House MD Oneshots + Imagines

Be My Mistake (Gregory House x James Wilson) (NSFW)

Wilson sits alone in his apartment, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The other hand is messing with the hem of his favorite sweatshirt. It's dark green and fits him just right. It's Amber's. He remembers it being oversized on her. It still reeks of her perfume, so he's afraid to wear it, afraid that it'll muddle what's left of her scent in his home with his own. But, he relented to the intense craving to feel her again and put it on. He finds comfort in the way the familiar fabric feels against his skin.

Everything hurts. No, everything is numb. No , it hurts . His eyes are red and raw from crying, his hair is oily and he reeks of sweat from a week without a shower, and he feels weak. He can't eat, can't drink, can't sleep. He needs something, someone aside from the whiskey.

It's been two weeks, and though her voice is diluted in his head, he hears it often. It doesn't hurt any less. In fact, now that he's sitting around and thinking about it with every moment of spare time he has, it hurts even more.

"I'm tired," She says, voice laced with her evident exhaustion. Her face is pale and gaunt, covered in dry blood. It is no longer vibrant and bright and full of life like the Amber Volakis that Wilson had come to know. "I think it's time to go to sleep."

"Just a little longer," Wilson pleads and wraps his arms around her tighter.

For once, she's calm. Serene. Passive. The fire and ambition in her light blue eyes is already gone, dead. She knows that it's the end and, somehow, she's accepted it when Wilson still can't.

"We are always gonna want just a little longer," She states, and it's true.

All Wilson can do at that particular moment is cling to her and cry like an idiot. Now, he wishes he could go back and be stronger; hold it in to be the pillar she probably needed back then as she lay dying.

"I don't think I can do it," He says to himself more than he says it to Amber, but she replies like the words are meant for her anyway; like she's the one that's supposed to be comforting him when it's the other way around.

"It's okay."

"It's not okay," He argues. She puts her hand on his face, and he leans into it before continuing. "Why is it okay with you? Why aren't you angry?"

"That's not... The last thing I want to experience."

Then, he kisses her, long and slow. He doesn't want to let go, but for her sake, he does. That's the one part he doesn't regret.

The memory plays in his head on loop, over and over again. He lives in it, dies in it, too. He wishes it could've been him instead of her. He wishes she'd been asleep when House called.

Wilson wishes a lot of things.

The sound of the cell phone in his back pocket ringing snaps him back to reality. Amber is no longer dying- she's dead, and she has been for two weeks. He's alone in his apartment with nothing to remember her by but what's left; her perfume on her sweatshirt, her makeup on his pillow, her belongings that he has yet to go through, the memories that she's left him with.

He looks at his phone to see that it's Thirteen, probably calling to check on him. He declines the call and ignores the myriad of unread text messages, untouched voicemails, and 'missed call' notifications from his friends and family. He does, however, ring the one person who hasn't called or texted him relentlessly since Amber's death.

Unsurprisingly, he gets an answer on the first ring.

"Do you need me?" House's voice is gruff and hoarse.

He's been crying, too. Weirdly enough, it makes Wilson smile. His heart is filled with something bittersweet.

"Please," The brunette sniffles and sets his whiskey down so he can get up and unlock his front door. "See you in ten?"