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Title: Cry
Pairing: House+Wilson, House+Cuddy
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: spoliers for s4 finale
Summary: Fic starting the day Stacy left and extending until Wilson walks away from house's hospital room, centered around crying. Just seven pages though.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: ironically, I cried while I was writing this.
T
House swallowed, curling up on his couch.
He could barely keep his eyes open, he hurt all over...
His bad leg spasmed, he cried out softly, clenching his hand on the edge of the couch.
He was so exhausted he could barely move...
Another spasm, another cry.
He rolled onto his back, panting with effort and pain, downing the pill he hadn't taken at the hospital, so he could get home without worrying about the combined effects of narcotics and complete exhaustion.
He hated dry-swallowing pills.
It made him feel like a junkie.
The phone rang, he reached for it, it was too far, he dropped his hand.
The answering machine picked up, 'House, are you home? House, come on, this isn't funny. Stacy isn't answering my pages, and neither are you, and you just disappeared. House, come on, I heard what happened, but... please tell me you're not doing anything stupid. House, please, please, please, if you're there, pick up. I'm not hanging up. Come on, please....'
House dragged himself to his feet, panting, and grabbed the phone, leaning heavily on the table.
“Wilson, I just took a cab home. I'm fine. Relatively fine. And the stupidest thing I was planning to do was drink a beer with my drugs.”
'House, you really shouldn't--'
“Oh, give it a break, Wilson. I'm too tired for that.”
A sigh on the other end.
'House... just promise me you're not gonna do anything stupid.'
Silence.
'House?'
Nothing.
'House, did you hear me?'
A dull thud.
Wilson hung up, rushing out of his office and grabbing his coat.
He found House sprawled on the floor next to the phone, looking exhausted and pained, but not significantly the worse for wear.
“House, what happened?” he asked, gently helping his friend sit, letting him lean against the younger doctor's chest, completely spent.
“Leg cramped,” mumbled House, closing his eyes as he rested his head against Wilson's shoulder, “fell. Too sore, tired... couldn't get back up.”
Wilson sighed, nodding, as he held House close and gently brushed his hand through the sweaty hair.
“You need a shower.”
House looked up at him, half asleep.
“PT does that.”
“Why didn't you wait for me? I would have driven you, you didn't have to take a cab.”
“Wanted to take a cab. Wanted to think. Didn't want to get drowned in sympathy.”
Wilson nodded silently, sliding his right arm under House's knees, and readjusting the left, around House's shoulders.
He lifted the older doctor, smiled a little bit, as he closed his eyes and rested his head against Wilson's chest, then carried him into the bedroom and set him on the bed.
“Get some rest, House,” he said, pulling the sweat-soaked shirt over House's head, “you need it.”
House mumbled something sleepy and unintelligible, rubbing his upper arms where the cold air touched the wet skin.
Wilson divested him of his pants, pulled a large t-shirt over his head, and sat on the bed next to him.
“You gonna be ok?” he asked, rubbing House's lower back, smiling a little to himself as the older doctor let out a sleepy grunt of pleasure.
“Yeah,” mumbled House, sighing as Wilson's hand continued to move, “'s long as you keep rubbing.”
Wilson smiled a little more, and didn't leave.
He had ended up sitting against the pillows on Stacy's usual side of the bed, still rubbing his hand over his exhausted friend's back. House had fallen deeply asleep not very much later, and Wilson had followed him, accidentally.
He was glad he had.
He had been woken by a soft, almost inaudible, breathy sound.
It had turned out to be House crying nearly silently, obviously in severe pain.
Wilson wasted no time in calling an ambulance—this was House, he wasn't take any chances, and he wasn't sure he could get the older doctor to the car by himself anyway—then turned back to his friend, holding him close as he leaked tears of exhaustion and pain onto Wilson's shoulder.
It was only in the most extreme of circumstances, that House would allow someone to comfort him like that. And it scared Wilson that he was being allowed.
House screamed, when the paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher.
The harsh sound nearly sent Wilson into shock.
He gripped House's hand, giving him an anchor as the paramedics lifted the stretcher down the steps, into the ambulance.
Wilson climbed in with them, hand never leaving his friend's.
House had a death grip on it.
By the time he had been formally admitted, House had already received a shot of demerol, and was feeling, if not better, at least in less than agony.
Wilson sighed, sitting beside the hospital bed as he watched the tension slowly recede from his friend's lanky frame.
