Fic: I Guess It Would Be Nice, Wilson / Amber
Fic: I Guess It Would Be Nice
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: Amber / Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 779
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: Up to 6x10.
Summary: Missing scene from 6x10 of Wilson at the bar.
There are days when someone has to think you into existence.
It’s all familiar here tonight, the bar and the glasses and the traffic light falling through windows. But decorated for Christmas now. Early decorations. A green garland loops and stretches across the bar, and when your knees brush against it, the scattered bells tucked in among the plastic berries jingle.
Beside you is a stool, temporarily empty, with only a jacket thrown on the back. The glass in front of it has been refilled four times. Everyone around is talking seasons and sports and forgetting first names. People float between each other. Trying faces, trying conversations. People speak to strangers like lovers and to lovers like strangers. You’re amused but bored, waiting.
There’s an explanation here somewhere.
The seat beside you pulls out again. He sits down. He sees his fresh beer before you, then smiles, first at his glass. His eyes pull up only to your neck before returning to the amber liquid in his pint.
“Hey,” you say. His tie is loosened, hair ruffled slightly. His ID is still clipped to his jacket, half hidden in a pocket. “Wilson.”
He gestures to the bartender to serve you again, too, but the glass stays in front of him.
Someone at the far end of the bar has discovered the bells on the garland. Three men start belting “Silent Night” at a lung-straining pace. You smile, slow and secret, and put the new glass to your lips.
“The bathroom give you any inspirational advice?” you ask.
“Well it suggested I wash my hands if I’m an employee,” he says. He smirks and takes a drink.
You hook your ankles beneath you.
“I think he’s using you,” you say. “Friends don’t let friends steal each other’s livers.”
“He’s not stealing it, he’s asking for it.”
“Guilting you.”
“My reaction isn’t under his control. He asked as a friend. I shouldn’t even be considering this, I should be there for him-”
You roll your eyes. Both of his hands stay on the beer, his elbows jutting out as if he needs to preserve some space around him.
“Don’t be a doormat,” you say.
Wilson looks like you slapped him. He sits in silence, then sputters while you take a sip of beer and give him a second to pull together.
A man wanders away from his group in the corner, where a woman stands by a filled table, watching him expectantly. He approaches.
“Hey, man, do you need this chair?” he asks.
Wilson stares at him, glances at you in the stool.
“Someone’s sitting here,” he says. The man nods, moves on.
“Have you talked to anyone else about it?” you ask Wilson.
He shrugs and shakes his head. “No, he only asked a few hours ago. I’ll probably tell Hou-but I shouldn’t even be deliberating. If your friend needs something-”
“You throw yourself under a bus to make sure they get what they need.”
You expect him to bristle but Wilson just stares at the bar in front of him. “This isn’t helpful.”
“You were hoping I still have answers.”
“Do you?”
You smile. “You should go home. Talk to House. Stop marinating your liver.”
Wilson laughs briefly. He’s a constricted mess. Frowning, you reach out and touch his shirt, the upper-right of his abdomen.
“Unlike this, it will be real,” you say.
You outline the spot. Specifics are important. Specifics keep you here.
He watches you. His fingers brush yours. For an instant he closes his eyes.
“You’ll be on a cold table,” you say, “and under anesthesia. And you will be alone in your head. If things go well, and that’s not a guarantee, when you wake up there will be a scar.”
“And Tucker will be alive.”
“Is he going to do anything with it?”
Wilson opens his mouth to answer, but you cut him off.
“You can’t make him make good decisions.”
Wilson looks insulted, sounds defensive. “He loves them.”
“He’s dying.” You pull away your hand. “It happens.”
You move to your feet, hoping he’ll follow. Enough wallowing. You’re tired too, tired of being thought of, and the room is wobbling, growing blurry. He can’t keep this up.
“Go home, talk to House,” you say. “Take a cab.”
“A bus?” he says.
“Not funny,” you say.
The room dims. Decorations run like water and shift into monochrome. Wilson mouths your name and looks away as you fade. In the last second you picture him in your old apartment, only imagining what House has done to it since.
You smile. Wilson’s in good hands, whether he knows it or not.
end