Work Text:
Wilson could never help himself, he didn’t think he even deserved it, all he knew was to give everyone a piece of himself if they so as looked at him with pain in their eyes. It was all he knew, and at times Wilson loved that he could help people, but then you’re drained because the people you are helping don’t give enough help back, or even at all. Hell, the Oncologist became an Oncologist just to satisfy his need for helping people and trying to save them. He always wore his heart on his sleeve, like a fool with the slowest heart.
He’d donate all of his blood until nothing was left if it meant he could save someone. He’d tear his cardiac muscle off of his heart and give it to everyone who needed it until his heart was barely pumping blood, but just enough to keep him alive. Because fate had its way of tormenting him by not allowing him to die.
His fate was to help the people who need him even if it meant sacrificing himself for the sake of others. He almost never put himself first, and if he did it was only for a little while before he fell into being the same selfless James Wilson.
He would give everyone a piece of his spine, every person in need of help or saving would receive a vertebra. That would be until of course James couldn’t breathe anymore because he had no more spine to support such function.
When things got bad—when James would spiral into another depressive episode—he would wonder, “hadn’t I given enough.” And even when the man was depressed he still tried to cheer up other people, yet his efforts fell short and sometimes the responses he would get would only leave him more hurt. His heart was already broken, slight cracks in the cardiac muscle that might as well have been glass, but others would only break it further, to the point his heart would have been broken into shards if it were truly made of glass.
He was always destined to be an angel but never a god. He was always an angel and never a god even back at his childhood house. His mom, who had major depressive disorder (like he has now) only ever talked to him when she needed a distraction from her problems. James was expendable and was only wanted when he was needed both as a child and even now. He has never been wanted without having to be needed, even with House, the Diagnostician is always relying on him as well.
That’s all he knew how to be, he only knew how to be needed, and for his entire life it has been eating at him like how maggots feast on dead flesh. And now, he is nothing but skin and bones, even his antidepressants can’t save him now.
And the Oncologist is tired, with nothing left for himself.
He was always trying but he would never be enough. He was always the helper and never the helped. He was always their fix when they fell apart. He was always the savior and never the saved. Always the angel and never a god. He was never enough…HAVEN’T HE GIVEN ENOUGH—HAVEN’T I GIVEN ENOUGH
So now I stand on top of a rooftop, the rooftop of my apartment complex just looking down. I’m never enough no matter how much I give. I just wanted to be enough…I just wanted to be wanted…but I always needed to be needed, that’s all I knew. That’s all I ever knew…
The ground below me now is blurry due to the tears that cloud my vision; the tears that I hated anyone seeing.
And so the Oncologist finally jumped…and on the pavement lay a body with no pulse surrounded by a pool of blood. James Wilson had finally given everyone all of himself…
Hadn’t he given enough?