The Commemoration
Title: The Commemoration
Prompt: #5. Wilson drives drunk. House is pissed off.
Author: rslworks
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: not mine
Word Count: 3836
Tags: drunk
Lisa Cuddy knocked at Dr. Wilson’s door and listened expectantly, clutching several files to her chest.
“Come,” a familiar baritone rang out.
“Good morning, Wilson,” she began brightly, stopping not across from him but choosing to stand beside his desk chair. She was secretly appreciative of reasons to see him early in the mornings lately, as he’d taken to using a new aftershave that she found shamelessly addictive. “I need to give you these oncology funding committee reports before next Tuesday,” she explained, setting a manila folder neatly before him, “and these are the minutes of the last board meeting along with the agenda for the next one.” She dropped an identical folder atop the first one and began to walk toward the door.
Wilson opened the first folder, but sensed Cuddy hadn’t left yet. He studied her lovely back for a moment.
“Anything else?”
Cuddy slowly turned around, biting her lower lip. “Wilson, I…I wanted to say that I know what today is.”
He smiled ever so faintly and looked out his window. “Yes,” he said softly. “It’s been a year now.”
Cuddy’s face suddenly reflected sincere sympathy and Wilson could not indulge it. He stood and went to her, gently guiding her to the door, one arm around her shoulder.
“I’m fine, really. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her anyway. Today is like any other day.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because, if you need anything---” she added.
“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.” There was a soft click and Cuddy found herself on the other side of his door, inhaling a final wisp of musk.
At noon, Cuddy was surprised to find House lurking about the nurses’ station outside her office and she didn’t dare leave him unattended. “Forewarned is forearmed,” she whispered.
“Why are you within 50 feet of the clinic, House? You’re not due here for hours.”
“But Foreman is, and I’m short on lunch money.” He waggled his eyebrows at her latest snug-fitting blouse while he waited.
“Not having lunch with Wilson?”
“Nope. I’ve been stood up. The man has plans.”
“I might know where he’s going,” she offered.
“Oh, I do know where he’s going,” House clarified.
“So you know what today is, too?”
“Of course! Fairly significant day in my life too, you know, waking up after seizing from deep brain stimulation and everything!” His attempt at flippancy fell somewhat flat and there was a long silence between them.
Cuddy sighed, pushing back unpleasant memories herself. “Look, I’ll let you out of clinic duty a couple of hours early if you’ll hang out with Wilson tonight. He’s trying to be stoic, but it has to be a painful day for him.”
“Actually…” House began, squirming.
“House, don’t you dare!” she admonished. “You be there for him, and that’s an order!”
For James, lunch came and went and he wasn’t able to get out to the cemetery as he had planned. He’d been on the ward when a young patient had a severe, adverse reaction to her first course of chemotherapy. After stabilizing the girl, treatment plans needed revision and he simply fell behind after that.
He tried not to let it bother him, but the failed commitment stuck in the corner of his mind and cast a shadow over everything else he tried to do that day. It was about 2:45 when House poked his head through Wilson’s door between appointments.
“Guess what?” he chirped.
Wilson gave his best, I can barely contain myself look of expectation, clasping his hands together.
“Cuddy gave me a get out of jail free card! I’m off clinic duty at 4:00 today. Why don’t we get some take out and get a head start on the weekend?”
“Uh, I don’t know, House,” he began, reaching for the back of his neck, “I haven’t had a chance…that is, my day hasn’t gone as planned, so far, and---”
“Okay.” House nodded curtly. “Why don’t you just call me when you get done whatever it is you have to do?” His eyes flitted around Wilson’s desk, walls, stuffed animals, anywhere but Wilson.
“Sure, that should work. I’ll call you later then.”
Much as James had told Cuddy it was just another day, guilt began to creep into his heart as this particular day wore on. At 4:45 the last outpatient left his office and he gathered every file on his desk and stuffed them in his drawer for Monday. With a glance at the overcast, late afternoon sky, he grabbed his topcoat and left the hospital.
By the time he parked the Volvo at the cemetery, a steady rain had begun. Usually more prepared than any boy scout, Wilson realized he had no umbrella anywhere in the car. He took a moment to look up at the sky again and decided it was not going to let up any time soon, so he simply opened the door and stepped into it.
Alone at Amber’s grave, with no one and nothing to shield or distract him, the stark reality of her loss engulfed him. He stared at her name etched in stone, allowing memories to flood back to his conscious mind one after another until he felt her so near to him again he could almost reach out and pull her by the hand from behind the grey headstone and escape this place. A palpable ache began to emanate from his chest and before the rain could begin to soak into him, his face was wet with salty tears.
