Kitten

By: Song

Summary: He looked about as dangerous as a wet kitten after being hit by a truck. Possibly less.

A/U: Blame the damn bunnies. I needed to write a death fic. Freud was just my excuse. Wilson/House if you squint. And no, I do not own House. I tried buying it, but they said that my sixty seven cents wouldn't even get me one of Hugh's eyes, so...

The quotes its based on are 'The goal of all life is death.' by Sigmund Freud and 'Death is the cure of all diseases.' by Sir Thomas Brown. Expect a real fic up in a few weeks, as this was a spur-of-the-moment one in a slightly different style then I usually write. Tell me what you think. I know you're out there.

"Y'know what Jimmy?" he asked breathlessly. "I think psychology is bullshit, but ya' havta learn it..." He looked so small then, curled into my arms like that. Strange for me to think of House as small. He had an imposing frame of 6'3, but for all it was worth he looked about as dangerous as a drenched kitten after being hit by a truck. Possibly less. "Frued wassa master of quackery... " House was delirious. The toxins coursing through his systems had began to effect that brilliant mind. "'e said that 'The goal of all life is death..."

"Frued was a smart man." I stated staring into glacial eyes.

A grimace flickered across his face as a spasm hit and his weak body trembled.

"'M startin' to think he was right..." He mumbled.

I held him close as another spasm wracked the fail man.

"'M not gonna be in pain anymore Jimmy." He whispered attempting a smile- the first one in years.

Perhaps he felt I deserved one last gift. God knows spending time with him was enough.

"It's the cure for all disease after all."

'It' being left unsaid. We both knew his was the next station.

"Brown wassa religious nutcase... So're you."

"Not a kosher one."

He tried to laugh, but dissolved into feeble coughs moments later.

"Jim... I know 'm not gonna get another chance to say so... but your friendship has been... everything..." He trailed off, unsure of my reaction.

Words were only a waste of breath. I held him close, knowing I could not battle his demons and postpone the inevitable. He understood. Frail arms clung to my torso like some deprived emaciated child, and he tucked his head under my chin, resting on my chest. The wiry grey flecked tousle pressed against my neck was somehow comforting.

Only when the breath hitched in his chest and his eyes dulled over did I allow myself to show sorrow. Greg had needed my strength. He needed to not be afraid. Death couldn't be any worse than life.

I kept the pallid thing close to me, warmth slowly draining away. Gently my hands went through with their duty closing his eyes and preparing him for the coroner.

Greg House died far to young. His liver went into acute failure from years of narcotics and alcohol. He did not lapse into the coma as he ought to have. Life was cruel enough to deprive him of even that small favor.

In those last days he was completely dependant. A blind kitten having wandered off and mewling for milk that would not come. He hated it, but accepted his fate.

After all was done, I left to clean my tear stained face. I admit it, I cried. My best friend had died in my arms. I don't know any one who wouldn't. As I splashed the cold water in my swollen eyes I noticed something.

The nearly full bottle of Vicodin.