After The Crash
Aug. 8th, 2011 11:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
damigellaThanks: to the ever awesome ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sick_wilson mods who alerted me to the necessity to include a spoiler warning!
Spoilers: for Season 7 and for hearsay about Season 8.
Warning: angst, depression, alcoholism, DUI, mention of character death (neither House nor Wilson - this is not part of gossip, at least none I have heard).
Word Count: ~1400.
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes (see warning).
Disclaimer: present.
Note: this fic is sex-free to celebratesick_wilson' birthday. Best wishes!
Summary: House gets out of jail more than one year after 7x23, and Wilson picks him up.
"I expected Thirteen and a cold dry Martini." He wasn't really disappointed: after four months of rehab and six of jail, just being free was intoxicating enough.
Wilson didn't answer. He grabbed House's bag, quickly put it in the Volvo's trunk, and started the engine. Neither spoke again until they were on the freeway.
"House… there's something I need to tell you."
"Something you haven't said already? You've been talking to me so often that both guards and inmates were making jokes about my boyfriend. In fact, you told me much more than I ever wanted to know about my ex-colleagues at PPTH and their boring spawn."
Wilson went on in the same somber tone, just as if he hadn't heard House at all.
"There are many things I have to tell you, actually."
House rolled his eyes. So typical of him to make a big fuss about every little thing. Probably some unsavory detail about the demise of the Diagnostics Department and the fate of his former team. Maybe the wombat was back in Australia - after all, he was no longer in danger of meeting his father there.
sick_wilson mods who alerted me to the necessity to include a spoiler warning!Spoilers: for Season 7 and for hearsay about Season 8.
Warning: angst, depression, alcoholism, DUI, mention of character death (neither House nor Wilson - this is not part of gossip, at least none I have heard).
Word Count: ~1400.
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes (see warning).
Disclaimer: present.
Note: this fic is sex-free to celebrate
sick_wilson' birthday. Best wishes!Summary: House gets out of jail more than one year after 7x23, and Wilson picks him up.
"I expected Thirteen and a cold dry Martini." He wasn't really disappointed: after four months of rehab and six of jail, just being free was intoxicating enough.
Wilson didn't answer. He grabbed House's bag, quickly put it in the Volvo's trunk, and started the engine. Neither spoke again until they were on the freeway.
"House… there's something I need to tell you."
"Something you haven't said already? You've been talking to me so often that both guards and inmates were making jokes about my boyfriend. In fact, you told me much more than I ever wanted to know about my ex-colleagues at PPTH and their boring spawn."
Wilson went on in the same somber tone, just as if he hadn't heard House at all.
"There are many things I have to tell you, actually."
House rolled his eyes. So typical of him to make a big fuss about every little thing. Probably some unsavory detail about the demise of the Diagnostics Department and the fate of his former team. Maybe the wombat was back in Australia - after all, he was no longer in danger of meeting his father there.
"Shoot."
"You don't have an apartment anymore. I sold it to pay the damage to Cuddy's place and the fine."
House nodded: he had given Wilson power of attorney on his property before he went into Mayfield again. He had never asked about his place, and briefly wondered whether there was still Vicodin hidden in it. Probably there was. He fought against a bitter sense of loss and an unexpected desire to cry by trying to sound more flippant than he felt.
"So were am I going to stay? Your spare room?"
"More or less. I sold the condo and bought a new place."
This was unexpected. "Why?"
Was it an impression or while hesitating to find an answer Wilson turned slightly red?
"We needed something larger and cheaper."
"We who?" Had Wilson neglected to inform him about Mrs Wilson the fourth? That would be an omission indeed, and yet it made sense.
He definitely got red this time. "You and I. Your stuff is all there: the furniture, the instruments, the books."
"Wow. It appears the jail gossip was better informed about my love life than I am. Have you already planned a ceremony? I'm not going to put out until I have a ring around my finger, you know."
