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“ I’m the one that’s dying,” Wilson finds himself stressing, which is weird because that’s probably the last thing he needs a reminder of. Such is the fate of the fool who chooses House of all people to spend their last days with.
“Yeah, and I’m the one that’s dead ,” House retorts, leaning against the ATM and lazily fiddling with his cane, “Anyways, wasn’t that sugar daddy-sugar baby dynamic your kink or was I seriously misreading our relationship?”
Wilson lets out that familiar bone-deep sigh tangled with annoyance and exhaustion, both (and quiet fondness, too).
“Yes, nothing turns me on more than a decrepit old man mooching off of me every day at the canteen,” he deadpans.
“Well, I mean, if it’s what you want…” House says, swinging his head between the ATM and Wilson, crowding his personal space. Said man averts his gaze like fishing for his wallet was a task that required the utmost attention.
Once he finds his card, he doesn’t bother stalling any longer and looks back up, “Alright, fine. Where do you want to eat?”
As annoying as it was, House’s “I’m dead” excuse does have some merit. He can’t exactly use his credit card without it eventually raising some red flags in certain systems that believed him to be deceased sometime too-close in the future.
Absently, Wilson worries about how House was going to fare not being able to supply himself with any vicodin.
When he voices this concern as they get seated at their —House’s— chosen diner, the man in question simply waves him off, “Have some faith,” he says, “Since your little radiation binge I’ve stocked up.”
“Your confidence does nothing to soothe me, you know that, right?” How the fuck did he smuggle five month’s worth of opioids in the span of a month ?
“Do you really want me to tell you how I did it?”
Wilson pauses, and for the first time in a while, he chooses his comfort over his morals, “Let’s just order," he relents.
He can’t focus on the meal in front of him. He glances down at the plate, then to House, then back down again.
As much as it looks like House's full attention is on picking off of Wilson's and his own plate, of fucking course he had to have noticed something (he always did), "Well don't leave me in suspense now," he calls lazily, "What is it?"
In and out. Breathe in and out. The words are caught in Wilson’s throat, but he wants— he needs to get them out.
"Don't laugh,” he starts. Which is great. Just fucking great— however necessary it is with a guy like House.
House raises an eyebrow, taking up his beer bottle and having a swing before he replies, "I know it's hard to see people happy while you feel so miserable but to deny me my joy —"
The sigh Wilson lets out is enough to shut him up, if only for a few seconds.
"No, no, but seriously," House says, anything but, "If my happiness disturbs your royal cancer-ness, then I guess I'll just have to resign myself to a life of misery and torture for the rest of my—"
Wilson cuts him off again, then. This time with an actual word rather than simple despair, " House ."
At the stern tone, the man in question actually perks up. He momentarily pauses his attack on Wilson's plate, dropping a fry back where he swiped it.
"I— I want to be cremated,” he starts.
"Oh, come on , don't let all this death stuff get you down for another—" House deliberately pauses, checking his empty wrist like a watch, "—four months, three weeks, and four days."
"And that would leave me a grand total of three days to write up my will and get all my affairs in order." Wilson deadpans. "Take it from a dead man; all that time worrying is a scam set up by all the lawyers, accountants, and therapists profiting off of our fear of impending doom."
He— well. The delivery could use some work but the sentiment was, dare he say, sweet.
"As much as I appreciate the concern, I'm not finished. Just— listen. Okay?"
"As I said, whatever thy royal highness needs," House proclaims with sarcastic flair, not oblivious to the tension in Wilson's shoulders but ignoring it nonetheless. Okay .
One breath in, one breath out. "I want to be cremated. And I want you to keep my ashes. I'd— I'd like to be buried with you when you die for real."
The silence that falls between the pair swallows the murmur of their surroundings as Wilson's head fills with liquid. Fuck. Fuck .
He averts his gaze, and god , it feels like House can see right through him with those creepy eyes of his (though still, like a schoolboy, he found himself thinking that he might drown in them), "I know, I know , you're going to say it's stupid. Maybe it is stupid, we're all just bags of flesh and— and chemicals to you, but I— so what? What does it matter?" He looked back at him, then, "I would like to rest my bones with yours."
When House looks at him then, it’s a strange yet familiar thing. Wilson might've wished he had House's brain when he did that, so he could tell what it meant. Though he didn't really need it. Not for this. Never for this.
