Disclaimer: House MD belongs to both volpe and David Shore, I own nothing.
Author’s Note: this is probably a Oneshot. I just had this idea of Scrivere a fic about the tenth anniversary of House’s crippled leg: all the things he would remember, all the invisible tears he would shed and how those tears became visible through the eyes of a certain James Wilson. This is a House x Wilson Strong Friendship fic. It’s pretty angsty because I thrive on that. House detto that his infarction was seven years fa in the first season… if every season counts for one anno (which I think they do) the tenth anniversary should be somewhere at the end of season three… does that make any sense? (Might have messed up the timeline… sorry if I did.) Here it is:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Tenth Tear.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the end, their lonely road had led them here:
The hospital they had known as their stage for many years:
Where Gregory House took centre stage and James Wilson pulled up the curtain, allowing his friend to shine, amaze and interact with the crowd.
House was there to take, frustrate and drain, every once in a while rewarding his protector with a dimmed, weak version of the light that had once shone brightly in his eyes.
Wilson was there to protect and shield House from glares, shameless stares, remarks and other signs of hostility he often got thrown at himself.
It hadn’t always been that way, though… once, when Wilson needed a hand, House’s was the first one offered,
Once, when Wilson got threatened o intimidated, House would make a mostra out of telling whoever it was off in his authentic terrifying manner and then laugh as the culprit fled the scene.
Ten years ago, roles were reversed and Wilson was the one in need of protection, which House would then provide without question.
Today? Today warm brown eyes searched for a glimpse of blue in the darkened office before them… and they saw a strange creature with his shoulders slumped and his head hanging low.
Tough the letters on the glass read Gregory House, Wilson saw no such man.
Gregory House had been an athlete at the very superiore, in alto of his game,
Gregory House had been a caring friend,
Gregory House had been a charming heartthrob… and that sounded like a speech to give at ones funeral, but Gregory House was still very much alive.
If only a shadow of his former self,
If only a shell filled with a capable brain, but devoid of all human emotions… all things that allowed him to connect with others were gone, but he himself wasn’t.
Wilson found himself wishing that he was: House looked pathetic today... his both hands rubbing his thigh over and over and over… frustration was clear on his face. With each stroke he hoped that the dents and bumps underneath his fingers would somehow disappear, to come back as the healthy flesh he had not felt there for ten years.
They didn’t.
He felt stupid, wishing on a stella, star whilst he lived his in the name of science…
But if he had one wish, his social skills would not be restored, his Lost Friends wouldn’t give him a secondo chance, he wouldn’t step on to the lacrosse field again, either. He’d wish the pain away, his leg to be healed.
Because that was the problem, because he told himself it was.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wilson remembered every anno prior to this one as if it was minuti ago:
Zero.
Wilson sat there in his friend’s room on the ICU…
House detto he was fine. Wilson had asked him once, twice… he detto he was fine.
All means of interrogation had failed and now Wilson sat there, an entire orchestra of different monitors and machines playing him a symphony called: the man who most definitely is not fine. He listened intently to the depressing song, fearing each note to be the very last.
He didn’t know what it was… he had to wait for an agonized man to tell him! God, he felt stupid, incapable… he should have known!
He should have told Stacy off when she told him about the middle ground… could have, should have, didn’t.
When House woke up after the surgery, he didn’t look at Stacy anymore… instead, the hands he clung to when he couldn’t handle the pain anymore were Wilson’s, all the fears he had about his future he shared with Wilson and so after a while when he was in need of soothing words, it was Wilson’s voice he heard… He’d driven Stacy away. House found himself wanting her back, to hold, but not forgive.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One.
It hurt.
All that House had been aware of this giorno was the pain in his leg… and after that, he knew no more.
Wilson had dato him a shot of morphine because he couldn’t watch him anymore…
The way House’s hands had been desperately searching for something solid was hearth-breaking.
Wilson ended up catching both hands in his own to sooth his friend to sleep with false promises of a better tomorrow.
Tomorrow would not be better… if possible, it would be worse. Better didn’t exist: in House’s eyes, things would not be better until he could run with the wind again… and as the sweet song of morphine lulled him to sleep, one lonely tear slid out from underneath his eyelid.
Wilson lovingly wiped it away with his thumb, staring at the wetness on his finger afterwards.
It had been a very long anno for both of them…
All emotions besides anger had wandered off into the unknown: tears had become foreign and merciless insults had become nothing più than annoying background noise.
