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"Withdrawl" (m) - (2 Parts)


tma

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Author: me

Title: "Withdrawl"

Fandom: House

Pairing: none. House/Wilson if you want to see it like that.

Disclaimer: I don't own them- I only borrow and I put them back where they belong.

Spoilers: Through second to last episode of Season 3

Summary: Wilson wrestles with depression, guilt, neediness and (because it is me) getting sick.

Authors Notes: Skip this if you don't like angst. Also- this fic was inspired by a quote that Trillium posted in her blog, so I thank her for posting that. I'm not quite sure how closely this will end up fitting with the quote- so I may take it out or change some things at some point. Oh... and writing Wilson in his own point of view- is much more challenging than I thought- so I honestly hope that I was still able to keep him in character.

Feedback: Is a treasure. Constructive critiques are great too- they help me get better. :yes:

Note for part 1- Very low on the sneezing- just more setup and such.

Withdrawal

"Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something you never even dared to admit that you wanted -- an emotional speedball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is withheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore -- despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have that thing one more time. Meanwhile, the object of your adoration has now become repulsed by you. He looks at you like you're someone he's never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is, you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a pathetic mess, unrecognizable even to your own eyes. So that's it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination -- the complete and merciless devaluation of self."

Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat Pray Love," pp. 20-21.

James Wilson took one last look at his desk to make sure that everything was in order before he left for the evening. He wasn’t quite sure when he had developed that ritual, but develop it he had. First he’d pack up his briefcase, then check his desk, then grab his jacket, and or trench coat, and then re-check the desk. If he had been pressed to say why, he probably would have reasoned that it brought a little bit of sanity and order into his life.

House had gone who knew where, and Wilson was left to his own devices. Now that there was no one to go home to; home was a hotel. It was easier. He could rent week to week and things were neat, orderly, and best of all didn’t need maintenance.

As he unlocked the door and strode over to the bed, he felt that invisible darkness start to descend. He hadn’t noticed it during the day. It more seemed to come when nobody was around and nobody could see. He cleared his throat, rubbing away the ache that he started to feel, and grabbed some aspirin.

There was some bug that was going around, that is all that this is, he reasoned to himself. And if it’s not? came the nagging response. Then I’ll just adjust the meds accordingly. Speaking of which, he was due a refill. James took out his script pad and wrote out the script, cleanly and efficiently.

It still amazed him that so far he had actually managed to slip one past House, although he knew that it probably was more a matter of how long it’d be able to keep it that way. House had figured out about the antidepressants. The ironic thing is that House just automatically assumed that Wilson was being Wilson- responsible and open and doing the “right” thing and the ethical thing. Wilson would never write his own scripts. He’d admit his failings like an adult and do the mature thing. After all, wasn’t that precisely what he always lectured House on?

Wilson threw himself onto the bed and laughed a harsh, cynical laugh that quickly turned into coughing. He grabbed a glass of water.

Why did everything look gray? Wasn’t that part of the reason for taking the damn drugs? It was that and the increasingly unavoidable feeling that he wasn’t as needed as he thought. But it isn’t like I ask to be needed. Having everyone need you all the time is exhausting. James rationalized to himself. He knew that House’s retort would have had to do with being addicted to being needed.

Sure, he thought, it’s just like House to try to place me on his level. House was always trying to make people doing things for good, noble, selfless reasons out to be the worst sort of hucksters, full of shady, ulterior motives.

Besides, Wilson thought cynically, as he got undressed, House shouldn’t give a damn about why I like to help people. It isn’t as if he hasn’t been on the receiving end.

But why can’t you tell House? If everything is so normal and kosher, and under control, then why can’t you just admit it? Wilson closed his eyes against the thought. Even remembering the look that House gave him when he figured out about the medication was too much to think about. He rubbed his eyes and temples in slow circles, with his long fingers, both hands held over his face.

He wanted to curl up and tune out the world, but for some reason sleep didn’t seem to come. His mind kept flashing images and questions at him, and if he tried to turn from the troubling ones, it substituted lists and minutia.

He tossed himself about on the bed- trying to relax, trying to force himself to sleep. Suddenly he raised an elbow up, and lying on the bed in a position most closely approaching “Upward Dog”, but with one arm in the air- he sneezed twice. “Heh..reiTchuh… reitShuh!”

He flopped ungracefully back unto the bed. Would it be too much to hope for that he was actually getting this virus? Guilt for even thinking such a thing immediately rushed over him like a wave. You can handle this, stop being lazy and undisciplined. But… came another thought, if you can’t sleep, you might as well just stay up and watch something to divert yourself. No sense in just tossing and turning and looking at the same damn paintings. Wilson chose not to examine the rationale for said thought, but simply flipped the television to an old Hitchcock movie, and snuggled himself under a blanket on the couch.

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Awwww....poor Wilson. *Snuggles him*

You know, I really love sick!emo!Wilson.

This is really good...you're doing a great job at writing from his POV.

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Ohh, I almost missed this little gem.

Actually, I really rather like angst so I'm liking this. A guy: sick, miserable, pondering life...awesomeness! Although again I must curse the Irish TV channels for being so far behind...while I recognise the characters I won't get any references to Season 3...oh well! I am really interested to see where you're going with this.

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The brilliant glare of the morning sun shining through the blinds greeted Wilson the next day. He sneezed a harsh double into his elbow and ran his fingers through his sleep tossled hair. It really did look beautiful out there today. It was so ridiculously incongruous with his life that he would have laughed, but for the intense pounding inside in head, that was making thinking, let alone laughing, next to impossible. Out came the aspirin and the Prozac, then he swallowed both painfully with a large glass of water. He carefully blew his nose with the tissues sitting at the sink, and then realized that his nose itched unbearably. Between the kink in his neck, the knots in his shoulders, his head, his throat, and just life in general- it really shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. However, Wilson knew that if he did end up sneezing that it would be more than once, they would be harsh, and that they would exacerbate the aches, pains, and irritations all the more. He scrubbed furiously at his nose, and lightly bit his tongue, and it did back down a bit.

