(no subject)
Title: For Every Closed Door; First Interlude
Author: Starling
Rating: PG-13, for themes
Characters: House/Wilson
Warnings: ANGST AND WOE. And a bit of ambiguity.
Summary: Wilson learns of House's death.
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own Wilson. If I did, he'd be vacuuming my living room wearing nothing but a frilly apron.
*cough*
Anyway, don't sue me.
A/N: This could stand on its own as a death/grief fic, but it's in the House/Dead Like Me verse, and follows chapter three. I wrote this because that fic is so House-centric, and I was getting lonely for Wilson. And I wanted some serious angst. So, heed the warning. The only attempt at humor in this was in the disclaimer.
x-posted
We lead our lives, and when they end, sometimes we leave a little of ourselves behind. Sometimes we leave money, a painting, sometimes we leave a kind word. And sometimes, we leave an empty space. -From Dead Like Me episode 1x1, Pilot
The night before he died, House had invited Wilson out for a post-successful diagnosis celebration of take out, Tivo, and excessive drinking. Unfortunately, Wilson had had to turn him down. The stress of House's case that week had leaked onto him through association, and he just wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep for a week. Aside from that, he had an early morning consult with a patient the next day. Not the kind of thing he'd wanted to show up for with a hangover.
"Give my regards to Jack Daniels and the cast of The L-Word, though," Wilson had said. House had laughed, and left.
Had Wilson known those were the last words he'd ever say to his best friend, he might have spoken differently. More likely, he would have gone with him, gotten ridiculously drunk, and passed out on House's couch. He might have missed his appointment the next morning but so what?. He could reschedule. Then they would have driven to work together in the morning, and House would still be alive.
Wilson was well versed with other people's grief. He'd heard enough patients and their families begin an "if only" train of thought to know that blaming himself was ridiculous. But this was different, because it was him. And it was House. Simple as that.
***
Cuddy broke the news to him. She paged him to her office around four. He stepped in, saw the tears on her face, and just knew. Not the details, but the basic idea of what had happened. House was dead. Really, that was all he needed to know.
Wilson held her as she cried, her mascara and eyeliner leaving gray stains on his labcoat. He wondered whether tears were going to come to his own eyes, and felt vaguely surprised when they didn't.
"I'm so sorry," she told him.
"Me too," he said.
Cuddy filled him on the sketchy details the police had provided her. Explosion in a gas station that House had been stopped at, on the other side of town. Causes unknown at the moment, though the police thought it was accidental. No knowing why House was there either. Witnesses remembered him driving in on his bike, but it had apparently been stolen afterwards. The actual cause of death was massive trauma from a piece of shrapnel, rather than burning. So that was good, right?
He didn't realize he'd stopped listening until the second time Cuddy called his name.
"James?"
"Sorry." Something else seemed needed, so he said, "Zoned out there for a second."
She gave him an understanding smile through her tears. "Take the rest of the day off. Do you have someone you can stay with?"
"Yeah," he lied.
Later, he didn't remember much about leaving the hospital and driving back to the hotel, only that he found the radio vaguely annoying, and subsequently turned it off. Then the silence was too loud, so he turned it back on, but with the volume low. The music faded to the edge of his consciousness, which was okay.
He parked the car in the lot, went up to his room. He didn't turn the lights on, just lay down on the stiff, unyielding mattress without even taking off his shoes, though he did loosen the tie.
What now?
There was a vague, clinical part of his brain insisting he was in shock, and shouldn't be alone. But who would he call? There were only a handful of numbers in his cell phone. Three of them were House's; his cell, his house, his office.
It suddenly hit him. He was alone. The force of the realization felt like a punch in the solar plexus, and he curled into a ball on top of the blankets, hands in tight fists, chest heaving, stomach clenching, feeling like all his guts wanted to burst out through any of the available orifices. He stumbled into the bathroom, doubled over, barely making it to the toilet in time.
When he finished vomiting the contents of his lunch, Wilson flushed the toilet and stood, knees weak and shivers threatening to unbalance him. At a loss for what else to do, he turned the shower on. He stripped and got in, letting the water run over his body and the steam fill his lungs. He focused just on breathing for a while, in and out, slow as he could, and suddenly remembered a conversation he and House had over beers after work a while ago.
