Chapter Text
Wilson sighs, tension wracking through each cell in his body.
He doesn’t know how he does it- having to watch his patients slowly die in agony as he holds their hand and promises there’s always hope, even in 98% mortality, there’s always people who survive while knowing deep down he’s simply dangling a happy ending in front of their faces and waiting to fill out the paperwork.
God, he’s become a cynic.
It may be a side effect of all these years plastered to House’s misanthropic side, or simply a result of the constant pressure put on Dr. James Wilson, boy-wonder oncologist mask.
Whatever it is, he’s tired. Exhausted, even. It’s just after eight, now, and he’s been doing nothing but sitting in front of his shitty TV, watching shitty reruns of cancelled sitcoms while drinking shitty beer.
So everything he would be doing with House, had he admitted how much he wanted the man’s company to himself and simply invited himself over, like he’s done so many times before.
Now, he’s alone while indulging in the things that should make him feel less alone, which only serve to drive the ache deeper in his chest.
Okay, he steels himself as he lazily watches a blonde woman throw herself onto one of her suitors- ignoring the abrupt scoff he makes when she doesn’t choose the man he’s silently been rooting for- this has to end, now.
He can’t let himself be miserable forever. House does that more than enough for both of them.
He slowly stands and ignores the protest in his joints- God, is he really that old?- as he begins to clean up his makeshift ‘mancave’ area.
It closely parallels House’s typical, slovenly living arrangement, which just makes him feel worse.
He could talk to House, or even drop by unannounced, but something’s changed lately.
Namely, the ever-increasing intrusive thoughts of wow, I wish I looked like that guy and lingering glances at the forms of older men finally cultivated into a long-awaited realization: James Wilson may or may not be attracted to men.
Okay, so that thought could have sent him into what House would dub a rainbow-edged tizzy, but he was fine, is fine. He can admit that men are beautiful, in their own way.
What sent him into early onset psychosis was the following realization that he’s never treated a woman the same way without explicitly reminding himself he should be treating a woman that way first.
Naturally, his very minor breakthrough/freakout resulted in a smashed hotel mirror (which he dutifully, pitifully, paid for in full the next day with his signature doe eyes) and several bottles of whiskey drowned in one sitting.
So, renowned oncologist James Wilson might be gay. So what?
It’s not like he spent the night drunkenly reanalyzing every encounter he’s ever had with a man, which inevitably led him to ponder why exactly his only stable relationship is with House while all his marriages to (objectively beautiful, kind, and perfect) women end up in regret and alimony payments.
He stopped that train of thought as soon as it appeared, but not fast enough to stop it from taking root in his subconscious, spreading through his psyche like a disease that tints everything in rainbows.
So, he may or may not be attracted to (or even in love with, but lord help him if that’s the case) his emotionally unavailable, slightly insane, best friend.
So. What?
With all those world-shattering revelations, he silently reserved the right to take some time for himself and keep his distance, using it as an excuse to work on himself without any outside distractions (House) or his endless responsibilities, which only served to make him feel more emotionally devastated.
And if it looks as if he’s running away from the issue, well, that’s just a pretty bonus.
The bottles- bottles? How long has he been drinking?- clang into the recycling bin.
What’s something that might give him a little human contact that doesn’t involve facing the (attractive) calculating gaze of his only friend or throwing himself into his work?
His warped reflection in the hotel fridge gives him his answer.
Looks like he’s going out tonight.
***
He mechanically walks to the nearest bar: a ditzy, sorta grimy, hole-in-the-wall place that practically promises bad news by the peeling paint and tinted windows.
Whatever, so he’s a tiny bit desperate. There’s only so much hotel whisky one can drink before the front desk starts becoming alarmed.
Wilson enters and immediately sits on the closet stool, directly in line with the door.
He shouldn’t be here.
He sticks out like a sore thumb: he had never bothered to change out of his work clothes before he collapsed on the bed, so now he looks old, uptight, and depressed, along with an alcoholic suffering a midlife crisis.
The amber in his glass swirls aimlessly as he sits alone, blinking pseudo-lethargically through the amount of alcohol in his system. Maybe he should go home- back, to the hotel. Nothing good comes of drinking into oblivion in public.
He’s already had a few drinks, two or three at the hotel, and maybe two, three, four? who’s really counting, anyway? here.
He’s visibly, physically, without a doubt, drunk off his miserable, pining ass. Huzzah.
He sighs, tapping his fingers rhythmically, but only succeeding in stabbing the rim of his glass as he singles the bartender for his tab.
There’s a sort of heat on his back, then. Like someone’s eyes are piercing directly through him,
Like how he’d imagine others feel when House stares at them in his signature uncanny way of his, had he not been immune from the moment they met.
A gust of wind brushes against the back of his neck, causing a small shudder to run through him.
The bartender then finally slides over the tab, prompting Wilson to pull out his (overused, no thanks to House) credit card.
While he waits for its safe return, he feels a presence move in on his right before a man enters his peripheral vision, perching gracefully on the harsh wooden stool.
Wilson’s eyes dart over without his consent, causing his head to briefly swirl with purple clouds, as he takes in the stranger in his space.