Wilson found himself crying now, though: that one tear he carried on his thumb seemed to harbour all the sadness and fear that had plagued his friend’s cuore this year. He told himself then, what he would regret later: ‘I’m not leaving him... I can’t. He can’t do this alone and somewhere deep down he doesn’t want to, either.’
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two.
House was looking at the cane that leant nonchalantly against the table.
He did it; he’d achieved his goal… he could walk.
But he needed that thing to do so.
And there was the annoying, embarrassing fact that he limped.
He’d met some of his old lacrosse buddies in the supermercato once: he’d greeted them as he always had done… and they took one look at his leg and walked away, deciding that it couldn’t be the man they had known as their captain.
House hadn’t left his apartment since…
“House…” Wilson detto with a sigh as he sat down beside his friend.
“What!?” House asked him; they had discussed this many times before, with the same result.
“You need to go outside.”
“Don’t want to, nor do I actually need to.”
“Yes te do.”
“Still don’t want to.”
“I know what te want. I can’t give it to you, though… I can however buy te a birra if you’ll go to a bar with me?”
“Forget it.”
Wilson sighed: “You need to go outside!”
“No I Don’t! I’m not going out there again!”
“House?” Wilson asked, House turned the TV on and turned the volume up until his ears were about to burst.
Wilson snatched the remote out of his hand and turned it back down.
“You’re going to listen to me, House.” House turned away to look at something very interesting at the other side of the room.
Wilson caught his chin and forcibly turned his head so that they were face to face.
“House, listen to me… this is it, now. I wish I could change that but I can’t, you’ll have to learn to live with it… and that’s not easy and I’m not saying that it is but te have to try.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“I know, but te have to try somehow: people will stare at you… ignore them.”
“Can’t.”
“Because te feel like you’re a rarity, te feel that te deserve to be stared at? Well, that’s not true, but people are morons… and if anyone knows that, it’s you.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going outside anymore…” House whispered.
“Yes te are, and when te do, I’ll be there with you… but te don’t have to go today.”
Later in the evening after Wilson had served House his pain medication, Wilson sat on the edge of his friend’s letto and watched as a tear made its way down House’s cheek.
Wilson smiled.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three.
House had eventually gone outside with Wilson at his side.
Eventually he had accepted the cane,
Eventually Wilson left his apartment and the pills were his to pop when needed them… which turned out to be a rather large amount of times.
But he needed them... That was what he told himself, anyway.
The pills were meant for pain management, right? House knew many types of pain… and he took pills for each of them.
Wilson sat down on the divano successivo to House who was eyeing a little arancia, arancio vial as if heaven itself had settled on the superiore, in alto of his hand.
“Does it hurt that much?” he asked his friend, who raised his eyes in response.
“Yes.”
“How can I be sure that you’re telling the truth?”
“You can’t. You’ll just have to assume that I’m an addict.” ‘Which te already do.’ House thought sadly.
“House… I do not-“ House’s raised eyebrow effectively silenced Wilson. “Well…” Wilson then hesitated, “Are you?”
“NO.” with that, House stood abruptly and made his way towards his bedroom.
“House!” a startled Wilson yelled. “I didn’t mean to…” there was the sound of a door slamming shut.
Wilson thought it wiser to say no more.
When he entered House’s bedroom that night, the tear was already gone… all that remained was a track which Wilson traced with his index finger.
The little arancia, arancio vial lay in his friend’s hand.
Sighing, he placed it on the nightstand, right successivo to it, a glass of water.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four.
House had been hired in the same hospital that had ruined his life…
He needed to think, so no harsh words were spoken.
He needed a friend, so he left the door unlocked.
The wanted friend did come… from the very hospital that was the fonte of House’s troubles.
When Wilson found the door unlocked, he entered with a smile.
House was having a nightmare of some sort; tossing and turning in the sheets.
Wilson slowly approached him and where his hand touched House shoulder, the nightmare began to fade.
Wilson smiled, tucking his friend in as if he were an angelic child.
The tear was left unnoticed on House’s face.
Wilson slept on the couch.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five.
Sometimes, when Wilson looked at House, he remembered a long Lost friend of his…
A man with startling blue eyes that shone of friendship, not anger.
A man who could make anyone smile instead of cry… that same man sat in an office successivo to Wilson’s, pretending to be the same man still.
In truth, House knew that he would never be that man again.
He was trapped in his façade, entwined in his lie, had no choice but to continue this downward spiral.
