| |
Holding On
by dragonwrangler
A/N- Inspired by elicia8's drawing "Time of Confidences", which can be found here- http://elicia8.livejournal.com/118552.html.
~~~~~
House is sure he has it all figured out. He's experiencing the high that hits him when all the pieces fall into place. Unfortunately, there is the possibility his patient has lied, or that one crucial piece is not what it appears to be, so he's forced to temper his current high with patience.
Patience, however, is not something he does very well.
It's going to take several hours before the current treatment proves whether he is right or wrong. Already beginning to feel the pressure of facing an all-nighter stuck at the hospital, House decides his best course of action is to track Wilson down to help him keep the boredom at bay. House knows Wilson will probably end up nodding off on him at some point, but that's all right. Just having him in the same room is usually enough to keep him from bouncing off the walls.
He can't remember when Wilson started having that effect on him, though the fact that nothing seems to ruffle Wilson probably has a lot to do with it.
House tries paging Wilson when he finds out from a nurse in Oncology that the man is still somewhere in the building. When there is no response to the page, House pulls out his cell phone. All he gets is a recording telling him to leave a message.
Annoyed, House decides he doesn't need this kind of frustration right now. If Wilson wants to pretend he's busy with something else, fine-- there are other ways to pass the time. House decides a shower is probably his next best bet; it will help wake him up and get his mind off Wilson.
House opens his locker-- hooking his cane to the top edge of the door-- and is about to strip when he hears the slow sliding scrape of a shoe against the floor on the other side of the lockers. House listens for a repeat of the sound; he had assumed he was alone, but clearly someone else is here.
Curiosity getting the better of him, House makes his way around the lockers and is surprised to find Wilson sitting on the floor. He stops immediately, hit with an irrational urge to turn and walk away before Wilson notices him; even as a sarcastic remark about ignoring his bestest friend rises to his lips.
Wilson, however, fails to react to his presence in any way-- his entire focus is on a crumpled sheet of construction paper lying flat on the bench beside him.
On the surface, the head of the Department of Oncology appears calm, the fingers of his right hand running gently over the surface of the paper, smoothing it out a little; but House has known Wilson long enough to sense the storm roiling just under the professional mask. Wilson has his back pressed against the wall-- as if reassuring himself the wall is actually there-- and, though there is a towel wrapped around his shoulder, House is sure a shower is the last thing on Wilson`s mind.
Standing this close, House can hear the stress threading through Wilson's uneven breathing, and can see a slight tremor in the man's left arm as he presses his hand against the cold floor.
The tension in Wilson's body language, the desperation in the stiff posture, speaks of a losing battle against a rising tide of powerful emotions; House wants nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge before the dam breaks, and just let the man deal with whatever problems he's having on his own.
Instead, House clamps down on the irrational panic swirling in his chest, and limps carefully to a spot a few feet away from where Wilson is sitting, silently berating himself for leaving his cane back at his locker.
Wilson gives no indication he is aware of him-- and House is more than happy for it to stay that way, afraid of what Wilson will want from him if he did.
Studying the figure on the floor, House is surprised by the new lines etched into the skin around Wilson's eyes and mouth, and by the fact that a few extra pounds have softened the definition of Wilson's cheekbones. These are things he should have noticed before, until he realizes how long it's been since he really looked at his friend.
House feels his heart beating hard in his chest and he berates himself again about the cane. He's uncomfortable and uneasy and has no idea what to do to relieve the tension building up around the younger man-- Wilson's the one who is supposed to do the comfort thing, not him.
Instead, all House can think to do is to rub the palms of his hands against his jeans, as if trying to wipe them clean.
Desperate for a distraction, House forces his gaze away from Wilson to the paper on the bench. Under Wilson`s fingers, House sees a drawing-- clearly the work of a child-- that has been executed in various glittery gel pens colors; though a non-glittery white one has been used to color in the lab coat that the stick figure in the center is wearing.
House stares at the artist's rendition of Wilson-- big brown eyes with thick brown eyebrows over them, hair a scribble of the same color that includes a loop swooping down over one eye, and a big crescent smile that fills the rest of the face. A nametag, just below a bunch of red, black and blue lines that House assumes are pens in the lab coat's pocket, positively identifies the figure as Wilson-- though the shocking green and yellow tie and the hand resting on a hip would have been enough for House to know who it is.
Standing beside Wilson in the picture, holding his hand, is a smiling little green-eyed girl with a curly mass of red hair, wearing a pink dress with purple and blue flowers drawn on it.
Across the top of the paper, each letter a different color and size, is written-- Dr WiLsoN- tHE bEst Dr iN tHE WorLD-- and is signed, KAyLiN.
"She lost the hair when she started chemo." Wilson says, acknowledging House's presence for the first time as his hand continues to brush lightly over the picture, a coating of glitter slowly building up on his fingertips. "It really was that curly."
House tenses and shifts his gaze back to Wilson as the man takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long shaky exhale.
"She was a good kid." The hand over the picture suddenly clenches, and Wilson yanks it away, as if afraid of damaging the drawing more than it already is; House wonders if Wilson is the one who had originally crushed the paper.
Wrapping his arms around his chest, Wilson continues in a tight voice, "She told me it was okay when I explained to her there was nothing more we could do-- that she was going to die."