He came back to himself with a start, shivering violently in the now dark and deserted cemetery. Large drops of water ran from his hair down his collar and he realized he was completely drenched. Wasting no time, he said goodbye to Amber and ran to the car, his loafers squelching with every footfall.
James dropped into the driver’s seat with a gasp, teeth chattering and blinking water away from his eyes. Lifting his wet bangs off his forehead, he squeezed the moisture out and swept them from his face angrily. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so lost in his reverie as to stand in the now driving rain for… almost an hour! He stared at his watch as if it couldn’t be trusted, but the deep chill in his body told him it was probably right.
Utterly miserable in his heart and body, he felt much like he did the night he turned off the life support and Amber left him forever. Like that night, he didn’t know where to go or whom he could possibly turn to. He had let exhaustion make the decision then and had dragged himself back to the apartment, looking for solace in the bed where he knew she should have been. This night, House had invited him over, but somehow he still couldn’t be around House when he was feeling so raw about Amber.
He and House had come a long way since the trauma of her death threatened to tear them completely apart, but the relationship was different now and Wilson knew House would never, ever be capable of understanding the depth of his pain and loss where she was concerned. Grasping only this, he started the car and left the cemetery behind.
When he stepped into Sharrie’s, palpitations gripped his heart, making him feel weak and uncertain in his step. He heard his pulse pounding in his ears over everything else, yet he walked resolutely up to the bar. He had been in this very room with House just over a year ago; House trying to fill the gaps in his damaged memory and Wilson trying to understand what Amber was doing there with him in the first place.
“I’ll have bourbon, please. A double.”
“Here,” the barman reached under the counter and brought out a hand towel, eyeing Wilson cautiously. “You look like you could do something with this. Did you walk here or somethin’?”
Wilson took the towel but was not up to questions. He mimed looking for the bathroom and the barman pointed to the back of the establishment. When he came back his hair was only damp and neatly combed back from his face. Carrying his wet topcoat, he walked to his seat at the bar with a stronger stride. His bourbon was waiting for him. He draped the coat over the adjacent barstool in the hopes it would both dry out a little and keep overly friendly, fellow drinkers away from him.
“Thanks,” he muttered, passing the towel back but avoiding eye contact. He knew it was highly unlikely this guy remembered him from a year ago, but he felt strangely conspicuous sitting in front of him.
He sipped the first bourbon carefully, letting it warm and steady him. It was early and the bar was only sparsely populated. He actually wished there were more patrons around him now, so he could more easily slip into oblivion. He pushed his empty glass at the bartender and signalled for a refill. This one went down a lot easier.
Perhaps it was the quietness of the hour, perhaps the keen eye for faces that many bartenders acquire, or simply a nose for trouble, but something told him to keep his eye on this sullen, wayward soul. Wilson downed that second double impressively fast and looked as though he was thinking about asking for another. As he might have predicted, on his next walk by the well dressed man tapped the countertop lightly and pointed at his glass, while he got to his feet and gestured he was moving to a table in one of the dimly lit corners near the window. The barman nodded and watched as Wilson slid off the stool and quietly crossed the room.
He was staring out the window, transfixed by the blurry glow of headlights and taillights passing by in the rain, when a young waitress cleared her throat and set his bourbon on a paper coaster.
“Hi there. My name is Tracy. Can I get you something from the kitchen, tonight?”
Wilson stirred; looking first at his drink, then up at the pretty blonde with the ponytail who had appeared with it. Something told him it would be a good idea if he ate something; in fact, he couldn’t seem to remember when he had last eaten, but he couldn’t muster the effort or the appetite.
He flashed her a reflexive smile, then immediately squashed that impulse. ‘Cute, but can’t hold a candle to Amber,’ he thought. ‘And way too young, anyway…’
“Sir?”
“Hmmm? Oh, no, just the drink, thanks.”
Tracy left him to his thoughts, only intruding when he deliberately caught her eye and requested refills. Another two rounds and she asked again about food, even trying to entice him with the Friday night special, but he seemed even more distant, more lost. The next visit was from the bartender.
“Look, mister. I don’t know whether you drove here or walked, but you’re clearly drunk, and I need your keys, as a precaution.”
“I was soaking wet, ‘member? I walked,” Wilson replied, eyes half closed.
“Then you won’t need your car keys, will you?” It wasn’t hard to outwit a drunk.
“It’s still pouring rain!”
“Catch a bus, or call somebody,” the bartender insisted.