Eventually, he hit rock bottom… took as many pills, drank as many beers as possible to soften the blow.
When he awoke, there was the steady beep of a monitor… people telling him he was suicidal, Wilson at his bedside saying:
“You could have died, Greg!” Every time House found himself in a hospital bed, people thought they could call him Greg…
“What are te talking about, Jimmy?” House asked, voice a lot louder than Wilson expected.
“What am I… the booze, that’s what I’m talking about! And the vicodin!”
“Oh, that… that’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” Wilson was now fuming with anger, “You just had your stomach pumped for God’s sake!”
“So what? Not like I’m dead o something…”
“You could have been… and… that doesn’t matter to te at all, does it?”
A half-hearted shake of the head was all Wilson got in response.
Wilson’s hand strayed towards House’s shoulder: “I know you’re depressed… I can help you, if te want.”
“You don’t want to help me, te just want your friend back… I’m not that guy anymore, Wilson.”
“You are my friend, House… why else would I be here?”
“Masochism?”
“I don’t care what te say: you’re still my friend.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“You are… stop doubting it, would you?”
When Wilson fell asleep later that night, still at House’s side, House cried the one tear with his eyes open:
He did doubt it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Six.
After that incident, Wilson decided that he would monitor his friend’s vicodin intake da prescribing it for him.
House stormed into his friend’s office:
“I need a refill.”
“Gave te one three days ago… te out of ‘em already?”
“It hurt.” House detto with a shrug.
“I know what giorno today is… I’ll give them to te tomorrow. Maybe it helps if te talk about it?”
“What… so it’s between my ears now? I don’t care what goddamned giorno it is! I need them!”
“No te don’t... te need a bottle of Prozac o something… te don’t need the vicodin; te want it.”
“So what? Just give them to me so I can go to sleep.” House was indeed suffering from insomnia, but the pills rarely helped.
“They’ve never done anything for your insomnia and te know it… tell me why te need them,
really need them.”
“Because I’m exhausted…”
With that, he settled himself on Wilson’s divano and closed his eyes, leaving Wilson at his scrivania, reception with his mouth wide open.
Wilson got up and draped a blanket over the body of his now sleeping friend.
“Goodnight, then”
Wilson looked through his patients’ charts whilst House slept.
The tear disappeared into the fabric of the couch.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seven.
House had thought about hiring some of the brighter doctors out there to work in his department for some time…
He began interviewing some of the candidates.
Every once in a while, when he encountered a real nutcase, he paged Wilson to come and -very childishly- laugh at the victim.
Overall, they’d had fun together this year… but when the giorno came and all the memories came with it, so did the tear.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eight.
House had found his dream team:
Eric Foreman.
Robert Chase.
Alison Cameron.
Three new students to teach,
Three new souls to torture,
Three new puppets to guide…
They thought he was weird, rude, impossible to work with… but still a genius.
House loved that, that they had to admit he was smarter than all three of them together regardless of what they thought about him.
Stacy returned to the hospital...
She had called him Greg, he didn't mind...
He saved the life of her husband and she thanked him as te would a friend, not a lover...
He sat inside his office and just let the tear slip… but when Wilson jumped the balcony-divider, he put his mask back on.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nine.
Again, there was the steady beep of a monitor.
Again, Wilson sat at his Friends bedside.
A ketamine induced coma?
What if House could run again? Would he laugh again? Would he be faster than Wilson? Would… it work? Would it wear off?
Wilson just held his hand, and the tear slid off as if the wind was already in his face.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wilson stepped into the office.
He knelt in front of his friend, taking House’s hands off the damaged thigh.
“House… let me.” He moved to massage the thigh but House’s quickly reclaimed their positions, guarding the hurtful area.
“House… I won’t hurt you: you’re my friend, remember? Let me.”
House’s hands slid off… slowly, Wilson’s fingers moved toward the scar.
Thumb:
I
Index finger:
Love
Middle finger:
You
Ring finger:
Too,
Little finger:
Really.
Wilson began carefully massaging the thigh and where House relaxed…
The tenth tear went.
Wilson smiled,
House smiled too.
The End.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Notes: That was it… Wilson may seem out of character at times but his wife did say he was Always there... and I don't see this as a Slash fic per se, because I really think Wilson could be that sweet and caring if House didn't mock him for it... it's a pretty old fic da the way, postato it on fanfiction.net a while a go... figured te guys would appreciate it, too...
commento and tell me what te think!