He might've wished for House's mouth instead; frank to the point of cruelty and always, always confident, but Wilson knew it would inevitably clam up. House was always as much of a coward as him.
"Okay," House concedes, sure and sudden, reeling Wilson back from where he'd been floating around in his own head.
"O— Okay ? No teasing, no—"
"Okay," House repeats, "I mean, as homoerotic as it is, people already think we're banging," —a statement that earns a light scoff from Wilson— "Anyways, can we go back to eating now? As is, I'm a bit ahead of schedule on the 'sack of bones' front."
And it was that easy. For everything difficult and complicated about House, Wilson somehow, impossibly, found it all so easy; so straightforward and simple.
"Okay."
Distantly, House felt the phantom pains of morphine burning in his lungs.
**
They don’t even stop to slam the door behind them. There was the screech of a chair, a hand against fabric, and they were out, running as far and as fast as their four (or, he supposed, five) legs could carry them.
Well. More accurately, Wilson is running and House is being dragged by the collar right behind him, which is, quite frankly, an awful situation to be had, considering two constant truths; one, House is a couple inches taller than Wilson, and two, the latter is about twice as drunk as the former is.
So, perhaps, ‘as far and as fast’ may be sensationalizing. Just a bit.
Their exact destination, they had unanimously decided, was Anywhere But The Bar They Were Just At Avenue. A decision that was influenced, in no small part, to House’s uniquely irritating personality, and some biker gang’s (rather dramatic, in House’s opinion) reaction to the aforementioned.
“Can I pull the ‘I’m dying’ card again?” Wilson asks in between quick breaths, trying hard not to slur his words, “Because I know you’d normally show no sympathy for being, well— you .”
“Can I pull the cripple card?” House retorts, then promptly rams into Wilson as the other man attempts to respond, sending the pair sprawling into an alley.
In the tangle of limbs, House manages to get his bearings first, and uses such advantage to slap a hand over Wilson’s mouth. He shushes him as the sound of motorcycles whizz past.
When the noise recedes, House sighs and moves to stand up, only for his good leg to be yanked back down.
“What the fuck —?”
“That’s wha—... that’s what you get.” Wilson seethes, trying (and failing) to sound less drunk than he feels, “And… And I’m tired. We’re safe.”
“Yeah, safe and surrounded by the smell of piss,” House remarks, but Wilson’s already moving to a more comfortable position— as comfortable as lying on cold concrete can be.
“Wilson—” House starts, taking his turn to be the exasperated one. He stops, however, when Wilson grips his wrist, “Wait, Wait… Stay. I’m tired,” he urges, but it’s more of a mumble.
House turns to look at him, then, and even in the low light of the alleyway he could see the colour high in his cheeks. “You fucking lightweight,” he jabs, but shifts to sit more comfortably, leaning against the alleyway wall right beside his friend. “Don’t blame me for your back pain tomorrow."
In little time, Wilson’s half asleep form shifts to rest his head on House’s lap (and somehow, the weight feels as natural and familiar as each breath he takes).
**
A coarse material brushes at his cheek as a cold band tugs at Wilson’s wrist.
Just out of his reach, something crashes and roars.
The sound accompanied by the smell of salt makes him shift, and in turn the ground shifts back.
What?
That… Doesn’t make sense.
Wilson jolts upright, but is caught off balance by a pounding in his head and an unexpected weight pulling at his wrist. “Wh—..What the hell?” He whispers, tracing the handcuff at his wrist with his free hand and what the cuff connects to with his eyes.
Lo and behold, House lies beside him, grumbling and rubbing at his side of the metal, probably irritated by Wilson tugging at it previously.
“Wh— Where are we?” Wilson demands. Sand, salt, distant sounds… Why were they sleeping on a fucking shore?
“House,” He hisses, “ House .”
“ What ?” he snaps back.
“What do you think ?” Wilson retorts, harshly tugging his side of the handcuffs up in show. House rolls his eyes at that, dramatic enough that Wilson recognizes the gesture in the dark.
“Do you need me to explain it to you? Is your throbbing headache not enough of an indication?” House patronizes, “Well, when a man and a beer bottle love each other very much—”
“I know I’m hungover, I know we probably got here by being drunk and stupid, what I don’t know is exactly what drunk and stupid thing we did to get us here.”
