Losing It

House felt unbearably awkward and uncomfortable as he followed Wilson into his own living room, trying to focus on those much more understandable emotions, and not the cold fist of fear that was slowly tightening around his heart – because why should he feel afraid of Wilson?

Sure, he was angry. He had even lost it a bit that afternoon.

But, dangerous? No…not Wilson…he said he just wants to talk…and we really, really need to talk…

He cleared his throat, desperate to break the heavy silence that had fallen between them. Wilson had turned to face him, and the piercing stare and cold smile of his former friend had his head lowered and his eyes averted almost instantly. He swallowed hard, trying to soothe his throat and mouth, which felt like sandpaper at the moment. All the moisture seemed to have somehow found its way to his palms.

“Wilson,” he began hesitantly, his voice quiet and hoarse. “I…I’m sor—”

His words were cut off abruptly when something heavy and hard flew through the air, inches from his head, and slammed into the wall behind him, shattering as it fell to the floor with the tinkling sound of broken glass. House flinched slightly at the unexpected sound, turning to see the remains of his coffee cup on the floor, its abandoned contents dripping down his wall. He turned back toward Wilson with wide, startled eyes, his head tilted slightly in apprehension.

Wilson’s expression was dark, warning, as he reminded him in a low, trembling voice of barely controlled anger, “I told you not to say that to me.”

House considered for a moment, never taking his eyes off the younger man’s face – almost afraid to – before he nodded his acceptance of the words and finally looked away.

“Right. Then – what do you want me to say, Wilson?” he asked, his voice sounding weary and faintly frustrated. “What can I possibly…?”

“You!” Wilson cut him off again, fairly spitting out the word as he took a couple of steps closer to House. “You, you, it’s always about you, isn’t it, House? Always! What you want, what you need from me – even if it costs somebody else her life!”

House winced at those words, his head dipping lower as he attempted, “I…didn’t mean for…”

“You never mean for these things to happen, House!” Wilson snapped back, and House was acutely aware that he was still advancing on him, tensing, but with an effort preventing himself from backing away. “But somehow, they always happen anyway…”

Wilson was smiling again, but it was a cold, nasty smile, as he came within a couple of feet of where House stood, and leaned into his face, his voice softening with a mixture of accusation and contempt that hurt worse than any of his actual words so far.

“…and you always get away with them…don’t you?”

Can’t show fear, can’t let him see that he’s getting to me, gotta stand my ground…and God, this is Wilson! Can’t show fear? What is he, some kind of deadly predator?

He paused a moment, steadying his voice before he answered quietly, “If this is what you call getting away with it…”

Once again Wilson interrupted his words, but this time it was with a violent shove that threw House off balance, knocking him backwards into the wall where the coffee cup had just shattered. House clutched his cane in his hand, struggling to regain his balance, but Wilson was right in his face again, intimidatingly close, leaving him no room to maneuver, and certainly not to get away, and the best he could do was to brace himself against the wall behind him.

“Oh, no, House,” Wilson sneered, his lips twisting into a vicious smirk as he placed one hand on the wall beside House’s head, blocking what would have been his only possible route toward the door. “You’re not getting away with it. Not this time.”

In such close quarters, Wilson’s breath reeked of alcohol, and House was reminded that at the moment, his friend was not completely in control. Still, it was frightening how calm he seemed, how calculated and deliberate with every action.

House had been out drinking with Wilson enough times to know what alcohol did to his friend. Unlike some people who almost seemed to become different people under the influence of alcohol, drinking just seemed to lower Wilson’s inhibitions – to make him capable of doing and saying things he wanted to do anyway, but would not allow himself to do in his right mind.

And that knowledge was what really hurt.

He wants to hurt me…wishes I’d died in her place…wants to punish me for taking her away from him…this is what he’s wanted to do since that day; he just hasn’t dared…but now…

House studied Wilson’s face, catching his lip between his teeth in a nervous gesture as he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to find a way to regain control of what was swiftly spiraling into a very dangerous situation. He lowered his gaze, reaching slowly into his pocket to take out his cell phone.

“You’re drunk,” he stated quietly, keeping his voice even and unaccusing. “Wilson…you need to go home. Sleep this off. If you…still want to talk about this later…” He hesitated, glancing uneasily up at Wilson with a frown as a troubling thought occurred to him. “How did you get here, anyway? Did you drive?”

“Cab,” Wilson answered in a short, impatient tone, clearly eager to get back to the matter at hand.

House nodded. “I’m calling you another one.”

He raised the phone in the very limited space between them, dialing quickly with trembling fingers. Before he could finish, however, the phone was slapped angrily out of his hand, skittering noisily across the floor behind Wilson until it hit the couch with a dull thud. House pulled back against the wall, one eyebrow raised as he gave Wilson a questioning look.

The expression in the younger man’s eyes chilled his blood, as Wilson shook his head and declared softly, “You’re not calling anyone.”

“Okay,” House replied slowly, careful to keep his voice calm and even despite his rising apprehensions. “Look…I don’t know what it is you want from me…”

“I want you to shut up…” Wilson snarled, grasping House’s lapels in both hands and slamming him against the wall, hard enough to crack the back of his head against it painfully. “…and listen to me for a change. I’m the one who’s talking now! And you are going to hear this! Got it?”

House closed his eyes, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain, fighting not to black out from the impact to his still-damaged skull. “Got it,” he whispered, still calm. “Just…Wilson…you might wanna try to remember…” He frowned, struggling to finish his sentence as his thoughts suddenly became hazy for a moment, before clearing again, like a moment of interference in a radio signal.