He was really angry: so now Wilson thought he could take decisions about himself? Force him into cohabitation, and probably prolonged sobriety? If so, he would be unpleasantly surprised very soon. He doubted his pushers had all gone out of business during his detox and jail time.
"We'll talk about this later. There's so much more you… you still don't know."
He suddenly noticed Wilson was parking: he had been so concentrated on what they were saying that he hadn't even remarked when they had left the freeway. Wilson handed him his cane.
"Follow me."
They entered the cemetery together, and soon Wilson stopped in front of a shining new stone. House's heart seemed to stop with his feet. "Oh my God… Thirteen."
Wilson didn't look at him, and he didn't look at the grave either. His words seemed to come out of nowhere. "I kept your promise to her."
House read the date: five months ago. Surely Thirteen could have waited for him as long. He tried to remember what he knew about Huntigtons' final stages. Maybe she couldn't.
He barely noticed the quick movement with which Wilson pulled out a flat flask from the inside pocket of his coat; the smell of cheap vodka filled the air as he drained it in a series of long swallows. The effortless speed with which it was capped again and vanished back in the pocket made it look like it was a regular habit.
Wilson answered the question House didn't ask. "The only reason I still have a driving license is that I stopped driving when I quit PPTH. Today I was gambling that I wouldn't be checked."
By an unspoken agreement they were now heading back to the car.
"You don't have an apartment anymore. I sold it to pay the damage to Cuddy's place and the fine."
House nodded: he had given Wilson power of attorney on his property before he went into Mayfield again. He had never asked about his place, and briefly wondered whether there was still Vicodin hidden in it. Probably there was. He fought against a bitter sense of loss and an unexpected desire to cry by trying to sound more flippant than he felt.
"So were am I going to stay? Your spare room?"
"More or less. I sold the condo and bought a new place."
This was unexpected. "Why?"
Was it an impression or while hesitating to find an answer Wilson turned slightly red?
"We needed something larger and cheaper."
"We who?" Had Wilson neglected to inform him about Mrs Wilson the fourth? That would be an omission indeed, and yet it made sense.
He definitely got red this time. "You and I. Your stuff is all there: the furniture, the instruments, the books."
"Wow. It appears the jail gossip was better informed about my love life than I am. Have you already planned a ceremony? I'm not going to put out until I have a ring around my finger, you know."
He was really angry: so now Wilson thought he could take decisions about himself? Force him into cohabitation, and probably prolonged sobriety? If so, he would be unpleasantly surprised very soon. He doubted his pushers had all gone out of business during his detox and jail time.
"We'll talk about this later. There's so much more you… you still don't know."
He suddenly noticed Wilson was parking: he had been so concentrated on what they were saying that he hadn't even remarked when they had left the freeway. Wilson handed him his cane.
"Follow me."
They entered the cemetery together, and soon Wilson stopped in front of a shining new stone. House's heart seemed to stop with his feet. "Oh my God… Thirteen."
Wilson didn't look at him, and he didn't look at the grave either. His words seemed to come out of nowhere. "I kept your promise to her."
House read the date: five months ago. Surely Thirteen could have waited for him as long. He tried to remember what he knew about Huntigtons' final stages. Maybe she couldn't.
He barely noticed the quick movement with which Wilson pulled out a flat flask from the inside pocket of his coat; the smell of cheap vodka filled the air as he drained it in a series of long swallows. The effortless speed with which it was capped again and vanished back in the pocket made it look like it was a regular habit.
Wilson answered the question House didn't ask. "The only reason I still have a driving license is that I stopped driving when I quit PPTH. Today I was gambling that I wouldn't be checked."
By an unspoken agreement they were now heading back to the car.
"I can drive, if you want."
Wilson handed him the key. "It's probably better. I was already above DUI limits when I picked you up."