-How would you want to die? House had asked him.
Wilson raised an eyebrow at his friend, then asked, How would you?
House had sat back in his chair, thinking about it, picking at the label of his bottle of Magic Hat.
-I'd want it quick, but messy, he said finally. Something newsworthy. Or at least something that people will gossip about. Spontaneous combustion maybe.
Wilson had rolled his eyes. House would want to be killed by an unexplainable and unproved phenomenon, just so he could know how it worked.
-So what about you?
Wilson didn't like thinking about his own death much. He dealt with other people's enough at work. So he just shrugged.
Something quiet, he'd replied. House rolled his eyes at such a lame answer, and started talking about something called the wick effect in supposed cases of human combustion.
***
The water was cold and he was shivering. He wasn't sure which he noticed first. Wilson assumed it was just the shitty plumbing system at the hotel, but then he realized that the bathroom room was dark. The sun had set. He must have been in here for a while.
Wilson shut off the tap and got out of the shower, then toweled himself off. As he did, he caught sight of the two pill bottles on the sink, one half empty and the other nearly full. House had known about the Zoloft, but Wilson hadn't told him he'd also been prescribed clonzepam for increasing anxiety attacks and insomnia that had resurfaced in the last year.
How do you want to die?
Something quiet.
There was a liquor store down the street.
Don't be an idiot. The voice sounded so much like House that Wilson actually looked behind him, convinced the man was in the room with him. Stupid. The room was empty. The voice came from nowhere but his own head.
He looked back the pills and sighed. Yeah, that would be idiotic. And if he did succeed in killing himself, House would only kick his ass in the afterlife.
Out of curiosity, he pulled his phone out of his pants pocket. He'd missed eleven calls. Three of them were from Cuddy. She'd probably figured out that he'd lied when he said there was someone he could stay with. His mother had called him twice, as had Cameron. Chase. One of the other doctors from Oncology that he was friendly with.
Wilson shut the phone and put it on the sink. He dropped the towel on the floor with his clothes, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed without bothering to get dressed. He'd deal with it all tomorrow.
Author: Starling
Rating: PG-13, for themes
Characters: House/Wilson
Warnings: ANGST AND WOE. And a bit of ambiguity.
Summary: Wilson learns of House's death.
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own Wilson. If I did, he'd be vacuuming my living room wearing nothing but a frilly apron.
*cough*
Anyway, don't sue me.
A/N: This could stand on its own as a death/grief fic, but it's in the House/Dead Like Me verse, and follows chapter three. I wrote this because that fic is so House-centric, and I was getting lonely for Wilson. And I wanted some serious angst. So, heed the warning. The only attempt at humor in this was in the disclaimer.
x-posted
We lead our lives, and when they end, sometimes we leave a little of ourselves behind. Sometimes we leave money, a painting, sometimes we leave a kind word. And sometimes, we leave an empty space. -From Dead Like Me episode 1x1, Pilot
The night before he died, House had invited Wilson out for a post-successful diagnosis celebration of take out, Tivo, and excessive drinking. Unfortunately, Wilson had had to turn him down. The stress of House's case that week had leaked onto him through association, and he just wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep for a week. Aside from that, he had an early morning consult with a patient the next day. Not the kind of thing he'd wanted to show up for with a hangover.
"Give my regards to Jack Daniels and the cast of The L-Word, though," Wilson had said. House had laughed, and left.
Had Wilson known those were the last words he'd ever say to his best friend, he might have spoken differently. More likely, he would have gone with him, gotten ridiculously drunk, and passed out on House's couch. He might have missed his appointment the next morning but so what?. He could reschedule. Then they would have driven to work together in the morning, and House would still be alive.
Wilson was well versed with other people's grief. He'd heard enough patients and their families begin an "if only" train of thought to know that blaming himself was ridiculous. But this was different, because it was him. And it was House. Simple as that.
***
Cuddy broke the news to him. She paged him to her office around four. He stepped in, saw the tears on her face, and just knew. Not the details, but the basic idea of what had happened. House was dead. Really, that was all he needed to know.