However, his momentary confusion was enough to tell Wilson what he had been trying to say.

“Oh, that’s right,” Wilson concluded with a nod and a cold smile, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You’re still recovering from a fractured skull, aren’t you? I mean, you’ve been doing pretty well, but…” He stopped for a moment, punctuating his words with a sudden, sharp slap across House’s face that knocked his head into the wall again, before leaning in close to finish, “…who knows what might set you back again?” His voice lowered to barely over a whisper as he shifted even closer, their faces bare inches apart. “Maybe I should be careful about that.”

Even through the explosion of agony in the back of his head from the blow, Wilson’s frigid words left a sinking sensation in the pit of House’s stomach, with the aching realization that Wilson no longer cared whether he lived or died. The loss of Amber had pushed the limits of his tightly held control, and Wilson had snapped.

It’s really over… House realized, swallowing back a sob that rose in his throat, unbidden. I’ve really lost him…

When he could open his eyes again, he chanced another glance up at Wilson’s face, and what he saw there was intensely troubling.

…not to mention the fact that at this rate, I might not live through this conversation…

“Wilson,” he gasped out, struggling to keep his eyes focused on the man still holding onto his lapels, “you need to calm down…you need to stop this before it goes further than you’re wanting it to go…”

“And you need…” Wilson bit off the words, full of bitter frustration. “…to shut…up.”

The warning in his tone was clear, and even through the haze of pain and confusion that filled his mind from the blows he had taken to the head, House knew that it was in his best interest to be quiet and listen to whatever he had to say. He nodded silently, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, but keeping them averted, not daring eye contact with Wilson at the moment.

“You think you know better than everybody else,” Wilson began, his voice trembling with rage. “You think you’re so brilliant that that just excuses all the selfishness and recklessness and the absolute and utter disregard for anyone else around you! You take risks with peoples lives every single day, because you think you’re somehow invincible, and no matter what happens, in the end, you’re gonna be right – because you’re always right, aren’t you?”

House opened his mouth to respond, instinctively preparing to defend himself, but Wilson just slammed him into the wall again, snarling, “Shut up!” before he could get a single word out.

“This time, the risk you took cost someone their life, House! Someone more important to me than anyone!” Wilson’s voice broke over the words, and his face was wet with tears as he lowered his voice and added with vicious disgust that made House flinch, “More important to me than you will ever be – to anyone. She died because you thought you were too good to accept her help – and she went out of her way to help you when you’d never been anything but hateful to her, ever!”

Wilson was quiet for a moment, leaning in closer, shaking House slightly as he demanded, “Look at me!”

Reluctantly House obeyed, swallowing convulsively, willing himself not to look away from the blazing fury in Wilson’s eyes.

“She was a better person than you will ever be. You should have died in that accident instead of her…and I will never forgive you for that.”

House looked away, blinking rapidly, fighting back the tears that came suddenly to his eyes at the blunt, deliberately painful words.

But Wilson was not finished.

“And I should have written you off a long time ago,” he continued, his voice calmer now, but still icy and sharp, each word stabbing into House’s vulnerable heart with agonizing clarity. “I should have realized that you were never going to learn to care about anyone but yourself. I should have realized that you never appreciated all the time I spent following you around, cleaning up your messes. You were just using me, anyway – and if I’d seen that a long time ago…Amber would still be alive.”

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, and House did not dare to speak.

Finally, in an aching whisper, Wilson added, “And I’ll never forgive me for that.”

It was nearly as painful to hear Wilson’s self-accusations as it was to hear the rest of his scathing words, and House found that he could not help but at least attempt to make him see the truth.

“For…for what it’s worth,” he ventured, tensing as he spoke, half-expecting a blow to silence him before he could go any further, “I…I was never using you, Wilson. You were…were really my friend. I…I know it doesn’t mean anything that…that I didn’t mean for this to happen…but…there’s no way you could have possibly known…no way you could have stopped it…it’s not your fault, Wilson…it’s not your fault…”

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, releasing his hold on House and backing off a step or two, breathing hard. “No,” he agreed softly at last, reaching out to take House’s cane from his right hand, staring down at the wood with an expression of mingled sorrow and rage in his eyes. “No…it’s yours.”

Without warning, Wilson slammed the base of the cane into House’s stomach, doubling him over in agony and dropping him to his knees, holding his torso and gasping for breath. Contemptuously Wilson tossed the cane down beside him, staring down at him in utter disgust, before heading slowly toward the door.

He stopped in the doorway, turning slightly, his head tilted to the side in a question, as he spoke quietly.

“Just…one more thing.” His tone was conversational, as if the entire ugly exchange had not even taken place, and House was not still on his knees on the floor, too racked with pain to even rise. “I was wondering about something. You lied to Cuddy. Told her a patient hit you.” He paused, considering, seeming to be at a genuine los. “Why would you do that?”

House stared up at him through haunted, guilt-ridden eyes, gasping out the words as best he could. “I just…just couldn’t,” he said simply, shaking his head, unable or unwilling to explain further.

Wilson shrugged, apparently accepting that he was not going to get any more of an answer than that. “I was just surprised when I heard you kept quiet about it.”

House tensed as Wilson slowly approached him again, crouching down in front of him with a smile that could almost be mistaken for friendly, as he advised in a chillingly soft, calm voice, “That’s good. Keep doing that.”

Then, without another word, he rose and walked to the door, closing it quietly behind him.