XIV

In a different, kinder world...

Wilson leaves.

But in this world, House grabs him by the wrist and forcefully pulls him away from the luggage, desperation in every broken, disconnected movement. House clenches onto him, like he is the only thing left and the world is falling away underneath them both, like Wilson is the only life raft in an ocean that spans universes.

***

Reality is the best thing they've got. They have to settle for less - they just have to, but mathematically speaking, the percentage .00001 is infinitely better than the percentage of zero. So let's say that they lived in a utopia.

Just for a second.

Let's say they were both good, kind people with Messiah complexes, and manipulation was nonexistent and House wasn't staring at the Vicodin pills like vipers about to be let loose. Let's say they had a white picket fence. Let's just say that they had kids. Let's say that the universe rerouted its own fundamental principles just for these two, so they could finally be happy. Let's theorize. Life is fair. Let's say that.

Have the universe take away all those moments that made them them. Amber doesn't die because Wilson never meets Amber, Cuddy doesn't leave because House doesn't diagnose for a living - he's a chef. His leg doesn't hurt because it's not there - he agreed to cut it off - and Wilson doesn't take antidepressants because he's not an oncologist. He's a stay at home dad. Loves his two surrogate children. No - they're not even surrogate - let's make it an mpreg. Why the hell not?

House isn't bitter because he grew up with his real father, and Wilson isn't an irrational, irredeemable idiot that necessitates being self-sacrificing to the point of masochism because his brother is a lawyer at some great firm that defends cases about puppies and bunny rabbits. Lawsuits are obsolete, the universe is in harmony, and House and Wilson are so fucking happy that they both recognize it's disgusting.

Let's take this moment away from them: House isn't clutching onto his dying best friend to keep him from disappearing into the night, soaking wet and freezing cold, and Wilson doesn't feel like someone is physically plunging their hands inside his chest and squeezing on his heart, preforming an exploratory surgery on him while he's wide awake.

They're happy.

Their core constituencies are interrupted and worthless because of the very same reasons they crave: their lives are worthwhile.

Who are they, then?

Who the fuck are they?

***

Utopia isn't all it's cracked up to be. Wilson wants a Maserati, but would he trade one for a maybe?

No. He wouldn't even trade his pain for a maybe.

Wilson regrets a lot of choices in his life, but he didn't hang them on possibilities, luck, no - his choices were his. His reality was his. House was his.

Until the day he dies, House is his.

Wilson will spend the rest of his life with House. That will be enough.

***

"Don't leave me, Wilson," House breathes tonelessly, clutching his friend close to him. "Please, don't leave."

***

Fuck utopia.

There's no such place.