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sick_wilson2007-07-08 06:26 pm
blackmare.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-07-08 06:26 pm
Entry tags:
Epilogue for Welcome To Wherever You Are: Impossible and Never Saw It Coming.
TITLE: Impossible and Never Saw It Coming
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blackmare_9
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: "R" for violence and remembered violence.
WARNINGS: No, but if you haven't readnightdog_barks's Welcome To Wherever You Are first, this will make no sense.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Two "post-ep" scenes for Welcome To Wherever You Are. Things are rarely what you'd expect.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the House characters, or any ofnightdog_barks's characters either.
AUTHOR NOTES: I just couldn't stop myself. My thanks tonightdog_barks for setting up an irresistible situation, and then indulging me when I didn't resist.
BETA: Nightdog,perspi, deelaundry, and a whole wonderful slew of Nightdog's Fantabulous First-Readers. I'm beginning to understand why she loves y'all so much.
________________________________________________________
Impossible
He struggles upward, out of oblivion, and his mind gropes for clues:
The scents of a hospital. Latex and plastic; antiseptics; institutional detergents and fabric softeners; that indefinable smell of a large, enclosed, air-conditioned building.
Sound. There's a cardiac monitor nearby.
These two things alone have to mean he's no longer there, in that Pit or wherever he's been, but he is somewhere and someone's hands are on him. There's no telling what the hell will happen next, where they've taken him or why. He'll kick the shit out of anyone he can reach; he'll punch and bite and fight until they kill him.
He will, if only he can do more than feebly tense up his muscles and twitch his half-numb limbs. If he can --
He forces his eyes open and sees white, everything white, walls and lights and sheets. White, except for that dark blue-grey figure that towers blurrily over him.
"Go back to sleep, Wilson," it says, and that isn't right because it's House's voice, and House -- oh, God. House. They killed House.
"Fuck. You." He tries to say it but barely even manages a whisper. His larynx won't work, his tongue is thick and heavy.
He'd been hallucinating before, and it's happening again, and this stranger has been handling him. He doesn't feel any pain yet, but it's just a matter of time. He has to get up, has to run or die trying, but they must've drugged him. The man's hand settles onto his shoulder, keeping him down so easily, far too easily.
"Stop that."
Wilson stops, not because he was commanded but because he's all out of strength. His eyes won't stay open no matter how he wills them to, and how wrong is that? This man, stranger, enemy, has been inspecting every part of his body. Every part. He'd felt it; it was why he'd woken up.
There's a faint and familiar snap. Gloves. The man is removing a pair of gloves. Wilson tries again to open his eyes, and what little he sees still looks like House. But he saw them kill House, watched it happen. Didn't he? It's so hard to remember.
"Nobody's going to hurt you. We got you out of there. Go back to sleep."
He has to be dreaming, still underground, baking to death while House already lies in some dry, shallow grave. This is no more real, damn it all, than the last things he'd seen, the glaciers and blue arctic seas. If you're going to die, he thinks, you could at least die sane. Lose your life, not your mind.
He can feel, but cannot stop, the tears that are forming at the corners of his eyes. He hates it, and can't help it, and they'll hurt him for it because that's what they do. He tries to turn his head aside, to hide the evidence, but he isn't fast enough. The careful thumb of his enemy strokes across his face, leaving cool traces of moisture in its path. And that makes no sense, unless he's dreaming again, or unless that really is --
Not House, he thinks, as he slips further and further away from himself. Hallucinating. House would never ...
________________________________________________________
Never Saw It Coming
"Willllsoonnnn," he gripes, muffling the words as he turns his face into the pillow. He wants to block out the noise coming from the living room. "What time's it? Three?"
"House. Shut up." It's Wilson's voice, rasping softly in the shadows, just outside the bedroom door. Wilson's voice, but House has never heard this tone before. Something is wrong. Seriously, screamingly wrong.
"I heard that," responds a cool and mocking voice from the living room, "you little prick."
Fuck. Oh, fuck. There's someone else here. House slides open the drawer of the nightstand, as quietly as he can, and reaches for the Glock he keeps there now. He'd followed his instincts, gotten a weapon, and now he knows he was right. His fingers stretch and fumble for the cool heft of metal.