House looked so exhausted it wasn't even funny.
“Hey,” said Wilson, reaching up and taking House's hand again, as he had in the ambulance, “how you feeling? Can you give me a number, buddy?”
House looked at him, swallowing.
“'round a four. Lot better,” he mumbled, briefly squeezing Wilson's hand, “hate to say it, but I'm glad you were there.”
Wilson nodded, “me too. Except, I don't mind saying it. Because I'm worried about you, House.”
House smirked tiredly, eyelids drifting shut.
House opened his eyes, hazily looking out past the door, to where two blurry figures were standing in the hall, arguing.
He swallowed hard, as his leg spasmed again, biting back a cry.
Wilson should have a chance to at least try and make up for all the time he spent caring for House.
House gripped the rail on his bed, hearing his knuckles crack as he squeezed.
Oh, god it hurt....
The heartrate monitor went off.
He forced himself to lie back, let go, make the pain not show, and pressed the shut up button on the monitor.
Wilson came in, looking worried.
“What happened?”
“Knocked the oximeter off.”
Wilson sighed, relived, and went back out into the hall.
House pressed his head back into the pillows, panting with pain.
He has drifted partially into sleep when Wilson comes back in, and it's too bad, because he isn't aware that Wilson's there at first, and he doesn't know to stop clenching the bedsheets and crying.
A warm hand on his arm is the first he knows that Wilson is in the room, and he knows it's too late now.
“Why didn't you say something?”
House glared at him like he was asking the most obvious question in the world.
“Because you were arguing and I wanted to listen.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, “you didn't even hear me come back in here.”
House sighed.
Wilson looked at the older doctor's status monitor.
“Shit, House! Your pulse is over 180!” he says, shocked, “you should have said something!”
House grunted.
“Why on earth didn't you say anything?!”
House looked away.
Wilson gripped his arm, the warm hand that usually soothed House's angry expressions failing to work this time.
“Because I'm not your boyfriend, Wilson. You have a wife. I'm me, you're you, and Stacy's Stacy. My girlfriend left, that doesn't mean you suddenly have to step in for her.”
“But... I don't want to see you in pain....” mumbled Wilson, brown eyes as large and liquid as they ever got, as he looked at the sharp blue ones.
House watched him for a long time.
“I know. And I don't want you to have to.”
Wilson nodded, mistaking his meaning completely.
House smirked a tiny bit to himself, as Wilson gave him another dose of pain meds.
If he was going to do this, not pointing out what he was planning on doing—hiding the pain as much as he possibly could—was kind of necessary. Didn't mean it didn't hurt.
Eight years later, House sat on the floor of his office, his leg clenching in agony, the same way it had been doing for the past month.
He saw Wilson walk past the office, and his heart clenched as hard as his leg.
Wilson didn't see him sitting there.
Eight years ago, the pride that he had succeeded would have overcome the pain of the fact that Wilson no longer bothered to look.
Not today.
House swallowed the lump in his throat, climbing slowly to his feet and slowly, painfully making his way to the elevator.
He really needed a drink—and possibly a good cry in a bar he had never been to before, and never intended to go to again.
Though... he wasn't sure he knew how to do it, anymore.
Cry, that was.
He sat on the bar stool, and the tears didn't come.
He laughed a little bit to himself, as he swirled the liquid in his glass.
He had forgotten how to cry.
The memories flashed through his mind—amantadine... Amber... the crash... blood... pain... glass... he got out of the bus, looking for her... he had to save her for Wilson... he was going to protect his friend's happiness... he couldn't find her....
And....
And he felt it, running down his cheek.
He could cry for his friend.
Just not for himself.
“I'm so sorry.”
Wilson looked at him, brown eyes holding no tears, no liquid warmth like eight years ago.
Wilson couldn't cry for himself either... but....
He wouldn't want to cry for House.
Not after that.
Not after this.
Wilson started to turn, but---
House opened his eyes.
“Hey. Blink if you can hear me.”
He blinked.
“Oh...”
He tried to ask where Wilson was, but...
“Don't talk. Just rest.”
He looked towards her.
Her eyes were red.
She had been crying for him.
Wilson was standing in front of him.
He lifted his head, with what seemed like a tremendous effort, and met the other man's eyes.
His eyes were puffy.
He had been crying for Amber.
He walked away.
House looked at Cuddy.
“Don't cry,” he rasped.
She looked at him, crying.
