Chapter Text
In this life— when you're down you stay down, and you're only up if you were born that way. In this life James Wilson is an oncologist with a falsely lit heart of gold, while Gregory House is a bitter addicted genius. They both die in the way in which they lived.
This life is far from the best, but it sure is ironic.
—
In House's life. He operates his department like a glorified think tank. In House's life there is no room for doubt of his skill, nor consideration of his purpose. He is doing what he was born to do, and what he will always do. Which is to discover the truth. A fact he had assigned to himself one night his father had locked him outside to sleep after an argument. He was eight years old and he had discovered his place in the world.
There was an ambiance to it. The deep breathes he pushed out and the fresh air he pulled in. The dew of the grass beneath where he laid. A forced ambiance. One you only discover after being stuck in a place for hours. One he had found under the crickets chirping and the gentle glow of the stars. His father didn't usually raise his voice. He didn't need to. The stern whip of his tone was more than enough to set Gregory's back rod straight. He granted him one word.
"Outside."
Since his body didn't know any better there was a certain amount of childish glee in getting a reaction out of his stoic father. He asked enough questions to finally get a bite, even one in the form of punishment. Yet, his questions were still unanswered. Why did adults punish a curiosity like his own? In the dew of the grass this leads him to make a elementary promise to himself
I— Greg House, will discover the truth at all costs.
If you could make a pinky promise to yourself he would've. This childish decree is something he maintained up until his death. That's what you do in this life. You make silly promises that you fully intend to keep.
—
At this moment there is dying and yet there are still many more left to die. Skull fractures, blood loss, disease and bullet wounds. Everything has a chance of killing you. And in a world where everything is trying to eat each other the truth remains that everything is beautiful in ways unfathomable to human connection.
This sense of helpless seeking to understand is just as assured as gravity. We pursue this quest even in its most fruitless form. What we value most often time orchestrates our demise. Yet, what's more fruitless than mutually assured destruction?
I die slowly, you die with me just as fast.
Warm light pours out in streams threatening to swallow darkness whole. Of course it doesn’t actually swallow all the darkness whole. The darkness lingers and persists because that's just what it does. It’s in the contract, a cut and dry deal with no scapegoats or extra pages to sweeten it. A job till death to remain forever dependable yet independent. Balance, some would call it.
Gregory House would define balance as how many Vicodin capsules he takes in a day compared to how many instances he can win against James Wilson. There lies the truth of the matter doesn't it? This is all a distraction.
A distraction from the pain in his leg, from his dependence on Vicodin, from the impending crash it'll all cause him. Wilson is a game that House likes to play to make everything ache a little less. Wilson is a story with never-ending mysteries that House pretends to know better than he does. Wilson is the only one capable of consistently surprising House and House is nothing if not obsessed with it.
Brown-eyed Oncologists with hearts of gold don't end up with miserable drug addicts with not much left to live for. Meaning the cherry picked smile he's beaming at him now is nothing but temporary in the grand scheme of things. There will come a day where that smile won't be his to gawk at and he'll cope just fine. He has his pills and he can call plenty of women, there really isn't anything hotter than a barely dressed babe on your lap when your head's all screwed up anyways. What harm is a little more screwing gonna do?
Wilson! Role call! The movie goes like this! You look at me with those big brown eyes and you tell me you're in love again. The kind of love that's got you shot through the heart and the kind that only leaves me bleeding. For the sake of fluidity I'll crack a joke at the woman's expense. Something about ex wives and bad hookups, but you'll be quick to defend her. (though you know I wasn't serious anyways.) You'll tell me the story of how you two met and the moment you knew it was love, tell me like it was the opening scene in the latest romance flick. The moon was there, the streetlight was there and she was there. It was late so you were walking her home because god knows you're a gentlemen. She isn't quick to trust others, but something about you disarms her. All the walls she's built up come rushing down and little by little on your moonlit walk she bares her soul to you. She smiles at you with her hair perfectly curled and her lips quirked up and I'll think she's stupid.
You love her meaning you're stupid too.
