Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wilson’s body is cold, no matter how many hot tears spill onto the slowly fading skin nor how many blankets House covers him with. Wilson’s body lies on a bed in the cabin they’d bought after they ran away, limp. He’s been dead for almost twenty-four hours. His pulse had faded almost twenty-four hours ago.

Wilson’s body is left with a content expression on his face. His lips are slightly parted, eyes shut (House had closed them; Wilson was looking at him when he died). House remembers his breathing evening out into a soft hitch of the breath; and then nothing.

Wilson’s body had been held in House’s trembling hands for the first few hours after his death. He had still been warm. House couldn’t bear to touch him once the warmth had faded, once the blood had stopped running, once his heart had stopped beating.

Wilson’s body is lied on his side, a position Wilson often took up while sleeping peacefully. Normally. Something House would never see again.

Wilson’s body had deteriorated slowly and painfully. Wilson had woken up crying into his hands, crying into House’s chest. House is wearing the same shirt he had been wearing almost twenty-four hours ago when Wilson had sobbed into his tee, knowing today was the day. Wilson had known, by the way he was pale, clammy, cold, exhausted, by the way he could barely keep his head up that today was the day he would die. 

Wilson and his body had died in House’s arms. It was a cold, cruel death them both, Wilson having to suffer the feeling of his own body betraying him - his immune system fighting itself until it killed itself - and House having to watch the light fade from his best friend’s eyes as he pressed a final kiss - a final kiss that held more than they’d ever acknowledged between them - to Wilson’s forehead as his pulse tip-toed, and then stopped.

House has to tuck himself under the covers, alone and just as cold as the body next to him as metal presses against the side of his head. 

House has never believed in a God or a Satan, but he prays now that Wilson will be in hell with him.

Chapter Text

“I love you.”

Wilson’s body is cold, no matter how many hot tears spill onto the slowly fading skin nor how many blankets House covers him with. He smells absolutely awful, the scent of decomposing, rotting flesh filling his senses. Every time House looks to Wilson, he’s thankfully able to see past the decomposition and deep into his soul - the soul House wishes he had more time to appreciate.

Wilson’s body lies on a bed in the cabin they’d bought after they ran away, limp. He’s been dead for almost twenty-four hours. His pulse had faded almost twenty-four hours ago. The urine came next (a normal bodily reaction from the muscles relaxing far past what House was comfortable with happening to Wilson) which House had cleaned up without a complaint. Normally he’d make one of his lackeys (usually Chase [when a patient accidentally urinated on themselves]; the man looked like he had a piss kink. House will never see him, nor Cameron or Foreman or Cuddy again) clean it up, but he wasn’t there. Whatever. Then comes the horrid smell - now. The flesh of Wilson’s poor body is rotting, causing the smell, and House can’t clean that up. It feels disrespectful to put air fresheners, specifically the tree-shaped ones you used for cars (they’re all he has), in the room, so he doesn’t. He knows that beneath the blankets, Wilson’s pale body will have yellow-green bruises on his lower half (due to the blood pooling at the lower part of the body during decomposition). He doesn’t pull back the blankets, only looking at Wilson’s far too peaceful and pale face for what’s happening to him.

Wilson’s body is left with a content expression on his too pale face. His lips are slightly parted, eyes shut (House had closed them; Wilson was looking at him when he died). House remembers his breathing evening out into a soft hitch of the breath; and then nothing.

Wilson’s body had been held in House’s trembling hands for the first few hours after his death. He had still been warm. House couldn’t bear to touch him once the warmth had faded, once the blood had stopped running, once his heart had stopped beating.

Wilson’s heart will never truly be dead to House.

Wilson’s body is lied on his side, a position Wilson often took up while sleeping peacefully. Normally. Something House would never see again.

Wilson’s body had deteriorated slowly and painfully. Wilson had woken up crying into his hands, crying into House’s chest. House is wearing the same shirt he had been wearing almost twenty-four hours ago when Wilson had sobbed into his tee, knowing today was the day. Wilson had known, by the way he was pale, clammy, cold, exhausted, by the way he could barely keep his head up that today was the day he would die.

Wilson and his body had died in House’s arms. It was a cold, cruel death for them both, Wilson having to suffer the feeling of his own body betraying him - his immune system fighting itself until it killed itself - and House having to watch the light fade from his best friend’s eyes as he pressed a final kiss - a final kiss that held more than they’d ever acknowledged between them - to Wilson’s forehead as his pulse tip-tapped, like it was nervous, and then stopped.

House has to tuck himself under the covers, alone and just as cold as the body next to him as a cold metal cylinder presses against the side of his head. It’s not as cold as Wilson.

House squeezes, just enough to hear a click -

House has never believed in a God or a Satan, but he prays now that Wilson will be in hell with him.

House’s head shatters, brain matter and blood and tissue splattering the opposite of Wilson as the gun slips from his hand, clattering to the wood floor of the cabin. House used his non-dominant hand to pull the trigger just so he wouldn’t get his blood on him. Wilson and his body had suffered enough.

House’s body goes limp, collapsing next to Wilson. Their cold shoulders brush.

House’s body has always been cold.

House’s body dies looking into Wilson’s body’s closed, dead eyes. The brown, too-kind eyes House looked at every morning at PPTH, before both of their lives fell apart. Every time House had looked into Wilson’s eyes, really looked, it was like he was staring at a doe. House’s eyes were more like a deer-in-headlights eyes. It doesn’t matter that House will never see Wilson’s pretty brown eyes again - House won’t be here to think about that. He won’t be here to think about anything, do anything other than decompose next to Wilson’s body.