“No.”
Pairing: House+Wilson, House+Cuddy
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: spoliers for s4 finale
Summary: Fic starting the day Stacy left and extending until Wilson walks away from house's hospital room, centered around crying. Just seven pages though.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: ironically, I cried while I was writing this.
T
House swallowed, curling up on his couch.
He could barely keep his eyes open, he hurt all over...
His bad leg spasmed, he cried out softly, clenching his hand on the edge of the couch.
He was so exhausted he could barely move...
Another spasm, another cry.
He rolled onto his back, panting with effort and pain, downing the pill he hadn't taken at the hospital, so he could get home without worrying about the combined effects of narcotics and complete exhaustion.
He hated dry-swallowing pills.
It made him feel like a junkie.
The phone rang, he reached for it, it was too far, he dropped his hand.
The answering machine picked up, 'House, are you home? House, come on, this isn't funny. Stacy isn't answering my pages, and neither are you, and you just disappeared. House, come on, I heard what happened, but... please tell me you're not doing anything stupid. House, please, please, please, if you're there, pick up. I'm not hanging up. Come on, please....'
House dragged himself to his feet, panting, and grabbed the phone, leaning heavily on the table.
“Wilson, I just took a cab home. I'm fine. Relatively fine. And the stupidest thing I was planning to do was drink a beer with my drugs.”
'House, you really shouldn't--'
“Oh, give it a break, Wilson. I'm too tired for that.”
A sigh on the other end.
'House... just promise me you're not gonna do anything stupid.'
Silence.
'House?'
Nothing.
'House, did you hear me?'
A dull thud.
Wilson hung up, rushing out of his office and grabbing his coat.
He found House sprawled on the floor next to the phone, looking exhausted and pained, but not significantly the worse for wear.
“House, what happened?” he asked, gently helping his friend sit, letting him lean against the younger doctor's chest, completely spent.
“Leg cramped,” mumbled House, closing his eyes as he rested his head against Wilson's shoulder, “fell. Too sore, tired... couldn't get back up.”
Wilson sighed, nodding, as he held House close and gently brushed his hand through the sweaty hair.
“You need a shower.”
House looked up at him, half asleep.
“PT does that.”
“Why didn't you wait for me? I would have driven you, you didn't have to take a cab.”
“Wanted to take a cab. Wanted to think. Didn't want to get drowned in sympathy.”
Wilson nodded silently, sliding his right arm under House's knees, and readjusting the left, around House's shoulders.
He lifted the older doctor, smiled a little bit, as he closed his eyes and rested his head against Wilson's chest, then carried him into the bedroom and set him on the bed.
“Get some rest, House,” he said, pulling the sweat-soaked shirt over House's head, “you need it.”
House mumbled something sleepy and unintelligible, rubbing his upper arms where the cold air touched the wet skin.
Wilson divested him of his pants, pulled a large t-shirt over his head, and sat on the bed next to him.
“You gonna be ok?” he asked, rubbing House's lower back, smiling a little to himself as the older doctor let out a sleepy grunt of pleasure.
“Yeah,” mumbled House, sighing as Wilson's hand continued to move, “'s long as you keep rubbing.”
Wilson smiled a little more, and didn't leave.
He had ended up sitting against the pillows on Stacy's usual side of the bed, still rubbing his hand over his exhausted friend's back. House had fallen deeply asleep not very much later, and Wilson had followed him, accidentally.
He was glad he had.
He had been woken by a soft, almost inaudible, breathy sound.
It had turned out to be House crying nearly silently, obviously in severe pain.
Wilson wasted no time in calling an ambulance—this was House, he wasn't take any chances, and he wasn't sure he could get the older doctor to the car by himself anyway—then turned back to his friend, holding him close as he leaked tears of exhaustion and pain onto Wilson's shoulder.
It was only in the most extreme of circumstances, that House would allow someone to comfort him like that. And it scared Wilson that he was being allowed.
House screamed, when the paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher.
The harsh sound nearly sent Wilson into shock.
He gripped House's hand, giving him an anchor as the paramedics lifted the stretcher down the steps, into the ambulance.
Wilson climbed in with them, hand never leaving his friend's.
House had a death grip on it.
By the time he had been formally admitted, House had already received a shot of demerol, and was feeling, if not better, at least in less than agony.
Wilson sighed, sitting beside the hospital bed as he watched the tension slowly recede from his friend's lanky frame.