"She told me not to be sad."
An unstable silence falls for a moment around Wilson, and House shifts nervously in place.
"She gave me that the next day." Wilson's voice trails off and he swallows as he presses his back harder against the wall; holding himself even tighter. House tries to ignore the dull throb beginning to radiate out from his shoulder as he listens to Wilson struggling to breathe around the emotions that are threatening to break free.
"She drew it, hoping it would help me feel better..." Wilson's voice cracks and he stops; all House can do is glare uselessly down at him, wishing he would just shut up.
As Wilson pauses, House finds he can't stand looking at Wilson's pain any longer, and turns away, staring at the opposite wall as he mentally curses the man for letting one of his cancer kids get to him. He doesn't know why the hell Wilson thinks he wants to hear any of this. He doesn't understand why Wilson is letting a stupid drawing get to him. He doesn't know why he is still standing here, silently putting up with this nonsense.
And he is angry with Wilson for making him feel like he's the one to blame for this. It's not as if he had been the one who talked him into becoming an oncologist.
"She hoped it would keep me from feeling sad." Wilson chokes on the words; and House clenches his hands into fists, frantic to stop this but at a loss as to how. It's not as if Wilson has never lost a patient before. Hell, the man loses one almost every other week-- why the hell is he letting this one get to him?
"She told me not to be sad anymore..."
Wilson pants a moment, and then says in a strangled, lost voice, "How...how am I supposed to do that?"
A shudder runs through Wilson, his body curling against the bench as his hands reach up to cover his face. Without thinking, House shoves away from the wall; grabbing desperately for Wilson's left hand before it reaches his face; grabbing it and holding it tight.
"I don`t know," is the only answer House can give.
Wilson breaks, falling under the weight of his emotions. His grip is so strong that House can feel the bones in his right hand grinding together-- as if Wilson is afraid of drowning under his emotions and is holding on for dear life. But House endures the pain; and he doesn't make a sound while Wilson fights to bring himself back under control.
House is thankful the battle is mostly a silent one; the single sobbing moan that Wilson lets slip is almost too much for him to handle.
He had wanted to say something else-- Just do what she says, or Why are you asking me, or even Quit being such a wuss-- but the only thing that would come out was I don't know.
People come to him for answers, and yet he's unable to come up with anything better than I don't know for Wilson.
He needs to fix that.
Eventually, Wilson's breathing slows and his body sags, exhausted, back against the wall, but he does not let go and House makes no attempt to pull away.
Wilson closes his eyes; his head tilting back a moment as he rubs his face with his free hand, leaving a trail of glitter to mark the path his fingers have taken. House is tempted to reach out and brush the glitter away-- it looks too much like tears on Wilson's skin-- but House remains still as Wilson takes a deep breath and lets his arm fall heavily onto the bench as he moves his head to look back down at the drawing.
House feels his own tension dissipate a bit as he watches Wilson. The man's body language is no longer clenched tight; it's slipping into the more familiar weariness Wilson wears with depressing ease.
A warning twinge, running up from the scar that replaced part of his right thigh, forces House to shift in a vain attempt to relieve the sudden ache. Wilson immediately loosens his grip and, without looking up, says evenly, "Sorry."
"Yeah, you should be sorry," House responds with a growl. He keeps hold of Wilson's hand, reluctant to let go-- even though he wants nothing more than to double over and grab the now throbbing scar. "It's fine," he adds in a soft voice once the ache runs its course, and a companionable silence slowly settles around them.
Maybe this is the source of his guilt. Seems that the blood clot that had destroyed House's right thigh had also taken with it Wilson's instinct for self-preservation, his ability to distance himself from the tragedies of others. Ever since the infarction, House's pain was Wilson's too; and now Wilson's astounding capacity for empathy was bleeding over into his feelings for his patients, most especially the children.
House knows he'll need to fix that as well; it's his fault, after all. Yeah, Wilson's the one who'd chosen the depressing specialty, and the one who'd chosen to stay friends with House following the infarction. But not even Wilson could have foreseen the emotional cost of trying to be both an oncologist and House's sole support system. So House'll have to figure out a way to toughen him up; neither of them can handle too many more scenes like this one.
House tightens his grip almost imperceptibly on Wilson's hand--a wordless apology, a silent promise. It's the best he can offer right now.
He's not surprised when Wilson finally breaks the silence to say in a tired voice, "You should get back to your patient, House."
House shrugs. "Need a shower first." His glance settles back on Wilson. "Wanna join me?"
There is a surprised huff of laughter and Wilson slowly shakes his head. "Um no-- I'll pass on that, thanks."
House raises an eyebrow. "Don`t know what you`re missing."
"Well, you know what they say, ignorance is bliss." Wilson finally looks up at him, and House can see the gratitude in his friend's brown eyes, though all Wilson says is, "You really should get going- I'll join you later. Your office?"
"Yeah." House studies Wilson a moment, though he has no idea what it is he is looking for, before allowing Wilson to pull his hand free from his grip.
As he turns and heads back to his locker, House is already working up a differential on Wilson. However, he needs more information before he can start on a treatment, and he knows Wilson will lie. He'll get his answers though, one way or another.
For Wilson, he is willing to be patient.
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|