InsaneJournal

Christine (spaghettitoes) wrote in spaghettific, @ 2015-11-21 21:50:00

Title: End of the Road

Author: Spaghettitoes

Rating: PG? See warnings

Word Count: 1.2k

Fandom/Pairing: House – House/Wilson

Warnings: Character death

Summary: I’d love for House and Wilson to be on the road forever but it couldn’t happen.

A/N: Blame Aldi! (But thank you for the beta.) I dislike past-me quite a bit for writing this.

Declaration: Posted so long after the show ended I don’t think you can doubt I have absolutely nothing to gain from this.

End of the Road

Assets had been liquidated quickly, Wilson had been House’s sole benefactor and at his own insistence everything had been reduced to cash. Almost everything; Wilson had ensured some of House’s favourite guitars and memorabilia were securely stored with Cuddy without his knowledge. No matter where they went or what they did House seemed to find a guitar or piano to entertain himself and if there just happened to be the occasional street bum who showed up at a free clinic with a ready-made diagnosis, no one questioned it. Wilson managed the money, because he was the practical one and because he was the only one with a functioning bank account.

When they arrived at hotels and motels Wilson would talk to the server, even with a few day’s stubble growth and that questionable moustache he could smile and charm people. They soon fell into the habit of getting a double room; House found reassurance in being able to observe Wilson’s symptoms and Wilson, who had spent so little of his life alone, found comfort in curling himself around House. Should the gruff demeanour and snappy insults have caused any doubt in the hotel staff it was quickly erased by the way House would look at Wilson.

They had spent their nights in a variety of locations and when they found somewhere with a good restaurant they took advantage of the room service. Wilson needed occasional reminding that he could eat anything he wanted and House the opposite. Routine was possibly the last thing they had really wanted or expected but House proved himself a creature of habit and when everything else changed so frequently, Wilson found a measure of comfort in having something safe and familiar. Motorcycle, moustache and a life, a death, on the road didn’t stop James Wilson from being the same man he had been for decades. His personal realisation that he had always been the person he wanted to be was met with a mumbled whatever from House, his face buried in Wilson’s lengthening hair.

* * *

House fell onto the bed with his usual complaint about the lack of Magic Fingers and fished the room service menu from the bedside table.

Sitting on the bed Wilson reached into House’s pocket and pulled out the bottle of Vicodin. He coughed uncomfortably before taking two. They swapped Vicodin for menu and Wilson perused the options, “Twelve and a beer.” Handing back the menu, Wilson rose and walked to the bathroom.

“Twelve is for girls!” Announced House before making his own choice and calling in the order.

Wilson was coughing in the bathroom when the call was over and House heaved himself to his feet, moving to the bathroom as quickly as he could.

House’s hand was broad and reassuring as it made circles on Wilson’s back, “Lucky dip in the bag of non-steroidals?”

Wilson lay down on the bed, accepting the pills House handed him and taking them easily. He relaxed as the mattress steadied and House was close enough to curl against. House took up the gentle motion of his hand on Wilson’s back and the rhythm lulled him to sleep.

When Wilson woke, it was to the purposefully obnoxious noise of clattering plates and as he looked up, vision sleep-blurred, House grinned, “Grub’s up.”

With a bacon cheese burger poised before him, House glanced casually at Wilson, “The world’s biggest ball of twine is just over an hour south.”

Wilson stifled a smile, “Unless we can unravel it, I’m not interested.”

“Rebel,” focusing on his food excused House from trying to maintain the jovial air.

“I thought we could just take it easy tomorrow, head to the beach, see what’s happening.”

House nodded and hummed approvingly until he swallowed, “Beach bunnies.”

Wilson smiled, appreciation and humour dimmed by the tiredness that continued to swamp him.

Their conversation was light and simple, Wilson never fully awake and House too concerned to truly hide it or find something to joke about. House laughed and smiled at the thoughts and memories that came to Wilson’s mind, added details and affectionate jibes when they were needed.

With his meal unfinished, Wilson declared he was full and excused himself to the bathroom. House wheeled the remnants of their meal into the corridor, setting the iPod into the docking station to fill the air with gentle music before he exchanged his jeans for a pair of boxers, sniffing his t-shirt to ensure it didn’t smell too much of the road or himself. Only a single lamp was left alight and as Wilson emerged from the bathroom he smiled faintly and began to remove layers, climbing into bed in shorts and an undershirt.

House took another Vicodin and a large mouthful of water, swallowing it with a painful chug before he switched off the light and slipped into bed. Wilson curled inwards as House settled beside him, arm reaching around to once again rub broad circles on Wilson’s back.

Head resting on his folded left arm House looked down at his friend, examining and memorising the variations in hair colour. Wilson’s breathing was raspy but steady and House could hear how close to sleep he was. Hesitating for a minute, his hand stopped and Wilson looked up, concern tingeing his exhaustion.

“You alright?”

House smiled weakly, “Yeah. Body is labouring under the illusion that I’m getting old.”

A soft smile turned the corner of Wilson’s mouth and he relaxed again, adjusting the pillow beneath his head before scrunching the fabric of House’s t-shirt in one hand. “Tomorrow will be better. Sitting on those bikes for too long isn’t good for your leg.”

“Yeah,” relaxing into Wilson’s grip House resumed the gentle massage and continued to memorise every detail of his friend.

Wilson’s breathing remained steady for more than an hour, during which time House studied the pattern of Wilson’s stubble, the tendons in his hand and forearm as his grip on House’s shirt loosened and tightened. He recognised the rhythm of his breathing and three songs that matched it. Each song played through his memory and his right hand played out the notes onto Wilson’s back. When he was searching his memory for a fourth song, Wilson’s breathing pattern changed and House shifted minutely closer.

House kept his hand steady, the other softly resting over a pulse point as Wilson’s heart rate fluctuated and his breathing deteriorated. House held on harder as both became more erratic, burrowing his chin into Wilson’s hair and closing his eyes. The pulse beneath his hand weakened and stuttered as did the breathing that filled his ears. House moved his left hand to slip it gently under Wilson’s head, holding him closer so Wilson’s forehead rested on his chest.

House focused his attention, all the power of his mind, onto Wilson’s final breaths and as they faded, his world concentrated to a pinpoint of existence. It narrowed and darkened until those last breaths and the weak beat beneath his hands became the entirety of it. Each one echoed with light and a ripple of sound that extended and then contracted, collapsing existence with it until there was nothing.