I'll tell you about my most recent case. An idiotic man gets hit by a car because he didn't look both ways when he was chasing his lover. Skull cracked open, casts over his whole body yet he's still using what little words he can muster to ask about his girl. He says he didn't see any car, not it's headlights or it's shine. Neither did he hear anything like the screech of the wheels breaking, no. This absolute idiot was so hyper-focused on his girlfriend that the entire world seemed to blur around him. I tell you that's what happens to idiots who aren't aware of their place in the universe- That's what happens to the young stupid and in love. You'll tell me I'm like this because I'm none of those things and that there's something to pity in his story. I say it's a wonder your girlfriend got home safe with how stupid her love must make her.
You tell me that's a horrible thing to wish on her. I see my patient's lover at his side and I think it's not so bad.
—
A shiny blond mop of hair flops in the distance. Dr. Robert Chase's keys jingling gives away his position way before the gleam of his boyish looks. Desperate to be heard a mile away, desperate to make a name for himself. There's a subtle sense of desperation in his charming demeanor. That of an unloved child "Look at me, please look at me!" practically rings out with each jingle of his keychain.
"House! I've got an update on your lover boy." says Chase. Jogging down the hall leisurely. Startling House from his thoughts. He simply squints at the blonde before quipping
"Ah, leave it to the thunder from down under to spoil your evening plans.." said more to fill the gap in conversation than to actually convey a message. It's only logical that to get to the point faster you play along with the social cues that naturally follow.
"He's stable, for now." Chase sighs, ignoring House's quip "But he's done nothing since admission but talk about his girlfriend. It's starting to become an issue…" A flicker of personal annoyance flickers across Chase's face. Twisting it from something charming and handsome to the venomous look that can only be caused by want.
"Awe, Just because Cameron isn't coming around to it does not mean love is dead!" House smirks "In fact this man is a testament to just how strongly love is thriving."
House's words are meant to be sarcastic because that's the kind of man he is. In actuality however there's truth to what he says. He revisits his thoughts of Wilson and his newest girl and now there's a prime example of an idiot in love. Wilson doesn't love casually in the way his multiple ex wives indicates, No. Wilson loves like it's an art form. His love is all consuming and he'll think about her all the time. He was always more in tuned with art than House was and it isn't hard to imagine him writing something of his own. Jotting down pretty prose with surgical precision. Dissecting his heart on paper for the sake of vulnerability… it screams Wilson! House is sharp like the scalpel Wilson uses. His love cuts deep and leaves you to bleed. Nothing good comes of his love. Which means it's simply a perk that he doesn't love himself.
"After examining his brain. There seems to be a mass around his Occipital Lobe." Chase continues "We're thinking cancer. Most like glioma."
"Makes his lack of senses a lot less romantic… Only one way to find out. I'll ask the Cancer Man." House quickly nods, grabbing the file and walking to Wilson's office.
I don't tell you about the days where the pain wracks through my entire body, and it feels as if the ground is swallowing me whole. I only state it now because there's not a chance on god's green Earth you can read my mind (This friendship would've been a whole lot shorter if so). It's better like this. We work together in an unspoken rhythm like the notes on a bar of sheet music— Anticipating the next note and the one after that.
I don't tell you about those days but oftentimes you figure them out before I can hide it. The wince in my step, to the drag of my gait. These are the days that make us inconsolable I say. These are the days they won't show at your wedding as they paint you as a man I would never have liked to meet. Most respectful this!— Kindest man that!— it's all bullshit and worst of all it's the exact kind you tell yourself to sleep at night. I'm not bitter anymore, I haven't been for a long time.
I don't think it communicates to you how much I hate mundanity. I hate it. I hate it so much I could write a thousand papers on it and still wouldn't have communicated the full extent of my hatred. You won't ever understand it, I don't think. On a planet in which all of the right circumstances came together to form the garbage fire mess that is humanity all we can aspire to be is simply average? This is a gazillion to one chance, people! Go out! Do something extraordinary! I would shout this from the roof tops if I could but as you know I'm already on thin ice with Cuddy as it is.
The way the story goes shouldn't be so predictable. I shouldn't be able to know exactly what your next move is because I know you're capable of so much more. There's this certain special brand of cruelty that is uniquely you that I miss with every smile you fake. We shouldn't be inconsolable, when we could've been something great.
The story progresses like the panels of a comic strip. Even and measured. Not a hair out of place. We both know how this story goes. The time old tale of "WHO LEAVES FIRST?". There are dozens of stories like this. I don't want that to be our story.
Most likely because I know who'll be the first to leave when it comes down to it.
