Bucket Lists

Summary: "As far as anyone knows, the last five months had been all about Wilson's bucket list. But there had been another man on that road trip—one not dying but already dead." Short post-series ficlet. Spoilers for the finale.

Warnings: Death, implied suicidality. Yeah, not exactly happy times.

House/Wilson friendship that may be interpreted as slash pretty easily—in other words, just like canon. ;)

A/N: No claims to ownership. I guess dark moods call for dark fics?

Of course, there is life after Wilson.

Not medicine, maybe, but other things. Likely possibilities, unlikely possibilities. Good choices, bad choices. Joy, sadness. Jobs. Tasks. Puzzles. Life. As long as he lives, there is always more.

In the bed mere feet away, in their tiny, rented apartment, Wilson lies dying.

He had lasted 126 days on the road, surprisingly long, before they had to stop and settle and accept that sometimes even the boring things in life win.

The first 126 had been a blur of color and motion, of county roads and city highways, of cities big and small, of mountains and monuments, of the things Wilson had wanted, the things he had wished for in the final chapter of his life.

The past 32, in contrast, had been a slow parade of sameness. The mornings faded into afternoons faded into evenings, faded into mornings again. They ate, the watched TV, they talked, they slept. But most of all, they waited for the end they knew was coming. This was what neither of them wanted but what they got all the same.

In the end, House keeps his promise. James Wilson does not die in a hospital. He does not die under florescent lights, and no one stops by to tell him how good he looks. In the end, House tells him he loves him, not because he fought, but because it is true. It's always been true; it always will be true. Wilson says it back and means it, but, of course, he goes and dies all the same.

As far as anyone knows, the last five months had been all about Wilson's bucket list, and mostly, they had. But there had been another man on that road trip, too—one not dying but already dead.

The trip had been about House's bucket list, too—a single item, not written, never spoken, but understood all the same.

Be with him.

They had fulfilled most of Wilson's list, but all of House's.

And now, here he is, a dead man limping, with nowhere to go.

Yes, he thinks. There is life after Wilson.

Just not his.