Wilson wouldn’t go so far as to call himself a blackout drunk per se, but his memory did get a bit spotty after a couple of bottles.
House pauses at that. Then something clicks.
“Oh you fucking—... You just didn’t want to admit that you don’t remember either,” Wilson exclaims.
“Yeah, yeah. You know, you sound awfully victorious for a guy with a black eye,” House snarks, almost absentminded as he looks around, presumably for his cane (and maybe so he didn’t have to face him).
“Wh—” Wilson’s free hand goes flying up to feel his face, and sure enough, his right eye is tender and stinging. He hadn’t noticed it with the uncomfortable buzz of his hangover.
He groans, following House's gaze to where he continues fruitlessly searching, but it’s clear that House isn’t going to be finding it anywhere here, so Wilson reaches for a decent enough stick that’s only vaguely cane-shaped and hands it to House, “You wouldn’t happen to know how to pick a lock, would you..?”
House grins at that, “What do you think I hired Foreman for?”
House lets Wilson have his moment of despair, being uncharacteristically patient (and characteristically unhelpful) with the whole ordeal.
As they depart from the beach and arrive on dark pavement, Wilson’s skepticism about the other’s behaviour is proven to be justified when House jumps in front of the first bus they see— clumsily what with his leg and a whole other person being dragged alongside him.
Maybe he sees heaven in the bus lights, or maybe he’s just trying to make his panicked brain feel better.
At the screech of the tires and the abrupt stop of the vehicle, Wilson’s so dazed that he can’t even bring himself to yell at (or, preferably, punch) the other man. He simply stares at him, then the bus, then back.
“We don’t know where we are or when the next bus is gonna be. Carpe diem and all that, remember?” House shrugs, and Wilson genuinely can’t tell if he’s being serious or if this is in retaliation to his little freak-out earlier.
Mind blank, all he can muster up is a simple, “Fuck you.”
“I know you want to,” House says offhandedly as he follows the tug of their connected wrists, Wilson leading the way towards the bus’ door.
When the door opens, before either of them can even attempt to step aboard, the driver’s shouting, “ Jackasses! ” and slamming on the gas, leaving the two stranded once again.
After a handful of embarrassing conversations with passersby leading to the conclusion that they’re about twenty minutes away from their hotel by car, and the disappointing —but not surprising— realization that between the two of them, they have a grand total of zero dollars (neither of them had their wallets nor a charged phone), they end up walking back to their hotel, complaining about shit that didn’t matter (the sand in Wilson’s hair, House’s wet shoes) and debating on things they’d forget once morning came (which argument was more annoying; whether pineapple goes on pizza or if a tomato was a fruit or not).
The words shared back and forth would soon all be forgotten, but under the light of the rising sun, Wilson can't help but think that he’ll remember this warmth forever.
They spend the next afternoon in search of House’s cane; the handcuff had come off earlier in the day with an only mildly precarious hammer situation.
“I can buy you a new one, you know,” Wilson says idly as they retrace what they can only assume to be their steps from the night before; the two tracked the nearest bar from where they had woken up and were planning to work their way from there, back towards the shore.
“And you know that I don’t want a new one,” House snarks, still using the stick Wilson found earlier as a substitute.
They enter the bar, calling attention to the barkeep that House only vaguely remembers and Wilson has no recollection of.
“Yeah, I recognize you two,” he responds, “The couple from last night. Nasty bruise you got there.”
Wilson bristled, turning a bit red, “Uh— couple—?”
“Well, I assume s—”
“ Not —” House interrupts, “What we came in here for. When we left, did I bring my cane with me?” The barkeep blinks, looking rather bemused (or perhaps, a mused), “Ah, yes, I believe so. Brought a couple bottles with ya, too.”
“Right. Thanks,” House says shortly, “C’mon Wilson.”
“What do you think he meant by ‘couple’?” Wilson asks, a bit distant as they walk.
House pauses, just long enough to be noticeable, “ Everyone thinks we’re gay, this isn’t exactly new,” he drawls, “One of the longest standing betting pools back in Princeton was whether or not we were fucking.”
“Wh— You had this information and just didn’t think to tell me? ” Wilson sputters, incredulous.
“I mean, I started one on when you’d find out about it, so I couldn’t exactly interfere with the data. Honour code and all that,” he reasons, “I was planning on inconspicuously leaving some sort of hint open in your office one day.”