“A bus!” Wilson laughed, mirthlessly. “Did you say a bus?” He rose slowly to his feet, eyes uncharacteristically dark and menacing. House had reluctantly described the crash in detail to him one night several months ago when he had insisted on hearing about it. It had been a mistake. Now, staggeringly vivid and cruel images of Amber’s ordeal would come to him unbidden, and when he actually saw a city bus his mind was instantly overwhelmed.
He grabbed his topcoat with his right hand and downed the last swallow of his drink with his left, slamming the empty glass to the table.
“Wha’ makes you think buses ‘re so safe?” He hissed in the man’s face as he pushed past him, stumbling, wanting nothing more than to be free of this place.
The night air and rain slapped him in the face as he pounded long strides down the block, enraged. Disjointed images of Amber dying in her hospital bed assaulted his mind, mingling with his dizzy, unfocused view of the early evening street. Passers-by turned and stared, after hopping out of the way of the distraught figure that weaved down the middle of the sidewalk muttering insensibly.
As Wilson approached a crosswalk, he spied the Volvo parked just across the street, and pitched himself forward, heedless of oncoming traffic. A less drunken individual would have stopped to appreciate the miracle that occurred in that moment when he arrived at his car unscathed, horns blaring; but Wilson remained oblivious, draping himself over the door and roof while fumbling for keys.
House fished out the last piece of shrimp from his now cold, Chinese noodles and flung the box onto the coffee table. He had waited for hours for Wilson to call and was now thoroughly bored. He flopped back on the couch, elevating his legs and abusing the remote, looking unsuccessfully for something titillating to watch. When exasperation and a hint of anxiety won out only a few seconds later, he growled out loud, fished his cell phone off the table with the hook of his cane, and hit speed dial #2.
Just as he opened his mouth to leave a scathing reprimand, there was a mighty pounding at his door.
“Wilson?” he guessed, though alarmed by the pounding. “Use your key!”
BAM! BAM! BAM! Then silence.
“Hey, don’t break my door! I’m up.” House shouted.
BAM! BAM! ----
House whipped open the door as Wilson was laying his fist into it for the last time. House quickly dodged the fist but couldn’t get out of the way in time as Wilson pitched forward into him, taking them both down to the floor.
A low “Oooff!” escaped Wilson’s lungs as he impacted not the floor, but House’s ribcage.
“GET OFF!!”
House was flat on his back with all Wilson’s weight directly on top of him, soaking wet hair tickling his throat. When there was no sign of help from Wilson, he took hold of his shoulders and heaved him off to the left of him with one mighty shove.
“Wilson, you idiot,” he gasped, rubbing his thigh and sitting up. “Wilson?”
No response, eyes closed. He looked closer. Wilson was slack jawed and soaked through to his skin. House sniffed his open mouth. ‘Great. Completely wasted,’ he thought.
Mercilessly, House found his sternum and knuckled it soundly.
“Hmmpff…Ow! S-stop it,” he groaned, inhaling sharply and pushing House’s hand away.
He rolled toward House suddenly, reaching for his collar, struggling. “I can’t breathe!” he squeaked, fumbling with his already loosened tie.
“Calm down! You got the wind knocked out of you, that’s all. Take slow, deep breaths. You’re fine.”
Wilson took a few regular breaths and sat up on his elbows, looking around. “Wha’ happened?”
House was on his feet now, clearly unimpressed.
“You tell me. When I suggested we get together tonight I didn’t mean for you to start without me.” House looked outside for a second at the steady rain.
“You didn’t drive here, did you? Tell me you didn’t!” He whirled away from Wilson and went out in the hall to look out his front door.
When he returned he stood again at Wilson’s feet, glaring down. Wilson hadn’t budged, except to lie back down and throw his left arm over his eyes.
“You hypocritical moron! You idiot!” He slapped Wilson’s heels with his cane, trying to get a rise out of him.
“How dare you preach to me about my selfish, irresponsible stunts, and then actually drive here soused to the gills! Did you kill anyone on the way over? Or did you even notice? You’re pathetic!”
“I’m not sous’ to th’ gills. Only s-stopped for one---” came the weak defence.
“Oh, pu-lease,” House shouted back, rolling his eyes and whacking a leg this time.
“You can’t even get up off my floor, which you’re getting sopping wet, by the way. Come on, get up!”
Wilson groaned, but managed to roll to his right side and bend his knees. The effort caused his head to spin like a toy top, and his stomach threatened him aggressively.
House watched the colour drain from his face. “Don’t you dare puke there!” He’d been determined not to help Wilson one iota, but the threat of vomit on his hardwood floors caused him to toss his cane aside and reach down for Wilson’s arms. More senseless groaning ensued.