It's gone. No. Oh God no. He doesn't know how, but the bastard must've gotten his gun. House wants to yell, to leap out of bed and wrestle the guy to the ground, kill him. But he doesn't leap so well anymore, and there's that little problem of the gun, and here he is, bolt upright in bed like a target in a carnival booth. And where the hell is Wilson?
"I'm sorry my guys lied to you, Doctor Wilson," says the intruder, as calmly as if he were speaking to a toddler. He's moving slowly toward the hallway. House's whole body is electrified, the nerves crackling with every step he hears on the wooden floor. "We shouldn't have said we'd killed House. That was mean. We should've just done it."
What does he have on hand? A large, heavy flashlight on the floor near the bed. A book. A mostly-empty bottle of whiskey; several Vicodin; nothing with which to repel a gunman. Not unless he's better at throwing flashlights than he thinks he is. Cell phone. He could call 911, but the cops will arrive far too late. He picks up the flashlight, knowing it's pathetic, but it's the best chance he has.
"Warden Tritter, I presume?" he asks, and at least he's not giving away the fact that his insides have turned to water. Whatever happens, happens. Wilson's got to be hiding in the bathroom; there's nowhere else. One bathroom door opens out into the hallway -- so if House can play decoy, they don't both have to die. Maybe he can buy enough time, give Wilson a chance to run. If Wilson's got enough presence of mind, after --
There's a tall, solid-looking silhouette stepping into the hall. It's visible in the pale wash of blue light that comes in through the living room window. The shape of the right hand melds into the unmistakable outline of a pistol. This is what death looks like. "And you'd be House," he says. "This is your fault, so I'm gonna make that lie come true. Hell, what've I got to lose?"
"Not your mind, obviously."
The Warden's advancing slowly toward the bedroom door. "Where's your pretty friend? Got him in bed? Gettin' a little of what I got?" House doesn't answer. The bastard's only taunting, lying. Got to distract him, draw him past the bathroom so that Wilson can get away. House isn't fast enough; he's totally screwed, but he'll save one more life if he can. He's been shot before. It didn't even hurt.
House makes a whimpering sound, deep in his throat, and then mutters, "Quiet," just loud enough so that he knows it'll be heard. The moron falls for it; there's a chuckle from the hallway. House's fingers flex and his hand judges the weight of the mag light. He's got a barely-formed idea about shining the beam into Tritter's eyes and then, well -- no time to think. House clicks on the flashlight just as Tritter steps forward and the gun fires.
He never hears the body fall, or the light drop from his own hand. Perhaps because the gunshot is still ringing in his ears, or perhaps because of the speeding, pounding pulse in his head, or perhaps because he's yelling for Wilson. He's yelling for Wilson to run, or he would be yelling, if he could make anything more than this awful, dry choking sound.
There's a flood of soft yellow light from the bathroom. The fallen body is bleeding out onto the floor, its uniform shirt wicking up dark liquid from the growing pool. Every circuit in House's mind has disconnected. He'd thought Tritter shot him, and then he'd thought Tritter shot Wilson. But that's Tritter on the floor, and he's not even twitching and that would have to mean that Wilson -- it'd have to mean --
Wilson steps out of the bathroom, watching the fallen man as if he might spring back to life, the way people do in the movies. His messy hair is shining gold where the light hits it, and he's in his loose pajamas and bare white feet, with the one bandaged ankle and -- Oh. There's my Glock. Holy shit.
House wants to call out, Jimmy, but he's forgotten how to speak and he's not sure that this is Jimmy at all.
Transfixed, he watches Wilson -- Wilson -- move to inspect the body, prodding at it with the ball of his foot and waiting for a response that won't come. Wilson doesn't seem to recall that there's anyone else in the apartment; he hasn't so much as glanced in House's direction. He points the gun downward, aiming it at the dead man's head.
"I didn't want it, Greg."
________________________________________________________
Wilson's hand isn't even shaking. His finger moves over the trigger, and he widens the stance of his feet, bracing himself. If he does this now, fires shots he doesn't have to fire, it'll look like -- it'll look like exactly what it is. House doesn't care, but the cops will.
House drags his voice out from hiding, forces it to comply because this has to stop, it has to. "Wilson," he says, and hopes to all hell that he's still talking to Wilson and not someone or something else. Something that Tritter created, out there in the desert. "He's dead. Put it down now, Wilson."
