Six Letters

The air seeping through the open windows was chillier than usual as House slowly made his way up to the balcony of the hospital.

"Wilson, what are you doing here? Find your own hiding place, don't steal mine." House berated his friend but earned no reply. "You should have seen it. What's her name…uhh, Thirteen. She yelled at me for lecturing her, and then I turned it around on her and told her she wasn't fired. She's the only non-dangler I didn't fire. She had no clue what to do with herself; I was brilliant." House grinned proudly.

"Even when you're only half-alive you're enough of a jerk to make someone feel guilty and horrible over the mistake they made. Only you." Wilson muttered.

"Oh, c'mon. I'm their teacher. It builds character." He replied flippantly.

"Right."

"Don't get all pissy on me. Cuddy already did that." House grumbled. "Anyway, what are you doing up here?"

"…What did you see, House?"

Have you ever had to bring your best friend back from the brink of death? Have you had to see them unconcerned whether they live or die? Have you sat at their bedside until time had lost all meaning?

How many times do you have to watch before you stop caring?

Sometimes you wish, from the depths of your heart, that you could stop caring. But it never stops hurting. And you can never hate him enough. So all you can do is wait patiently.

Until he stirs…

"You're an idiot. You nearly killed yourself." Your words are flat and you are impressed at your own ability to hide your emotions. He taught you that.

"That was the whole idea."

"You wanted to kill yourself?" Somehow, you aren't surprised.

"I wanted to nearly kill myself."

You can feel the anger burning, simmering. "Maybe you didn't want to die, but you didn't care if you lived."

"You insisted that I needed to see for myself." Since when had he begun to cling so firmly to your opinion? His excuses may be more inspired, but they're still just excuses. You won't let the truth slip away from you this time.

"Did you…see something?" He stalls, losing himself in practical, detached medicine. You won't have it. You won't give him his refuge. "House. What did you see?"

"Nothing."

"House, you gotta talk about this."

He ignores you. You turn away from him. It's all you can do to not yell.

"Just looking at you hurts." You admit, wishing he could understand that you don't deserve to suffer for both of you. As he sits, stoic and undeterred, you know that he has never felt pain. Not this deeply.

You've shouldered it blindly, never worried about the consequences. Now you just want him to remember that he can feel.

"I love you."

But when has that ever been enough?

"What?"

Wilson grimaced. "You know exactly what I mean. You never told me what you saw."

"Even if I did see something, which I didn't, why am I obliged to tell you about it?" House shot back.

"You don't think you owe me that much?" Wilson's voice rose, even though he had been trying all day to stay composed. "You completely disregarded everything I had to ask you, blurted out the stupidest things you could come up with –"

House's eyes narrowed and his face darkened. "They weren't stupid…"

Wilson gave him a doubtful look. "If everything you said wasn't complete crap, then I think I have a right to know what happened. You owe me that much."

They always say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Not true. That's not even remotely possible. How could everything that has ever happened to you in your entire existence even be in your memory, let alone have time to flash before your eyes in a matter of seconds?

No, you don't see life before you reach the end; you see death.

You see a stark room, dimly lit, late in the night. You hear persistent knocking on a door, and the anxious call of a man put through more pain than he deserves. You see another man lying in his own vomit, too far gone to understand that his life might just mean something to someone.

You feel a shame and guilt far stronger than you have ever felt before. This man can't be you. This can't be your life, your own death.

And yet, you know you can't change. There will be no sudden twist in behaviour, no rehabilitation of conduct. You are what you are. You will do what you do. You can only change what you understand, what you know. What you believe.

House turned away from Wilson in disgust. This was not a conversation either of them wanted to have. And it was not turning out the way either of them expected.

But his expression did soften. Slightly. Because they had been here before, time and again. And maybe now was the time for a…

"I don't need to tell you what I saw. I don't owe you that much, Wilson. I owe you much more than that…"

House stalked off, back to his lair, leaving Wilson cold, confused, calm…

Wondering whether change is just a six-letter word.