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Moral of the Story
by Topaz Eyes
Notes: Many, many thanks to those on my f-list who read and commented on the first draft of this story! Your comments and suggestions were invaluable. Any brilliance is theirs; gaffes are mine.
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It was late afternoon, and Wilson was debating whether to pack up his papers and head home, or try to work through the tension headache currently creeping up the base of his skull. He straightened from his hunched position over his laptop and sat back in his chair, reaching up to massage the back of his neck. He winced at the tight web of muscle in his shoulders contracting into knots under his fingers.
We're almost through April, he thought, hearing the soft plink of raindrops hitting his balcony door as it began to rain. Yet another downpour--April showers were supposed to bring May flowers. They were supposed to wash away the salt and grit from the seemingly endless winter that had started with Amber's death last year. He'd just begun to adjust to living again--he'd finally found his brother after so long, he'd been looking forward to starting over with a clean slate this spring, a fresh page in his life. Now this.
He opened his center desk drawer to grab a bottle of ibuprofen, shook two pills into his hand, and headed to the washroom with his coffee mug. Under the draining fluorescence of the lights above the sinks, Wilson gulped the painkillers and splashed cold water onto his face. With luck, he would subdue the headache before it reared into a full-fledged monster.
Head bowed, Wilson was so lost in his thoughts as he returned from the washroom, that he didn't notice the instantly-familiar shadow glowering over the screen of his still-open laptop.
"Where did you get this?"
Wilson flinched at the frayed tone in his friend's voice. He looked up and squinted at House standing haggard and rumpled, his hand trembling as he leaned heavily on his cane. His eyes were bright blue flame as he held up a dark, mottled hardbound notebook.
Wilson closed his eyes with a heavy inward sigh, a fresh wave of loss washing over him as he remembered the item and its owner. In the shock and sorrow of the past few weeks, he'd entirely forgotten about Kutner's notebook in his bottom desk drawer. Tensing for the inevitable inquisition, he fought to answer normally through a spasm of guilt and neck pain. "I see you went through my desk again," he said as he rounded the desk to stand across from House.
"Just answer the damn question." House dropped the book onto Wilson's desk blotter, just missing the laptop keyboard. The book landed with a thud, jarring Wilson's nerves.
He felt House's stare bore into him as he pinched the bridge of his nose and composed his reply. "A few weeks ago Kutner came into my office," he said after a minute. "He asked if I liked to read science fiction. I said yes, when I got the chance to read. He said he was thinking of becoming an author, so he'd been attending some writing workshops in his spare time. Kutner asked if I'd like to read some of the stories he'd written so far. I was flattered, so I agreed, and he gave me this book."
Wilson pulled the notebook towards him, his fingers smoothing over the slightly rough surface. He opened it, acutely aware of House's glare bearing down on his head. His sight blurred briefly at the small, cramped handwriting that extended to the margins and crowded the pages. He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of Kutner, his manner oddly self-effacing but his dark eyes bright and eager, metaphorically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he held out the blue-bound notebook.
Hey, thanks, Wilson, this is awesome! Can't wait to hear what you think of them.
"No, you weren't flattered, you were just being your usual Mr. Nice Guy," House said, snapping Wilson from his reverie. "How long have you had this?"
"Since he gave it to me."
"Which was when?"
"A few weeks before he died. He told me to keep it until I finished reading--"
"Did you read them?"
"Not right away, but I read them, yes." Wilson looked up to stare out at the cold April rain now sluicing down the windows. "I read them a couple of nights before Kutner--It took me a while but once I was able to decipher his handwriting, I thought they were very good."
"Did you tell him that?"
"I--was going to, but I never got the chance," he whispered around a sudden golf ball-sized lump in his throat. He died the day I was going to return it. Damn it, House, don't make this any harder for either of us--
"Why didn't you show me this before? Why were you keeping this from me?"
Wilson sighed and wiped his face. "If I'd meant to hide this from you, would I have left it in plain view in my desk?"
"'Plain view? At the very bottom of your desk drawer."
"Plain view for you. Look, I just forgot I still had it. We've all been a little distracted by what's happened."
"Yeah, you were distracted," House said in a tight, brittle tone. "Except that these weren't stories he gave you, Wilson. They were fucking cries for help."