They were silent for the rest of the drive, except for Wilson telling House where to go. Finally they parked in front of an isolated house which clearly had seen better days, in a remote suburb. House ignored the wheelchair ramp and walked up the few stairs to the front door, then opened it with the key Wilson pushed in his hand - his key to their place. It still seemed unreal.
As he stepped in, Wilson following with his bag, he noticed that the very large living room was furnished like his apartment had been: all that was left of the condo seemed to be the organ. Wilson sat heavily on the couch, grabbed an open bottle from the coffee table, and took two generous swigs.
"Look around without me. You don't need a chaperon, and I'll soon be in no condition to walk."
Curiosity won over worry, and House started opening doors. There was a master bedroom furnished with his own furniture, with an en-suite bathroom which looked freshly renovated so as to make it fit for a handicapped person. The second bedroom was smaller, darker, scantily furnished and inhabited: opening the closet revealed cheap clothing and shoes. And a large number of bottles, most of them empty. The bathroom in the corridor hadn't been renovated, and was in use - but it contained much less than Wilson's usual care products: no hairdryer was visible anywhere. Another small room stood empty, and stairs led down to the basement.
He limped back to the living room. His thigh was hurting: he gulped down two Ibuprofen and sat down on the couch near Wilson, who seemed to have dozed off. Now that he looked better at him, House noticed how much older he seemed to have become - probably he had overlooked it during the jail visits, courtesy of the glass, distance and artificial lights. Or, he had to admit, because he hadn't even considered the possibility that this might be happening.
Wilson groaned, opened his eyes, grabbed some sheets of paper from the table and put them in his hands. House went quickly through them. He discovered to his surprise that their new home was jointly owned, and so was a checking account containing an impressive amount of money.
Wilson handed him the key. "It's probably better. I was already above DUI limits when I picked you up."
They were silent for the rest of the drive, except for Wilson telling House where to go. Finally they parked in front of an isolated house which clearly had seen better days, in a remote suburb. House ignored the wheelchair ramp and walked up the few stairs to the front door, then opened it with the key Wilson pushed in his hand - his key to their place. It still seemed unreal.
As he stepped in, Wilson following with his bag, he noticed that the very large living room was furnished like his apartment had been: all that was left of the condo seemed to be the organ. Wilson sat heavily on the couch, grabbed an open bottle from the coffee table, and took two generous swigs.
"Look around without me. You don't need a chaperon, and I'll soon be in no condition to walk."
Curiosity won over worry, and House started opening doors. There was a master bedroom furnished with his own furniture, with an en-suite bathroom which looked freshly renovated so as to make it fit for a handicapped person. The second bedroom was smaller, darker, scantily furnished and inhabited: opening the closet revealed cheap clothing and shoes. And a large number of bottles, most of them empty. The bathroom in the corridor hadn't been renovated, and was in use - but it contained much less than Wilson's usual care products: no hairdryer was visible anywhere. Another small room stood empty, and stairs led down to the basement.
He limped back to the living room. His thigh was hurting: he gulped down two Ibuprofen and sat down on the couch near Wilson, who seemed to have dozed off. Now that he looked better at him, House noticed how much older he seemed to have become - probably he had overlooked it during the jail visits, courtesy of the glass, distance and artificial lights. Or, he had to admit, because he hadn't even considered the possibility that this might be happening.
Wilson groaned, opened his eyes, grabbed some sheets of paper from the table and put them in his hands. House went quickly through them. He discovered to his surprise that their new home was jointly owned, and so was a checking account containing an impressive amount of money.
He realized Wilson was about to speak when the smell of alcohol on his breath hit his nose: enough to make him long for a drink, and at the same time cling desperately to his hard-won sobriety.
"As to the question whether we should live together: this place is legally ours, but I view it as yours. If you don't want me, I'll go."
"To a rehab program for alcoholics, while I figure out how much I owe you. I bet it's enough for you to get a new place."