“Good God, Wilson! This is like trying to pick up jello! You have to help me a little, here!” With his leg, House could get no leverage and Wilson merely slipped out of his grasp every time, not to mention the giggling and wiggling, because he had always been ridiculously ticklish.
“Okay, new strategy,” House announced, breathing hard. “Get off your ass and on your hands and knees. You can do that can’t you?”
“Jus’ get me a blanket an’ pillow. ’m good here,” Wilson sighed, all miserable again and melting back into the floor.
“OY!! No way, dude! You need to sober up and take a hot shower so I can really start yelling at you!”
He got an idea and hobbled away, returning with the requested blanket. Laying it out beside Wilson, now shivering and moaning, he rolled him easily until he was in the middle of it. Getting to his feet and stopping to pop two badly needed Vicodin, he proceeded to drag Wilson down the hall and into the bathroom. House postponed his anger as he found it increasingly necessary to help the boneless oncologist stay conscious. Peeling off everything but his boxer briefs, House noted his hands and feet were white and icy to touch and his shivering only intensified when his damp body was exposed to the air. He turned the shower on to steam up the room and set his bath stool under the spray nozzle. Slapping Wilson’s face briskly a few times, he managed to rouse him enough to coax him over the ledge of the tub and onto the stool.
The hot water elicited a curse or two and after a few minutes he started to revive, reaching out for the shower walls on his own. Not a moment too soon, House relinquished his grip and hobbled heavily over to sit on the toilet, staring back at Wilson.
“Hey! Can you hear me now?” He massaged his throbbing thigh muscle and waited. He saw awareness creeping back as Wilson reached out an arm and shut off the spray that had cooled considerably. House hurled a towel at his head and it fell in his lap. After pressing it to his face, James finally looked up at House.
“I guess I messed up,” he began softly.
“No shit…you think!!”
Wilson, though still drunk, was now nervous. House had been exasperated with him, piqued, annoyed, cranky, fed up and miserable, but Wilson hadn’t experienced real fury since Michael Tritter invaded their lives. Trapped in House’s small bathroom, he could only wait.
When it came, House’s voice was so quiet and shaky he had to strain to hear.
“It’s one thing to endlessly lecture me about my self-destructive behaviour,” he began, “and then to start parroting that behaviour yourself. That’s hypocritical enough.”
He bounced his cane on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds, as if in an effort to contain himself. “But I have never, EVER tried to take other people along with me!” he hissed.
“James Wilson! Our shining example of everything decent and self-sacrificing and wonderful! Oh…except when he’s NOT!” His voice built to a crescendo and he spat the last word at Wilson’s lowered head.
“Why did you do it? Just tell me that! You’re devious, manipulative, and every bit as screwed up as I am, but you could have actually killed someone tonight! How does that guilt-ridden psyche of yours deal with that?”
There was something within Wilson that made it impossible for him, drunk or sober, not to be rankled by House’s tirades. Other people might lie down and let House stomp all over them, but never Wilson. He might go away hurt for a little while, but he would figure it out and give it back to House in spades. It was another reason House had deemed him not boring.
Wilson rose from the shower (with a surprising amount of dignity given the situation) wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out to look at House.
“What was I supposed to do, exactly?” he stated flatly. “Call up and ask you to come get me? You like irony, House. What would you have answered? Would you have said your leg hurt and you didn’t feel like coming out? Would you have told me to hop on a bus? We already know there’s a bus stop right outside Sharrie’s Bar.”
House sighed. “Okay. This is about Amber. This is the anniversary of her death. I get that. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Wilson laughed darkly. “Oh, but I am. It seems I had to get wasted to even begin to face my thoughts, House.” He sat down on the edge of the tub and went on earnestly.
“I’ve had a lot of people in and around my life; family, casual girlfriends, ex-wives, colleagues, mentors. Out of all those people, House, how many do you think wanted to know the real me? Not the superficial wonder boy you make fun of-not the nice guy persona you like to throw in my face…How many do you think could have loved the real me?”
House only listened, locking eyes with his. As they connected, tears stung the back of Wilson’s eyes.
“Only her, House. Only Amber. She loved the flawed, messed up version of me, and she’d even get angry if I didn’t love him too, and start to defend and protect him.”
A clouded expression darkened House’s features and Wilson recognized it. He held up a hand and finished his thought.
“Yes,” he smiled cautiously, “and you as well. You’ve been way more subtle about it, I realize now, but you both cared enough to want the same things for me. And now she’s gone, and I’m left with just you, House.”
House was suddenly way beyond his comfort zone. “Wow. That’s enough male bonding for the next ten years, don’t cha think?”