He’s objectively attractive (the sheer amount of alcohol in him limits the ensuing panic of his acceptance of that thought) and a tad older than him, with dark, silky hair that’s slightly greying at the temples.
Well, at least that’s what this man could look like, through the blissful whirls of indigo clouding his vision. Damn, how much did he have?
The man turns his head toward him, takes a moment to flip his gaze up and down Wilson’s form, and winks. His piercing blue eyes briefly, starkly remind him of who he’s so desperately trying to forget.
“Waiting for someone?” The stranger asks, tilting his head towards Wilson’s (mostly) unfinished drink.
“No,” Wilson shyly shakes his head, ignoring how the world spins for a dizzying moment, “it’s just me.”
The stranger’s lip ticks up, accentuating his sharp, almost porcelain features. “You got a name, handsome?” he practically purrs.
Without thinking, Wilson’s tongue darts out and wets his lips. They’re chapped, that’s all.
“J-James,” he supplies in response, interest (or maybe just curiosity? he’s new to this whole ‘gay’ thing) written in his features.
“Nice to meet ya, James. I’m Jesse. Say, what’s a pretty boy like you doing in a place like this?” He takes a moment to pointedly drag his gaze down Wilson’s rumpled work clothes. “You an accountant, or something? File too many alimonies?”
Wilson tenses slightly. Divorce, that he’s familiar with.
Through sluggish movements, he rolls his shoulders back, prepared to deliver his well-practiced I’m an oncologist, you can trust me! speech.
“Cancer, I do that.” Wait, that’s not right. “I fix,” he amends carefully, his mouth suddenly full of foam, “cancer, doctor,” he states, pointing to himself. Yeah, that gets his point across pretty well. He gives himself a clumsy pat on the back.
Jesse’s almond eyes crinkle in amusement. He leans forward into Wilson’s space, as if wanting to soak up more of his presence. The attention feels good, but-
Where’s House? he suddenly thinks. He wants House. He can’t think of a reason why he couldn’t possibly want House. He always wants House.
His lips twist in a frown.
Jesse breaks him from his sudden spiral.
“How about we head out, have some fun of our own?” The stranger asks while lightly trailing a hand down Wilson’s arm.
His hand’s chilled, enough for the hairs on his arm to stand on end, but not enough to gain his attention fully through his warm haze.
Wilson’s lips purse in thought. “I dunno, I’m pretty- well, you’re pretty, wuh?” He backtracks, blinking. “No, I’m pretty, yeah,” he nods to himself in accomplishment, “I’m pretty drunk. So.”
The stranger laughs, seemingly endeared by his bumbling. “That’s alright, beautiful. I’m sure a doctor as smart as you knows what he wants, right?” He leans in closer, his piercing gaze imploring into Wilson’s.
“Yeah, I’m smart,” Wilson draws out, smiling widely at the remark as his eyes lock onto the man’s, suddenly unable to look away. Didn’t he want to look away?
A rush of warmth floods through him at being complimented. It’s like this guy knows that Wilson loves (needs) to be needed.
Wilson watches blue irises get smaller as his pupils dilate. There’s something so captivating about this man’s gaze; he couldn’t break it if he wanted.
Good thing he suddenly doesn’t want to.
“Then how about we blow this joint, huh? Care to spend some time with just me?”
Wilson pretends to contemplate for a moment; he already knows what his answer will be. He couldn’t remember why he ever hesitated.
He guesses he was just waiting for the opportunity to present itself.
And here it is, presenting itself.
He smiles innocently, his fate sealed. “Okay.”
Jesse meets his smile with one of his own, showcasing the light smile lines around his mouth. “Alright then, James.” He gracefully stands from his stool and presents his arm in one smooth motion.
Wilson rolls his eyes but accepts it, suddenly feeling much younger and freer than he has in a while. He fumbles lightly at the standing motion, his vision darkening in ways that never usually happens when he’s drunk.
Maybe someone was smoking nearby, and he got a contact high. Yeah, he had smelt the forestry aroma earlier, it’s just that. Something feels a bit off, though.
They stroll through the bar, arm in arm.
The stranger leans in close and whispers random observations about passing patrons: that scarf makes her look like a total pushover and how many margaritas does it take to make you a closet-case? as Wilson aimlessly giggles and hangs off his arm.
Through his murky vision, he can almost pretend it’s House he’s with, instead.
He briefly closes his eyes, not that he was seeing much anyway, and lets the starkly Housian comments rush over him.
A weight he didn’t realize he had drops from his chest as a genuine smile finds its way onto his lips; pretending it’s House’s arm linked through is, and it’s House’s interest he’s reveling in.
…where were they going again?
They exit the bar, Wilson’s face scrunching at the onslaught of cold air as the man starts leading him down the sidewalk, notably opposite from where Wilson’s hotel is.
He opens his mouth to say something, something smart, maybe, like hey, what are we doing again? and did you say where you lived? before the man’s hand tightens on his arm, yanking him sideways into a nearby alleyway.
Wilson’s gasp gets caught in his throat at the sudden display of strength. He stumbles, falling forward into Jesse’s chest as glacial arms wrap around his waist and torso, cementing him into place.