"No, House. I'm not going to do that. I… let me start from the beginning. When you didn't show up or call for three months I went on a mixture of antidepressants and sleeping pills. I was too sick to work, and took time off with the excuse of the wrist."
House nodded. He knew about this, except for the sleeping pills, but it wasn't a big surprise.
"When you went to rehab and I had to deal with the practical side of things I felt better. I felt… I don't know. Useful."
That was even less surprising. And yet there was an ominous chill in Wilson's voice, as well as a deep pain.
"I didn't expect they would make you go to jail, not after your successful rehab. About the same time Remy… died. I felt like a total failure; when medicines became insufficient to numb the pain I switched to alcohol. I took unpaid leave, then resigned - my psychiatrist certified drug-resistant major depression, so I received severance pay."
Wilson had grabbed both of House's hands, and was holding them tight. House didn't know how to react: his brain was still trying to make sense of what he had been told. "I don't want to stop drinking, House. Unless…"
"Unless what?" House was terrified: Wilson was clearly sicker than he'd been when he crashed the car into Cuddy's place, and had been for months now. He desperately wanted to help him but had no idea how to, or if it was at all possible.
Wilson dropped his hands as abruptly as he had grabbed them, and hid his face in his palms. There was no hint of hope in the voice filtering through his fingers. "Unless you care. Unless you help me find a reason to live."
"As to the question whether we should live together: this place is legally ours, but I view it as yours. If you don't want me, I'll go."
"To a rehab program for alcoholics, while I figure out how much I owe you. I bet it's enough for you to get a new place."
"No, House. I'm not going to do that. I… let me start from the beginning. When you didn't show up or call for three months I went on a mixture of antidepressants and sleeping pills. I was too sick to work, and took time off with the excuse of the wrist."
House nodded. He knew about this, except for the sleeping pills, but it wasn't a big surprise.
"When you went to rehab and I had to deal with the practical side of things I felt better. I felt… I don't know. Useful."
That was even less surprising. And yet there was an ominous chill in Wilson's voice, as well as a deep pain.
"I didn't expect they would make you go to jail, not after your successful rehab. About the same time Remy… died. I felt like a total failure; when medicines became insufficient to numb the pain I switched to alcohol. I took unpaid leave, then resigned - my psychiatrist certified drug-resistant major depression, so I received severance pay."
Wilson had grabbed both of House's hands, and was holding them tight. House didn't know how to react: his brain was still trying to make sense of what he had been told. "I don't want to stop drinking, House. Unless…"
"Unless what?" House was terrified: Wilson was clearly sicker than he'd been when he crashed the car into Cuddy's place, and had been for months now. He desperately wanted to help him but had no idea how to, or if it was at all possible.
Wilson dropped his hands as abruptly as he had grabbed them, and hid his face in his palms. There was no hint of hope in the voice filtering through his fingers. "Unless you care. Unless you help me find a reason to live."
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no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 11:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 11:37 am (UTC)it might be what House needs for once, to care for someone else
That was the starting point, the idea of reversing their roles. I also wanted to show how, without House's strong presence in his life, Wilson goes off the deep end and is unable to face hard moments, like helping Thirteen find a good death - something he has plenty of experience with, although admittedly not with people he's friendly with. It's easy for him not to get caught, but much harder to live with the memory.
I think this was born by karaokegal mentioning in a meme that House would have a harder time leaving without Wilson than the converse. I disagree, and think that Wilson needs House quite as much.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 11:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 11:38 am (UTC)Poor Thirteen... I think House would feel guilty that he wasn't there by her death-bed. I guess, Wilson was caring and efficient in his sad mission, but I think Thirteen asked House because she needed him more as a person than a doctor.
Wilson becoming an alcoholic? I'm sorry, but I don't believe in that course of events. I mean, it all happened too soon. If House was sentenced for several years in jail, I would be the first to believe you! I think Wilson could wait a year, because after coming back House would need his friend's support in his once-again-won sobriety. house would need Wilson's help in readjusting to dramatic life changes (job loss, moving into a new place, Remy's death).
