The Man in the Moon

It hurt. His soul hurt with an ache that he had never experienced before. Greg House reclined on the couch in his empty apartment, wrapped up in so much sweet jazz and record static. These pills were so convenient to take away the pain of his leg, the pain of a failed love, the pain of a life wasted- for a few hours. But they had recently been losing their effectiveness. It struck House as no vengeful blow of a patient's family member or annoyed rebuke of Wilson's could. He had nothing left to live for, nothing left to give. He was drained and pliant in his own self-destruction. Dear Wilson… He had stuck by House from beginning to end with such an innocent loyalty. If anything in House's life had been worthwhile at a point, it had been his beautifully odd relationship with Wilson. But not even the future guilt of hurting his best friend could numb what he was feeling tonight. Lazily, he unscrewed the cap of his favorite whiskey and poured himself an 8oz. glass. Why worry about the risks of mixing alcohol and Vicodin on this, his last night? As he drank in the dark silence, a storybook two-thirds moon shone through the curtains. Cool trumpet notes swam through his dimming conscious, like sleek dancers in an inky pool.

House knew that Wilson would be the one concerned enough to check in on him when he didn't show for work tomorrow. Sipping the alcohol as well as the tang of its bitter perfume, he envisioned the moment with morbid fascination, right down to his hand skimming the carpet as his body went limp. Wilson would open his apartment door with a frenzied hand, start forward as he saw the two empty bottles, and then stop. Wilson knew House well enough to know there would be no point. He would sit, tenderly cradling his body, and reminisce over their triumphs and their failures. He would weep over what might have been. Then he would stoically call Cuddy and the rest of the world. He would give the emotional eulogy at his funeral. Wilson would even pack away his belongings, keeping fragments that would have little meaning for anyone else but were precious between them. And he would go on living as House didn't have the strength to.

The large, coagulated mass of Vicodin in his stomach was really starting to take over, take the edge off of the world. So that's what taking a whole bottle does. House blinked his blue eyes to himself and tilted his head thoughtfully. He loved Wilson. Not a Stacey kind of love, but a soul mate, a lover, a sweet friend when you needed it the most. One in a million chance, but they had made it work most of the time. He had no message to leave. Wilson knew everything about it all anyway, probably better than himself. It would come off badly, somehow bruising the poetic quality of his death to leave some scribbled note. No one dies with dignity. He had told that to a patient at the hospital one time. Was suicide dignified? Well, there was a difference between a loss of dignity and going out according to one's own terms, House mused, and he knew which one he wanted. As he haphazardly rolled the empty glass onto the table, it occurred to him that writing a death letter to his Wilson was likely beyond his capabilities anyway.

Greg House pulled the warm blanket strewn about his legs up towards his chest. Who knew dying could be so comfortable? As the song ended and the record player clicked and spun to a stop, he sighed and looked at that beguiling moon one more time. He envisioned himself flying through the night sky, awash in stars and freedom from his pain. He had always wanted to fly away somewhere. His calloused hand trailed in a slow arc to the floor.

Fin

Obviously, neither House nor Wilson nor any other House MD things are mine. Damn. Thanks for reading-tell me what you think!