Author’s Note: this is probably a Oneshot. I just had this idea of Scrivere a fic about the tenth anniversary of House’s crippled leg: all the things he would remember, all the invisible tears he would shed and how those tears became visible through the eyes of a certain James Wilson. This is a House x Wilson Strong Friendship fic. It’s pretty angsty because I thrive on that. House detto that his infarction was seven years fa in the first season… if every season counts for one anno (which I think they do) the tenth anniversary should be somewhere at the end of season three… does that make any sense? (Might have messed up the timeline… sorry if I did.) Here it is:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Tenth Tear.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the end, their lonely road had led them here:
The hospital they had known as their stage for many years:
Where Gregory House took centre stage and James Wilson pulled up the curtain, allowing his friend to shine, amaze and interact with the crowd.
House was there to take, frustrate and drain, every once in a while rewarding his protector with a dimmed, weak version of the light that had once shone brightly in his eyes.
Wilson was there to protect and shield House from glares, shameless stares, remarks and other signs of hostility he often got thrown at himself.
It hadn’t always been that way, though… once, when Wilson needed a hand, House’s was the first one offered,
Once, when Wilson got threatened o intimidated, House would make a mostra out of telling whoever it was off in his authentic terrifying manner and then laugh as the culprit fled the scene.
Ten years ago, roles were reversed and Wilson was the one in need of protection, which House would then provide without question.
Today? Today warm brown eyes searched for a glimpse of blue in the darkened office before them… and they saw a strange creature with his shoulders slumped and his head hanging low.
Tough the letters on the glass read Gregory House, Wilson saw no such man.
Gregory House had been an athlete at the very superiore, in alto of his game,
Gregory House had been a caring friend,
Gregory House had been a charming heartthrob… and that sounded like a speech to give at ones funeral, but Gregory House was still very much alive.
If only a shadow of his former self,
If only a shell filled with a capable brain, but devoid of all human emotions… all things that allowed him to connect with others were gone, but he himself wasn’t.
Wilson found himself wishing that he was: House looked pathetic today... his both hands rubbing his thigh over and over and over… frustration was clear on his face. With each stroke he hoped that the dents and bumps underneath his fingers would somehow disappear, to come back as the healthy flesh he had not felt there for ten years.
They didn’t.
He felt stupid, wishing on a stella, star whilst he lived his in the name of science…
But if he had one wish, his social skills would not be restored, his Lost Friends wouldn’t give him a secondo chance, he wouldn’t step on to the lacrosse field again, either. He’d wish the pain away, his leg to be healed.
Because that was the problem, because he told himself it was.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wilson remembered every anno prior to this one as if it was minuti ago:
Zero.
Wilson sat there in his friend’s room on the ICU…
House detto he was fine. Wilson had asked him once, twice… he detto he was fine.
All means of interrogation had failed and now Wilson sat there, an entire orchestra of different monitors and machines playing him a symphony called: the man who most definitely is not fine. He listened intently to the depressing song, fearing each note to be the very last.
He didn’t know what it was… he had to wait for an agonized man to tell him! God, he felt stupid, incapable… he should have known!
He should have told Stacy off when she told him about the middle ground… could have, should have, didn’t.
When House woke up after the surgery, he didn’t look at Stacy anymore… instead, the hands he clung to when he couldn’t handle the pain anymore were Wilson’s, all the fears he had about his future he shared with Wilson and so after a while when he was in need of soothing words, it was Wilson’s voice he heard… He’d driven Stacy away. House found himself wanting her back, to hold, but not forgive.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One.
It hurt.
All that House had been aware of this giorno was the pain in his leg… and after that, he knew no more.
Wilson had dato him a shot of morphine because he couldn’t watch him anymore…
The way House’s hands had been desperately searching for something solid was hearth-breaking.
Wilson ended up catching both hands in his own to sooth his friend to sleep with false promises of a better tomorrow.
Tomorrow would not be better… if possible, it would be worse. Better didn’t exist: in House’s eyes, things would not be better until he could run with the wind again… and as the sweet song of morphine lulled him to sleep, one lonely tear slid out from underneath his eyelid.
Wilson lovingly wiped it away with his thumb, staring at the wetness on his finger afterwards.
It had been a very long anno for both of them…
All emotions besides anger had wandered off into the unknown: tears had become foreign and merciless insults had become nothing più than annoying background noise.
