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The essence of things hoped for
by SenaRae
The essence of things hoped for
The knock at the door was tentative, quiet, from someone who wasn't quite sure if they wanted anyone to really answer.
"Use your key, I'm not getting up," he shouts, glancing at the time, and frowning. He didn't realize how late it had become. He had been siting in the dark for over two hours now. Well, not quite the dark, as the illumination of the TV cast a glow across the darkened living room. He had muted the volume awhile ago, when the droning of the sports caster kept interrupting his thoughts.
"Wasn't sure you'd be up," came the quiet reply, as Wilson enters the room and carefully places his jacket on a chair.
"So, what are you not watching," he comments dryly, noticing House's concentration on something that was obviously not the television. He sat on the edge of the couch, feeling like he was intruding.
"Whatever," he sighs, reaching for the half full glass on the coffee table. He nodded to the open bottle of single malt and second empty glass.
"Expecting someone," Wilson quipps, pouring himself a couple of shots.
"You are a consistent bastard," he replies without emotion, swirling the liquid around in his glass before carelessly tossing it back.
"How's the hand," Wilson asks without really wondering, stinging a little from House's coldness.
"Hand's fine. Just say what you came to say and get it over with," he sighs.
Wilson doesn't really know what he wants to say, or ask for that matter. He had no plan to check in with House tonight. But after the day he had, he had no conscious thought when he left the hospital. He drove here on auto pilot. He needed . . . oh hell, he didn't know what he needed.
"I . . . don't know what to say," he starts, "where to start," he sighs. He stays perched on the edge of the couch, looking like he's ready for a quick get away. He drinks deeply from the Scotch, letting the liquid burn down his throat. His eyes water for a minute, and he stiffles the need to cough, feeling like a drowning man.
"I didn't see anything," House states after a moment, his head resting back on the couch staring up at the ceiling now.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his tone sounding more pleading than he would like.
House looks at him for the first time since he's walked in the door. Wilson looks exhausted he notes, dark circles under his eyes. They stare each other down for a minute, until House turns away again.
"You're lying to me," Wilson insists.
"No, I'm not," he answers with a grimace.
"Why . . . .would you lie to me?" he asks, mostly to himself.
I'm not lying," he shouts, clearly agitated.
Leaning forward, Wilson rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face with his hands. He's so tired he thinks, he could sleep forever. Forever . . . he chuckles to himself. Yes, that is the question, isn't it.
"House . . ." he tries again. "I really need to know," he says quietly into his drink.
"You don't need to know. You want to know. Because you need to be in control . And you want to be the one that has all the philosophical answers to all the unanswerable questions," he grabs his leg and lowers it to the floor, his position of relaxation and patience over.
"I lost a patient today, " he continues, his voice getting louder and angrier by the minute. "Because I was stupid. Because I did something stupid, trying to get the stupid answers to the stupid questions that you're always going on about," House rants.
"So you lost a patient today. . . big deal. I lose a patient every week. . . . Every week, House. You don't get to have the corner on anger and bitterness. Not on this subject at least," Wilson answers, standing up to pace the room.
"And don't you try to blame your stupid antics on me. I was not your motivation for what you did. That was all you," he continues, pointing a finger at him.
"It doesn't matter what I saw," House answers tiredly. "It shouldn't matter to you," he argues. "You have your faith, remember?" he sneers.
"Do I, House?" he laughs, almost hysterically.
House frowns, as he watches Wilson pace.
"What happened?" he asks after a moment, the puzzle starting to make sense.
"What makes you think something happened to me? I mean, it's all about you, remember," he says snidely, running his hand across the back of his head.
"What happened?" he asks again quietly, sincerely.
This is what he's wanted since he came in the door tonight. He wanted House's attention. That quiet gentle focus he's capable of giving someone when he sees the hurt beneath the surface that no one else can see.
He wants to talk, but his throat has suddenly become so tight he's not sure he can get any of the words out. He's suddenly near tears and he knows it's just a reaction to the stress and exhaustion and the Scotch, but he never cries and he's damned if he's going to do it now in front of House.
"Wilson," he prompts again, meeting his eyes.
And he thinks he almost sees fear in House's eyes before he banks the emotion back.
"We had a virus hit the peds wing yesterday," he starts as he settles back on the couch. He takes a deep breath as he continues. "We did everything we could, but we couldn't contain it fast enough. I lost a nine year this afternoon. A nine year old that I promised would see Christmas at home. I promised because I knew I could fix her, at least . . . until Christmas."
"I lost the second child around midnight. It's hard to have faith when you're holding a dying three year old in your arms," he says, mocking himself.
"It wasn't your fault," he soothes, but he knows the words are empty.
"It's not a matter of blame House," he answers with just a whisper, "I just need to know . . . that there's. . . more," he sighs, resting his head on the back of the couch, mirroring House.
"I can't tell you that. I can't give you what you need," he says despondently.
"I know," Wilson replies, looking at him, "it's okay," he says with a self-depreciating smile. And he slips back into his comforter mode so quickly he doesn't even see it.
But House does.
The silence stretches comfortably between them, as they sit like bookends on the couch, lost in their own thoughts.
"I saw the accident guy," House says after a moment
"What?" he answers confused.
"The accident guy. That's who I saw. He was smiling. I tried to talk to him, but I couldn't hear the sound of my own voice. Then . . . nothing. I don't remember anything after that."
"You saw the accident guy . . . huh . . . what do you think that means?"
"Whatever you want it to Jimmy . . . whatever you want it to."
House levers himself painfully off the couch.
"I'm going to bed, got fellows to torture in the morning," he says raising his eyebrows.
"Get some sleep," he says, quickly assessing Wilson's state of mind. "The couch is all yours," he says as he enters the hallway.
"House," Wilson calls, stopping him.
"What?" he says looking over his shoulder.
"I love you," he says sheepishly.
"Goodnight Wilson," he answers with a grin.
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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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