deelaundry | Nothing on the Radio (R)

Posted to house_wilson and housefic

Title: Nothing on the Radio
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: Hard R for violence
Words: 1236
Summary: He’d never wanted Wilson to hate him, not once in this game that they’d fallen into. He wanted Wilson to be angry at him, but not to hate him.
Notes: Warning for violence. Sequel to Leave in Quiet, set directly after episode 4-16, “Wilson’s Heart.” Un-betaed. Thank you to an anon friend for telling me what I needed to hear.

After failing to save Amber, he’d woken in the hospital bed not knowing what he would find.

He didn’t want Wilson to hate him. He’d never wanted Wilson to hate him, not once in this game that they’d fallen into. He wanted Wilson to be angry at him. Every insult House threw out, every petty trick, every time he used Wilson in ways tiny and huge – they were all deposits in the bank. Barrels dumped into the reservoir to stuff it full until the dam broke and Wilson spilled all that fury out over House, administered exactly what House wanted. What he craved. What he needed.

But he didn’t want Wilson to hate him.

Looking into red-rimmed sorrowful eyes, House didn’t know one way or the other.

That scared the shit out of him.

***

Cuddy discharged him from the hospital after a few days. Wilson hadn’t stopped by to see him and wasn’t waiting with open arms (or clenched fists) when Cuddy helped him get settled back in his apartment. She offered to stay; he turned her down.

She insisted on staying; he raised a ruckus. The combination of bluster, threats, and a genuine statement of gratitude for her assistance confused her enough to get her out the door, which he locked behind her with a sigh.

What now? dream-Amber had asked.

Fuck if he knew.

***

It was... the next – a few – some different day when House awoke at 18:69, according to his clock. His head hurt, and his leg hurt, and his shoulder was screaming, but at least he was alive.

At least.

He trudged into the bathroom, head hanging low. Posture and stupor colluded to keep him from seeing what had happened to the bathroom mirror until after his pee and halfway through his tooth brushing.

It had been covered with a thick black cloth.

Oh, House thought. Wilson’s here.

He finished brushing his teeth and gargled for good measure. He thought about changing out of his pajama bottoms and tee, but nah. Wilson didn’t stand on formality.

Except when he did. If that was the case now, he would let House know by bending his ear with an annoying, interminable lecture. Or literally bending his ear with vise-like fingers, if now was a time when they were doing this. If House had been more awake, he might have been able to say which one he’d prefer.

He made his way down the hall without his cane; bookcases held him up well enough. The TV was on, just at a murmuring volume. Wilson, sitting on the couch, had his head turned that way, but House could tell he wasn’t watching.

“Hey,” House called.

“Brought you a present,” Wilson replied, gesturing toward the large cardboard box on the coffee table. His gaze was still fixed somewhere in the direction of the TV screen.

House could see what the box was, even in the dim light of the living room, but headed to it anyway. After prying it open, he pulled out one of the bottles. “Case of whiskey. Much better than flowers or a bunch of balloons.”

“It’s just Jack Daniels,” Wilson replied, rising from the couch. “Not scotch, I’m afraid.”

“Couldn’t get Glenfiddich?” House asked as he turned toward Wilson, one hand still on top of the box.

Wilson slipped the bottle from House’s hand and cradled it in his own. “Didn’t like its shape,” he said, and clocked House in the temple with a corner of the Jack.

“Fuck!” House shouted and clutched at his head. He already had a crack in the back of his head; he didn’t need a matching one on the side.

“Not today,” said Wilson, and the bottle crashed down on House’s shoulder.

House had fear and suddenly realized will to live on his side; Wilson had a tidal wave of rage on his; House went down hard, his right hip catching on the corner of the coffee table. A new divot to go with the old, but he barely had a second to think about it, because his right leg was being assaulted by an alcohol-filled brick.

Fuck, that bottle hurt, with edges and corners everywhere. House scrambled to get Wilson off him, away from him, but Wilson’s foot caught the inside of House’s left elbow and slammed that arm to the floor. Wilson’s other heel came down twice on House’s left wrist, snap, snap, rip of ligaments and the scream of bone on bone.

He had a moment to contemplate the pain as the man above him stumbled, stepped, circled. Then Wilson fell to his knees, shins across House’s right forearm, right knee cupped in the palm it was grinding into the ground, and the bottle of Jack came down again.

Not this, this was never what House wanted; this wasn’t good or safe or free. It wasn’t release; it wasn’t joy; it was only meaningless agony and the repeated thuds of a heavy bottle falling, pounding, Wilson’s eyes empty and distant.

House passed out then, awakening to gentle taps on his cheek. Brown eyes looked down at him with something that might have passed for concern if in the next second his nostrils hadn’t been filled with the sweet tangy odor of whiskey as Wilson doused him with it. Knee to shoulder, he was bathed in alcohol, the last few splashes hitting his face as the empty bottle went back to the work of pulverizing his leg.

House waited, all struggle gone, until the rhythm slowed, and then finally stopped. There was a new sound: the muted clank of glass rolling onto the rug.

“It was supposed to break,” Wilson murmured as his face cracked. His eyes screwed tightly shut but tears still escaped, drip-dropping onto House’s leg.

“Goodbye,” Wilson said, and pushed up off the floor.

House had been afraid before, but now he was terrified. Adrenaline fuelled him enough to get his right hand up and clasped around Wilson’s wrist. “No.” If Wilson left, that was it, the end, for both of them, boom, boom. “No. Stay.” He tugged and Wilson came down to the floor, quietly, passively, like a child on the cusp of sleep. Wilson’s cell was in the man’s back pocket; House pulled it out and then tucked Wilson’s head onto House’s shoulder.

He spent a minute listening to Wilson’s breathing, which was slow and steady, before punching Cuddy’s number into the phone and bringing it to his ear. As the adrenaline swirled away he struggled not to lose consciousness, struggled to stay awake and save them both.

“What?” Cuddy snapped, and House huffed out a laugh.

“Need help. My apartment.”

“I’m not coming over just to change the TV channel.”

“Hurt.” His head spun, and he had to stop for a moment.

“House? House?” She cared. Ha. He still had it.

“Ambulance.”

Clicks on her end – Super Administrator to the rescue. “What happened?”

“You’ll see.” He closed his eyes. So tired. But one more thing to say. “Cuddy, promise me.”

“Anything, House. Just stay with me. What do you want?”

“Put Wilson on suicide watch.”

“What?” Surprised her with that one.

Wilson’s breathing was still slow and steady; his body was completely still. But House would bet all he had – which was not much, true – that instead of sleeping, Wilson had his eyes wide open, staring into nothing.

“Promise me,” House insisted.

“I promise.”

House let himself fall.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

purridot.livejournal.com

HOLY CRAP, DEE!

I loved the unexpectedness of events -- from the assault to the brief calm to the suicide alert -- one surprise emotional punch after another, like a prize fight. Eeeee! (In a good way)

From:

nutty implies a certain level of pizazz I just don't have

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