—
Wilson hasn’t left his office most of today, flooded with meetings of weeping widows and the elderly. A hospital is always lacking in the empathy department so his charm is always needed. House likes that when Wilson's busy he still entertains him. That he's so embedded in his daily routine it's just assume that he must make time for playing their game. It's a small privilege House only allows himself as long as he plays oblivious to it.
If it's not observed it's safe to say it simply doesn't exist.
The plant outside Wilson's office stares at house like it knows his sins. The leaves know that there's no good reason that House visits as often as he does besides boredom and connection. A kind that House fears. One he'd rather take a bullet than admit. Connection is a hell of a way to die and in House's opinion it's the route a pussy takes. Nothing says bravery like dying with a belly full of beer and head as high as a kite.
He doesn't knock. House turns the knob of the door and sticks his head in.
"Why is it within human nature to actively seek out a love that blinds us?" House states, head held high as he announces his philosophical topic of discussion for the occasion. Wilson blinks at him, brow furrowed
"Why is it any of Gregory House's business, who loves who?" He bites back. Their eyes meet and adrenaline rushes through House. This is what makes it all worth it. When the stars align and the game ensues, House doesn't need Vicodin to get high he just needs to hear Wilson's rebuttal. His pain lessens. He studies the slope of Wilsons shoulder and the way he handles the pen in his hand.
He grins in Wilson's direction, leaning in. "You make it sound like I'm against love! I think it's great! Just how stupid others get when their hormones make them behave like wild beasts!"
"You say that like you're anything better than a chained beast." Wilson says
"Be careful, I'll still bite you if you get too close." House grins. Not bothering to hide his satisfaction.
He strides up to Wilson's desk and places the patient file in front of the keyboard. Hindering him from even pretending to focus on something else.
Wilson sighs, shooting House a look that says 'I'm not doing this for you' as he opens the file and leans back in his chair. House moves behind the desk to watch Wilson's mind work
The twitch of his brow, the shift of his eyes as he intakes the information… He's a man with a purpose, and there's nothing more fascinating than to see Wilson processing to House.
Wilson is as smart as House he just doesn't get as much credit. Where House knows logic and terminology, Wilson knows how to read people and conversate. They underestimate Wilson because he doesn't seem all that cunning on the surface, Yet on occasion he stuns House with just how fast he is to shoot for the heart if it suits the conversation. He's manipulative and sly when it suits him and it's one of the main reasons-
House watches the man work. Circling masses on the image, the grip of his hand on the pen. Wilson only uses his specific brand, no matter how many times House swaps it out, he can always tell.
He's particular like that. He wears certain ties on different days of the week. Buys his stationary from a local shop he probably learned from an ex-wife. These are the things James Wilson does to regain control. These are the things about him that fascinate House. How he subtly ceases said control any chance he can get.
Sometimes I think it'll be you that finally kills me. That out of all the bad habits I have that could do the final blow, it's the only good habit that kills me. At the end of the game— when the facade is over. I can practically imagine it now. The curtains drawn, room silent, I'd be lulled into a false sense of security just like I've always feared. You'd wrap your hands around my throat and I wouldn't do nothing but let you. It wouldn't be tense, or frightening. It'd be intimate. I'd want you to feel my pulse underneath your fingertips— The chill of my spine. I'd want you to watch just how easy it is for me to die in the only way I ever lived.
That is— by your hand of course, dear.
"Hm, looks like a glioma on the Occipital…-" Blah blah blah. House knew that already but of course Wilson has to confirm it.
"Great! We still on for tonight?" House bats his eyelashes and Wilsons eyes dart away to think
"I promised a friend I'd help them move… but if it's not too late afterwards I'll stop by." Wilson replies just slightly stiff. House's faux expression drops and he leans in
House analyzes. He can tell Wilson's not telling him the full truth but he's not exactly hiding it as well as he could. "A friend or your girlfriend?" he smirks out.
Wilson sighs as he runs a hand down his face. "Look me and her… have just been hanging out and seeing where things go… Which is none of your business anyways" To which House barks a laugh simply because Wilson told him nonetheless. Clearly baiting for a response.
"You don't see where things go, you get on one knee and propose" He scoffs "This girl would be best to run for the hills before she fully sinks into the trap of your puppy dog eyes."