“I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

House wakes to cold, dead hands on his cold, dead face.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. The last thing he remembers is pulling the trigger of a handgun to the side of his head. He’d done it exactly where Neil Perry, Dead Poets Society, had. He’d always thought the guy looked a little similar to Wilson, so he had made his suicide a little similar to Neil’s in tribute to Wilson.

Plus, it was a pretty good movie. Who was gonna stop House from making his suicide performative, like everything else in his life?

He should be dead. And if he is, he’s in a hot, firey hell. If he’s not, he’s in a hospital, being treated for his attempted suicide. Then he’d be thrown in prison, probably for life, forced to suffer forever without the man who deserved to live more than he ever had.

“Open your eyes.”

House recognizes that voice, and (for once) does as he’s told.

He takes in his surroundings slowly and carefully. A bed to his left. He can nearly see his own body atop it where he knows Wilson’s is next to (talk about an out-of-body experience!) and his brains splattered against the wall. He’s uglier than usual with an exploded head, House notes. The floors are the nice though, smooth hardwood he’d paced back and forth on after Wilson’s heart had stopped beating. The blood-stained gun lies next to him, brushing against his knee.

Wilson’s death.

“Wilson?”

Above him, kneeling with a slightly concerned expression on his face is Wilson. He doesn’t look nearly as sick nor pale as he had the last six months. Instead, he’s wearing the same outfit he was wearing the night of the convention where he’d met House - a brown sweater-vest (him and his stupid sweater-vests) with a nice white shirt that looked like it had been ironed before he had arrived to the convention. He also wears the same red striped tie that’s tucked neatly under the sweater-vest, the same black slacks and the same white lab coat. The same big brown eyes.

House is suddenly curious as to what he’s wearing - unsurprisingly, it’s also the same outfit he had been wearing the night of the convention. A stupid band tee (The Rolling Stones. Sweet!), jeans, and a lab coat as well. His hair is just as messy as it was back then.

They’re wearing the same outfits, but they look older than they did back then. They kept the age, just not the sickness (it’s only recognizable on Wilson).

“You killed yourself.” That’s one way to acknowledge someone after they wake up from death to their also dead best friend.

Maybe more. Maybe it’s always been more; House knows he’s always been too afraid, too cowardly to acknowledge those kind of feelings. Especially towards Wilson.

At least it catches House’s attention.

“You died. I..” Couldn’t live without you? Couldn’t keep running from the cops and myself after what you’d told me before you died? “..wanted to see you again,” he says instead.

“You never believed in God,” Wilson points out with the hint of a smirk. “Much less the afterlife. I mean, you weren’t dead for long after your infarction.”

Speaking of, “My leg doesn’t hurt,” House blurts out, interrupting Wilson. He lets a hand shoot down to rub his thigh, over his infarction scar, and sure enough, there’s no pain. No numbness, no sudden, sharp shooting pain that comes with the withdrawal House had been facing for the past few months, nothing. It doesn’t hurt, and he can fully feel his leg. He almost smiles, but stops himself. Smiling after he’s killed himself and watched his best friend die about twenty-four hours ago would be a little.. insensitive. Wilson catches the slight curve of his lips, though. He always does.

“We’re dead. It’d kind of be a punch in the nuts if we could still feel the pain of living. Physical, at least.” Wilson hesitates, but he’s never been as much as a coward as House is. “..I missed you. It’s terrible to say, but I’m almost glad you killed yourself,” he says, releasing one hand from House’s face to awkwardly rub behind his neck.

“..I missed you too.” Perhaps, if it weren’t quiet enough to hear a pin drop, Wilson, even in death, never would’ve heard those words.

He does.

Wilson looks back to House, putting on a little smile. No teeth, just lip. Wilson looks prettiest when he does that weak, nervous little smile. House wants to kiss it off him.

It’s quiet for a few more moments, but it’s not awkward or tense. They look each other in the eyes, blue into brown, brown into blue, and don’t acknowledge the silence between them. Their gazes exchange all they need to know.

House, ever the chatterbox he is, though, can’t help but start up again. “You pissed yourself after you died.”

Wilson can’t help but laugh, releasing House’s cheeks from his hold. “You did, too.”

House looks up to the bed, and sure enough, there’s a stain beneath his paling body. Dead body. He rolls his eyes anyways. “I looked hotter doing it.” That, of course, isn’t true. Both of them know that. House’s face isn’t even intact.

“Never thought you’d have a piss kink.”

House grins. Silence coats the air once again. This time, it’s Wilson’s turn to break it.

“Did you hear what I said? Before I died.”

“I love you.”

“‘Course I did. They were your last words. Did you hear what I said before I died?”

”I love you, too.”

“Of course I did. They were your last words,” Wilson repeats with a smile, feeling quite smart.

“You’re such an idiot.”

“Do you really think that?” Wilson puts on the fakest, worst puppy-eyes House has ever seen in his life. He cringes, but his lips twitch into a smile against his will.

“Yes. One-hundred percent. One-hundred and one percent.”

Wilson takes a minute to think of a comeback, failing to do so with a sigh. That’s when lips press against House’s, warm, unlike every other aspect of death. Wilson’s kiss is experimental, a plea for permission without asking. It’s gentle, completely unlike them both.

Then again, they’re both dead. Who cares for expectations?

House kisses back, possibly with more gentleness he’s ever given or received in his entire life. Wilson cups his cheek again with one hand, and House rests his own over Wilson’s.

When they pull back for air, forcing themselves to part, they’re both panting. Oxygen still matters in death, apparently. Maybe Wilson will teach him at least the basics about this form of heaven.

“I love you,” Wilson whispers. House looks up, and Wilson is looking at him with the same big, beautiful brown eyes he’d looked at House with when he bailed him out of jail.

“I love you, too,” House rasps back.

He’s never going to look away from him again.