i can't face the truth (i died with you)

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They both knew his time was almost up.

His bad days heavily outnumbered the good or even okay days. Neither of them could even remember the last okay day. He hadn't left the dingy motel room in days. His skin was pale, nearly translucent. There was no life left in his big, sweet, brown eyes. He was so thin and frail, House was scared he'd topple right over if he were to breathe too hard in his general direction. His clothes hung off him heavily, leaving a silhouette of what he once was. He was breathing heavily constantly, and even a trip to the bathroom left him winded. He spent most of his time lying in the fetal position, trembling in pain and cold.

They both knew this couldn't go on much longer.

Wilson was the first to say it.

"Greg..." He began weakly. House's attention always snapped directly to him when he spoke. His words were few and far between now. His voice was hoarse and weak. "I think it's time."

Though he knew it too, his stomach still dropped. The blood in his veins ran cold and his chest tightened. The five months they'd spent traveling together suddenly felt nothing. It wasn't enough. No amount of time would ever be enough.

He had been silent for longer than he thought, because Wilson gingerly reached out to touch him and said, "House."

"I know," His words were barely more than a breath.

He didn't move, though. He stayed on the bed next to Wilson, just taking in the sight of him. It wasn't particularly pleasant, he was skin and bones and looked as miserable as he felt. But he was still Wilson. His best friend, his soulmate, his Wilson. He'd always be the most beautiful person in the world to House. He grabbed his hand gently and rubbed his thumb in slow, soothing circles, though he didn't know which one of them he was trying to soothe. His skin felt paper thin, like if he rubbed too hard, it would tear. It made his heart ache. It was time.

Finally, House rose hesitantly. He let go of Wilson's hand and began preparing for what was about to happen. For what he was about to do.

He drew the curtains and went over to the closet where the box was hidden. It was something he'd pieced together over the last month, knowing they were running out of time. The box itself was unremarkable. The contents, however, were anything but. The box held a decent bottle of scotch, two glasses, a couple of syringes, and a vial of morphine. It also contained Wilson's hastily written will, which he had insisted on writing early on. House poked fun at him, but deep down, it warmed him to watch Wilson still being Wilson at the end of his life. James Wilson, always compulsively prepared.

Wilson had confided in House during one of his first really bad days that, when things really started going south, he wanted him to euthanize him. He was very blunt with it, and that shocked House. Of course, he promised him anyway. At the time, he wasn't thinking about what that entailed. Not really. A couple of weeks later, House got his hands on that vial of morphine. Wilson had no idea how he managed to, nor did he want to. It morbidly warmed him. House really was willing to do anything for him, even end his life.

House sits back down on the bed and begins to take out the bottle of scotch.

"What's this?" Wilson asked.

"I saw it while I was out getting us groceries a month or so ago. I thought... it would be nice to have one last drink together." He says almost sheepishly as he sets the glasses on the nightstand and begins pouring the drinks.

Wilson is touched. House grabs both the glasses, one in each hand, and gives one to Wilson. They clink glasses, House doing most of the moving, and sip. Though he only swallows a couple of drops, the burn sends Wilson into a coughing fit. House watches fearfully, he always does. Wilson places his empty hand over his mouth. He knows there's blood in his palm.

When he calms down and catches his breath, he squeaks out a "Sorry."

"Don't be." House's glass is empty. He takes Wilson's (still mostly full) one and sets them both back down on the nightstand. "Are you ready?" The words barely escape his throat.

Wilson just nods. House, hands now shaking, reaches into the box and grabs just one of the needles. He uncaps it, draws a more than adequate dose of morphine, and looks at Wilson. His eyes are so sure it nearly calms House. Nearly. His hands still tremble slightly as he shifts himself up on the bed. Wilson rolls up the sleeve of his baggy sweater for House to administer the medication. He has to hold it up, his arm is too thin to hold the elastic cuff up.

"Everybody does it," House jokes grimly.

If he had the strength, Wilson would have laughed. All he manages is a small grin. He locks eyes with House. "Thank you, House. For everything. For bringing me along for the rollercoaster ride that is your life, for staying with me, for being willing to do this." It's the strongest he's heard Wilson sound in weeks. It sends him over the edge.

Tears begin to fall silently from his icy blue eyes. He's not the emotional type, he hadn't cried once during their five months together until now. All of those bottled-up feelings come spilling out now. He has to do it now, or he knows he won't be able to.

Time seems to come to a standstill as he pokes the needle into Wilson's vein. It feels like it takes hours to push the plunger down. As the drugs flow through his system, he begins to relax. His pain washes gently away, and he melts into the bed. It's the most at-peace House has seen him in a while. It makes him feel just slightly relieved.

"Hold me, Greg," Wilson requests, his words slightly slurred.

And he does. He lets the needle drop to the floor and easily slides his arm under Wilson's emaciated body. He holds him so gently to his chest and focuses on the rise and fall of his body as he breathes. The pace begins to slow.

"I love you," House chokes out.

Wilson falls unconscious before he can respond.

Even when he's limp in House's arms, he feels like nothing. It only makes him sob harder. All of his attention remains on the decreasing movements of his breath. Slowly, over what feels like an eternity, they stop altogether. It breaks him.

House gently lays Wilson back down on the bed. He plunges his hand once more into the box, picking up another needle. He draws up what's left of the morphine and prepares to inject it into his own vein. His actions are robotic as if he was programmed to do that. And in a way, he was. Without Wilson, there is no House. He was destined to self-destruct the second he left this earth. But, before he does, he gets an idea. He erratically searches for paper and anything to write with. He comes up with a receipt and a red marker from god knows where. On the blank side of the receipt, he scrawls "I'm sorry, 13" and nothing else.

Feeling satisfied, he finally turns back to his own fate. He slides the needle easily into his vein and pushes the medicine in. As the drugs begin to take effect, he moves once again to hold Wilson. He wraps his arms around his limp body tightly, no longer afraid to hurt him, and closes his eyes. The drugs overtake him, and he joins Wilson once more in eternal painlessness.