Wilson found himself crying now, though: that one tear he carried on his thumb seemed to harbour all the sadness and fear that had plagued his friend’s cuore this year. He told himself then, what he would regret later: ‘I’m not leaving him... I can’t. He can’t do this alone and somewhere deep down he doesn’t want to, either.’
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two.
House was looking at the cane that leant nonchalantly against the table.
He did it; he’d achieved his goal… he could walk.
But he needed that thing to do so.
And there was the annoying, embarrassing fact that he limped.
He’d met some of his old lacrosse buddies in the supermercato once: he’d greeted them as he always had done… and they took one look at his leg and walked away, deciding that it couldn’t be the man they had known as their captain.
House hadn’t left his apartment since…
“House…” Wilson detto with a sigh as he sat down beside his friend.
“What!?” House asked him; they had discussed this many times before, with the same result.
“You need to go outside.”
“Don’t want to, nor do I actually need to.”
“Yes te do.”
“Still don’t want to.”
“I know what te want. I can’t give it to you, though… I can however buy te a birra if you’ll go to a bar with me?”
“Forget it.”
Wilson sighed: “You need to go outside!”
“No I Don’t! I’m not going out there again!”
“House?” Wilson asked, House turned the TV on and turned the volume up until his ears were about to burst.
Wilson snatched the remote out of his hand and turned it back down.
“You’re going to listen to me, House.” House turned away to look at something very interesting at the other side of the room.
Wilson caught his chin and forcibly turned his head so that they were face to face.
“House, listen to me… this is it, now. I wish I could change that but I can’t, you’ll have to learn to live with it… and that’s not easy and I’m not saying that it is but te have to try.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“I know, but te have to try somehow: people will stare at you… ignore them.”
“Can’t.”
“Because te feel like you’re a rarity, te feel that te deserve to be stared at? Well, that’s not true, but people are morons… and if anyone knows that, it’s you.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going outside anymore…” House whispered.
“Yes te are, and when te do, I’ll be there with you… but te don’t have to go today.”
Later in the evening after Wilson had served House his pain medication, Wilson sat on the edge of his friend’s letto and watched as a tear made its way down House’s cheek.
Wilson smiled.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three.
House had eventually gone outside with Wilson at his side.
Eventually he had accepted the cane,
Eventually Wilson left his apartment and the pills were his to pop when needed them… which turned out to be a rather large amount of times.
But he needed them... That was what he told himself, anyway.
The pills were meant for pain management, right? House knew many types of pain… and he took pills for each of them.
Wilson sat down on the divano successivo to House who was eyeing a little arancia, arancio vial as if heaven itself had settled on the superiore, in alto of his hand.
“Does it hurt that much?” he asked his friend, who raised his eyes in response.
“Yes.”
“How can I be sure that you’re telling the truth?”
“You can’t. You’ll just have to assume that I’m an addict.” ‘Which te already do.’ House thought sadly.
“House… I do not-“ House’s raised eyebrow effectively silenced Wilson. “Well…” Wilson then hesitated, “Are you?”
“NO.” with that, House stood abruptly and made his way towards his bedroom.
“House!” a startled Wilson yelled. “I didn’t mean to…” there was the sound of a door slamming shut.
Wilson thought it wiser to say no more.
When he entered House’s bedroom that night, the tear was already gone… all that remained was a track which Wilson traced with his index finger.
The little arancia, arancio vial lay in his friend’s hand.
Sighing, he placed it on the nightstand, right successivo to it, a glass of water.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four.
House had been hired in the same hospital that had ruined his life…
He needed to think, so no harsh words were spoken.
He needed a friend, so he left the door unlocked.
The wanted friend did come… from the very hospital that was the fonte of House’s troubles.
When Wilson found the door unlocked, he entered with a smile.
House was having a nightmare of some sort; tossing and turning in the sheets.
Wilson slowly approached him and where his hand touched House shoulder, the nightmare began to fade.
Wilson smiled, tucking his friend in as if he were an angelic child.
The tear was left unnoticed on House’s face.
Wilson slept on the couch.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five.
Sometimes, when Wilson looked at House, he remembered a long Lost friend of his…
A man with startling blue eyes that shone of friendship, not anger.
A man who could make anyone smile instead of cry… that same man sat in an office successivo to Wilson’s, pretending to be the same man still.
In truth, House knew that he would never be that man again.
He was trapped in his façade, entwined in his lie, had no choice but to continue this downward spiral.
