to be around long enough to raise her. He already planned on waiting, biding his time and taking a while to let the grief really settle in, to let himself genuinely mourn the man. Wilson deserves to be thought about. He deserves to have someone… around, to notice he's not anymore, to really be able to grieve him the way he deserves to be grieved. He grimaces, frowns, and ducks his head for a few moments. Then he nods - not in agreement, or confirmation, but defeat. He'll keep the cat for as long as he's sticking around. For Wilson.
"Sara," he breathes, and the word hurts coming out. Nothing to do with the name, or the memories that come with it. It just hurts to talk, to open his mouth and make a single sound. But the pain evaporates quickly when Wilson smiles - and it's the smile House remembers, the warm, beaming grin that had always rendered him speechless, the teeth and the dimples.
"Sara," Wilson agrees, a hint of laughter in his voice that brings a smile to House's face. It's short and it doesn't last long, and it's wiped away immediately when the situation registers again. Then, suddenly, Wilson lifts the kitten and dumps her - albeit gently - into House's lap, and the man freezes in surprise for a second while his partner shifts and reaches under his pillow. Then he pulls out an envelope, a little white envelope like one you get in the mail. House just stares, watches as he turns it over and over in his hand, rubbing his thumb across Sara's head somewhat absently. Then, with a smile on his face, Wilson lifts his head and looks at him.
"Don't read this," he tells him, quietly, as he holds it out, "until you're ready."
House nods, because he knows better than to say he doesn't think he'll ever be ready. But he says silent and brushes his fingers across the little kitten's head with one hand, while the other reaches out reluctantly to take the envelope from him. He doesn't say a word; he just nods.
"Okay…" Wilson breathes out, soft and slow, and reaches out to him after a moment. House watches him in silence, allowing soft, trembling fingers to brush up against his face. It takes a lot of his restraint not to pull Wilson forward into a kiss, but only because he knows it'll be the last one they share and he doesn't think he's ready for that. But Wilson leans forward slightly and House doesn't try to stop him, feeling soft, chapped lips pressing against the corner of his mouth. He can't quite control himself then, turning his face completely to draw the younger man into a deeper kiss - a sweet, gentle one, soft but passionate. Wilson still tastes like cinnamon and rain; House briefly wants to break down over the fact that it's the last time he'll taste that.
Wilson pulls back and rests his forehead against House's for a moment. "I love you."
"I love you," House murmurs. He reaches up and slides his hand around to grip the back of Wilson's neck, running his fingers loosely through the other man's hair and kissing him again.
They stay like that for a little while before Wilson finally pulls back, and House shifts his focus to the syringe and morphine he'd cast to the side for the time being. He stays silent after that, struggling to keep his hands from shaking as he starts to fill the syringe up with morphine. Not too much, he reminds himself, just enough to get the job done. It's gonna be quick and painless - that's the way Wilson should go and House knows this, but he hates it all the same. Hates what he's losing now; it's like some cruel joke. For a while there, he'd been happy, and content. Now he was losing him. He was losing the one thing he had in his life that made it worth living.
Wilson sinks back again, laying back on the bed as House finishes up. He looks down at the kitten in his lap for a moment, watching her raise her head and turn it toward Wilson. A tiny, pathetic-sounding mewl escapes the little creature's lips; it's the only reason House scoops her up into his hand and holds her over the other man's chest again, lowering her down slowly. Wilson curls his fingers around her at once, folding his hands over the tiny kitten with a sigh.
"I'm sorry you have to do this," he mumbles.
"Don't be." House glances down at him, searching those deep brown eyes for a moment before shifting to face him. He squirts out some of the morphine, just a little. He supposes maybe it wouldn't really matter if there was an air bubble at this point - he was killing Wilson all the same. The former diagnostician grimaces, clenching his teeth and looking down as he takes Wilson's hand in an - admittedly - cautious grip, curling his fingers around the other man's loosely and offering a light squeeze as he turns his arm around. It takes him a moment, a split second of hesitation, before he can move the needle downwards and insert it into the other man's arm. He's careful, as gentle as can be; Wilson doesn't flinch away, just stares back up at him, brown eyes filled with nothing but sorrow, and love. House hesitates for a moment longer, gazing back.
Then he breathes in, as much as he can, and presses the plunger down.
He's quick to pull the syringe back, tossing it carelessly onto the bed with the morphine and laying down beside his lover. He wraps his arms around Wilson tentatively, cautiously, careful not to disturb the kitten laying on his chest. Wilson keeps one hand around her, but his other arm weaves its way around House so that he can grab his hand again, holding it as tightly as he can with shaking fingers. House squeezes his hand back in response, holding on tighter because he knows Wilson can't, not really. But he knows he feels his touch, feels the pressure. He stretches his other arm out to stroke Wilson's head, brushing the other man's hair back, and leans in to press a kiss to his temple. He's not one for the soft cuddly moments, most of the time - but now he wishes this one could last a little longer, knowing what it will mean when it ends.
It doesn't take long. Wilson doesn't say anything, and House doesn't either. They lay there side by side; House watches the other man's chest rise and fall, keeping his eyes on Sara as the kitten moves with it. She keeps her head turned in Wilson's direction, chin pressed to his chest. Every now and again, she'll let out a quiet 'mew' until the man pets her again, rubbing her head.
But his thumb stills and Sara's head lifts slightly, and House doesn't move, because he knows. He knows because Wilson goes still and silent beside him, because he stops moving his hand, because his grip on House's hand falls slack and Sara stops moving with the rise of his chest.
Sara meows again; House doesn't move.
"Mew…"
Wilson is dead.
"Mew…"
Wilson is dead; it's over, he's gone. House is alone.
"Mew…!"
The former doctor breathes in, sharply, shakily, and turns his head slowly to look toward Wilson. His eyes are shut, his expression slack, looking peaceful. He looks like he's merely asleep, but House knows he's not. Then his gaze trails down to the kitten, squirming slightly under Wilson's limp hand and letting out frantic mewls as she nudges his fingers with her nose. Her eyes are still glued shut tight, but her ears are perked up about as much as she can seem to get them. House feels something inside of him break, shattering into a million pieces as he watches her.
He knows he can't leave her like that, though, and he doesn't. It takes him a moment to move, to force his hands up. Wilson's still warm when he touches his hand, but he doesn't let his grip linger for long, removing his hand from overtop of the kitten and picking Sara up himself.
She squirms in his grip; he pulls her closer to his chest and holds her there for a moment, until she stops moving just long enough to press her nose to his chest and croak out another 'mew'.
"I know," he whispers. "I know. He's gone."
She mewls again, and House can hear the grief in the simple sound, the confusion and sorrow. She knows what just happened but she doesn't know, not really, what it really means. House's chest shudders slightly as he breathes in, blinking back a rush of tears and ducking his head a little so he can press his mouth against the top of Sara's head, burying his nose into her fur. She smells like… milk. But there's also the scent of cinnamon and rain lingering there, he can smell.
He presses his face closer and inhales; his breath comes out in a quiet, stifled sob.
Sara simply cuddles closer and tucks her head under his chin. She mewls again - and then he can feel the soft rumble as she starts purring, her freezing nose pressing hard against his skin. He sobs again, then sucks in a shaky gasp and presses his mouth into her fur.
Wilson is dead.
It's over; he's gone.
But House isn't alone - not yet.