Title: Four Minutes and Thirty-three Seconds
Author: htebazytook
Rating: PG-13 (angst)
Disclaimer: --
Pairing: House/Wilson
Time Frame: During 5.24, 'Both Sides Now'
Author's Notes: Brief, angsty dialogue. And hopefully John Cage will be cool with my own particularly slashy reworking of his piece :P
"Are we ever gonna talk about this?"
Wilson doesn't look at him. "About what?"
"What are we doing?"
"We're . . . driving. I thought you said you—"
"Are we ever going to talk about why you left?" It's 4.33 miles until the last exit.
Wilson blinks at the road, will not look at him. "I . . . told you why I left."
"Because we weren't ever really friends."
Wilson's exasperated, and only because he's trying so hard to keep this whole thing as normal as possible. "House, come on. Are you going to sit here telling me you've never said anything rash or purposefully hurtful in your entire life? Last I checked that was in fact your calling card."
"It is. It's not yours though . . ."
"Oh, God. Here we go. You're trying to figure something out, aren't you? Just tell me what you want to know and I'll tell you and we can skip the whole elaborate game. In case you haven't noticed we don't have a whole lot of time, here."
"Did you pine?"
"Did I . . . ?"
"Did you pine when you left?"
"I came back, didn't I?"
"Did you even stop to think that leaving like that might've had a negative effect on me? That I might give a shit? That maybe I needed—"
"House, you're a grown man. You don't need anyone. And the world doesn't revolve around you." It's pretty obvious that Wilson doesn't believe that at all.
"It doesn't revolve around you either."
Wilson's sudden, bitter laugh startles him. "No, you're right, it doesn't. Far be it for me to be affected by death. My girlfriend died! Now, I know I'm not as stunningly macho as you, House, but death doesn't roll of off me as easily as it, apparently, does you. And don't give me the speech about choosing a hell of a line of work if that's the case, 'cause believe me, I know. Excuse me for being a little shaken because the only relationship that's ever worked for me other than this was snatched away in the blink of an eye."
"Thought you said you didn't blame me for it," House points out innocuously. He's changed his mind about interrogating Wilson during the last few minutes before . . . he just really doesn't want to end on this note.
But it's too late. Maybe it's because Wilson has to look at the road instead of at him, or maybe it's because he won't look at House at all for God knows how long, but something snaps and allows Wilson to rant like there really is no tomorrow:
"I'm not blaming you. How could . . . how could you even think that? It's my own damn fault for wanting to be around you. It's not your fault you're the way you are—I like you the way you are!" Buzz of the road fills the silence while Wilson passes someone.
"Have you ever even stopped to consider how many times you've nearly ruined my career, my life, or occasionally some inventive combination of the two? And always only indirectly—only because I always stand up for you.
"I've risked so damn much for you, and you know that, and you risk your own life all the time just for the hell of it and you asked to do it for me when Amber . . . I didn't even want you to do it at first! God, I . . . I honestly think I value your life more than you do, sometimes.
"I can only blame myself for coming back every single time because I can't help it. I can't blame you. You understand me—you're the only person who does. And I can't help . . .
"This is my life: I went from living with my parents to school to a conference in New Orleans to you, and I don't know how to function without you anymore."
So Wilson loves him just as maniacally. House is impressed, obsessed with him. "I . . . well, actually I love you."
"I know that. I'm sorry I—"
"Yeah, apologies don't mean shit so save your breath. You pined?"
Wilson flicks on a turn signal and finally looks at House. "Of course."
"That's all I wanted to know."
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