He doesn't dare say, They'll think it's revenge and they'll arrest you. He doesn't dare to say they've got to get the police. Not until he knows where Wilson's marbles are. Wilson looks up, pauses; House can see his shoulders moving as he takes a deep breath and exhales. And then he's stepping over the man's legs, staying out of the mess as he walks, gun in hand, into House's room. In the dim light, House can make out a strange, blank look on that normally expressive face. Never, not once before has he ever been afraid of Wilson.
"House." It's all Wilson says, but it's quiet and soft and it means he's at least aware of who House is. He sets the pistol carefully on the mattress at the foot of the bed.
Because he has no idea what else to do, House holds out his hand. "Gimme my cane, okay?" The cane's hanging on the footboard, and Wilson brings it. He leans it against the bed at House's side, and then stands there looking noble and shattered and lost.
"I didn't want it," he says, and he's definitely Wilson, broken but recognizable. "I didn't."
"I know." House gets up, and if his leg hurts right now he's not aware of it. He's just trying not to think about what it was that Wilson didn't want. What it was that Tritter said.
"I'm not gonna ask if you're okay," House tells him, quietly, "because I know you're not. But you did the right thing. Shot an armed and dangerous fugitive, in self-defense." He glances from Wilson's face to the gun on the bed and then back again. "You gonna stay calm if I call 911?"
Wilson nods. "Yeah."
They'll use the land line, the phone in the kitchen, to make sure there's a record of exactly where they were and when. The trouble is that there's an obstacle in the hallway and House doesn't want to trip over it, or move it, or step in the fresh blood and slip. He steadies himself with a hand on Wilson's shoulder. It's been nine weeks since the raid on Camp Hellhole, nine weeks that the Warden's been on the run, but that uniform looks like it is -- was, until just now -- freshly cleaned and pressed. Deranged son of a bitch, House thinks. Saved his good clothes and dressed up for the special occasion. He prepares to step over Tritter's knees, but can't help stopping to see exactly where the bullet hit.
Wilson shot the man right through the neck.
"Damn, Jimmy."
________________________________________________________
By the time the cops leave, the sun is coming up. They've answered the same set of questions in a dozen different ways, and so far everyone seems satisfied. Now the two of them are standing on the building's steps, in limbo. They've got nothing but time until tomorrow afternoon, when they'll have to meet with the district attorney. House doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to think about any of it. But it's too early and he's too tired to get what he wants, which is thoroughly drunk.
They can't stay in the apartment, because the FBI is handling the case of the fugitive Warden and they're not finished taking evidence yet. There's a web of yellow tape across the door. Who knows what else the feds think they'll find, but House is glad, because Wilson's sinking beneath some unfathomable sea, and they both need to be somewhere else. Somewhere without any blood on the floor.
"Breakfast," says House. "And you're not buying, and you're also not driving." He holds out his hand and Wilson obediently gives over the keys to the Volvo. They walk in mutual silence to the car, settling themselves into the seats as if this were an ordinary day.
"Where to, Annie Oakley?"
"I don't care," Wilson says, his voice beginning to break. "Just as long ..."
His breath is hitching, and he's going to cry now, and it's about damn time. House forgets about starting the car. He's hungry, and he'd rather be moving, but this could take a while.
"Just as long as it's air conditioned," Wilson chokes out. And his face contorts in pain, and the floodgates open wide.
________________________________________________________
They end up at a Denny's, because it's close and they're exhausted and too hungry to keep driving. There's decent bacon and bland toast. The hash browns are golden and greasy, the omelettes smothered in some generic kind of cheese. It's just as well. They're practically eating in their sleep anyway.
House leans back, watching. It's an average-looking man who's sitting there on the other side of the booth, numbly deciding not to put ketchup on his eggs. The redness in his eyes looks like nothing more than a case of hayfever; no one would guess that an hour ago this guy had been sitting in a parked car, coming unglued. Finally unable to stop the tears after an ordeal that would've landed lesser mortals in the psych ward, if not the cemetery. If you didn't know Wilson, you'd see a yuppie with a head cold: a meticulous but mussed haircut, an old Abercrombie t-shirt, clean hands that look as if they'd never know their way around a pistol.