Wilson groans, agonized, “And when exactly is ‘one day’?”
“About,” House tilts his head, “Eight months from now,” he declares, “Which, in my defense, was decided before you were gonna die and all that.”
Wilson rests his head in his hands, “I can’t believe I have to ask this,” he mutters, “When did you find out?”
House pauses, and Wilson nearly bumps into him, “ Don’t pause to think for that long! ” he yells, mortified. “Let me think!” House snaps back, “Let’s see… It was before Chase took over the betting pool—”
“ Chase knew too?! ” Wilson demands, “Yes, yes, Chase knew. The only fellows of mine that didn’t know about the Betting Book were Cameron, Park, and Addams,” House explains, resuming their walk, “Of course, Cameron did find out after she quit, so I guess she doesn’t count—”
“The fucking— of course it was the ER staff, god, I thought it was one of those random bets the nurses made— wait, when did Chase take over the Book?”
“When Reyes resigned,” House shrugs, “Chase had been hanging around the ER more ‘cause of Cameron, and the surgeons were always the most avid betters anyways.”
Wilson sighs. Seeing the Book and how thick and yellow the pages are —a documentation of dozens of betting circles held by what use to be just the ER, but later branched out into every corner of the hospital— he always knew that there was bound to be a bet or two about him that he wasn’t privy about; had been dreading it ever since he found out about it. Maybe this was to be expected.
“Ah! Six years ago. I found out six years ago.”
Wilson can only groan, “Did you catch how old the original bet was?”
“Oh, it started up as soon as you got hired.”
After an hour of bickering and scanning every alleyway they passed, They eventually find House’s cane. Broken in two, right next to a blood stain and some broken glass.
“ Jesus , what did we do last night?” Wilson mutters to himself. “Too late to be worrying about that. We have to go to a hardware store.”
“Shouldn’t we be going to a drug store for a cane?” Wilson queries, already dreading what House was planning. “Not when we need super glue and duct tape,” he counters.
“You’re joking, right?”
House was not, in fact, joking.
**
By the time they check out of their hotel, House is once again sporting his old cane, fashioned with an egregious amount of super glue and duct tape.
“You didn’t do this when I broke your old cane,” Wilson says with a frown. “When I had my old cane, I had the time to buy back the same brand,” House replies as they enter Wilson’s car, bound for Atlantic City.
Wilson lets House drive and stares out into the distance from the passenger’s seat.
When he falls asleep it’s to a familiar song.
Leave 'em burning and then you're gone,
Looking out for another…
(Later, after they arrive at their destination and settle into their hotel room, they’ll come back, drunk and delirious.
In the morning, House will sleep in, and Wilson will rise with the sun, setting out with House’s broken cane.
When House wakes up, he will find two things;
One, a note that Wilson had gone down to get breakfast
And two, a new cane, exactly like his old one but lacking the distinct crack.)
**
I'm going to die a coward," Wilson says, crouched over a toilet of some dingy bar, reeking of beer and tasting of vomit.
"At least you won't have to live with that," House drawls from behind him, rubbing his back as another gag wrenches Wilson's throat.
"I'm on my— I'm on my death bed and all I'm doing is running around, enabling your bad behaviour because I'm as fucking scared as you are of having a serious conversation."
"Oh come on, give yourself some credit," House soothes, "It's your bad behaviour too."
Wilson groans, "See that is exau— ex— fuck, exactly what I mean. You surround yourself with alcohol and hookers cause you don't wanna face anything real, and I'm scared shitless too so I'm dragging us right to your natural— your normal— your comfort zone and god , I can't think straight—"
A series of bangs rocks the stall just as his train of thought derails, "Are you fags fucking done?" a gruff voice snaps from outside. "No, we're not done fucking. Wanna be our third?" House calls, lazy and mildly drunken annoyance seeping through his voice.
A scoff can be heard from outside the stall, then footsteps (more like stomps, really) recede until the restroom door swings open then slams shut.
"Seriously? Had to go piss that big guy off?" Wilson scolds, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. "How do you know he was big? Could be a little twink for all we know."
Wilson sighs, those footsteps didn't sound like they belong to a twink, but he doesn’t bother.
"I don't want to do this anymore. I know you'll stay with me anyways. I'm done pretending that you won't."
"So we aren't getting married in Vegas?" House quips, but it was more obvious than ever that he was only really deflecting.