He felt like crap- it hurt to move, it hurt to think, but still this inner drive wondered if he should go in anyway. Eventually this would go away, and… Wilson sighed, knowing that the next thought had been you never know if someone is going to need you. He rolled his eyes at his ashen, unshaven, reflection in the mirror, dark circles rimming his dull brown, slightly red eyes. I really am pathetic with needing to be needed.

The worst part of the whole mess with Tritter had been feeling so useless. Watching as everyone bent over backward to try to cater to House, but somehow it felt like none of the sacrifices that he made received any validation whatsoever. Cuddy was more worried about losing House than the fact that her head of oncology had gotten his license to prescribe taken away. Cameron who was so concerned for proprieties when it came to writing his script, somehow also seemed to think that letting House realize that he had an addiction was selfish. Somehow, after the whole mess was done Wilson wanted it to have had meaning, and it had slowly dawned on him that it hadn’t.

The first antidepressant script (Wellbutrin) had started after his third wife left him for another man. Wilson was suprised that House hadn't picked up on the weight gain, irritability, and insomnia. But then again- House had been dealing with other dillemmas far more interesting. After the Cuddy fiasco, and a few other things, he realized that things weren't working, and that he needed to be honest with himself that any potential sexual disfunction that might occur, wasn't going to be given the chance. The smooth talking charming James had, at least in the mind of said oncologist, completely lost the ability to charm. That's when the decision was made to switch to Prozac- unfortunately Wilson hadn't thought about the yawning that might occur. But come on- how often did that happen? It wasn't rare- but certainly not a regular side effect.

“Heh… rrreiShuh… rreiTchuh… ReiTChuh… Chmpt.. ugh…god” The tickles had caught up with him and unfortunately it was as he had feared. He groaned at how sore his back, head, and neck felt. His phone rang, and he wrestled with the idea of ignoring it. That’s why you have caller ID. He checked it, and it wasn’t House. He wondered at the hint of disappointment that he felt. It was Cuddy, and he did something that he never thought that he would have done. He totally ignored it. He just stood there frozen with the phone in his hand, and his mind drew a blank. He wasn’t sure how he felt- other than maybe surreal. He almost felt like he was out of his body, watching himself holding the phone, wondering what he would do. What could he say? What was she going to say? How would he respond? Did she need him? Did the hospital need him? Did House need him? Was he going to come in today? If he wasn’t, how was he going to get coverage?

A thud stopped the flow of questions without answers. Wilson realized that he had banged his head against the wall. Not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to startle him and reset his brain. It surprised, and scared him a bit at how overwhelming he had made the task of picking up the phone. This has to stop. Be an adult; just make one simple decision at a time. If you’re overtired and you aren’t feeling well, take the morning off, take some Nyquil and rest and you’ll be able to pull yourself together by this afternoon.

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"Heh… rrreiShuh… rreiTchuh… ReiTChuh… Chmpt.. ugh…god” The tickles had caught up with him and unfortunately it was as he had feared. He groaned at how sore his back, head, and neck felt. His phone rang, and he wrestled with the idea of ignoring it. That’s why you have caller ID. He checked it, and it wasn’t House. He wondered at the hint of disappointment that he felt. It was Cuddy, and he did something that he never thought that he would have done. He totally ignored it. He just stood there frozen with the phone in his hand, and his mind drew a blank. He wasn’t sure how he felt- other than maybe surreal. He almost felt like he was out of his body, watching himself holding the phone, wondering what he would do. What could he say? What was she going to say? How would he respond? Did she need him? Did the hospital need him? Did House need him? Was he going to come in today? If he wasn’t, how was he going to get coverage?

A thud stopped the flow of questions without answers. Wilson realized that he had banged his head against the wall. Not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to startle him and reset his brain. It surprised, and scared him a bit at how overwhelming he had made the task of picking up the phone. This has to stop. Be an adult; just make one simple decision at a time. If you’re overtired and you aren’t feeling well, take the morning off, take some Nyquil and rest and you’ll be able to pull yourself together by this afternoon.

Gahh...I can just see him going crazy inside his head as the phone rings. He's already feeling overwhelmed and then to be sick on top of it. *Snuggles him more*

Seriously, this almost made me cry as I felt so bad for him.

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Why did everything look gray? Wasn’t that part of the reason for taking the damn drugs? It was that and the increasingly unavoidable feeling that he wasn’t as needed as he thought. But it isn’t like I ask to be needed. Having everyone need you all the time is exhausting. James rationalized to himself. He knew that House’s retort would have had to do with being addicted to being needed.

Sure, he thought, it’s just like House to try to place me on his level. House was always trying to make people doing things for good, noble, selfless reasons out to be the worst sort of hucksters, full of shady, ulterior motives.

Besides, Wilson thought cynically, as he got undressed, House shouldn’t give a damn about why I like to help people. It isn’t as if he hasn’t been on the receiving end.

But why can’t you tell House? If everything is so normal and kosher, and under control, then why can’t you just admit it? Wilson closed his eyes against the thought. Even remembering the look that House gave him when he figured out about the medication was too much to think about. He rubbed his eyes and temples in slow circles, with his long fingers, both hands held over his face.

I know I've mentioned this before, but I love the way that you write inner monologue dear, particularly here because you can really feel the pain involved. In particular, though I really enjoy all of it, this is by far my favorite part. I am definitely looking forward to more.

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