| |
What You Wish For
by phineyj
It's unseasonably warm for April. The people walking on the streets around PPTH are in shirtsleeves and open necked blouses, enjoying the sudden onset of spring weather. You get to work at eight and you have a coffee with Wilson in the Diagnostics conference room before you get down to business.
"You actually have a tie on, House," he comments, laughing.
You look down at it.
"So? It's nothing like as horrible as yours," you reply.
You will need it later and you don't want to waste time getting changed. You pour yourself a second cup of coffee and shift position where you are leaning against the counter; your hip is bothering you today. You haven't had a Vicodin in more than ten years but it's probably just as well there are none lying about the office right now. Wilson glances at you in concern, but says nothing and neither do you. He finishes his drink and goes off to see his first patient of the day.
A couple of completed rounds of your current favorite computer game, and you're ready to face whatever foolishness your fellows come up with today. For approximately the millionth time, as you listen to Chen's halting theories about rare viral infections, you wish you still had a certain dark-haired immunologist to call on in these situations. You do sometimes consult her when you're really stuck, but it's not the same as having her right there in the room. Besides, you know she'll be rushing through her work today, trying to catch up enough so that she can leave early.
You need to leave early too, so midday finds you downstairs, actually getting a start on your clinic hours before lunch. The nurses don't bother to conceal their amazement. One fractured toe and irritable bowel later, you snag Wilson as he wanders past.
"No, I'm not bringing you back a Reuben," he says, grinning, "If you want me to buy you lunch, you're going to have to at least fetch it yourself."
You don't mind, really; let one of the other doctors deal with the tide of woeful humanity which lines the walls of the waiting room.
The dining room isn't busy; you select a burger, just to show you're not that predictable, and a salad, because Allison is always on your case about balanced diets. You pay for it yourself, and for Wilson's chicken sandwich, just to confuse him.
Your three fellows - fidgety, over-dressed Chen, scruffy, gangling Spencer and whatever-her-name is who you hired last week, are sharing a table over in the corner. They are watching you and Wilson, while pretending to be deeply absorbed in their conversation. You don't care. It's never been any of your minions' business what your mood is, or why.
You run into Cuddy on your way back to the clinic. She is wearing a sober navy blue suit that you haven't seen before. You notice a very faint streak of white in her glossy dark hair, just above her left temple, and it suddenly strikes you how much she has aged over the last year.
"Am I still giving you a ride?" she says, checking her wristwatch, "Do you want to meet me at the clinic at four?"
You tell her you'll meet her in the parking lot. There's no way you're staying here until four; it'll just raise expectations unreasonably.
By three o'clock, you're heartily sick of the detritus of society who seem to expect you to fix their largely self-inflicted problems, medical and marital, and you head up to your office to catch up with what your team is doing before you go. Wilson's office door is closed; you expect he's with a patient. Your own patient is stable, Spencer tells you, but they still haven't figured out what the problem is. You are pretty sure you know, but the man's life is not in danger today. It will be more educational to let them work it out for themselves, so you drop a few hints, and leave them to it.
Wilson is just showing his patient out, as you pass by; an attractive older woman, who doesn't look sad in the slightest. Must be one of his good days. Your friend winks at you, as he pats the woman on the shoulder. You wish he wouldn't get so involved.
Cuddy is there in the parking lot promptly at four, waiting for you behind the wheel of her new VW. The two of you don't speak on the short journey across town. Instead, she drives very carefully, and you pass the time counting the bugs splattered on the windshield.
Allison is already waiting for you when you arrive, holding an anxious-looking Emily by the hand. Your daughter releases her mother's hand as she sees the two of you get out of the car, and she runs over to you. She is still in her school uniform, her bright hair tied back in a ponytail. The two women kiss each other, briefly, and you hear Allison say something in a comforting tone. They set off up the path at a slow pace, and you and Emily follow them. It seems wrong and disrespectful that the weather's so sunny. You remember how cold and wet it was, this time last year, and the insistent wind which had everyone clutching onto their umbrellas. You'd forgotten until this morning that you'd never cleaned the mud off your only pair of dark shoes, and you had to haul them out of the back of the closet and give them a polish.
The grave looks just like it did the last time you saw it; plain and functional; all is says is James Christopher Wilson, 1969-2018. You think you should have known your best friend's middle name. Cuddy gets a bag of pebbles out of her bag, and passes one to each of you. Allison places hers carefully on top of the gravestone, and motions to Emily to do the same. It's your turn next, and Allison looks over at Cuddy, then at you and says, "Do you want some privacy, Lisa?" Cuddy nods, and so the three of you head back down the path in silence.
None of you feel like going home just yet, and anyway, Allison thinks you should wait just in case Cuddy would rather not drive back, so you go to a nearby caf which overlooks the graveyard. You and Allison just have coffee, but Emily surprises you by requesting an ice cream sundae, and you're in the mood to indulge her, so you get her one. It's a funny age, eleven; since she went to her new school she's tried to act so grown-up, but at times like this you remember she's still a child.
"Do you miss him?" she asks, diffidently, delving into the bottom of her half-melted sundae with the tall spoon.
Allison glances over at you.
"Every day," you tell her.
FIN
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.
|
|
|