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Freeze Out
by Mer
April might be the cruelest month, but James Wilson always dreaded February the most. It wasn't the dreary weather, or the unrelenting darkness, though he had once been told that Canadian universities scheduled their reading weeks in February to cut down on student suicides. It was that the weight of remembrance and regret was almost unbearable that time of year.
The day had been almost painfully ordinary. Clinic duty in the morning, lunch with a pharmaceutical rep, and patient appointments all afternoon. As soon as his last appointment of the day left, Wilson took off his lab coat, shedding the comforting camouflage of his profession. He tugged his tie loose and popped open the top button of his dress shirt, but his office still seemed stifling, so he opened the balcony door and stepped outside.
The cold air bit his exposed skin, reviving him like a slap on the face, and he could breathe freely for the first time in hours. He took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths, watching the air puff out his mouth and dissipate. He wished everything could float away so easily.
He walked over to the edge of the balcony and leaned on the wall, staring down at the walkway to the hospital entrance. He didn't know what he was looking for, or even if he were looking for anything at all. But it was quiet and peaceful, and it calmed him not to think about anything for just a moment.
Below, patients and visitors came and went, some in tears, some joyous. Wilson couldn't remember the last time he felt joy. He wasn't sure he would recognize it any more. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly.
His back was beginning to stiffen, so he straightened and stretched. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing out there, but he no longer felt the cold. Everything was numb. He liked that. He leaned against the wall again and watched the walkway slowly fade into shadows.
It was nearly dark when he heard a door slide open and saw movement in his peripheral vision, but he didn't lift his head. He didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Are you drunk or just stupid?" House asked.
Wilson turned his head slightly. "Why are those the only two options?"
"Because it's the middle of winter and you're standing out here in your shirtsleeves."
"It's not that cold," Wilson replied. "And I'm wearing a sweater vest."
"Oh. Well. That makes all the difference." House sat on the dividing wall between their balconies and swung his legs over to Wilson's side. He didn't stand up, though, just watched Wilson from a distance, his head cocked to the side. Finally he hopped down and moved next to Wilson, still studying him as if he were a puzzle whose solution just barely eluded him.
"What are you doing?" Wilson asked, shivering slightly when House's hand ghosted up his back.
"Looking for your 'off' switch. You must be an android."
"That would explain the electric sheep," Wilson murmured. House let his hand linger just an instant on his shoulder and Wilson smiled to himself. It wasn't often that House initiated physical contact and Wilson treasured those moments, tucking them away to bask in later. He closed his eyes and could still feel House's hand on his shoulder.
"So which is it? Dead patient or difficult divorce proceedings?"
"Neither." Wilson could no longer feel the warmth of House's hand. "Are those the only things you think are wrong with my life, or just the only ones you're willing to acknowledge?"
House snorted. "I could fill an encyclopedia with the things wrong with your life. I just thought I'd start with the obvious."
He wasn't sure why, but that actually made him feel better. Wilson worked hard to maintain the image of a happy, well-adjusted person. Some days he even believed it. But it was nice knowing he never had to pretend for House. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "I just needed some fresh air."
"I would have believed that an hour ago," House replied. "Now you're just being greedy."
Wilson lifted his left hand to glance at his watch.
House grabbed it, poking at Wilson's faintly blue fingertips. "Your hand is freezing, you idiot."
Wilson grinned and gripped the back of House's neck with his other hand, laughing when House yelped and tried to pull away.
"Seriously," House continued, finally twisting away and shuddering as he hunched his shoulders to conserve warmth. "That's inhuman. You really are an android." He stared at Wilson. "You're not even shivering."
Wilson shrugged. "I've adjusted."
"You're hypothermic," House retorted. He leaned over the wall and rapped on the conference room window with his cane until Cameron stuck her head out. "Get me a jacket and a cup of coffee."
"I can get my own jacket and coffee," Wilson protested.
"I sure hope so, because those are for me. If I'm going to stand out here, I'm going to be warm." When Cameron emerged with the requested items, he put the jacket on and pointedly took a large gulp of coffee from the mug. Cameron just shook her head and went back into the conference room. She returned a moment later with a second cup of coffee and a spare lab coat.
"Thank you," Wilson said, smiling gratefully at Cameron, which only earned him a headshake as well. He put on the jacket because it was the polite thing to do, not because he was cold. He could feel the difference immediately. "No one asked you to stand out here," he told House. He took a sip of coffee and shivered as the hot liquid began to warm him from the inside out.
"Oh, please," House scoffed. "You stand out here, all pathetic and vulnerable, and don't expect me to come out and guard you from the hordes of women just aching to look after you? Cameron's probably sending out an email alert as we speak."
"Whoever first told you that you were funny did the world a grave disservice."
"Why, Jimmy, you wound me," House replied, one hand splayed dramatically over his heart.
But Wilson wasn't fooled by the playful attitude. He knew House was just biding his time, waiting to strike at the first sign of complacency. "Your ego is bulletproof," he said, hoping to keep House on the defensive until he got cold enough to go back inside. It wasn't much of a hope.
"Too bad the rest of me isn't," House replied.
If Wilson hadn't been cold before, he was now. "Don't even joke about that."
House raised an eyebrow and Wilson knew he was filing the reaction away for future taunting. "You started it," House pointed out. "But you're right. Let's be serious. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing is going on," Wilson repeated, though he knew House didn't believe him.