He's fidgeting with his coffee mug now. Rifling through the blue and yellow packets of carcinogenic sweeteners, in search of plain, old-fashioned sugar. His thumb and trigger finger make a careful tear in the paper, and he pours the sugar into the cup without spilling a grain.
Maybe this shouldn't have come as such a surprise; House had always known that Wilson was a lot more complicated than he appeared. Now it seems House hadn't really seen the half of it, and he's going to have to redefine Wilson again, just like he'd had to do after he'd seen the injuries, the evidence of what his friend had survived.
He's seen Wilson manipulate countless people, with an easy skill that House has always envied. He knows about the old piggy bank in Wilson's office, happy and pink and with a bag of marijuana in its belly. He has seen cancer-ridden four-year-olds who were terrified of everyone else but who would cling like Krazy Glue to Wilson. He's known Wilson to cheat on two wives, sleep with one patient, and put his whole life on the chopping block for the sake of one lousy friend. House will never, ever figure him out. Wilson, the most innately gentle creature he has ever known. The man who, just seven hours ago, killed Greg Tritter without a second thought.
He's dead, Jim, says House's frazzled brain, taking him for a momentary ride aboard the old starship Enterprise. House starts to laugh, and the more he tries to stop, the worse it gets. There's just no help for it, and there's no way to explain it to Wilson, who's blinking at him in mute confusion.
House picks up a straw, rips off one end of its wrapper, and brings it to his mouth. He aims, lets out a sharp burst of air -- and the paper flies straight and true, hitting Wilson right on the nose. And then, for the first time since Vegas, Wilson's laughing, really laughing. He's finally getting the joke. None of this should be funny, but oh God, it is. They're at a Denny's, for crying out loud. The sevice sucks; the coffee's burnt; the waitress is dumpy; and the bastard who took Wilson is dead, dead, dead.
It's the best damn breakfast House has had in years.
*
AUTHOR:
blackmare_9PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: "R" for violence and remembered violence.
WARNINGS: No, but if you haven't read
nightdog_barks's Welcome To Wherever You Are first, this will make no sense. SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Two "post-ep" scenes for Welcome To Wherever You Are. Things are rarely what you'd expect.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the House characters, or any of
nightdog_barks's characters either. AUTHOR NOTES: I just couldn't stop myself. My thanks to
nightdog_barks for setting up an irresistible situation, and then indulging me when I didn't resist. BETA: Nightdog,
perspi, deelaundry, and a whole wonderful slew of Nightdog's Fantabulous First-Readers. I'm beginning to understand why she loves y'all so much. ________________________________________________________
Impossible
He struggles upward, out of oblivion, and his mind gropes for clues:
The scents of a hospital. Latex and plastic; antiseptics; institutional detergents and fabric softeners; that indefinable smell of a large, enclosed, air-conditioned building.
Sound. There's a cardiac monitor nearby.
These two things alone have to mean he's no longer there, in that Pit or wherever he's been, but he is somewhere and someone's hands are on him. There's no telling what the hell will happen next, where they've taken him or why. He'll kick the shit out of anyone he can reach; he'll punch and bite and fight until they kill him.
He will, if only he can do more than feebly tense up his muscles and twitch his half-numb limbs. If he can --
He forces his eyes open and sees white, everything white, walls and lights and sheets. White, except for that dark blue-grey figure that towers blurrily over him.
"Go back to sleep, Wilson," it says, and that isn't right because it's House's voice, and House -- oh, God. House. They killed House.
"Fuck. You." He tries to say it but barely even manages a whisper. His larynx won't work, his tongue is thick and heavy.
He'd been hallucinating before, and it's happening again, and this stranger has been handling him. He doesn't feel any pain yet, but it's just a matter of time. He has to get up, has to run or die trying, but they must've drugged him. The man's hand settles onto his shoulder, keeping him down so easily, far too easily.
"Stop that."
Wilson stops, not because he was commanded but because he's all out of strength. His eyes won't stay open no matter how he wills them to, and how wrong is that? This man, stranger, enemy, has been inspecting every part of his body. Every part. He'd felt it; it was why he'd woken up.
There's a faint and familiar snap. Gloves. The man is removing a pair of gloves. Wilson tries again to open his eyes, and what little he sees still looks like House. But he saw them kill House, watched it happen. Didn't he? It's so hard to remember.
