damigella: (sad_thoughtful_wilson)
[personal profile] damigella
Chapter 1 and warnings. Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.


I sit on the couch, still faintly feeling the warmth of his thigh against mine, and I wait for him to get up and leave my apartment and my life.

"Wilson, I... I'm sorry. I should have told you earlier. I should have talked to you openly from the start, about the rehab, the jailtime, and about this. But my first concern was your health, and once you had blindness to deal with I couldn't bring myself to raise yet more issues. I'm not so good with words anyway"

Finding words is painful indeed. I just wish I could curl up in a ball and die. But I need to know.

"Why are you here now? Surely you realize your presence hurts me, that I'd rather be alone. Find my own balance, my own life." I want to add 'Forget you,' but I still find it hard to lie.

"I'd say my absence hurt you more than my presence so far. It was enough for you to give yourself a severe handicap, and it could have killed you. I don't trust you not to do anything stupid if I leave you alone."

I pull out my pills and juggle the bottle, the tinkling sound meaning health and safety. "Don't worry. I won't get so sick again. See? Antidepressants that work."

House lets out a deep sigh. Followed by a deeper one. "I... I helped your psychiatrist select those pills, Wilson."

"Because of course you know better than a specialist, right? Never mind all he studied and you didn't." I shout without caring who can hear me, so lost in anger that I have no sense of shame. House doesn't shout back; he just sighs again. I can feel his weight shifting uneasily on the couch.

"Wilson, I know what's in there. Starch and low-dose beta-blockers to help keep your blood pressure under control."

I feel like I've been hit. "You mean the best antidepressant I've ever had is ..."

"A placebo," he swiftly completes the sentence for me. "Sorry, Wilson. But I don't trust the placebo effect in the long run."

My head is spinning, there have been too many surprises in the last few minutes. The happy pills are starch. House knows I love him because I told him, and instead of laughing or running away he wants to stay and help. And he has excused himself. Admitted fault, that is. I replay his words in my head, wishing hard I could see his face, check in his eyes that he actually meant it, that he wasn't screwing with me, his eyes chuckling at a too easy prank played on his blind ex-best friend...

I cannot stand being in a room with him any more. I find my way to the bathroom first, to drink and cry and pee, and then to my bedroom: I randomly discard my clothes (something I have been taught not to do, of course, will make it hard to find them again) and curl up under the comforter in my underwear. I close my eyes and wait for sleep, hoping that when I wake up the world will make sense again.

------

My stomach growls, and there's a bad taste in my mouth that reminds me I didn't brush my teeth yesterday evening. Yesterday evening. Memory returns, bringing pain and bewilderment, but no more understanding than yesterday did. I don't open my eyes immediately (I've learned that it's better this way) but grope my way to my watch and press the button.

"Six forty-three, a.m."

I may as well get up. After the shower I feel better. It's warm at home, so I don't bother looking for the discarded clothes; I just wear clean briefs and t-shirt and go to the kitchen, trying to remember where the breakfast ingredients are. And I stop at the door.

"Good morning. You didn't ask me again to leave so I assumed I could stay. Your couch could be more comfortable, though."

I don't need to ask what he's doing: the room smells of fried bacon and freshly brewed coffee. I try to speak but he pushes me firmly towards a chair.

"Eat first, you're still underweight. We'll talk later."

As I did yesterday, I find it easier to agree.

_____

To my big surprise, it sounds like House is tidying up the kitchen. I can almost hear him over the Bach concerto streaming from my stereo - he has brought his own music. I'm about to ask how much else he packed and how long he expected to stay when the telephone rings.

"You better pick it up," House yells over the water noises, "and go chat in the bedroom. It's a private call."

I slowly find my way to where the landline phone sits, exactly where it has always been, and press the answer button while I walk to the bedroom. And I almost fall down when I recognize the voice at the other end of the line. "Wilson? How are you?"

It's private indeed. I whisper "Just wait" and in two steps I'm in the bedroom, the door closed.

"Good morning, Cuddy. How's life in Florida?"

I can hear her chuckle. "Great. Nothing like a small child in the household to appreciate a frost-free winter." She pauses, and when she speaks again her tone is completely different. "House told me about you. I'm so sorry, Wilson."

It's good hat I'm sitting on the bed, since my legs wouldn't probably carry me now. "You and House are on speaking terms?"

"Remy sent me an email the morning after the crash; said she was sure I would want to know, and added that House was at your bedside. I may not be a genius like Greg, but it was clear to me whose idea the phone call was. A few days later she called again and asked me for help in contacting Dr. Yu on Greg's behalf. Not too long after that I got a letter from him, a handwritten, paper letter with a stamp on." Her voice was strange. Calm and yet deeply emotional.

"It was an apology, Wilson. He wrote that he was sorry for what he had done and that, although he felt he had had a right to be angry at me, what he did was a crime and inexcusable. He hoped Rachel and I were starting to get over it and told me he was willing to do anything that might help, including undergoing therapy, paying further damages, or joining some kind of AA for formerly violent domestic partners."

I hold the phone as it's unreal. This cannot be. Not House.

"I took a long time to think about it. Finally I let him know that any further contact should go via my lawyer. Three days ago he sent an email, with an update on your condition and a request to call you this morning. To tell you he had apologized because, and I quote, 'Wilson wouldn't believe it otherwise.' I called the hospital and talked to your therapist about it, and she encouraged me to do so. Said it might help you, so I hope it did."

I thread my fingers through my hair. "Probably it did. Except I'm too upset to decide that right now. This is so unexpected."

"Believe me, it was unexpected for me, too. I read that letter so many times it started to tear in the middle fold. I don't know what happened to him. He seemed so different."

"What did he say in the email? Did he explain why he wanted me to know?"

There was a pause on the other side.

"I'd rather not answer this, Wilson. You should ask him, though."
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November 2011

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