Insomniac Interlude; an H/W short
Title: Insomniac Interlude
Pairing: House/Wilson (ish)
SPOILER WARNING: Season 4 finale
A/N: This season has mostly left me cold, but I needed to write this. It feels unfinished, and probably is. I'll apologize ahead of time ^^ Thanks for reading.
It is distressingly easy to get over the woman who was almost his wife.
The pain of her loss is no longer an hourly (minutely, secondly) kick to the diaphragm. Oddly, the sharp stabs to his heart that felt as if they would never fade have gentled down into a dull, throbbing ache that he can almost forget about, that he does forget about, for seemingly interminable stretches of time.
He is almost surprised at how cold and indifferent he has become. Almost.
He has done this three times before. Somehow, what was once Amber has drifted away into the ether. She is another woman lost, another somewhat-family broken, another daydream of a happy future scattered to the four winds.
Wilson is forgetting her with heartbreaking swiftness, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to forget House. In contrast, the pain of his loss is unending, unceasing, blinding in its intensity, and he can find no way to disconnect himself from it.
Who knew how closely the ties that bind had wrapped him up in House and House's overwhelming need? Had House known all along? Had Amber's death or his own (and it very well should have been him accompanying House on that last fateful trip, and well they both know it) been the inevitable cost of daring to be his friend?
He ponders the problem in all places, at all times. There is no Amber to take away the pain of not having House, and there is no House to take away the pain of not having Amber.
Cyclical and sickening. He hates himself most in the early wee hours of the morning, when he finds himself missing House more than the woman he loved and lost.
3:00 a.m. The clock stares at him with unblinking starkness, and he stares at the clock with bleak acceptance.
The Bitching Hour, House always called it, his slurred and sleepy voice rousing Wilson from the depths of his own dreams to listen to this or that possible diagnosis, to pick him up, to bail him out, to talk him through this night's pain, to be both needy and needed, confessor and confessed.
It is at this hour, missing House and all his capriciousness, his childish whims tantrums moods, that Wilson realizes with the absolute clarity of the insomniac what he has perhaps known all along. He does not hate House.
No, it is even more simple and uncomplicated than that. He cannot hate House.
House is a force of nature, a hurricane of passions, a tornado of intellect that lays waste to all that stands in its way. He can cry to the heavens, shake his fist at the storm, but he can no more hate House than he can hate nature itself.
House's nature is to need. Wilson's nature is to be needed. What chance did Amber (or Stacy, or any one of his wives, or any other innocent bystander) have in the oncoming onslaught of their perfectly matched, mutually destructive personalities?
If he is honest with himself, and how rarely he is, he knows that Amber was only ever a stand-in for what he cannot allow himself to want or have. Perhaps that's only partly true and how he hopes that it is. He despises himself for his weakness, even as he shoulders up to the burden of its truth.
In any case, his feelings for Amber are intertwined with his feelings for House, and he has lost Amber. He cannot bear to lose House.
He sleepwalks into his pants, his shirt, a mostly-clean sweatshirt, worn and ratty tennis shoes. His keys are in his hand, his hands behind the wheel, his car backing down the driveway before he truly realizes that he is awake and wonders just exactly where he's headed.
He could take the right that leads him to House's apartment, but he is already making the left toward the hospital.
Inevitable. Inexorable. He is drawn to House, has always been drawn to House. There is an internal compass, sleeping quietly within, that knows exactly where House will be, where House is going, where House should be, where House will never, ever attempt to go.
Minutes later, perhaps hours, he kneels beside House's chair, speaks to his slack, sleeping face. It is the first non-medical statement that he has made in House's direction in months.
"I understand you now."
Wilson is unsurprised when House's sharp eyes snap open immediately, fixing upon him with unabashed intensity. The wary look hiding behind those eyes does surprise him. In fact, it shocks him down to his very core, perhaps more than any insane thing that House has ever said or done.