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 12:19 pm (UTC)What pushed Wilson into drinking was his inability to forget the last look Remy had given him, the way she had said "Thank you, House" as her brain fogged out, and the nightmares with House dying (a sequel to similar nightmares during the three months were House was gone).
Thank you so much for a well-thought comment!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 03:25 pm (UTC)Don't break my heart! I dread to think what would happen to Thirteen in the next season (as David Shore told we would see her in one or two episodes)... You're great writer in describing feelings and emotional state of characters in a few words.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 04:22 pm (UTC)Sorry about that. I think "helping" Thirteen would be very hard emotionally for either House or Wilson, and yet either of them would do it because it's the right thing to do. I do hope she doesn't die in canon, but it is unfortunately a possibility. At least I heard no rumors about her permanently leaving the show.
Thank you so much for the kind words.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 05:09 pm (UTC)Two points I want to make quickly:
1.) I really feel this should have a follow up chapter. it doesn’t have to have a happy ending if you don’t want but I believe that we need to see more of a response from House here to tie loose ends together so to speak. Of course I’d like a happily-ever-after ending but realistically, life isn’t like that. As a reader this feels incomplete, but of course, it’s up to you whether to leave it as is or write a follow up.
2.) I love how you subtly but powerfully showed the shift in attitude in House concerning his own sobriety from wanting to throw it away at the beginning of this piece to wanting to cling to it toward the end and how that also shows us how incredibly much Wilson’s well-being is important to him, more so than his own.
He was really angry: so now Wilson thought he could take decisions about himself? Force him into cohabitation, and probably prolonged sobriety? If so, he would be unpleasantly surprised very soon. He doubted his pushers had all gone out of business during his detox and jail time.
Here House is prepared to relapse on purpose and continue the self-destructive ways that led him back to Mayfield and then prison, apparently having learned nothing from all of it. However, after he becomes aware of Wilson’s alcoholism, a paradigm shift occurs for House.
He realized Wilson was about to speak when the smell of alcohol on his breath hit his nose: enough to make him long for a drink, and at the same time cling desperately to his hard-won sobriety.
Once the tables were turned and Wilson became the one in trouble and House was the one sober who cared enough to want to help him, his desire to get high and drunk and throw it all away vaporized. This is truly a role reversal for the two of them, and also an illustration of what I previously stated: That together they can find completion, but apart they can’t and flounder like fish out of water, doomed if not returned to the proper element in time.
Sorry for the essay, but this fic of yours spoke to me:^) I hope you do write a follow-up to it.
(Edited to fix format error and spelling mistake)
no subject
Date: 2011-08-08 09:52 pm (UTC)Yes. YES. YES. [Imagine this going on and on.]
I'm glad you found House's shift in viewpoint believable; I was afraid it would be too sudden, but I think precisely what you wrote about this. Nothing makes House more sober and dependable than having to care for Wilson - I agree with rslhilson he wouldn't need Vicodin for that, ever (I am looking forward and dreading the next installment of Poison and Wine, where this point is made).
I was very torn as to whether to have a sequel. This fic started its life as a double drabble, then grew almost of its own. I think I'll write a sequel if I can find one which involves no death.
Thank you for the very detailed and heartfelt comment, I read it and read it and waited to answer it so I could read it some more :).
no subject
Date: 2011-08-09 06:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-09 08:20 pm (UTC)I could see this. Wilson is on the edge of a major depressive episode and he seems like the type who could turn to alcohol (I have read a few other fics with him having become an alcoholic and it always works in my mind). It could also be the ONLY thing that really forces House to pull it together. Of course House might also run as he avoids emotional pain at all costs, but it could be a turning point for both of them if House was willing to make that leap.
Nicely done! :)
no subject
Date: 2011-08-09 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-09 11:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-12 08:42 pm (UTC)