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Look back now and consider how the bygone ages of eternity that elapsed before our birth were nothing to us. Here, then, is a mirror in which nature shows us the time to come after our death.
It was a chameleon, a patient whose own immune system was actively mimicking three different deadly diseases at once.
“That’s impossible,” Chase said.
“Everything is possible,” House grinned. That was exactly what exhilarated him.
He’d offered an incredibly dangerous, unorthodox treatment, one with a high likelihood of death. Everyone had pushed back, called him crazy, that he was playing God with a dying man’s life.
“You do this,” Cuddy said. “That’s the last straw. I’ll have no choice but to fire you.”
He went ahead with the procedure. Best case scenario, the patient lived, and he’d get to watch Cuddy’s face as he explained exactly how right he’d been; everyone would have to admit it. He would be worshipped, would never have to do clinic duty again, and…
The mattress shifted as the lump under the covers beside him moved, causing him to surface to the land of the conscious before he knew how his dream ended.
This wasn’t happening. No, no, no… he closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to go back to sleep. He had to know how it ended; if he was right!
Wilson shifted again restlessly, kicking into House’s thigh with his heel, causing him to hiss involuntarily. “Shit!” He cursed. “Fucking hell, Wilson.”
The clock on the nightstand burned 2:31 in blaring red. House pushed himself upright against the headboard with complaining joints, peering to the curled up figure of the man beside him.
“You still awake?” House asked. Wilson didn’t respond, leading him to assume that he’d fallen back to sleep. He was just about to ease back into bed when he heard a short whimper of a sound.
“Jim?” He said. “You okay?”
When Wilson didn’t respond, he reached over to turn the bedside lamp on. “Hey? What’s up?”
“S’nothing..” his voice sounded oddly strained tight, as if he was barely holding it together. “G-go back… to sleep.”
The wavering of his voice did nothing to convince House that all was fine. He pulled back the blanket without a second thought, Wilson flinched, screwing his eyes shut and burying his face into the pillow.
“You know sleep is a thing normal people do at night, right?”
Wilson didn’t lift his head; his voice came out muffled and a little hoarse. “Can’t sleep.”
“Oh really? And here I thought you were sleep talking.”
“Haven’t—“ he let out a shaky gasp. “Haven’t slept at all. Since we got in.”
Wilson turned, finally giving House a clear view of his face in the dim light. His cheeks were streaked with tears; his eyes reddened and glassy. The thought of him, crying in the dark, unable to get a blink of relief, made something sick twist in House’s stomach.
“Are you in pain?” House asked, worry gathering in his voice. He pressed the palm of his hand flat against his forehead, before scrambling to press down firmly against his pulse points. “Can you breathe okay? Does it hurt?”
“House,” he whispered lowly, like he was miles away. The skin around his eyes creased and his brows lowered. “I’m okay.”
House let out a harsh exhale. “Fuck, Jim, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Wilson laughed weakly, which caught painfully in his throat, causing coughs to wrack through his weak frame. He sat up with ragged breathes as House kept him close, patting his back.
Wilson dragged a trembling hand across his face, still sniffling, his nose rubbed a raw shade of pink from crying.
“I… I just can’t stop,” he muttered, his voice like sandpaper. His gaze dropped. “Can’t stop thinking.”
“About what?” He asked as he gently brushed a thumb just below his eye, tilting his head slightly upwards so their eyes could meet.
“I’m scared, House,” his voice started to shake, he tried to draw in air, but his throat started to close up. “I- I don’t- I mean.. I’m dying—“
His shoulders hitched, his whole body wound tight like a coil. He clutched desperately at the fabric of House’s shirt, as if the world had lost gravity and House was the only solid thing left that could anchor him.
He caught him without hesitation, wrapping both arms around his shaking body, holding him close.
House had always struggled with comforting others, why would anyone seek solace in him, anyway? He was unpleasant to be around and radiated misery. Yet right then, in that moment, what House thought didn’t matter. If Wilson needed him, he’d be there.
“Everybody dies,” House said simply. “Don’t run it in your head, it won’t change anything.”
“It’s not the same,” Wilson choked out. “I’m dying and I know I’m d-dying— and I can’t, I can’t handle it anymore. I’m so fucking scared.”
He combed through his hair, maintaining his secure hold on him. “I know. It’s scary.”
“And w-when the cancer gets real bad- and- I’ll be in so much pain. Fuck. Why me, it’s always fucking me. Why can’t it be you?”
His lips pressed together in a tight line. He knew Wilson didn’t mean it, yet it still filled House with so much guilt. Wilson was right; he was nothing more than a lowlife drug addict who destroyed his future, there was no reason for him to still be alive.
It should’ve been him. It always should’ve been him. It should have been him instead of Amber, him instead of Wilson, him instead of all the patients that had ever died under his foolish mistakes. If he could make a deal with the devil, he would trade his remaining years to save his best friend, he’d do anything
“There is no heaven,” Wilson mumbled. “It’s going to be dark, and so scary.”
“You’ll be dead, Wilson,” he hoped laying out the facts would help ease his running mind. “Your brain activity will stop within minutes from lack of oxygen, you won’t have a consciousness left to experience darkness.”
He buried his face into House’s chest. “What if it’s… I mean, what if it really is just darkness, and time goes so slow, and I can’t ever feel anything other than pain and boredom and loneliness.”
“Think of it this way,” House began. “There was an eternity of time before you were born, do you remember that?” Wilson shook his head. “So the eternity of time after you die would feel the same, wouldn’t it?”
“But what if you’re wrong?” Wilson snivelled. “I’ve— I’ve comforted so many dying people in my life, I know you’re just saying that to…” He couldn’t get the last word of his sentence in before he broke down sobbing.
If only he could take all his pain away.
House started to slowly rub slow circles on his back, shifting to take more of his weight. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to say anything. However long you have, you won’t be alone, I promise,” he paused, trying to regain his senses and avoid breaking down himself. “I’m not planning on being anywhere else.”
Wilson continued to cry, his breathes coming in fast and ragged.
“You won’t feel anything. You’ll stop producing the cells needed for brain activity, your nerves won’t be able to send messages to it, it’d be like… like being under anaesthesia. That’s all.”
He looked up at him, the rise of his chest slowing just a little. “Some part of m-me hopes there’s something after death. I don’t know, like some paradise.”
House studied him. “Yeah? Well eternal rest is, in some way, a paradise. You’ll never feel pain again.”
Wilson fisted at his shirt, holding on tighter, before whispering: “What if I don’t wake up tomorrow?”
“You will,” House promised, grief settling in his chest. “You still have time.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said, with all the sincerity left in the world.
The earlier panic had somewhat faded, replaced with something deflated, resigned. House wondered how long he had been carrying this, and how much more frequent it’d become. Wilson was only going to decline from here as his cancer got worse, physically and mentally.
One day, he’ll die, and House would mourn him. He knew he should be grateful for every moment they had together, and he was, by these ones were particular gut wrenching.
He reached over and killed the lamp, plunging them back into the dark. Wilson’s head found House’s chest, right above his heart, and let it beat for both of them.