Wilson rolls said eyes before meeting House's. "I like her. I don't want you screwing this up for me or scaring her off." He states. Which is an example of the cunningness Wilson has, he knows that House blames himself for Amber's death and is attempting to guilt him into dropping this.
Fortunately for House he's never cared much for being predictable.
"I'll play nice, don't you worry."
"House-" Wilson starts.
"Don't start! You'll never stop!" Smirks House.
"You like this girl too much for just meeting her. You're getting too attached already. Do you already have a ring?" He grins causing Wilson to sigh.
"Right, because God forbid, I spend my time with— with anyone that isn't Dr. Gregory House!" Wilson scoffs. Getting far more worked up than the situation called for.
"Now you got it!" House replies. "I'm a jealous lover, Jimmy. You should know that by now."
Instead of his expected reaction full of turbulence and outburst. Wilson simply snorts at House's line. He leans back in his chair with a shift of his shoulders and he says—
"In your dreams."
He looks House up and down and for a moment there's a stall. He assesses his looks, and House holds his breath for his checkup.
"You'd make a horrible woman." He eventually finds.
House smirks "And you'd love me nonetheless."
-
I know when you're lying, and I know when you're pretending to lie. Your shallow fibs hidden to where all I need to do is dig my thumbs into their flesh and the truth is there beneath the surface. These are the lies you want me to figure out, you're only truly lying when it's something that I can't.
You tell tall lies, and short lies. Funny lies and sad lies, but nothing is worse than the lies you tell yourself.
Did I give you the impression I like this script, Wilson? That somehow amongst it all I can control the way the movie goes? The truth is sometimes I hate it so much I can't stand it. I mean… come on! Was her hair really THAT perfectly curled? Her old timey red lipstick must be laced with lead! The weather couldn't possibly have been that nice on a cloudy October night... All these details for the sake of normalcy… It's just not realistic! You know me, and know that I am nothing if not a realist…
I'll tell you a story. A script crafted by me. There're satire and layers to this story, not like the cool clean cut of the operating room. Not like the love stories you see in theaters, no! Those stories comfort the minds of the dull soulless majority. This story is comforting only in its repetition. Without the fact that the story repeats— it's not comforting, let alone a good one at all.
You tell me you're in love, and the world doesn't end. You tell me you're in love, and my life doesn't change at all. You're in love just as often as the world is ordinary. It's like clockwork. I can predict exactly what point in time you'll fall in love, and I'll fall into place as I always do. It's not a glamorous role, but it's all mine. You see, I usually play the overbearing friend. The one they laugh at as you tell your story at your wedding(s). I play the annoyance, the conflict, the anti-hero of sorts. Not enough to be a villain but just shy of it.
Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to play the part. It's the only part I've ever played because I've known you as in love longer than I have known you without it. I'll jest, and bicker to you as you recall your moonlit walks. But trust me when I say I could do so much more than that.
I usually hold myself back, but since this is my script, I don't have to do a thing.
The moon was there, the streetlight was there and I was there. It was late so you were walking her home because everybody knows you're a gentleman. I wasn't supposed to be there; it wasn't in the script but I am. I'm watching you from the alleyway stuck between a rock and a hard place. I'm watching you from the alleyway like it's my god given right to. God's never given me a thing, never has he been a pal to a friend in need. It's silly of the human race to think a cosmic god would owe them a thing. Master of all creation and he's in debt to dear old you.
You see what you've done to me? You've made me go off script Wilson— You know how I get about religion! And you sly dog… you got me started; you're trying to prolong the buildup. Trying to make me forget the climax but I won't.
She's going to tell you she's in love with you because she's a fool. She has no clue what you're really like. She doesn't know the sickness you hide behind steam pressed shirts and tailored slacks. She's overlooking 3 divorces for Christ's sake! No person in their right mind would stay after learning your truth. Your dirty rotten truth that you bury in the back of your closet.
I've seen you stumbling out of bars, cars, and clubs. I've seen you coming out of hell bathed in the light of heaven. I've seen you going up and down and all around so many times it makes me dizzy. It makes me sick.
I'm here to interrupt before I get put into the blooper reels. I'm here to interrupt before I get pushed aside again. I see the shift in her expression; I see her flying into the goddamn sun. Her wings are melting off; She's an idiot for this! An absolute fool!
I see the look in your eyes and I think
I'm no goddamn better, damn it, not one bit