Wilson smiled indulgently. “Sure. In that case, could you get me some sweats and a t-shirt? I’m slowly freezing to death over here.”
House sprang off the toilet and out of the bathroom in pursuit of warm clothes for Wilson and some Housian impenetrability for himself.
Prompt: #5. Wilson drives drunk. House is pissed off.
Author: rslworks
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: not mine
Word Count: 3836
Tags: drunk
Lisa Cuddy knocked at Dr. Wilson’s door and listened expectantly, clutching several files to her chest.
“Come,” a familiar baritone rang out.
“Good morning, Wilson,” she began brightly, stopping not across from him but choosing to stand beside his desk chair. She was secretly appreciative of reasons to see him early in the mornings lately, as he’d taken to using a new aftershave that she found shamelessly addictive. “I need to give you these oncology funding committee reports before next Tuesday,” she explained, setting a manila folder neatly before him, “and these are the minutes of the last board meeting along with the agenda for the next one.” She dropped an identical folder atop the first one and began to walk toward the door.
Wilson opened the first folder, but sensed Cuddy hadn’t left yet. He studied her lovely back for a moment.
“Anything else?”
Cuddy slowly turned around, biting her lower lip. “Wilson, I…I wanted to say that I know what today is.”
He smiled ever so faintly and looked out his window. “Yes,” he said softly. “It’s been a year now.”
Cuddy’s face suddenly reflected sincere sympathy and Wilson could not indulge it. He stood and went to her, gently guiding her to the door, one arm around her shoulder.
“I’m fine, really. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her anyway. Today is like any other day.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because, if you need anything---” she added.
“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.” There was a soft click and Cuddy found herself on the other side of his door, inhaling a final wisp of musk.
At noon, Cuddy was surprised to find House lurking about the nurses’ station outside her office and she didn’t dare leave him unattended. “Forewarned is forearmed,” she whispered.
“Why are you within 50 feet of the clinic, House? You’re not due here for hours.”
“But Foreman is, and I’m short on lunch money.” He waggled his eyebrows at her latest snug-fitting blouse while he waited.
“Not having lunch with Wilson?”
“Nope. I’ve been stood up. The man has plans.”
“I might know where he’s going,” she offered.
“Oh, I do know where he’s going,” House clarified.
“So you know what today is, too?”
“Of course! Fairly significant day in my life too, you know, waking up after seizing from deep brain stimulation and everything!” His attempt at flippancy fell somewhat flat and there was a long silence between them.
Cuddy sighed, pushing back unpleasant memories herself. “Look, I’ll let you out of clinic duty a couple of hours early if you’ll hang out with Wilson tonight. He’s trying to be stoic, but it has to be a painful day for him.”
“Actually…” House began, squirming.
“House, don’t you dare!” she admonished. “You be there for him, and that’s an order!”
For James, lunch came and went and he wasn’t able to get out to the cemetery as he had planned. He’d been on the ward when a young patient had a severe, adverse reaction to her first course of chemotherapy. After stabilizing the girl, treatment plans needed revision and he simply fell behind after that.
He tried not to let it bother him, but the failed commitment stuck in the corner of his mind and cast a shadow over everything else he tried to do that day. It was about 2:45 when House poked his head through Wilson’s door between appointments.
“Guess what?” he chirped.
Wilson gave his best, I can barely contain myself look of expectation, clasping his hands together.
“Cuddy gave me a get out of jail free card! I’m off clinic duty at 4:00 today. Why don’t we get some take out and get a head start on the weekend?”
“Uh, I don’t know, House,” he began, reaching for the back of his neck, “I haven’t had a chance…that is, my day hasn’t gone as planned, so far, and---”
“Okay.” House nodded curtly. “Why don’t you just call me when you get done whatever it is you have to do?” His eyes flitted around Wilson’s desk, walls, stuffed animals, anywhere but Wilson.
“Sure, that should work. I’ll call you later then.”
Much as James had told Cuddy it was just another day, guilt began to creep into his heart as this particular day wore on. At 4:45 the last outpatient left his office and he gathered every file on his desk and stuffed them in his drawer for Monday. With a glance at the overcast, late afternoon sky, he grabbed his topcoat and left the hospital.
By the time he parked the Volvo at the cemetery, a steady rain had begun. Usually more prepared than any boy scout, Wilson realized he had no umbrella anywhere in the car. He took a moment to look up at the sky again and decided it was not going to let up any time soon, so he simply opened the door and stepped into it.