"You don't walk to your car without bundling up in an overcoat. But you've been standing out here for nearly an hour in your shirtsleeves."
"And sweater vest," Wilson reminded him.
"How could I forget the sweater vest?" House rolled his eyes. "Because I'm sure it was keeping you toasty warm. Why do you bother denying it?" House complained. "You know I'm going to find out eventually. Why fight the inevitable?"
"Because you'll be disappointed if you don't cleverly work it out for yourself."
"Aha!" House exclaimed. "So you admit there's something to work out."
"There's always something to work out," Wilson replied. "It's just not always worth the effort." He sighed and glanced sideways at House. "Fine. Twenty-nine-year-old mother of three. Glioblastoma multiforme. The husband was killed in a car accident two years ago. She may live six months. I just wanted to feel numb."
House stared at him and there was nothing warm and comforting in the gaze. "You're pathetic."
"You don't think that's a good enough reason to stand out in the cold?"
"I think it's an excellent reason. If you were Cameron. Or if it were true. That's not even in the same time zone as the truth."
Wilson thought about all the times he'd lied successfully to House, at least at first. He wasn't sure where he'd gone wrong this time. "What tipped it off?" he asked out of professional curiosity. "Too many details? Not enough?"
"Actually, it was a pretty good story," House admitted. "It might even have worked if I hadn't checked out your caseload after you'd been out here half an hour. The only woman you saw today came and left with her husband after you told her that the lump in her breast was benign. You also had one remission and two six-month follow-ups, both clear, so all in all you had a pretty good afternoon. Which makes your icicle imitation all the more intriguing."
"You checked my caseload?" He didn't know why he was surprised. House had no respect for other people's privacy, even as he guarded his own obsessively. "So is this the part where you reveal the answer and I gasp in amazement at your brilliant insight?"
"Not quite yet. All my sources haven't checked in." And of course House's cell phone rang at that exact moment, because the universe shared House's sense of drama. He flipped it open without looking at the call display. "Give me the rundown." He turned away from Wilson, tapping his cane on the ground. "Just the basics. I'll know what it is when I hear it."
Wilson wondered if he should just go back inside and leave House to figure things out on his own. But he had always been fascinated by House's ability to put the pieces together, even when he was the puzzle.
House closed the phone with a satisfied snap. "That was Chase," House told him. "I had him go through your clinic charts from this morning. I figured it had to be something there. Something personal that you've been brooding over all afternoon while giving out your happy news."
He waited, but Wilson wasn't prepared to volunteer anything. If House wanted to play, he was going to have to finish the game by himself. He put the coffee mug down and gripped the balcony wall again, the concrete coping rough against his fingers.
"I don't even need three guesses," House proclaimed, happy to create his own fanfare. "Homeless guy. Frostbite." He glanced pointedly at Wilson's fingers. "I suppose if he'd come in with burns you'd be putting your hands in a candle flame right now."
"Shut up." The words slipped out before Wilson could stop them. He didn't regret the anger in his voice, he wasn't even embarrassed that his voice cracked slightly on the second word, but he hated that House heard it. One didn't display weakness in front of Gregory House and not pay for it eventually. He clamped his jaw shut before he could make things worse. But House didn't say anything and Wilson risked a quick glance at him, confused by this uncharacteristic cooperation.
"You don't have to do this," House said softly.
Wilson was prepared for sarcasm or condescension or even disgust, but kindness from House was something he didn't know how to handle. "Yes I do. Because he's out there somewhere, cold and alone, and the least I can do for him is try and understand how he feels."
"You don't know that. You don't," House repeated when Wilson shook his head. "He could be dead. He could be in Mexico. Imagining that he's cold and miserable doesn't make it true, it just makes you cold and miserable."
Wilson closed his eyes, afraid that if he looked at House now he would lose the last shreds of his composure. "I can't talk about this, House," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Why don't you go inside now? You've solved the mystery, your work is done."
"Is that why you think I'm out here?" House's voice was still soft, gentle, but there was an undertone of hurt. "I could have solved the mystery inside where it's warm."
"I don't know why you're out here," Wilson said. "Why don't you enlighten me? You know everything else." He forced himself to open his eyes and look at House.
House looked back at him and there was nothing mocking or amused in his expression. "I don't know a lot of things. I don't know how freezing to death will help you atone for every time you failed your brother. I don't know why you think he'd even care."
It would be nice to be truly frozen, Wilson thought, to have a solid shell of protection. But ice shattered under pressure and melted in a crucible, and nothing could shield him from the searing truth of House's words. "You're right," he admitted. "He wouldn't care. But I do, and I'm sorry if that annoys or inconveniences you, but there's nothing I can do about it."
"You could go inside."
He didn't think House expected him to answer that, so he didn't. Instead he stared down at the walkway, taking what comfort he could from watching lives continue on below him.
After a moment, House shifted next to him, mirroring his stance. "Do you think if you watch long enough he'll walk through the door?"
It had been more than a decade, but Wilson's breath still caught at the possibility. Hope, he thought, was like cancer; it could be irradiated, cut out, poisoned, but it could only be survived, not definitively cured. He thought about all the nights he had waited for Michael to come home and all the nights that he didn't. Wilson had stopped waiting for his brother to return a long time ago. He had never stopped hoping.
"He's not coming back," he said, freezing the hope that had always hurt more than the loss.
"Let's go in then," House replied, but they both kept watch until it was too dark to see any more.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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