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House is there, sitting on the bed while Wilson skirts around the question.
He looks down at House, his arms crossed and his gaze direct, accusatory like he just caught an 8-year-old elbow deep in the cookie jar. Instead, House has fresh stitches and a hospital bracelet he is yet to take off.
“How suicidal are you?” Wilson finally spits, staring House down, but his eyes practically leak pity like the tears he spilled during House’s brief psych hold.
“You found me bleeding out in my bathtub with an empty bottle of Vicodin and you’re asking how suicidal I am?” He spits back, and Wilson bites his cheek.
Wilson tastes blood and sighs, very quietly, and he looks very, very tired.
He sits down, there, right next to House, and he looks over. House meets his eyes and stares him down, trying to gauge how angry he is, but he doesn’t look angry. He just looks sad, and tired, and maybe that’s how you’re supposed to look when you pick up the call that should’ve gone to a 911 dispatcher.
“You’re lucky you’re not dead, you know? Or brain damaged.”
“I never coded, never flatlined. There weren’t many pills left in the bottle, not enough to overdose. It was stupid to waste them.”
Wilson looks at him, again with that look, and House feels very, very small.
“You could’ve died, and you’re worried about wasting pills?”
House bites his cheek.
“Woulda-shoulda-coulda.”
Wilson looks like he’s on the verge of tears again, and House thinks that maybe Wilson doesn’t pity him. He hopes that Wilson doesn’t pity him.
“House.” Wilson says quietly, very quietly. It’s been a quiet night since they got home from the hospital. Wilson grabs House’s hand and works his way up, wrapping his thumb and middle finger around House’s wrist. He’s clearly trying to gauge just how thin House is. His fingers brush against the smooth plasticky feel of the hospital bracelet and he winces slightly.
House does not want to admit any of this. He knows how he looks, right now, his stomach aching with that stupid needy feeling while his best friend’s hand is wrapped around his wrist.
He knows that this annoying conversation is going to get around to his suicide note fairly soon, but he’d like to postpone that as long as possible. He was already lectured by his team, his boss, his mother who somehow heard about this.
The only person who has not yet lectured him is Wilson.
He is, yet again, very tired.
“House, please,” Wilson speaks up again, and House isn’t sure what he’s going to beg for now, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to do it. “I need you to talk to me.”
“You watched me nearly bleed out in my bathtub and you want to talk about it?” He mutters, and Wilson scowls. “I’ll bet you need to see a shrink. I’ll make the call. Now go away.”
“House, you were the one I was watching bleed out! Yeah, traumatizing, but you were the one who wanted to die— and you won’t talk to me!”
House scowls at him, wishing that the sheer power of his stare would make Wilson shut up.
“House, I want you to talk to me.”
“What is there to talk about?” He bursts, and tries to stand up but his leg screams and his wrists burn like hell, and he stumbles back, landing uselessly on the bed.
Wilson wants to lean over and cradle House’s shivering body, but he’s afraid House might bite him.
“The note,” Wilson sighs. “We’re going to talk about the note.”
House looks down, shamefully, and Wilson unfolds a wrinkled piece of paper written in House’s scrawled print.
House wants to rip out his stitches, maybe, so that he can bleed out again right there.
————————-
The note begins.
Wilson,
I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to write one of these. It’s not even my first note. It just doesn’t get easier.
There was a lot I never said to you. I guess I’m supposed to say it now. I bet I’ll sound stupid when you read this.
I loved you, Wilson. I loved you so much, and I can’t even say ‘no homo’ anymore, because it was. I loved you. Yes, homo. I can’t stand watching you get married and I felt a stupid sense of satisfaction when you’d get divorced because you spent all your time with me. It felt good, knowing to you I was more important than your wives.
After the infarction, when Stacy left and you practically nursed me back to health. You’d tell me how upset your wife was when you and I would get drunk and watch movies, and I’d be happy, because it was a step closer to you being mine again. It was stupid. I’m sorry.
I hated seeing you so wrecked over women who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You’re so good. You’re so good to everyone. I don’t even know why you’re good to me. You never should’ve been good to me.
Sometimes when I get drunk, a little like I am now, I think of that wide-eyed twenty-something that I bailed out from jail in Louisiana. I was at the bar when you threw the bottle. It made me laugh. Thanks for not being boring.
I know you’re going to blame yourself. I don’t want you to. You’re all I could’ve asked for, ever, and you’re more than I ever deserved.
It’s funny. I’m not entirely sure that I want to die. I want you to come get me before I die. I also just want to be done. I’m tired, Wilson. I’m really tired.
You told me once that there was a lot you never said. If this doesn’t work, can you come tell me? Tell me to my face, tell me those things you never said. Wilson, I need you to tell me what you never said.
I’m scared, Wilson. Will you please come and get me?
—————
Really, the letter is all over the place. House’s stomach twists in its place, a kind of nausea that can’t be replicated by downing and puking up 250 milligrams of hydrocodone. His head feels all fuzzy again, the way it did when his arms were gushing blood.