Alone at Amber’s grave, with no one and nothing to shield or distract him, the stark reality of her loss engulfed him. He stared at her name etched in stone, allowing memories to flood back to his conscious mind one after another until he felt her so near to him again he could almost reach out and pull her by the hand from behind the grey headstone and escape this place. A palpable ache began to emanate from his chest and before the rain could begin to soak into him, his face was wet with salty tears.
He came back to himself with a start, shivering violently in the now dark and deserted cemetery. Large drops of water ran from his hair down his collar and he realized he was completely drenched. Wasting no time, he said goodbye to Amber and ran to the car, his loafers squelching with every footfall.
James dropped into the driver’s seat with a gasp, teeth chattering and blinking water away from his eyes. Lifting his wet bangs off his forehead, he squeezed the moisture out and swept them from his face angrily. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so lost in his reverie as to stand in the now driving rain for… almost an hour! He stared at his watch as if it couldn’t be trusted, but the deep chill in his body told him it was probably right.
Utterly miserable in his heart and body, he felt much like he did the night he turned off the life support and Amber left him forever. Like that night, he didn’t know where to go or whom he could possibly turn to. He had let exhaustion make the decision then and had dragged himself back to the apartment, looking for solace in the bed where he knew she should have been. This night, House had invited him over, but somehow he still couldn’t be around House when he was feeling so raw about Amber.
He and House had come a long way since the trauma of her death threatened to tear them completely apart, but the relationship was different now and Wilson knew House would never, ever be capable of understanding the depth of his pain and loss where she was concerned. Grasping only this, he started the car and left the cemetery behind.
When he stepped into Sharrie’s, palpitations gripped his heart, making him feel weak and uncertain in his step. He heard his pulse pounding in his ears over everything else, yet he walked resolutely up to the bar. He had been in this very room with House just over a year ago; House trying to fill the gaps in his damaged memory and Wilson trying to understand what Amber was doing there with him in the first place.
“I’ll have bourbon, please. A double.”
“Here,” the barman reached under the counter and brought out a hand towel, eyeing Wilson cautiously. “You look like you could do something with this. Did you walk here or somethin’?”
Wilson took the towel but was not up to questions. He mimed looking for the bathroom and the barman pointed to the back of the establishment. When he came back his hair was only damp and neatly combed back from his face. Carrying his wet topcoat, he walked to his seat at the bar with a stronger stride. His bourbon was waiting for him. He draped the coat over the adjacent barstool in the hopes it would both dry out a little and keep overly friendly, fellow drinkers away from him.
“Thanks,” he muttered, passing the towel back but avoiding eye contact. He knew it was highly unlikely this guy remembered him from a year ago, but he felt strangely conspicuous sitting in front of him.
He sipped the first bourbon carefully, letting it warm and steady him. It was early and the bar was only sparsely populated. He actually wished there were more patrons around him now, so he could more easily slip into oblivion. He pushed his empty glass at the bartender and signalled for a refill. This one went down a lot easier.
Perhaps it was the quietness of the hour, perhaps the keen eye for faces that many bartenders acquire, or simply a nose for trouble, but something told him to keep his eye on this sullen, wayward soul. Wilson downed that second double impressively fast and looked as though he was thinking about asking for another. As he might have predicted, on his next walk by the well dressed man tapped the countertop lightly and pointed at his glass, while he got to his feet and gestured he was moving to a table in one of the dimly lit corners near the window. The barman nodded and watched as Wilson slid off the stool and quietly crossed the room.
He was staring out the window, transfixed by the blurry glow of headlights and taillights passing by in the rain, when a young waitress cleared her throat and set his bourbon on a paper coaster.
“Hi there. My name is Tracy. Can I get you something from the kitchen, tonight?”
Wilson stirred; looking first at his drink, then up at the pretty blonde with the ponytail who had appeared with it. Something told him it would be a good idea if he ate something; in fact, he couldn’t seem to remember when he had last eaten, but he couldn’t muster the effort or the appetite.
He flashed her a reflexive smile, then immediately squashed that impulse. ‘Cute, but can’t hold a candle to Amber,’ he thought. ‘And way too young, anyway…’
“Sir?”
“Hmmm? Oh, no, just the drink, thanks.”
Tracy left him to his thoughts, only intruding when he deliberately caught her eye and requested refills. Another two rounds and she asked again about food, even trying to entice him with the Friday night special, but he seemed even more distant, more lost. The next visit was from the bartender.
“Look, mister. I don’t know whether you drove here or walked, but you’re clearly drunk, and I need your keys, as a precaution.”
“I was soaking wet, ‘member? I walked,” Wilson replied, eyes half closed.
“Then you won’t need your car keys, will you?” It wasn’t hard to outwit a drunk.