Eventually, he hit rock bottom… took as many pills, drank as many beers as possible to soften the blow.
When he awoke, there was the steady beep of a monitor… people telling him he was suicidal, Wilson at his bedside saying:
“You could have died, Greg!” Every time House found himself in a hospital bed, people thought they could call him Greg…
“What are te talking about, Jimmy?” House asked, voice a lot louder than Wilson expected.
“What am I… the booze, that’s what I’m talking about! And the vicodin!”
“Oh, that… that’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” Wilson was now fuming with anger, “You just had your stomach pumped for God’s sake!”
“So what? Not like I’m dead o something…”
“You could have been… and… that doesn’t matter to te at all, does it?”
A half-hearted shake of the head was all Wilson got in response.
Wilson’s hand strayed towards House’s shoulder: “I know you’re depressed… I can help you, if te want.”
“You don’t want to help me, te just want your friend back… I’m not that guy anymore, Wilson.”
“You are my friend, House… why else would I be here?”
“Masochism?”
“I don’t care what te say: you’re still my friend.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“You are… stop doubting it, would you?”
When Wilson fell asleep later that night, still at House’s side, House cried the one tear with his eyes open:
He did doubt it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Six.
After that incident, Wilson decided that he would monitor his friend’s vicodin intake da prescribing it for him.
House stormed into his friend’s office:
“I need a refill.”
“Gave te one three days ago… te out of ‘em already?”
“It hurt.” House detto with a shrug.
“I know what giorno today is… I’ll give them to te tomorrow. Maybe it helps if te talk about it?”
“What… so it’s between my ears now? I don’t care what goddamned giorno it is! I need them!”
“No te don’t... te need a bottle of Prozac o something… te don’t need the vicodin; te want it.”
“So what? Just give them to me so I can go to sleep.” House was indeed suffering from insomnia, but the pills rarely helped.
“They’ve never done anything for your insomnia and te know it… tell me why te need them,
really need them.”
“Because I’m exhausted…”
With that, he settled himself on Wilson’s divano and closed his eyes, leaving Wilson at his scrivania, reception with his mouth wide open.
Wilson got up and draped a blanket over the body of his now sleeping friend.
“Goodnight, then”
Wilson looked through his patients’ charts whilst House slept.
The tear disappeared into the fabric of the couch.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seven.
House had thought about hiring some of the brighter doctors out there to work in his department for some time…
He began interviewing some of the candidates.
Every once in a while, when he encountered a real nutcase, he paged Wilson to come and -very childishly- laugh at the victim.
Overall, they’d had fun together this year… but when the giorno came and all the memories came with it, so did the tear.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eight.
House had found his dream team:
Eric Foreman.
Robert Chase.
Alison Cameron.
Three new students to teach,
Three new souls to torture,
Three new puppets to guide…
They thought he was weird, rude, impossible to work with… but still a genius.
House loved that, that they had to admit he was smarter than all three of them together regardless of what they thought about him.
Stacy returned to the hospital...
She had called him Greg, he didn't mind...
He saved the life of her husband and she thanked him as te would a friend, not a lover...
He sat inside his office and just let the tear slip… but when Wilson jumped the balcony-divider, he put his mask back on.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nine.
Again, there was the steady beep of a monitor.
Again, Wilson sat at his Friends bedside.
A ketamine induced coma?
What if House could run again? Would he laugh again? Would he be faster than Wilson? Would… it work? Would it wear off?
Wilson just held his hand, and the tear slid off as if the wind was already in his face.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wilson stepped into the office.
He knelt in front of his friend, taking House’s hands off the damaged thigh.
“House… let me.” He moved to massage the thigh but House’s quickly reclaimed their positions, guarding the hurtful area.
“House… I won’t hurt you: you’re my friend, remember? Let me.”
House’s hands slid off… slowly, Wilson’s fingers moved toward the scar.
Thumb:
I
Index finger:
Love
Middle finger:
You
Ring finger:
Too,
Little finger:
Really.
Wilson began carefully massaging the thigh and where House relaxed…
The tenth tear went.
Wilson smiled,
House smiled too.
The End.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Notes: That was it… Wilson may seem out of character at times but his wife did say he was Always there... and I don't see this as a Slash fic per se, because I really think Wilson could be that sweet and caring if House didn't mock him for it... it's a pretty old fic da the way, postato it on fanfiction.net a while a go... figured te guys would appreciate it, too...
commento and tell me what te think!
