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In Confidence
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: This is based on a heartbreaking picture by elicia8, which can be found at http://elicia8.livejournal.com/118552.html. Many thanks and (((hugs))) to my f-list who previewed this!
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House checked his watch and rapped on the door of Wilson's hotel room for the third time. "Hurry up, Wilson! We're gonna be late!" he called through the solid wood door.
He leaned on his cane, thinking. Wilson was running late. This was not like Wilson at all. Normally Wilson would be at House's apartment, cajoling him to finish getting ready. Today, though, he'd agreed to meet Wilson at his hotel, and they'd leave from here. Therefore he expected Wilson to open the door before he'd made three steps from the elevator. Instead, here he was, tapping on the door with his cane.
He just barely heard a strangely muffled voice, like it was speaking through a towel, answer behind it. "Come in, you probably have a key anyway."
House rolled his eyes, pushed the card key in, and pushed down on the door handle. In the meantime, a small part in the back of his mind marveled at this peculiar reversal of Wilson's fortune. Wilson had been waiting for this for so long, it was almost anti-climactic now that the actual day was here.
Part of him was too excited to admit that Wilson was letting him go with. This was the proverbial manna from heaven: gathering more first-hand pieces to the endless puzzle that was James Evan Wilson. Though another (and much smaller) part of him felt almost guilty for his shameless exuberance.
At any rate, here he was, clean and pressed in turtleneck, jacket and dress slacks (and the turtleneck was chafing his neck already), and waiting on Wilson, for once.
He barged through, noting the familiar, somewhat humid smells of shampoo and conditioner, Zest soap and cologne, that gave a Wilson-like feel to the bland room. "I don't get up this early on a Saturday for nothing, you know!" he started.
He looked around again. The bathroom door was open, but the fluorescent light was off. The green floor-length curtains were still closed against the brilliance of the crisp January morning. Only one corner lamp was turned on, its dull yellow glow casting the rest of the room in shadow.
"Why aren't you ready yet?" House demanded. "Hell, where are you--?"
Now that his eyes had adjusted, he was able to pick Wilson out from the rest of the half-darkness. From his vantage point halfway into the room, House could only see the back of Wilson's wet head and upper back, as Wilson sat in a standard, round-back, hotel armchair. A white hotel-issue towel was draped around his neck, covering what looked to be his pale blue dress shirt. Aside from the subtle up-and-down motion of his shoulders as he breathed, he didn't move.
House blinked in the half-light, mulling for a moment as his eyesight adjusted. He dropped his jacket on the bed and walked over to the armchair, nudging Wilson's shoulder none too kindly with his cane. "Get a move on, Jimmy, or don't you want to get a good seat?"
Which, of course, was precisely the wrong thing to say, because Wilson tensed with a sharp intake of breath. "We're not going to a noon concert, House," he said slowly, not bothering to hide his irritation.
House simply shrugged it off. "True. But it's New York. I figure there'd be enough people jostling for prime parking space alone--"
"Stop it!" Wilson said, sharply enough that House did fall silent for a moment, just from shock. "Just--just shut it for once, OK?"
House recovered and tilted his head. Wilson didn't normally snap so quickly. Then he saw his fingers, which were almost ripping into the burgundy paisley upholstery. He couldn't see Wilson's face, but if he were to look, he was sure that Wilson's lips would be pursed in a grim line.
House leaned on his cane with both hands. "But we will be late for the start of visiting hours if we don't hurry up," he said. "And lunch. We can't miss the tuna casserole special in their cafeteria. I hear they put real potato chips on top."
"Potato chips, yes, how can we miss those," Wilson agreed tonelessly.
House raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Wilson bowed his head, his hand reaching up automatically to rub his neck. "I don't know," he said, his voice sounding so soft in its defeat that House stood up straighter, paying close attention. "Since they found Matty last week, sometimes--sometimes, I wish the police had found him just a few hours later. Even one hour later would have made all the difference."
House gazed at Wilson's left ear, the tip of which was burning red. "That's pretty cold even for you, Jimmy," he said, but without malice. "Wanting your missing brother to have frozen to death on the bitter streets of New York City."
Wilson's hand shifted from his neck, to covering his eyes. "But this--this can't be life for Matthew, either," he murmured, so quietly that House just barely heard. More loudly, he added, " It--it would have been easier for him to die on the street. I--I was prepared for that. His death. Frozen, or OD, or both--for twelve years, I was waiting for that. That's what I expected. Not this."
House looked up and blinked, focusing on the folds of the heavy curtains. The crack of light from outside was bright, icy blue. "At least you know where he is now," he said. "That he's safe, warm and fed."
Wilson chuffed, and his hand dropped back onto the arm of the chair. "Dr. Singh said that she'd never seen such an advanced case of Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, or such a massive decline of cognitive skills, in her entire career. He'll always need care." He chuffed again, adding hollowly, "But you're right. 'Safe, warm and fed.' That's what matters."
House heard the effort Wilson was making, in not letting his voice waver. It was getting too warm and close in the cave-like atmosphere of the room. House removed one hand from his cane, thinking to balance on the back of the chair and use the cane to push the curtains open, and let the morning in.
The next thing he knew, Wilson had reached out, almost instinctively, and grabbed that free hand. "What hurts the most is that Matty might not ever remember who I am," Wilson said, squeezing.
House stooped, staring at his hand in Wilson's, whose face was still half turned away from him; but he didn't let go, either. The room roared with silence.
"You couldn't have done anything to prevent it," he said at last, to drive the deafening quiet back more than anything.
"No," Wilson agreed, reluctantly. "But it doesn't mean I don't feel responsible, now that he has been found."
If House had had any doubt before, he knew now, with keen certainty, that this impending trip would henceforth become a regular occurrence in Wilson's schedule. Every month, or every other week, Wilson would make that four-hour round-trip drive to Bellevue, to sit and visit with a man who probably no longer knew him; to trade stories that meant everything to one, and nothing to the other; and continue to do so, until Matthew Wilson's body finally, finally caught up with his mind.
Because that was who Wilson was. Wives had come and wives had gone, but Matthew Wilson was family. Even House, who didn't always play fair when it came to Wilson and his wives, wasn't willing to interfere with that. He did not want to think what might happen if, somehow, he ended up that way; if he were honest, he would not dare to hope for that.
Wilson spoke again, startling House out of his reverie. "I know you're coming with me today just out of your own insatiable curiosity." Wilson squeezed his hand again, before House could nod and reply. "Thanks."
House, to his own surprise, squeezed back. "Don't mention it," he said gruffly.
Wilson let go, and House gripped the back of his chair. With one smooth motion, he pushed the curtains back with his cane. Sunlight flooded the room, making both men squint.
"Better get going, then," Wilson said, and pushed himself out of the chair, still not catching House's gaze.
"Meet you downstairs," House said. He slowly turned, and bent to scoop up his jacket from the bed. "I hope you brought along some decent CDs for the drive." He let himself out, letting the door bang closed behind him.
Wilson rounded the chair and stood in the middle of the room for another minute, gazing at the moss-green whorls in the carpet. He looked up, to catch his reflection in the room mirror. His hair had already dried, and there was no time to re-wet and style it. He fluffed his fingers through, and frowned as he finished buttoning his shirt.
Reality, he knew, was waiting, a two-hour drive away. After twelve long years, it was time he met it face-to-face.
"I'll miss you, Matty," he whispered, the whorls blurring for just a moment. Then with a sigh, he collected his overcoat from the coat hanger and left to join House, pulling the hotel room door shut with a barely audible click.
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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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