“It’s still pouring rain!”
“Catch a bus, or call somebody,” the bartender insisted.
“A bus!” Wilson laughed, mirthlessly. “Did you say a bus?” He rose slowly to his feet, eyes uncharacteristically dark and menacing. House had reluctantly described the crash in detail to him one night several months ago when he had insisted on hearing about it. It had been a mistake. Now, staggeringly vivid and cruel images of Amber’s ordeal would come to him unbidden, and when he actually saw a city bus his mind was instantly overwhelmed.
He grabbed his topcoat with his right hand and downed the last swallow of his drink with his left, slamming the empty glass to the table.
“Wha’ makes you think buses ‘re so safe?” He hissed in the man’s face as he pushed past him, stumbling, wanting nothing more than to be free of this place.
The night air and rain slapped him in the face as he pounded long strides down the block, enraged. Disjointed images of Amber dying in her hospital bed assaulted his mind, mingling with his dizzy, unfocused view of the early evening street. Passers-by turned and stared, after hopping out of the way of the distraught figure that weaved down the middle of the sidewalk muttering insensibly.
As Wilson approached a crosswalk, he spied the Volvo parked just across the street, and pitched himself forward, heedless of oncoming traffic. A less drunken individual would have stopped to appreciate the miracle that occurred in that moment when he arrived at his car unscathed, horns blaring; but Wilson remained oblivious, draping himself over the door and roof while fumbling for keys.
House fished out the last piece of shrimp from his now cold, Chinese noodles and flung the box onto the coffee table. He had waited for hours for Wilson to call and was now thoroughly bored. He flopped back on the couch, elevating his legs and abusing the remote, looking unsuccessfully for something titillating to watch. When exasperation and a hint of anxiety won out only a few seconds later, he growled out loud, fished his cell phone off the table with the hook of his cane, and hit speed dial #2.
Just as he opened his mouth to leave a scathing reprimand, there was a mighty pounding at his door.
“Wilson?” he guessed, though alarmed by the pounding. “Use your key!”
BAM! BAM! BAM! Then silence.
“Hey, don’t break my door! I’m up.” House shouted.
BAM! BAM! ----
House whipped open the door as Wilson was laying his fist into it for the last time. House quickly dodged the fist but couldn’t get out of the way in time as Wilson pitched forward into him, taking them both down to the floor.
A low “Oooff!” escaped Wilson’s lungs as he impacted not the floor, but House’s ribcage.
“GET OFF!!”
House was flat on his back with all Wilson’s weight directly on top of him, soaking wet hair tickling his throat. When there was no sign of help from Wilson, he took hold of his shoulders and heaved him off to the left of him with one mighty shove.
“Wilson, you idiot,” he gasped, rubbing his thigh and sitting up. “Wilson?”
No response, eyes closed. He looked closer. Wilson was slack jawed and soaked through to his skin. House sniffed his open mouth. ‘Great. Completely wasted,’ he thought.
Mercilessly, House found his sternum and knuckled it soundly.
“Hmmpff…Ow! S-stop it,” he groaned, inhaling sharply and pushing House’s hand away.
He rolled toward House suddenly, reaching for his collar, struggling. “I can’t breathe!” he squeaked, fumbling with his already loosened tie.
“Calm down! You got the wind knocked out of you, that’s all. Take slow, deep breaths. You’re fine.”
Wilson took a few regular breaths and sat up on his elbows, looking around. “Wha’ happened?”
House was on his feet now, clearly unimpressed.
“You tell me. When I suggested we get together tonight I didn’t mean for you to start without me.” House looked outside for a second at the steady rain.
“You didn’t drive here, did you? Tell me you didn’t!” He whirled away from Wilson and went out in the hall to look out his front door.
When he returned he stood again at Wilson’s feet, glaring down. Wilson hadn’t budged, except to lie back down and throw his left arm over his eyes.
“You hypocritical moron! You idiot!” He slapped Wilson’s heels with his cane, trying to get a rise out of him.
“How dare you preach to me about my selfish, irresponsible stunts, and then actually drive here soused to the gills! Did you kill anyone on the way over? Or did you even notice? You’re pathetic!”
“I’m not sous’ to th’ gills. Only s-stopped for one---” came the weak defence.
“Oh, pu-lease,” House shouted back, rolling his eyes and whacking a leg this time.
“You can’t even get up off my floor, which you’re getting sopping wet, by the way. Come on, get up!”
Wilson groaned, but managed to roll to his right side and bend his knees. The effort caused his head to spin like a toy top, and his stomach threatened him aggressively.
