| |
I Lie Awake
by lea724
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling. A quick glance to my right assures me that, yes, only two minutes have gone by and I spend the next three minutes staring resolutely back up at the ceiling, holding out for as long as I can before looking at the clock again. 4:56. I have to be up in three hours and it's almost worse to get not enough sleep than it is to stay up all night.
From the other room, I hear the springs on the couch creak as Wilson turns over. Like a baby, I think, irrationally both amused and irritated at once. Amused at his never-ending ability to adapt immediately to new sleeping quarters (must be all that mattress hopping) and irritated because he's accomplished the state of sleep I want for myself right now.
The springs creak again, heavier this time, then followed by the sudden silence that comes from somebody heaving themselves up. A soft padding in my direction and I quickly close my eyes, deepening my breathing (as though it matters that I'm awake). The footsteps come closer, then deviate without losing rhythm as they turn towards the bathroom. No light comes on, but the door is pushed gently closed, almost as an afterthought, as it slowly retracts on its momentum, leaving a small gap between frame and door.
I hear nothing for a few seconds, then the sound of urine splashing into the toilet. The stream becomes lighter and higher-pitched and as he finishes, I can picture him bending his knees slightly, coaxing out the last bits of urine. Another second or two of silence, then the toilet flushes, the sink runs, then subsequently turns off, and the footsteps pad towards me again, this time turning back towards the living room after passing the bed.
Assorted creaks and groans (from both the couch and Wilson, himself, I imagine) and then there's silence. I picture him lying awake, staring at the ceiling, much as I am, wondering if he'll join me in my night of insomnia. A soft snore reaches its way to my ears. I smirk slightly and sneak a glance at the clock. 5:01. Making progress.
***
I congratulate myself on my uncanny ability to know when Wilson's buying his lunch and when I reach him, I say as much. He gives a quick twist to his lips. His way of acknowledging my presence, but not much more.
I lean over his shoulder, craning my neck to look at the food as he holds the tray away from me one-handed, taking his change from the cashier with the other.
No, he tells me firmly.
As if I were some stray begging for a handout. On second thought...
I give him puppy-eyed look number four, but it's wasted on him as he stares straight ahead, marching resolutely to a table. I follow behind more slowly, as the navigation around various chairs isn't as easy as it looks. I reach his table and plop down in one of the chairs, stretching out the good leg. I peer at the plates on his tray.
Can I...
No.
I reach out anyway, swiping a finger through the small dish of mashed potatoes, managing to seize a nice finger-sized portion of gravied potatoes before his hands can hover protectively over the dish, a millisecond too late.
I pop my finger in my mouth and grin around it. He sighs, then deliberately picks up the potatoes, placing it none too gently in front of me.
Fine. Here. Take it.
I acknowledge my victory by swiping his spoon as well and he gives me a Look before pushing back his chair and going over to the utensil dispenser thingie by the condiments and grabbing another spoon.
While he's gone (and making sure his back is turned), I grab his fork and cut off a nice-sized chunk of meatloaf, placing it on top of the mashed potatoes before licking the reddish gravy off the fork and putting it back on his napkin. I notice too late that he turned around as I licked the fork and I imagine my triplets up on the 5th floor can hear the sigh emanating from him as he grabs himself an extra fork to join the spoon.
***
I sit back in my chair, watching the ball's progress as I toss and catch it left-handed. Not quite the same coordination as when I go it right-handed, but it takes just the right amount of concentration where I'm hoping the answer to the latest case will pop in my head as I focus on this. It doesn't always work, this method of mine, but it's always worth a shot.
The door opens and I catch the ball, holding onto it, as he walks into the office. He takes the seat across the desk from me and closes his eyes, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.
You ready to go?
He doesn't answer right away, so I begin my game of toss-and-catch again. He finishes the self-massage, dropping his hand heavily into his lap and watches the ball's progress in the air, eyes following the movement.
I catch it with a flourish and place the ball on the desk before repeating my question.
He nods and tells me to wait while he gets his coat.
He leaves and I stand up awkwardly, putting on my own coat and glancing around to make sure I'm not leaving anything behind.
The case will have to wait for tomorrow. If I haven't come up with anything concrete, there are some fall-back tests I can have the trio do to eliminate some possibilities. Either way, the patient isn't at death's door. Not right now, anyway.
I meet up with Wilson at my office door and we walk to the elevators together, silent. I know I'm thinking about dinner, but god only knows what's running through his head. His wife's affair, a particularly cancerous patient...his world is a depressing one to live in and I envy it not a bit.
***
It's not that late, but the previous night's (lack of) sleep has me turning in early. Wilson merely nods when I tell him I'm going to bed. I pause momentarily when I reach the bedroom, turning to look at my friend.
He's slouched on the couch, half-empty beer in hand as the light from the television flickers on his face. He yawns widely, not bothering with any semblance of politeness such as covering his mouth, then takes a swig from the bottle.
I remove my pants and climb into bed, sighing with relief as I'm able to stretch out fully, releasing the weight from my leg.
I hear the television click off and a soft rustling of sheets as he prepares the couch to sleep on. More rustling as various articles of clothing are removed and then the heavy creaking of the couch as he settles in. Soon after, the soft snores begin.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
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 Fox Television, 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.
|
|
|