"Nobody's going to hurt you. We got you out of there. Go back to sleep."
He has to be dreaming, still underground, baking to death while House already lies in some dry, shallow grave. This is no more real, damn it all, than the last things he'd seen, the glaciers and blue arctic seas. If you're going to die, he thinks, you could at least die sane. Lose your life, not your mind.
He can feel, but cannot stop, the tears that are forming at the corners of his eyes. He hates it, and can't help it, and they'll hurt him for it because that's what they do. He tries to turn his head aside, to hide the evidence, but he isn't fast enough. The careful thumb of his enemy strokes across his face, leaving cool traces of moisture in its path. And that makes no sense, unless he's dreaming again, or unless that really is --
Not House, he thinks, as he slips further and further away from himself. Hallucinating. House would never ...
________________________________________________________
Never Saw It Coming
"Willllsoonnnn," he gripes, muffling the words as he turns his face into the pillow. He wants to block out the noise coming from the living room. "What time's it? Three?"
"House. Shut up." It's Wilson's voice, rasping softly in the shadows, just outside the bedroom door. Wilson's voice, but House has never heard this tone before. Something is wrong. Seriously, screamingly wrong.
"I heard that," responds a cool and mocking voice from the living room, "you little prick."
Fuck. Oh, fuck. There's someone else here. House slides open the drawer of the nightstand, as quietly as he can, and reaches for the Glock he keeps there now. He'd followed his instincts, gotten a weapon, and now he knows he was right. His fingers stretch and fumble for the cool heft of metal.
It's gone. No. Oh God no. He doesn't know how, but the bastard must've gotten his gun. House wants to yell, to leap out of bed and wrestle the guy to the ground, kill him. But he doesn't leap so well anymore, and there's that little problem of the gun, and here he is, bolt upright in bed like a target in a carnival booth. And where the hell is Wilson?
"I'm sorry my guys lied to you, Doctor Wilson," says the intruder, as calmly as if he were speaking to a toddler. He's moving slowly toward the hallway. House's whole body is electrified, the nerves crackling with every step he hears on the wooden floor. "We shouldn't have said we'd killed House. That was mean. We should've just done it."
What does he have on hand? A large, heavy flashlight on the floor near the bed. A book. A mostly-empty bottle of whiskey; several Vicodin; nothing with which to repel a gunman. Not unless he's better at throwing flashlights than he thinks he is. Cell phone. He could call 911, but the cops will arrive far too late. He picks up the flashlight, knowing it's pathetic, but it's the best chance he has.
"Warden Tritter, I presume?" he asks, and at least he's not giving away the fact that his insides have turned to water. Whatever happens, happens. Wilson's got to be hiding in the bathroom; there's nowhere else. One bathroom door opens out into the hallway -- so if House can play decoy, they don't both have to die. Maybe he can buy enough time, give Wilson a chance to run. If Wilson's got enough presence of mind, after --
There's a tall, solid-looking silhouette stepping into the hall. It's visible in the pale wash of blue light that comes in through the living room window. The shape of the right hand melds into the unmistakable outline of a pistol. This is what death looks like. "And you'd be House," he says. "This is your fault, so I'm gonna make that lie come true. Hell, what've I got to lose?"
"Not your mind, obviously."
The Warden's advancing slowly toward the bedroom door. "Where's your pretty friend? Got him in bed? Gettin' a little of what I got?" House doesn't answer. The bastard's only taunting, lying. Got to distract him, draw him past the bathroom so that Wilson can get away. House isn't fast enough; he's totally screwed, but he'll save one more life if he can. He's been shot before. It didn't even hurt.
House makes a whimpering sound, deep in his throat, and then mutters, "Quiet," just loud enough so that he knows it'll be heard. The moron falls for it; there's a chuckle from the hallway. House's fingers flex and his hand judges the weight of the mag light. He's got a barely-formed idea about shining the beam into Tritter's eyes and then, well -- no time to think. House clicks on the flashlight just as Tritter steps forward and the gun fires.
He never hears the body fall, or the light drop from his own hand. Perhaps because the gunshot is still ringing in his ears, or perhaps because of the speeding, pounding pulse in his head, or perhaps because he's yelling for Wilson. He's yelling for Wilson to run, or he would be yelling, if he could make anything more than this awful, dry choking sound.