This has to be a humiliation ritual. Watching the man he’s been in love with known for a decade and a half read his borderline— no, his outright love letter out loud. Trying not to pass out again when he hears his own words be thrown back, regurgitated into his fucking face. Forget ‘this has to be’. This is a humiliation ritual.
“House,” Wilson says, very, very quietly.
This is stupid. This is really stupid.
“House, please just talk to me.”
House squeezes his eyes shut, because maybe if he tries hard enough, he can will his way back into the bathtub and cut a little deeper. He can will himself earlier into the day and ration out his Vicodin a little more closely— scratch that, grab a new bottle entirely, nab it from the pharmacy, because if he had just done either of these things, he’d be dead and not have to deal with the legal implications of not bothering to get a doctor’s note this time. Maybe he can force himself into the past to buy a gun and some ammunition.
He opens his eyes. He is still in Hell Wilson’s apartment, waiting for Wilson to read the rest of his suicide note, his goddamn love letter. House might as well be a teenage girl— cutting himself, starving himself, writing love letters to the love of his life crush of the week.
Wilson swallows. His eyes scan the letter.
——————-
I was actually going to finish the letter there. Can you believe that? I’m probably going to die tonight and I’m going to leave my suicide note unfinished. That is pretty in-character for me, though. Maybe I should stop running from my emotions. Not like I can run, anyway. It’s also really hard to run when you’re dead.
I’m a lot more human than you think I am. I come across as, you know, the worst person you know. You once said my shoulder was more human than I’ll ever be. You’re not wrong. It’s kind of annoying how rarely you’re wrong about me.
The truth is that I am human. I promise. My fingers aren’t crossed as I write this.
Wilson rolls his eyes at that one.
I am sorry. I’m sorry all of the time. Sometimes I think about calling you over and apologizing, really apologizing, begging you to forgive me one last time. But I’d kind of rather die than do that. I guess I’m going that route now. I’m still apologizing, though. So I’m kind of doing both. What a waste of a suicide, huh?
Are you going to miss me when I’m dead? Personally, I think you’ll be better off. I’m not much else than a self-pitying lump— rereading that was pretty self-pitying, too.
If there is something after death, which I doubt, I’ll miss you too.
————————
Wilson folds the letter and sticks it in his pocket. He doesn’t say anything, he just taps his foot on the ground for a moment and paces around, squeezing his eyes shut, pulling his sleeves down and wiping his face. He pauses, pressing his hands to his face, before giving up and sitting next to House.
House flinches, swallowing hard, like he’s preparing for a blow that isn’t going to come. Wilson just looks at him, with his stupid big brown eyes, like he’s waiting for something from House, who isn’t sure what he could possibly want from him.
Wilson doesn’t ask for anything. He purses his lips and looks away, swallows hard. He moves slowly— ever so slowly, towards House, like he’s trying to pet an aggressive dog.
He wraps his arms around House, holding him tightly, burying his face into the crook of his neck as he starts to sob.
He’s not loud, but his body shakes, his grip tightens, and House is almost frozen. He feels something ugly knotted in his chest.
Something he should repress.
Something he needs to swallow.
Something he should’ve kept to himself.
Even in his suicide note.
His stomach twists tighter. And he does something that feels alien to him.
He clutches onto Wilson’s arm, and adjusts himself ever so slowly.
And he hugs back.
Fully.
He throws himself fully onto Wilson’s bed, and shifts himself fully onto Wilson, trying to swallow that lump in his throat. He chokes. The lump comes back up. He stops trying to choke it down, because when his best friend is holding him like if he lets go, House will disappear, there’s not really anywhere he can hide.
Wilson is still sobbing, and now House is sobbing harder. He can’t even hide the fact that he’s a slobbering mess at this point, sobbing apologies, grabbing onto Wilson’s sweatshirt, a fist of the fabric, his left hand stroking the back of Wilson’s head. His entire body shakes as he sobs.
Wilson pulls back to look at House to really look at him, his hand cradling the back of House’s head. He trails forward, thumb brushing House’s cheek, his lips—
He stares at House’s lips for a moment too long, revoking his gaze and closing his eyes again.
He moves his hand down to House’s shoulder, letting it linger there. He doesn’t even notice that their fingers have been woven together for several minutes. It feels natural. It shouldn’t feel so natural.
Wilson sighs again, heavy, tired.
House’s throat is drier than the desert. He shouldn’t ask Wilson for anything. His words really slip out before he can really think about what he’s saying.
“I don’t want to be alone right now” House mumbles, meeting Wilson’s eyes.
“I’m not leaving you alone.” Wilson says, thumb brushing over House’s knuckles.
House nods. He fiddles with his hospital bracelet. Wilson’s stomach twists.
“House, you need to get help,” He starts, avoiding House’s gaze, “and we don’t have to have this conversation tonight, but we need to have it. I need you to tell me how to help you when you need it, okay?”
“I know,” is all that House can mutter without needing to vomit.
And it ends there. Wilson turns off the lights, tossing House an extra blanket for the night, turning over, and trying to close his eyes without prying them right back open to keep watch of House.
They both sigh, eye each other, and go to sleep.