Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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“A new world order. A new world peace.”

Wilson remained silent and worked quietly as House quoted the masthead logo from the newspaper. He noted the tone of sour disbelief, and continued walking back and forth from the living room, carrying dirty plates and glasses.

“Hey! You can stop what you’re doing for one moment and talk to me.”

Wilson looked at House, raising an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“A new world order. Peace. Can you believe it?”

“Yes. Um…whatever you say,” Wilson diffidently agreed.

House looked displeased and disappointed. “Hmmph, never mind.”

With eyes cast downward, Wilson tidied and removed the last dish from the coffee table. He did not permit a sigh of relief until he was safely hidden away in the kitchen. With his back toward the doorway, he stood at the sink and allowed one foolish tear to spill down his face. The droplet joined the rushing water from the tap as he scrubbed the debris from the china. By the third plate, he wiped the damp trail from his skin with a rolled up sleeve. He felt better and it was for the best that House did not see his reaction. Wilson smothered his frustration. Was it totally impossible to please House?

That night Wilson stood stock-still in the doorway to House’s bedroom listening for the breathing pattern to smooth before coming any closer. Earlier, he heard House make his customary journey to the bathroom. Fortunately, the unpredictable man was a predictable sleeper. Undressing silently in the dark, he slipped under the covers and turned on his side to watch House slumber. He drank in the sight, sound, and musky smell, accepting the body heat rolling off House as a heady bonus. Wilson basked like a sun worshiper, but it did not overcome the shame he felt. He knew his behavior was no better than a dog seeking the comfort of his master.

Wilson set his internal clock to rise before dawn. He would return to the sofa to catch a few extra winks, and be preparing macadamia nut pancakes by the time the bedsprings groaned, alerting him that House was awake.

At breakfast House betrayed no emotion when he asked his usual morning question, “Have you taken your vitals?”

“I’m fine,” Wilson answered automatically and handed over the slip of paper, knowing that each number had dropped significantly from the day before. His eyes fastened upon House.

A ghost of a twitch betrayed a hidden grin. “I’m never bored with your lies, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re dying right on schedule. Call me if there are any surprises.”

Wilson nodded as he got up and wiped off the coffee table. After House left for the hospital, he’d replay the last phrase in his head, analyzing and sifting each word for crumbs of concern. It might give him a reason to concentrate on reversing the deadly numbers.

House headed for the door, throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

Wilson noticed that House wasn’t wearing his leather jacket. “You’re jogging to work?”

“You’re not objecting, are you?” House demonstrated the fitness of both his legs by jumping up and down like a human pogo stick. “Got a tune up the other day. Thinking of chopping the left one off and replacing it with another ACME 1080. The repairman-surgeon said it would cut ten minutes off my running time."

Hiding his guilt as he always did, Wilson rubbed his neck before launching to the defense of the breakthrough prosthesis. “House, your leg was mutilated beyond repair after you wrapped your bike around that tree. I had no choice. You should have had elective surgery years ago like everybody else. Now you can walk, even run normally without pain, and it looks seamless. Has virtually no maintenance. Why stay angry at me?”

The old, abandoned cane was propped up near the doorway. A souvenir from their previous life. House grabbed it and rapped the head of it against his bionic leg. “Because there’s no feeling, you idiot!” The grainy voice dropped half an octave as House muttered bitterly, “Much the same as you."

Feeling more than seeing the blue eyes strafe him from head to toe, Wilson bowed his head, and dared not look up until he heard the front door slam.

Along with the fading sound, Wilson erased the cruel words from his memory. He began his round of comforting chores: making the bed, cleaning what needed to be cleaned. Without House watching his every move, he allowed his right foot to drag as he straightened books and dusted. He kept himself busy planning the dinner menu and ordering food from the market. He then sat on the sofa and stared into space until the delivery boy arrived with the groceries.

After the small outburst this morning he didn’t even consider examining House’s words for any affection. Instead, he repeated the words out loud, spinning the phrase with different, warmer inflections. Changing the phrase to how he wanted and needed to hear it. Then he closed his eyes and imagined House telling him with worried concern, “Call me if there are any surprises, Wilson.”