Meeting House's steely glare across the desk, Wilson fought to keep his voice even. "No. I read those stories. They weren't dark, or upsetting, or disturbing. They were intelligent, thoughtful, comical. I thought he had a lot of promise--"
"The stories were clues! The clues were in your desk all along and we missed them because you didn't think!"
Wilson distantly felt his hands clench into fists as his own anger flared. "You are not pinning the blame on me for this, House. I feel bad enough that I didn't see it coming either. But if I'd thought the notebook contained an inkling of something wrong, don't you think I would have told you--?"
House raised and whacked his cane on the edge of the desk, cutting him off. Wilson jumped back at the loud crack. Then House half-turned away, his head bowed and shoulders slumped, looking smaller and more defeated than Wilson had seen in a long time. "If I had known about these before he died we could have saved him."
All Wilson's anger drained, and as it did he found himself reaching across the desk to brush House's arm. Except House flinched and pulled away, refusing the gesture; reluctantly Wilson let his hand drop to his side.
"Kutner was despondent," Wilson said heavily, "and we all assumed he was fine. He was so good at hiding it he fooled all of us. Even you."
House turned to face him. "You just want to think that, so you can absolve your own stupidity for not realizing Kutner gave you the key."
Vicious words, but Wilson knew they weren't actually directed at him; he reached out again. House twitched, but did not move his arm away this time when Wilson touched his elbow. "I know you want to cling to your theory that Kutner somehow left his notebook as a classic cry for help," Wilson said as gently as he could. "God, House--if you knew how much I want that to be true, for your sake--I don't know why I forgot about the notebook. I don't. Maybe it was another unconscious effort on my part to protect you. Whatever it was--I'm sorry, but sometimes we have to accept that there is just no explanation--"
Wilson fell off-balance as House jerked his arm away and picked up the notebook. Grabbing the desk drawer to maintain his balance, Wilson felt a sliver catch deep in the tender skin of his left palm. House began to leave, the book tucked under his arm; at the door, he stopped and turned.
"He gave that notebook to you. Not Taub, not Thirteen," he said thoughtfully, "and definitely not Foreman."
"He'd already asked them first," Wilson said automatically, unconsciously cradling his injured hand. "He gave it to me because I said I would read it. I had every indication he wanted it back when I was done."
"And the stories were all handwritten, despite the fact that Kutner was an avowed computer geek. Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe he preferred to write first drafts by hand? He apologized for his crappy handwriting, said he hadn't had time yet to type them up properly--" He trailed off at the renewed gleam in House's eye. "No, I'm not enabling you anymore. House, stop this. You're only torturing yourself now." And me, he added silently. He gestured at the book. "Give it back--"
At that, House turned abruptly and left.
Wilson stared at the empty space in his doorway. Dammit, he thought weakly, you just had to re-open a barely-scabbed wound again--though he wasn't sure whether the "you" was aimed at House or at himself. Wilson then fished a first aid kit from his desk. He gingerly probed the skin around the sliver before awkwardly plucking it out with a pair of tweezers. The sliver had been long and deeply embedded; he hoped he'd managed to remove all of it, before it began to fester too.
After disinfecting and bandaging his hand, he closed and put away his laptop, grabbed his briefcase and coat, and left to head home. Detouring past House's office, Wilson saw him at his desk, his feet propped up, reading glasses on, and intently peering at the notebook in his lap. As he surreptitiously observed House through the glass wall, Wilson began to wonder. Why had Kutner chosen to share his fiction writing--of all things--with him, a mere colleague? In hindsight the offer was strange, though everything about Kutner's demeanor at the time had been perfectly normal. True, the stories had been only rough drafts, but they'd been good enough to enjoy--
Why share the handwritten rough drafts at all? Why not the completed versions? Was it the stories that had mattered, or something else--?
Wilson shook his head to clear it. No. He couldn't afford to start obsessing about it too. Kutner's death was just one of those tragedies that could have never been predicted. There would never be any rational explanation for it; it hurt like hell, but Wilson accepted that reality. House would rather die trying to prove otherwise, but in the end he'd have to accept it too. Or die trying. Either way, Wilson had to be ready to pick up the pieces. With that thought, Wilson slouched home.
When he returned to his office the next morning, he found Kutner's notebook, closed and desolate, back in the bottom drawer of his desk.
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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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