"Just bring me home.”
Wilson’s only half conscious on the ride back. He doesn’t even recall getting there, but House must’ve flagged a taxi at one point or another. He thinks, with some humour, about the countless times before where the roles were reversed.
“Let’s go to New York,” he prompts. House scoffs, “Aren’t we supposed to hate those guys?”
Wilson considers this, “Massachusetts, then,” he says with little thought, “I’ll drive us.”
“ Massachusetts ? four hours for, what… Some shit in Boston we can just get here? Think bigger! What about… Alaska ?” House responds, clearly humouring him.
“Wh… What’s in Alaska ?” he asks, incredulous.
“Snow. And babes, probably.”
Wilson blinks, trying to get his thoughts in order, “Aren’t you dead?”
“Your point?”
“We’d— We’d have to cross Canadian borders to get there. Don’t they, like, ID you or something?” Wilson doesn’t know and doesn’t care if House was going to respond, continuing on, “What about Iowa?”
“For what ?”
There’s a pause. Wilson isn’t sure for how long. House’s bright eyes stare into his soul. “Let’s just go to a museum,” he amends.
“Hey, answer me, what’s in Iowa? Or Massachusetts and New York, for that matter,” House urges, but Wilson is entirely committed to Not Talking about this, and also on the brink of sleep.
“ Hey ,” House snaps, followed by a sharp pain on Wilson’s cheek, “Hua— huh ?”
“Answer me you asshole,” he prods, grabbing his shoulders and shaking . Wilson, rather eloquently, responds, “ Wha? ”
“Okay, you’re drunk but you’re not that drunk. What’s in Iowa? ”
But Wilson’s consciousness is already fading once again.
**
Later on, when House brings it up again, Wilson will say that he does not remember. Despite constant pestering, he never finds out whether or not he's lying.
**
Wilson’s life savings and retirement fund was more than enough for an AirBnB at the edge of the woods and two shiny new motorcycles. They drink whiskey and beer at night and do the sort of things you’d think of doing when you turn seventy or seventeen.
They get their thrills from motorcycle rides and spontaneous museum visits; entertain themselves by watching shitty medical dramas and true crime shows (more for House than Wilson, what with his need for puzzles— not that he minds).
They go out to local bars, quieter than the ones in the dense city. They don’t drink till they forget or till either of them is crouched over a toilet, just buzzed enough to be amused by the little things, just enough so that the pounding pain in one’s chest or the other’s leg feels dull.
There’s two bedrooms, one queen bed in each. Wilson thinks of crawling into House’s room whenever their doors close. One wall apart.
More often than not, however, they end up falling asleep on the couch. It’s horrible for their backs and they feel more and more like retired old men by the day.
Wilson pokes and prods House about his vicodin every once in a while. Maybe just because it feels too foreign to be at peace for so long.
House, in turn, does something stupid from time to time. Disappears, returns with a bloody nose or a hooker. Often intoxicated in one way or another. Possibly to keep Wilson on his toes. Probably to keep himself on his own.
They fight and then they don’t talk and then they're out on their bikes again, incoming winter winds creeping up and hitting their faces.
The bike rides lessen. As do the museum visits and the excursions to the bar. They don’t talk about it. The clattering of empty orange bottles and persistent coughing ringing through the house were enough indication.
Quietly, Wilson and House spend more time hunched over a computer, attempting to update a document over a janky courthouse website.
“Don’t tell me,” Wilson had said, “When you’re going to do it. Just— when you think it’s right, give it to me in my sleep. Please.”
In House’s dreams, the morphine burns in his hands.
**
He can’t go to Wilson's funeral. He knows that. He’s supposed to be dead. Or, he supposed, arrested. Wilson's will has probably been properly reviewed by now, meaning the truth wasn't far from being unraveled. Why would Wilson, soft-hearted and considerate, request to unearth his closest friend simply to pour some more dust into his grave?
Well, it doesn’t quite matter anymore.
Editing his own will feels a bit strange. Maybe it’s because he’s doing it from a shitty public library computer or maybe it’s the time. It’s been years since he last revised it.
Through all its changes, only three names were ever mentioned; Wilson’s, his mother’s, and Stacy’s. There was nothing about his funeral until now. He thought it pointless to dwell on something he wouldn’t be alive to see.
