Work Text:
Wilson was sat in his office alone, the door was seemingly sealed shut, no one had come in and no one had left for the last 2 hours.
He found himself sat under his desk, head resting on the wood behind it.
Was he hiding
Or was he just shielding himself?
He didn't even know.
He sat there thinking,
He always did, when the day grew quiet and his curtains could shut.
When he wasn't being pushed and pulled around by nurses, doctors or patients.
When the sun started descending from the sky
And birds grew quiet.
The more quiet the world around him seems to get.
The louder his mind got.
He sat there thinking about everything and nothing.
How he's supposed to be a good doctor but still loses patients.
How he knows that its not his fault but still.
How could he not be to blame at all?
He thinks about how he goes from a martyr in their eyes to nothing at all once the diagnosis turns bad.
He thinks about how different his life could've been.
He thinks about what he could've been if he worked a little harder.
Yet he still works himself to the bone, so how much harder can he work?
These thoughts were common they had been since his second year as an oncologist.
Hell he'd had em since highschool.
They had just taken a newer, uglier, shape.
He felt so despondent during these moments.
So cathartic.
He had tried every trick to coping with them alongside his realities.
Journalling? He had given up on that pretty quick since it just seemed so pathetic to him.
A grown man sitting there writing his thoughts out like a 12 year old girl who just got her second crush of the week.
Exersise?
That just left him alone with his mind even more.
Drowning himself in work?
Now that did almost kill him. Exhaustion is no joke. Yet in a way it worked, if it wasn't for cuddy putting a stop to it he would still probably be doing it.
There was one he'd never attempted.
A coping mechanism so 'shameful' he'd only ever fantasied.
He thought about taking a blade, any blade, cool and sturdy.
A scalple, a razor or scissors, it didn't matter.
He dreamed of the feeling of it pressing on his pristine skin.
He could almost actually feel the coolness sometimes.
He thought about how the blade would glisten In the low light.
He thought about the sting as it sliced him open.
He thought about how much better he would probably feel after.
And he admits.
He would feel so much better.
How he could relinquish these thoughts, turn the energy into something else.
So why didn't he?
....
He was afraid.
Wilson was afraid.
But not of the physical damage.
Not of the amount of blood that could drain from him.
Not the addiction it could bring.
Not of the pain
Or the scars.
no..
see Wilson was a sturdy person on the outside.
He joked with others but always managed to support them when they needed it.
He never truly held a grudge against his fellows.
He stood tall.
He advocated when they needed him too.
And he was the person they could trust and lean on.
And he wore that as a badge of honour.
And then there was house.
The two were like yin and Yang, so different yet the same in a way.
A force that attracted eachother to the other.
House, was harsh and brutal but had a slight tingle of kindness when needed.
He was a vicodin consuming, limping mess.
He did what he had too, no matter the cost, no matter what the rules were.
As long as he saved a life every now and again.
He would keep doing it.
He made snide remarks and argued from sunrise to sunset.
Yet he always got results.
And wilson was almost the opposite... Almost
He followed the rules.
He was kind almost no matter what, only a few times has he been harsh and usually that's aimed at house.
He was top of his field at the hospital, he had the favour of many doctors and nurses.
He was sturdy on his feet and walked with a sense of false confidence that couldn't be dismantled even if you picked at it every day.
Carefully crafted to protect him and his peace.
When being told no he would go through the process of putting the matter under review until he gets a yes.
Wilson liked being safe.
It kept him in a stable job.
And it wasn't too bad....
The two were so opposite that Wilson felt as if the expectation was for him to stay like that.
He couldn't let anyone get even an inkling that he might be falling apart.
That his seams were ripping open and the ugly insides were showing.
Pulsing and bloody.
And..
Real
House relied on him to be sturdy, stable and present.
His patients relied on him to be sturdy.
Cuddy expected him to be stable.
If he began falling apart at any inconvenience, throwing a fit whenever he didn't get his way and just winging it, day by day week by week..well.. you wouldn't be able to tell him apart from Gregory now would you?
No...
But again...
How would they know?
He could hide it.
Under the layers of cotton and polyester blend of his slacks.
Under the white of his work shirts.
But the again...
how would they know?
how would he prove he was struggling?
He never wanted them to know.
But he also wanted to have the chance to let them know.
To cry in someone's arms and beg for forgiveness.
To shake and a explain what's been wracking his mind.
To tell them about the thoughts that feel like they are spinning and racing at the same time.
To just have someone.
Non expectant.
Someone who he could be unstable around.
Someone to he could be tired with.
Someone he could go to.
He knows that house wouldn't necessarily judge him. Maybe a quip every now again to try and cheer him up.
But no judgement.
But it wasn't about that. It was the shame.
The shame of admitting that something was wrong.
The shame of knowing he couldn't make them forget.
The shame of admitting he wasn't perfect.
...
He wanted to claw at his skin.
To rip it off and reveal the layer underneath.
He wanted to do anything but suffer anymore.
....
He felt the tears pricking at his eyes.
They wouldn't spill.
They wouldn't dare
He had trained himself to not cry Infront of anybody.
But nobody was there.
It seemed like nobody was ever there.
He was surrounded by people all the time
Yet loneliness crept it's way up his spine almost everyday.
James Wilson bought his knees up to his chest and carefully rested his head on them.
Accepting this strange purgatory he was in once again...