Chapter Text
His father said: "It's better to have a son who killed himself than a son who couldn't even finish the job."
Neil Perry have been slowly dying, withering away for years at that point, but that one sentence was the final blow. The gunshot that took him out of this world.
So once he reached his uncle's house in Canada, he got to work.
The name "James" comes from the Hebrew name Yaakov. It means "a man in control of his own actions and will" – at least that's what the book of baby names said.
Wilson spent hours at the library in his uncle's town, meticulously going through the pages in search for his new name – His "chosen name" as a sweet trans girl he once treated taught him – before settling on "James". The meaning felt appropriate for what he wanted from the rest of his life.
For his new last name no muscles have been pulled. It was simply his mother's maiden name.
So when Knox – Knox fucking Overstreet, who is here, in PPTH – whispers "Neil?", it takes him a second to comprehend the situation he's in.
Comprehension doesn't help. Wilson is just standing there, frozen, helpless. He can feel House's blue eyes drilling holes through him, questioning. He's unable to face his best friend. Possibly never will again. His mind is racing. What can he do to not make it worse?
He needs to get out of there. What can get him out of there? Wilson's eyes are fixated on the floor.
"I'll go get another bucket." He mumbles approaching the bed to take the current one in use – His mind is already planning his breakdown at the closest nurses station. He reaches his hand forward, when suddenly he can't move it anymore. A sweaty palm is desperately gripping at his watch, not letting him move. Wilson shuts his eyes closed.
"Neil." A gentle voice is saying from beneath him. Wilson can't see that face again, he won't. He's too afraid of turning into a salt pillar.
Tears are welling in his eyes, begging to be shed. He doesn't let them out. Wilson is trying so hard to ignore the iron grip on his wrist that just won't let go. The romantic in him thinks of it as a metaphor for his past not letting him go. The cynic in him tells the romantic to shut up.
"Neil." The voice is insistent, urging him to look. The oncologist takes a peek and sees… him. He is older, but it's him. It's Todd Anderson. His blue eyes filled with hurt, mouth pressed in something resembling anger, and Wilson is overwhelmed by the urge to make him smile, the same urge Neil Perry had felt all those years ago.
But the second they make eye contact, Todd flinches and let go, his eyes becoming cold, expression unreadable. If at Welton his eyes were the sea, now they were ice and Wilson – He didn't know what to do with that.
"Fuck."
Right, the other people in the room.
Wilson slowly turns around towards a fuming Charlie. His face is red and his fists are clenched by his sides. Neil loved him. He was his best friend since the day they met at the start of sixth grade. Charlie Dalton was loud and friendly and accepting. Neil Perry envied the free and determined way in which he held himself.
The passion Neil once admired was now directed at Wilson in the form of rage.
"You are dead." It wasn't a threat, it was a statement, an accusation.
"As a doctor, I can tell you that my friend here is very much alive" House frowns.
Of course, the only person who can make the situation even more messed up: Gregory House.
"He's dead." Knox whispers.
"I can explain," Wilson lies.
"How!? H-how the fuck ca-can this be explained?!" Todd is shaking with anger and the oncologist opens his mouth to answer, yet finds that he can't. Good thing Todd doesn't want to hear it.
"Did you…? You-You just left us! All this- all this fucking time! That's… I-I don't…"
Todd has tears silently streaming down his face, and Wilson wants to reach out. But you can either be the problem or be the solution, and his place had been made clear.
"Leave." Charlie says after a deep breath. So Wilson does. With his shoulders hunched and eyes prickling, he leaves the hospital room where James Wilson found his fall. No lie lasts forever.
**
It takes a lot to shock Gregory House, and even more to confuse him, yet he can't come up with a single reasonable explanation for what he had just witnessed.
"So… ex-boyfriend, I presume?" House breaks the tense silence in the room.
The patient scoffs.
Is that a yes?
"Well… this has been a pleasure. Your symptoms are not getting better, and my best friend is probably having a mental breakdown somewhere over God-knows-what, but we should totally do this again sometimes."
And with that the diagnostician leaves the stunned room. He has a Wilson (or maybe a Neil?) to find.
He checks the cafeteria (Wilson is an emotional eater), the roof (House's personal favorite freak out spot) and the oncology department's nurses' station (In case his best friend wanted to flirt with someone to get rid of the sadness) before going for the obvious choice: their offices' shared balcony.
The moment he sets foot (and cane) outside, the wind slaps him in the face. House mutters to himself that whatever is going on better be worth hypothermia, however he is way too curious to actually mind the cold.
Wilson is sitting in the corner closest to his own office with his knees raised and head facing down. He hadn't noticed his best friend yet. He's shaking – either from the cold or from crying.
It's not really relevant which one, House decides, groaning as he limps towards his friend and lower himself to sit next to him, setting his cane down by their feet.
"Just for the record, grown men don't cry, they brood."
Wilson looks up at him with raised eyebrows and says: "I want to be alone."
House would've taken this request a lot more seriously if it weren't for his voice cracking and the tears streaming down his face.
"No you don't. I know you. You are dying to talk about this and to be comforted."
"Well, you are not gonna comfort me, are you?" Wilson snaps.
"No." House admits.
They sit in silence before he asks: "So… Neil?"
The oncologist tries to groan, but it comes out more like a sob. House feels a pang of regret, but he doesn't apologize. Nor does he reach out. He wants answers and he is gonna get them, goddamnit.
"I… I'm so sorry." Wilson tells him between sobs. He sounds so broken House wishes he was different person – someone who could fix this – but he wasn't, so he just sits there, letting the tale unfold.