House looked so exhausted it wasn't even funny.
“Hey,” said Wilson, reaching up and taking House's hand again, as he had in the ambulance, “how you feeling? Can you give me a number, buddy?”
House looked at him, swallowing.
“'round a four. Lot better,” he mumbled, briefly squeezing Wilson's hand, “hate to say it, but I'm glad you were there.”
Wilson nodded, “me too. Except, I don't mind saying it. Because I'm worried about you, House.”
House smirked tiredly, eyelids drifting shut.
House opened his eyes, hazily looking out past the door, to where two blurry figures were standing in the hall, arguing.
He swallowed hard, as his leg spasmed again, biting back a cry.
Wilson should have a chance to at least try and make up for all the time he spent caring for House.
House gripped the rail on his bed, hearing his knuckles crack as he squeezed.
Oh, god it hurt....
The heartrate monitor went off.
He forced himself to lie back, let go, make the pain not show, and pressed the shut up button on the monitor.
Wilson came in, looking worried.
“What happened?”
“Knocked the oximeter off.”
Wilson sighed, relived, and went back out into the hall.
House pressed his head back into the pillows, panting with pain.
He has drifted partially into sleep when Wilson comes back in, and it's too bad, because he isn't aware that Wilson's there at first, and he doesn't know to stop clenching the bedsheets and crying.
A warm hand on his arm is the first he knows that Wilson is in the room, and he knows it's too late now.
“Why didn't you say something?”
House glared at him like he was asking the most obvious question in the world.
“Because you were arguing and I wanted to listen.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, “you didn't even hear me come back in here.”
House sighed.
Wilson looked at the older doctor's status monitor.
“Shit, House! Your pulse is over 180!” he says, shocked, “you should have said something!”
House grunted.
“Why on earth didn't you say anything?!”
House looked away.
Wilson gripped his arm, the warm hand that usually soothed House's angry expressions failing to work this time.
“Because I'm not your boyfriend, Wilson. You have a wife. I'm me, you're you, and Stacy's Stacy. My girlfriend left, that doesn't mean you suddenly have to step in for her.”
“But... I don't want to see you in pain....” mumbled Wilson, brown eyes as large and liquid as they ever got, as he looked at the sharp blue ones.
House watched him for a long time.
“I know. And I don't want you to have to.”
Wilson nodded, mistaking his meaning completely.
House smirked a tiny bit to himself, as Wilson gave him another dose of pain meds.
If he was going to do this, not pointing out what he was planning on doing—hiding the pain as much as he possibly could—was kind of necessary. Didn't mean it didn't hurt.
Eight years later, House sat on the floor of his office, his leg clenching in agony, the same way it had been doing for the past month.
He saw Wilson walk past the office, and his heart clenched as hard as his leg.
Wilson didn't see him sitting there.
Eight years ago, the pride that he had succeeded would have overcome the pain of the fact that Wilson no longer bothered to look.
Not today.
House swallowed the lump in his throat, climbing slowly to his feet and slowly, painfully making his way to the elevator.
He really needed a drink—and possibly a good cry in a bar he had never been to before, and never intended to go to again.
Though... he wasn't sure he knew how to do it, anymore.
Cry, that was.
He sat on the bar stool, and the tears didn't come.
He laughed a little bit to himself, as he swirled the liquid in his glass.
He had forgotten how to cry.
The memories flashed through his mind—amantadine... Amber... the crash... blood... pain... glass... he got out of the bus, looking for her... he had to save her for Wilson... he was going to protect his friend's happiness... he couldn't find her....
And....
And he felt it, running down his cheek.
He could cry for his friend.
Just not for himself.
“I'm so sorry.”
Wilson looked at him, brown eyes holding no tears, no liquid warmth like eight years ago.
Wilson couldn't cry for himself either... but....
He wouldn't want to cry for House.
Not after that.
Not after this.
Wilson started to turn, but---
House opened his eyes.
“Hey. Blink if you can hear me.”
He blinked.
“Oh...”
He tried to ask where Wilson was, but...
“Don't talk. Just rest.”
He looked towards her.
Her eyes were red.
She had been crying for him.
Wilson was standing in front of him.
He lifted his head, with what seemed like a tremendous effort, and met the other man's eyes.
His eyes were puffy.
He had been crying for Amber.
He walked away.
House looked at Cuddy.
“Don't cry,” he rasped.
She looked at him, crying.
“No.”
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