He blinked. He felt better.

One evening. Several weeks later.

House sat isolated in the lounge chair facing the couch, his eyes glued to the latest numbers left on the coffee table. He cast the calculator tape aside when the actual person shuffled into the room.

Running a hand lightly over the sofa, and sensing that it was empty, Wilson sat down at “his” end, tilting his head toward his lap. Sitting quietly, he tried to stop his body from shivering. He didn’t want House to know everything. As it was, House would probably be ecstatic over the latest figures on the curled scrap of paper.

House commanded, “Look at me!”

Wilson obeyed. There was no way to hide this last symptom for long. He turned his blank eyes toward the voice.

Staring, the diagnostician demanded, “When did you lose your sight? You know you need to tell me everything you’re experiencing for me to come up with the right calculations.”

Wilson shrugged. He couldn't hide his resentment any longer. “Yes, well you don’t want to be late for the final curtain on my performance, do you? Who knows what may come out of my mouth other than a death rattle.”

House responded, “Don’t be a drama queen and answer the question.”

Turning his ear to better catch the words, Wilson was surprised to notice the trademark harshness gone. Perhaps House would offer him mercy during his final days. Encouraged, he spoke up, “About noon. I turned on the television and Prescription Passion was on. Hey, what about that Kelly? Last thing I saw was the fourth baby popping out of her.”

Wilson waited for a response from House. Anything.

Nothing. Hope died within him. He tamped down another shiver. He wouldn’t give House the satisfaction.

If only he could see House’s face, but all Wilson detected was the sound of receding footsteps.

In the bedroom, House hunched over the calculator and refigured the formula. There was something good about this new world order. You could calculate the demise of your “best friend” to the day and minute by simply pushing a few buttons. By this time, three days from now, he would have what he so dearly wished. House smiled. He could hardly wait.

Three days later, mid-afternoon.

House was rushing home. Thank God he drove to the hospital on his bike, but he was royally pissed. This wasn’t supposed to happen until tonight.

If it wasn’t for his latest patient, he would have hung around the apartment like an expectant father waiting for the birth of his child. The manufacturer had assured him that the vitals would give him the exact time of death. It was just luck that his patient stabilized when she did. He took advantage of the lull to channel his nervous energy into a phone call to the dying man back home.

Admittedly, it was becoming difficult to hide the interest in his voice that could be mistaken for kindness. He didn’t want to slow down the process any further. He’d waited years. Fucking years for this day. Not having anything to say, House counted on his wits to make something up on the fly, but he could have written the State of the Union address by the time the phone was answered.

“Yes.” The voice was a lackluster whisper.

Immediately House knew something was wrong. Dropping any pretense he asked, “How are you?”

Wheezing greeted his ear. Finally, he heard a breathless, “Fine.”

House wasn’t expecting such labored breathing until later this evening. This was unscheduled. He was worried.

A small voice mumbled two words through the receiver. House snapped the phone closed and headed out the door at lightening speed, collecting his jacket as he propelled out the door. For once, he was grateful for his space age leg.

There was no misunderstanding what the indistinct words, “Come home,” meant.

He was in a race with death.

House found the body collapsed on the floor in the hallway, the cell phone a few inches from the lifeless hand. House was furious. He ground out, "Nooo!" but no one could hear him.

He ran and kneeled over the figure, checking for a pulse. Knowing it was useless, he tried in vain to administer CPR. Nothing. The skin was cooling by the second.

Anger and grief filled House to overflowing. He couldn’t control the outpouring of emotion. Lifting the empty husk, he propped it upright. The chin was lolling against the still chest. He shook the body, then pounded it against the wall while yelling, “No, you cock sucking bastard! Listen to me! You can't leave me like this. Speak, you son of a bitch! You heap of shit! Speak to me!”

He picked up the head, but there was nothing.

House couldn’t believe it. Tears slid unashamedly down his cheeks. “Wilson. Fuck. This can’t be happening.”

He hugged the lifeless creature to him, letting tears flow freely. He missed Wilson with all his heart, and would never forgive him for dying so suddenly…

…three years ago.