As he types in the details of his cremation, he thinks absently about Thirteen, how she was living in Greece. He wonders if she ever got into the mythology surrounding the place. Wonders if she ever read about two soldiers sharing an urn.
He loses his train of thought a couple more times until he’s done, then makes his way back out.
He feels like a ghost. He stands alone in Wilson's apartment, the one he had once lived in, too, and feels like nothing but an intruder. Wilson didn’t see this place’s bed nor a hospital’s in his last days. He had refused to die there.
Regardless, House limps through the unlit halls until he finds his way to Wilson's room. He toes off his shoes and sits alone on the unmade bed.
One breath in. One breath out.
He takes up his old-timey medical kit and gingerly takes up one of the needles lined against leather. There are no labels on any of them but he knows it’s what he’s looking for. Liquid lines the leather, half of the containers already empty.
One after another, he shoots himself full of morphine.
He takes his place on the bed, laying down on his back. Maybe, maybe if he doesn’t look beside him he could pretend that he isn’t alone. He imagines it vividly; soft snoring coming from his side, the weight of the bed shifting as someone rolls over.
He thinks back to that house on the edge of the forest; of his disappointment when he saw the two rooms, twin doors set just beside each other. In another life, they owned that place. Driving to work on gaudy motorbikes and coming back home to the sweet scent of whiskey and beer.
In another life, they have an office beside their bedroom, and when they retreat to sleep they follow each other to the same bed.
And then he slips away.
.
.
.
.
four hours earlier .
Chase heaved out a heavy sigh as the elevator closed, leaving him alone as it descended.
He still couldn’t be as choosey with his caseload as House had been; hadn’t garnered the respect and reputation to be given the green card to act like a child pushing away his peas quite yet.
Regardless, juggling four cases at a time and bossing around as many fellows was certainly a less stressful job than being a surgeon, or one of the fellows he’d been bossing around for that matter. He did think he wasn’t quite as harsh as House, but the brunt of the physical workload did still fall upon them.
Of course, that wasn’t to say that it wasn’t taxing. It was still being a doctor and all that entails after all ( and, he wasn’t quite as neglectful of his clinic duties as his predecessor).
The elevator opened with a chime, the smell of car exhaust greeting him as he walked out and towards his parked car.
He absentmindedly went through the motions of driving out of the hospital parking lot, relying more on muscle memory than anything— turn the steering wheel when the road curved; lean more and more into the gas as he approached the open road; break when his dead, crippled boss jumps in front of his—
What the fuck?
He blinked rapidly as the car screeched to a halt, but what he saw didn’t change. House was till there.
He had half the mind to run him over.
The other half told him to lunge out of his car and hug the bastard.
He did neither. Instead pulled over (technically a no-parking zone, but at fuck-o-clock he thought the two other cars on the road would fare just fine with driving around him) and walked up to the man.
And then punched him in the face.
House toppled over in a fashion that gave him a certain feeling of déjà vu. “Nice to see you too,” he greeted, wincing.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Chase didn’t bother humouring him. He simply stared intently. The man must want something if he crawled out of wherever he was hiding.
House relented, if only slightly, “I had more important things to deal with than jail time.”
Chase narrowed his eyes, then stiffened. “ Had ,” he repeated with a bitter taste in his mouth, “He’s gone, then?”
House averted his gaze, “This isn’t what I came here to talk about,” he said firmly, and Chase decided to drop it, “You look like hell,” he responded instead.
“I’ve had four pills of vicodin in the past six days, forgive me for not dressing up for you,” House retorted, and he really must have it bad; he didn’t comment on Chase’s trembling hands.
More silence. Right.
“What do you want?” He pressed.
“I’m getting there ,” House snapped, seething, “ Fuck . Okay. I need you to do something for me—”
Just as Chase was about to object, House corrected himself;
“Something for Thirteen,” He amended. That got Chase’s attention, “It depends on what you’re asking but I haven’t seen her in—”
“But you’re in contact with her, right?” House interjected, then paused, “No, you know what? It doesn’t matter. Find her . And— And when the time comes, do what she would have wanted you to.”
When the time comes…
“Do what you did for Wilson?” Chase asked, but it isn’t much of a question. He asked so he didn’t say why can’t you? or I missed you or fuck off or stay for a bit longer or don’t do it hold on please —
“Goodbye, Chase.”