"House..." I looked up from my motorcycle, the unfair uncertainties and some what pointless questions flooded my mind. I was concerned about House, and his reaction to my cancer. I wanted him to understand that whatever he did, just to give me a few more months, if not weeks, of life had completely destroyed his many years at it. For once, I had accepted my fate of cancer; I'm not going to beat it and I'm not even going to bother trying.
I'm an oncologist, not a pessimistic pushover I was a few years ago. Those years of House walking over me, all those years of him taunting me, robbing me, having a detective freeze my bank account, forging my name, and many many countless of other sins he's committed to me; I have always been there for him, I just wanted to help him, to make him less miserable, for him to actually smile out of happiness rather than satisfaction or a high from Vicodin.
Why did I stick with him, if all he's ever done is treat me like absolutely dog crap in a lunch bag, that's been lit on fire, on a welcome mat?
Honestly, I've searched for the answers for hours — days — weeks on end, but the stubborn bastard just won't crack.
"Hmph—?" House looked up from his rather large apple fritter, with lots of fatty 'fruits' and a diabetic's paradise of powdered sugar on it. I guess he thought I wanted a piece because he offered me sum, to which I tactfully turned down but I think my eyes betrayed my actions. Maybe he looked at my shoes and got worried about how tight they were, or if I'm lying or some of his weird... yet awfully convincing philosophy about how if my nose grows one millimeter taller, I'm telling the truth but if I decided to bring a chicken to work: I'm lying.
Everybody lies, I guess.
"What?" House asked, wiping his face and hands on a napkin. "Ready to go again? I barely bent my knees to attempt getting off of this damn machine."
I chuckled softly, holding the urge just to sit there and just cry. The stinging and prickling felt like ants trying to escape my eye sockets, I sniffed, the sadness betraying my attempts to hold back my tears. My emotions overpowered my attempt at logical thinking, and it only hit me harder than I imagined, because it hurt me so god damn bad; Despite every bad thing that he's done for me, I feared for his safety to himself. I feared his own mind, because when I'm gone: what's there left for him? Nothing.
There's nothing for him.
He gave up everything for me, and it made me feel special at first
but it only grew to pain.
Nothing but the pain for the eventual death.
And if I have to leave, I wished that I would just leave.
Because his lingering presence only added fuel to my hurt.
And every pain that I feel right now just feels too real.
Too real to be a nightmare.
Too real to be anything else but reality.
But I don't, I don't leave.
I want to be with him for my last days.
Not because of my own selfish intent.
Not romance.
He has no one who will be there, and I finally see all the pain.
Not just the few glimpse of it, not just enough to know he's miserable.
I see his mental scars, I see that he bleeds internally and as much as he was a narcissist
He never flaunted them unless he was asked.
Unless he was provoked.
Unlike me, who took every opportunity to let it known as if it was my first line of defense.
I don't know what I feel, but whatever it is:
I never needed him as much as I needed oxygen before.
Because he needs me as desperately as he needs oxygen.
And that's selfish, I know.
I shakily took off my sunglasses and my helmet, turning the ignition off of my motorcycle. The tears falling slowly, but freely.
But my heart still hurt, not as much as my head.
"What will you do—" I began to ponder him, starting to stare deep into the slowly torrents of pain in the blue void that was his eyes eyes, the last piece of his humanity still clinging desperately in his eyes. It pained me to know that I was still the only thing that separated him and being alone, and to know that I was leaving him very shortly really really struck me in the heart, and made me think from time to time; what if I just stuck with the chemo; to keep him company before he loses it all? I can't even begin to comprehend when that pain will eventually—
I meant to use inevitable, but that word only causes my tears to fall harder. I wiped my eyes, knowing I had House's full attention. I heard the gravel beneath us crunch as House pulled me off of the motorcycle and onto the side railing, sitting next to me with his piercing eyes watching my face. As eerie as it was, he watched me cry like Walter White watched that woman choke on that one show, however, I swear I saw his eyes water slightly but that thought wasn't entertained as House, being House, pushed his feelings into the void that was his eyes.
I stumbled on my words, my own consciousnesses catching up with me as I tried to finish my question. I couldn't find the right words, as if my mind had been sucked dry by a vampire of the brain. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, and I feared the verbal repercussions that would soon follow, because House being House, would quickly swoop the opportunity to make me feel more like crap. I was looked back up to see him offering tissues that he's been keeping in his jacket's pocket, I suspect as much.
I took them, hoping they weren't the same napkins he used to wipe his face with. I took them to dry my face, trying to steady my breathing.
Through that whole scene, House didn't say an entire word.
Waiting for me to finish my question.
"What will you do... when I do go...?" I asked him, looking at him with shaky eyes.
"Besides the obvious drinking, crying, mourning?" House of course had to be an ass. But before I could reply, he cut me off. "I would visit your grave, everyday, for as long as my life means something to me."
"Promise me you'll stay yourself," I knew that was pointless. House would never promise that. "Promise me you won't hurt yourself because I'm gone..."
"If I did, then my life wouldn't be meaningful, would it?" House, still being an ass, but his words actually comforted me. "C'mon, we still got one more week. It's California in a few more miles.
We stood up, but I embraced him, tightly. Hugging him.
And if I told this story to anyone other than myself: you'd say I was lying.
But House hugged me back, and I knew he had tears running off of my shoulder and down my back.
House
I shot up in my blankets, the image of Wilson never leaving my head.
I reached for my Vicodin.
My heart hurt more than my leg.
My heart broke more than Scootaloo's wings.
My heart burned worse than that orange gak.
I twisted open the bottle and just pour a mouthful, I don't care if I overdose today.
I want my heart to stop hurting.
I want to stop missing Wilson.
I can't stop mourning him, and it was hypocritical.
I want to stop feeling alone.
Alone