He wonders if House fears being understood more than anything else.
Pairing: House/Wilson (ish)
SPOILER WARNING: Season 4 finale
A/N: This season has mostly left me cold, but I needed to write this. It feels unfinished, and probably is. I'll apologize ahead of time ^^ Thanks for reading.
It is distressingly easy to get over the woman who was almost his wife.
The pain of her loss is no longer an hourly (minutely, secondly) kick to the diaphragm. Oddly, the sharp stabs to his heart that felt as if they would never fade have gentled down into a dull, throbbing ache that he can almost forget about, that he does forget about, for seemingly interminable stretches of time.
He is almost surprised at how cold and indifferent he has become. Almost.
He has done this three times before. Somehow, what was once Amber has drifted away into the ether. She is another woman lost, another somewhat-family broken, another daydream of a happy future scattered to the four winds.
Wilson is forgetting her with heartbreaking swiftness, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to forget House. In contrast, the pain of his loss is unending, unceasing, blinding in its intensity, and he can find no way to disconnect himself from it.
Who knew how closely the ties that bind had wrapped him up in House and House's overwhelming need? Had House known all along? Had Amber's death or his own (and it very well should have been him accompanying House on that last fateful trip, and well they both know it) been the inevitable cost of daring to be his friend?
He ponders the problem in all places, at all times. There is no Amber to take away the pain of not having House, and there is no House to take away the pain of not having Amber.
Cyclical and sickening. He hates himself most in the early wee hours of the morning, when he finds himself missing House more than the woman he loved and lost.
3:00 a.m. The clock stares at him with unblinking starkness, and he stares at the clock with bleak acceptance.
The Bitching Hour, House always called it, his slurred and sleepy voice rousing Wilson from the depths of his own dreams to listen to this or that possible diagnosis, to pick him up, to bail him out, to talk him through this night's pain, to be both needy and needed, confessor and confessed.
It is at this hour, missing House and all his capriciousness, his childish whims tantrums moods, that Wilson realizes with the absolute clarity of the insomniac what he has perhaps known all along. He does not hate House.
No, it is even more simple and uncomplicated than that. He cannot hate House.
House is a force of nature, a hurricane of passions, a tornado of intellect that lays waste to all that stands in its way. He can cry to the heavens, shake his fist at the storm, but he can no more hate House than he can hate nature itself.
House's nature is to need. Wilson's nature is to be needed. What chance did Amber (or Stacy, or any one of his wives, or any other innocent bystander) have in the oncoming onslaught of their perfectly matched, mutually destructive personalities?
If he is honest with himself, and how rarely he is, he knows that Amber was only ever a stand-in for what he cannot allow himself to want or have. Perhaps that's only partly true and how he hopes that it is. He despises himself for his weakness, even as he shoulders up to the burden of its truth.
In any case, his feelings for Amber are intertwined with his feelings for House, and he has lost Amber. He cannot bear to lose House.
He sleepwalks into his pants, his shirt, a mostly-clean sweatshirt, worn and ratty tennis shoes. His keys are in his hand, his hands behind the wheel, his car backing down the driveway before he truly realizes that he is awake and wonders just exactly where he's headed.
He could take the right that leads him to House's apartment, but he is already making the left toward the hospital.
Inevitable. Inexorable. He is drawn to House, has always been drawn to House. There is an internal compass, sleeping quietly within, that knows exactly where House will be, where House is going, where House should be, where House will never, ever attempt to go.
Minutes later, perhaps hours, he kneels beside House's chair, speaks to his slack, sleeping face. It is the first non-medical statement that he has made in House's direction in months.
"I understand you now."
Wilson is unsurprised when House's sharp eyes snap open immediately, fixing upon him with unabashed intensity. The wary look hiding behind those eyes does surprise him. In fact, it shocks him down to his very core, perhaps more than any insane thing that House has ever said or done.
He wonders if House fears being understood more than anything else.