“Wuh?” Is all he gets out before the man rights him into place and trails a hand up his back and caressing his face.
With the minuscule distance between them removed, Wilson distantly registers a pair of lips closing onto his as the hand around his waist tightens.
“No, I-” He shoves his hands out awkwardly between their chests, only succeeding in tapping the approaching torso instead of shoving like he had hoped.
Jesse pauses his descent and tilts his head. “You came out here with me, right, baby? Why so shy?” He leans forward again as Wilson’s heart races, a steady mantra of no, no, no, taking over his thoughts.
“I- stop!” He manages to exclaim, finding his footing and stumbling back out of his reach, “I don’t- please stop,” he begs, his breaths running ragged as his fingers start to go numb from anxiety.
Jesse rolls his eyes and steps forward, darting a hand out and clasping it behind Wilson’s neck, dragging him forward in one smooth motion.
“Alright, fine. You can deny me my dessert. But I will be getting my meal.” And with those words, his other hand roughly grabs the stubble of Wilson’s jaw and cranes it to the left. A cut-off choke leaves his throat as he’s pulled forward.
A head of styled, dark hair dives down and bites, hard enough to cause a panicked cry to leave Wilson’s throat as he’s stuck in place, immobile and helpless.
There’s a stabbing sensation, then burning, then finally a bone-deep suck that seems to go on forever, as if he’s draining the nutrients right out of Wilson’s veins and leaving only pain behind.
It’s nothing like he’s ever felt before.
It’s agonizing, blistering heat coursing through his bloodstream, vibrating the capillaries in his toes, fingers, the heaving of his chest, and the futile pump of his organs trying to defend themselves.
His exposed tendons pulse with each beat of his erratic heart. Wilson’s head swims as his neck feels like it’s tearing off his body. This is how he dies.
A wounded whimper leaves his open, gaping mouth and echoes into the silent night, stinging back into his glassy eyes.
The blur of the brick wall in front of him swirls in on itself as he loses touch with reality.
Finally, after an unquantifiable amount of time, it stops. Jesse wrenches his head back, exposing Wilson’s neck to an influx of cold air, which in turn causes his body to seize up, and sighs open-mouthed into the night.
Wilson lies there in his tight grasp like a ragdoll, feeling his blood pulse out as he weakly attempts to count his own heartbeat. 170, 185, 180, 190, 195, oh, that’s fast, that’s not good-
Just as he finds the strength to panic, maybe even cover his wound with his dangling hand, the man grunts as if he just remembered Wilson was there.
From one beat to the next, he’s dropped unceremoniously face-first onto the concrete.
A whoof of his chest and a pained groan escape him as his eyes lethargically look up at his killer.
He sees the handsome face staring back down at him, covered in his blood, and smiling.
The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before strutting away, whistling a nondescript tune Wilson’s never heard before.
A small noise leaves him as he watches the man’s retreating form. His fingers twitch up, he inches his lead arm up the pavement until it lies by his head.
In an act of self-preservation, though he knows instinctively that it’s too late, he places his hand on the wound and presses hard.
He grunts, trying to get his voice to work. Hoping against hope someone will notice him in the shadows, a passing good samaritan, or even a drunken stranger, to take pity on him and save him.
Someone has to save him. He saves so many others, why won’t anyone help him?
His soft, hoarse grunts trail into feathered whispers as the world grays, and time passes without any trace of help.
The soft crunch of the man’s footsteps stops. He hadn’t gone far.
Wilson loses the strength to keep his head up and lets his face fall flat onto the ground. The dull, scraping thud barely registers through the utter agony coursing through his body.
There’s a moment, then an aborted exhale.
Suddenly, the footsteps grow closer again, and Wilson feels a presence looming above him.
At the same time, some of the pain lessens, and Wilson can almost convince himself that he can somehow heal and make it home tonight.
He doesn’t have much time now. He’s seen enough patients die to know that pain receding spontaneously is never a good sign.
As he feels his warm, shaking breaths flush across his face against the pavement, the man crouches down and turns their heads together again.
“Ah!” He cries out at the motion, a hiccuped sob leaving him.
Jesse’s eyebrows draw together as he sighs.
“Unfortunately, you’re cute and pretty,” he states simply, blue eyes taking in the weeping of Wilson’s eyelids and flickering consciousness.
“Now, don’t get me wrong, you will die today.” He pauses, seeming to relish the sob Wilson lets out at his words.
“But now, you’ll live, too.”
Wilson makes an involuntary noise, somewhere close to a hrrup? as the man does something to his arm, he can’t see much, and presses something wet to his mouth. Involuntarily, he swallows.
He chokes as the thick liquid clogs his weak airways. “N-no,” he mutters, not knowing what’s happening but knowing he doesn’t want any part in it. “No, p-please,” he pleads, water filling his wide eyes.
“Quiet,” the man replies, placing the substance back in his mouth, effectively muffling Wilson’s refusals.
As he chokes down the thick liquid, the only thought he can string together is House, regret, and dead.
Then two hands are placed on his neck, and with one deliberate, definite snap!
James Wilson is dead.