There's a flood of soft yellow light from the bathroom. The fallen body is bleeding out onto the floor, its uniform shirt wicking up dark liquid from the growing pool. Every circuit in House's mind has disconnected. He'd thought Tritter shot him, and then he'd thought Tritter shot Wilson. But that's Tritter on the floor, and he's not even twitching and that would have to mean that Wilson -- it'd have to mean --
Wilson steps out of the bathroom, watching the fallen man as if he might spring back to life, the way people do in the movies. His messy hair is shining gold where the light hits it, and he's in his loose pajamas and bare white feet, with the one bandaged ankle and -- Oh. There's my Glock. Holy shit.
House wants to call out, Jimmy, but he's forgotten how to speak and he's not sure that this is Jimmy at all.
Transfixed, he watches Wilson -- Wilson -- move to inspect the body, prodding at it with the ball of his foot and waiting for a response that won't come. Wilson doesn't seem to recall that there's anyone else in the apartment; he hasn't so much as glanced in House's direction. He points the gun downward, aiming it at the dead man's head.
"I didn't want it, Greg."
________________________________________________________
Wilson's hand isn't even shaking. His finger moves over the trigger, and he widens the stance of his feet, bracing himself. If he does this now, fires shots he doesn't have to fire, it'll look like -- it'll look like exactly what it is. House doesn't care, but the cops will.
House drags his voice out from hiding, forces it to comply because this has to stop, it has to. "Wilson," he says, and hopes to all hell that he's still talking to Wilson and not someone or something else. Something that Tritter created, out there in the desert. "He's dead. Put it down now, Wilson."
He doesn't dare say, They'll think it's revenge and they'll arrest you. He doesn't dare to say they've got to get the police. Not until he knows where Wilson's marbles are. Wilson looks up, pauses; House can see his shoulders moving as he takes a deep breath and exhales. And then he's stepping over the man's legs, staying out of the mess as he walks, gun in hand, into House's room. In the dim light, House can make out a strange, blank look on that normally expressive face. Never, not once before has he ever been afraid of Wilson.
"House." It's all Wilson says, but it's quiet and soft and it means he's at least aware of who House is. He sets the pistol carefully on the mattress at the foot of the bed.
Because he has no idea what else to do, House holds out his hand. "Gimme my cane, okay?" The cane's hanging on the footboard, and Wilson brings it. He leans it against the bed at House's side, and then stands there looking noble and shattered and lost.
"I didn't want it," he says, and he's definitely Wilson, broken but recognizable. "I didn't."
"I know." House gets up, and if his leg hurts right now he's not aware of it. He's just trying not to think about what it was that Wilson didn't want. What it was that Tritter said.
"I'm not gonna ask if you're okay," House tells him, quietly, "because I know you're not. But you did the right thing. Shot an armed and dangerous fugitive, in self-defense." He glances from Wilson's face to the gun on the bed and then back again. "You gonna stay calm if I call 911?"
Wilson nods. "Yeah."
They'll use the land line, the phone in the kitchen, to make sure there's a record of exactly where they were and when. The trouble is that there's an obstacle in the hallway and House doesn't want to trip over it, or move it, or step in the fresh blood and slip. He steadies himself with a hand on Wilson's shoulder. It's been nine weeks since the raid on Camp Hellhole, nine weeks that the Warden's been on the run, but that uniform looks like it is -- was, until just now -- freshly cleaned and pressed. Deranged son of a bitch, House thinks. Saved his good clothes and dressed up for the special occasion. He prepares to step over Tritter's knees, but can't help stopping to see exactly where the bullet hit.
Wilson shot the man right through the neck.
"Damn, Jimmy."
________________________________________________________
By the time the cops leave, the sun is coming up. They've answered the same set of questions in a dozen different ways, and so far everyone seems satisfied. Now the two of them are standing on the building's steps, in limbo. They've got nothing but time until tomorrow afternoon, when they'll have to meet with the district attorney. House doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to think about any of it. But it's too early and he's too tired to get what he wants, which is thoroughly drunk.
