the long and winding road

"What's next, tutti-frutti? Isn't it a little late for that?"

Wilson sighed, even with mouth and throat both full of ice cream (Dutch Country Cow Chow, thank you very much). "By your definition, what isn't it too late for, at this point?"

"Oh, you're wasting your time asking? That's rich - no, I mean the ice cream. It'll go right to your hips."

Vulgar as ever. At least, that'd be a vulgar comment if directed toward a woman. Landing on Wilson, it just sounded crass. "Even in my dying moments," or House's own, for that matter, "you're determined to make my life miserable. You never change, House."

"Of course! That's what friends are for." House flashed a sickly-sweet grin, to sell it.

The best friend you ever had. The only friend you ever had. Or maybe, just maybe, the closest thing you had to a friend, and no more.

Wilson crunched on a piece of corn cereal, distractedly noting to himself that they weren't even in Dutch country. This was just Berks. But of course, even if Princeton Junction seemed a world away from Ewing, everything was farther apart in Pennsylvania. Truly the Canada of the Lehigh Valley.

Doubting that they'd actually make it out of the Northeast region regardless, however, Wilson chose to keep his idle observations to himself.

Faint sounds of dizzy-riding from the students at whatever local charter school had decided to let out while May was still flowering helped shatter the brittle, grass-muffled silence.

Wilson scraped up the last dregs of his single scoop. In a bare patch, House stabbed cow chips with his cane.

"Do you wish it was you? Is that it?"

The stabbing stopped, stuttered once. Resumed.

"Well. Not alone."

No measure of denial, as sarcastic or as genuine as it could come, would or could change the truth. Obviously House envied Wilson his sweet, sweet release, come so soon and so peacefully. Obviously it was so much easier, so much more satisfying, to be told that the reaper was coming to take you without you ever having to decide how or why.

(Without ever having to pretend. To lie.)

Now, you could wonder. Free country, and all that. Capital place for debates - Wilson'd even get to see some, maybe lurch off his deathbed and vote.

For every soldier killed in Afghanistan, there was another who got sent home and had to live, actually, send us a bill for the airlift if you've got a hand left to write with.

Everybody died, except the ones that really wanted to. But you couldn't exactly go crying about it. Now that...that would be foolish.

"I can't tell you what to do. I don't...I don't want to tell you what to do." Giving advice to a legally dead man? Probably not too smart under any circumstances, much less these. There was indeed a difference between doctors and lawyers, if you squinted. "I'm not even sure-"

"Not even sure you want me to bum around at all these glorious granges with you, anymore?" Wilson blinked. House didn't. "You're entitled to your opinion, but remember, I died for you. So I'm not going anywhere."

A little much in the unprompted devotion department, don't you think? Wilson had to remind himself that twenty years of learning the map of House's buttons wasn't nearly - remotely - enough time to gain mastery. No, there was always another crotchety trick (or, alternately, kick to the crotch) coming.

In this case, was House truly offended by the implication that he, the insufferable of all insufferables, was an unwelcome addition to the (supposedly) idyllic last few months of a terminal cancer patient's life? Or was he, perhaps, resentful of his own choice and debatable sacrifice, just as Wilson resented...something, though he couldn't put his finger on it?

And of course, there remained, ultimately, the main question of whether or not it was even worth finding out. Wilson resolved himself not to investigate that frightened little twitch at the corner of House's lips as he'd prepared himself to utter such horribly, frightfully sincere words.

House meant everything he said. He also didn't. He was a caricature and he was a real person, unfortunately, as disproportionate as he pretended.

They'd always argue, mock and belittle. It was their language (definitely not a love language). Too gnarled to be broken. Being able to stand in a field and chew the fat or the cud, whichever you preferred, without starting a spiritual altercation would mean that at least one part of at least one of them had already crawled up and died.

That didn't make it nice, though.

The trouble was, at this point, if House had given up, Wilson had given up too. There was no turnaround, no next chapter. Just endless rows of hind ends.

"You're right. This is boring." The trash bins were somewhat festive, covered in cardboard cutouts of cartoon manure that inelegantly hid the actual flies buzzing around within, but their earnest kitsch, nonetheless, was hopelessly worn.

House threw a dour look at his helmet, daring it to do something so vile and audacious as offer him security. "Aw. And just when we were having so much fun."

As if. They hadn't even started roasting the evening's pig yet. Though, per House's strictly professional advice, Wilson would do just fine.

in vain attempt to recover this association from the domain (and spurious student-rate prime membership) of my ex-partner, i am writing a cursorily vibes-, clips-, and wiki-based fic. i will figure out how to [[acquire for viewing pleasure]] in due time but the medical special effects have always been a bit much for me. much and many apologies for my fandom transgression