Wilson held her as she cried, her mascara and eyeliner leaving gray stains on his labcoat. He wondered whether tears were going to come to his own eyes, and felt vaguely surprised when they didn't.
"I'm so sorry," she told him.
"Me too," he said.
Cuddy filled him on the sketchy details the police had provided her. Explosion in a gas station that House had been stopped at, on the other side of town. Causes unknown at the moment, though the police thought it was accidental. No knowing why House was there either. Witnesses remembered him driving in on his bike, but it had apparently been stolen afterwards. The actual cause of death was massive trauma from a piece of shrapnel, rather than burning. So that was good, right?
He didn't realize he'd stopped listening until the second time Cuddy called his name.
"James?"
"Sorry." Something else seemed needed, so he said, "Zoned out there for a second."
She gave him an understanding smile through her tears. "Take the rest of the day off. Do you have someone you can stay with?"
"Yeah," he lied.
Later, he didn't remember much about leaving the hospital and driving back to the hotel, only that he found the radio vaguely annoying, and subsequently turned it off. Then the silence was too loud, so he turned it back on, but with the volume low. The music faded to the edge of his consciousness, which was okay.
He parked the car in the lot, went up to his room. He didn't turn the lights on, just lay down on the stiff, unyielding mattress without even taking off his shoes, though he did loosen the tie.
What now?
There was a vague, clinical part of his brain insisting he was in shock, and shouldn't be alone. But who would he call? There were only a handful of numbers in his cell phone. Three of them were House's; his cell, his house, his office.
It suddenly hit him. He was alone. The force of the realization felt like a punch in the solar plexus, and he curled into a ball on top of the blankets, hands in tight fists, chest heaving, stomach clenching, feeling like all his guts wanted to burst out through any of the available orifices. He stumbled into the bathroom, doubled over, barely making it to the toilet in time.
When he finished vomiting the contents of his lunch, Wilson flushed the toilet and stood, knees weak and shivers threatening to unbalance him. At a loss for what else to do, he turned the shower on. He stripped and got in, letting the water run over his body and the steam fill his lungs. He focused just on breathing for a while, in and out, slow as he could, and suddenly remembered a conversation he and House had over beers after work a while ago.
-How would you want to die? House had asked him.
Wilson raised an eyebrow at his friend, then asked, How would you?
House had sat back in his chair, thinking about it, picking at the label of his bottle of Magic Hat.
-I'd want it quick, but messy, he said finally. Something newsworthy. Or at least something that people will gossip about. Spontaneous combustion maybe.
Wilson had rolled his eyes. House would want to be killed by an unexplainable and unproved phenomenon, just so he could know how it worked.
-So what about you?
Wilson didn't like thinking about his own death much. He dealt with other people's enough at work. So he just shrugged.
Something quiet, he'd replied. House rolled his eyes at such a lame answer, and started talking about something called the wick effect in supposed cases of human combustion.
***
The water was cold and he was shivering. He wasn't sure which he noticed first. Wilson assumed it was just the shitty plumbing system at the hotel, but then he realized that the bathroom room was dark. The sun had set. He must have been in here for a while.
Wilson shut off the tap and got out of the shower, then toweled himself off. As he did, he caught sight of the two pill bottles on the sink, one half empty and the other nearly full. House had known about the Zoloft, but Wilson hadn't told him he'd also been prescribed clonzepam for increasing anxiety attacks and insomnia that had resurfaced in the last year.
How do you want to die?
Something quiet.
There was a liquor store down the street.
Don't be an idiot. The voice sounded so much like House that Wilson actually looked behind him, convinced the man was in the room with him. Stupid. The room was empty. The voice came from nowhere but his own head.
He looked back the pills and sighed. Yeah, that would be idiotic. And if he did succeed in killing himself, House would only kick his ass in the afterlife.
Out of curiosity, he pulled his phone out of his pants pocket. He'd missed eleven calls. Three of them were from Cuddy. She'd probably figured out that he'd lied when he said there was someone he could stay with. His mother had called him twice, as had Cameron. Chase. One of the other doctors from Oncology that he was friendly with.
Wilson shut the phone and put it on the sink. He dropped the towel on the floor with his clothes, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed without bothering to get dressed. He'd deal with it all tomorrow.