They can't stay in the apartment, because the FBI is handling the case of the fugitive Warden and they're not finished taking evidence yet. There's a web of yellow tape across the door. Who knows what else the feds think they'll find, but House is glad, because Wilson's sinking beneath some unfathomable sea, and they both need to be somewhere else. Somewhere without any blood on the floor.
"Breakfast," says House. "And you're not buying, and you're also not driving." He holds out his hand and Wilson obediently gives over the keys to the Volvo. They walk in mutual silence to the car, settling themselves into the seats as if this were an ordinary day.
"Where to, Annie Oakley?"
"I don't care," Wilson says, his voice beginning to break. "Just as long ..."
His breath is hitching, and he's going to cry now, and it's about damn time. House forgets about starting the car. He's hungry, and he'd rather be moving, but this could take a while.
"Just as long as it's air conditioned," Wilson chokes out. And his face contorts in pain, and the floodgates open wide.
________________________________________________________
They end up at a Denny's, because it's close and they're exhausted and too hungry to keep driving. There's decent bacon and bland toast. The hash browns are golden and greasy, the omelettes smothered in some generic kind of cheese. It's just as well. They're practically eating in their sleep anyway.
House leans back, watching. It's an average-looking man who's sitting there on the other side of the booth, numbly deciding not to put ketchup on his eggs. The redness in his eyes looks like nothing more than a case of hayfever; no one would guess that an hour ago this guy had been sitting in a parked car, coming unglued. Finally unable to stop the tears after an ordeal that would've landed lesser mortals in the psych ward, if not the cemetery. If you didn't know Wilson, you'd see a yuppie with a head cold: a meticulous but mussed haircut, an old Abercrombie t-shirt, clean hands that look as if they'd never know their way around a pistol.
He's fidgeting with his coffee mug now. Rifling through the blue and yellow packets of carcinogenic sweeteners, in search of plain, old-fashioned sugar. His thumb and trigger finger make a careful tear in the paper, and he pours the sugar into the cup without spilling a grain.
Maybe this shouldn't have come as such a surprise; House had always known that Wilson was a lot more complicated than he appeared. Now it seems House hadn't really seen the half of it, and he's going to have to redefine Wilson again, just like he'd had to do after he'd seen the injuries, the evidence of what his friend had survived.
He's seen Wilson manipulate countless people, with an easy skill that House has always envied. He knows about the old piggy bank in Wilson's office, happy and pink and with a bag of marijuana in its belly. He has seen cancer-ridden four-year-olds who were terrified of everyone else but who would cling like Krazy Glue to Wilson. He's known Wilson to cheat on two wives, sleep with one patient, and put his whole life on the chopping block for the sake of one lousy friend. House will never, ever figure him out. Wilson, the most innately gentle creature he has ever known. The man who, just seven hours ago, killed Greg Tritter without a second thought.
He's dead, Jim, says House's frazzled brain, taking him for a momentary ride aboard the old starship Enterprise. House starts to laugh, and the more he tries to stop, the worse it gets. There's just no help for it, and there's no way to explain it to Wilson, who's blinking at him in mute confusion.
House picks up a straw, rips off one end of its wrapper, and brings it to his mouth. He aims, lets out a sharp burst of air -- and the paper flies straight and true, hitting Wilson right on the nose. And then, for the first time since Vegas, Wilson's laughing, really laughing. He's finally getting the joke. None of this should be funny, but oh God, it is. They're at a Denny's, for crying out loud. The sevice sucks; the coffee's burnt; the waitress is dumpy; and the bastard who took Wilson is dead, dead, dead.
It's the best damn breakfast House has had in years.
*
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;D
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(Anonymous) 2007-07-09 08:31 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
I loved arranging it so that House ended up shooting a straw paper instead of a gun. That whole ending bit, with Wilson laughing, owes its existence to Perspi.
Oh, and I've been wanting to let Wilson kill a Very Bad Character for quite a while now. So when I saw this opportunity, I jumped!
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I'm actually now -- God help me -- working on a third piece from this ficverse, probably to be posted in another day or two. Stay tuned ...
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Oh. And I'm at it again. Got another fragment of this ficverse in the works, this time from the POV of Lt. "Tooey".
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And cool! to more!! :-)
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Oh. And there's (I really should be put away, I really should) a ... third one of these. Surprised myself and I hope it'll surprise you, too. I couldn't help it; Tooey started talking to me and would not leave me alone.