House watched the colour drain from his face. “Don’t you dare puke there!” He’d been determined not to help Wilson one iota, but the threat of vomit on his hardwood floors caused him to toss his cane aside and reach down for Wilson’s arms. More senseless groaning ensued.
“Good God, Wilson! This is like trying to pick up jello! You have to help me a little, here!” With his leg, House could get no leverage and Wilson merely slipped out of his grasp every time, not to mention the giggling and wiggling, because he had always been ridiculously ticklish.
“Okay, new strategy,” House announced, breathing hard. “Get off your ass and on your hands and knees. You can do that can’t you?”
“Jus’ get me a blanket an’ pillow. ’m good here,” Wilson sighed, all miserable again and melting back into the floor.
“OY!! No way, dude! You need to sober up and take a hot shower so I can really start yelling at you!”
He got an idea and hobbled away, returning with the requested blanket. Laying it out beside Wilson, now shivering and moaning, he rolled him easily until he was in the middle of it. Getting to his feet and stopping to pop two badly needed Vicodin, he proceeded to drag Wilson down the hall and into the bathroom. House postponed his anger as he found it increasingly necessary to help the boneless oncologist stay conscious. Peeling off everything but his boxer briefs, House noted his hands and feet were white and icy to touch and his shivering only intensified when his damp body was exposed to the air. He turned the shower on to steam up the room and set his bath stool under the spray nozzle. Slapping Wilson’s face briskly a few times, he managed to rouse him enough to coax him over the ledge of the tub and onto the stool.
The hot water elicited a curse or two and after a few minutes he started to revive, reaching out for the shower walls on his own. Not a moment too soon, House relinquished his grip and hobbled heavily over to sit on the toilet, staring back at Wilson.
“Hey! Can you hear me now?” He massaged his throbbing thigh muscle and waited. He saw awareness creeping back as Wilson reached out an arm and shut off the spray that had cooled considerably. House hurled a towel at his head and it fell in his lap. After pressing it to his face, James finally looked up at House.
“I guess I messed up,” he began softly.
“No shit…you think!!”
Wilson, though still drunk, was now nervous. House had been exasperated with him, piqued, annoyed, cranky, fed up and miserable, but Wilson hadn’t experienced real fury since Michael Tritter invaded their lives. Trapped in House’s small bathroom, he could only wait.
When it came, House’s voice was so quiet and shaky he had to strain to hear.
“It’s one thing to endlessly lecture me about my self-destructive behaviour,” he began, “and then to start parroting that behaviour yourself. That’s hypocritical enough.”
He bounced his cane on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds, as if in an effort to contain himself. “But I have never, EVER tried to take other people along with me!” he hissed.
“James Wilson! Our shining example of everything decent and self-sacrificing and wonderful! Oh…except when he’s NOT!” His voice built to a crescendo and he spat the last word at Wilson’s lowered head.
“Why did you do it? Just tell me that! You’re devious, manipulative, and every bit as screwed up as I am, but you could have actually killed someone tonight! How does that guilt-ridden psyche of yours deal with that?”
There was something within Wilson that made it impossible for him, drunk or sober, not to be rankled by House’s tirades. Other people might lie down and let House stomp all over them, but never Wilson. He might go away hurt for a little while, but he would figure it out and give it back to House in spades. It was another reason House had deemed him not boring.
Wilson rose from the shower (with a surprising amount of dignity given the situation) wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out to look at House.
“What was I supposed to do, exactly?” he stated flatly. “Call up and ask you to come get me? You like irony, House. What would you have answered? Would you have said your leg hurt and you didn’t feel like coming out? Would you have told me to hop on a bus? We already know there’s a bus stop right outside Sharrie’s Bar.”
House sighed. “Okay. This is about Amber. This is the anniversary of her death. I get that. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Wilson laughed darkly. “Oh, but I am. It seems I had to get wasted to even begin to face my thoughts, House.” He sat down on the edge of the tub and went on earnestly.
“I’ve had a lot of people in and around my life; family, casual girlfriends, ex-wives, colleagues, mentors. Out of all those people, House, how many do you think wanted to know the real me? Not the superficial wonder boy you make fun of-not the nice guy persona you like to throw in my face…How many do you think could have loved the real me?”
House only listened, locking eyes with his. As they connected, tears stung the back of Wilson’s eyes.
“Only her, House. Only Amber. She loved the flawed, messed up version of me, and she’d even get angry if I didn’t love him too, and start to defend and protect him.”
A clouded expression darkened House’s features and Wilson recognized it. He held up a hand and finished his thought.
“Yes,” he smiled cautiously, “and you as well. You’ve been way more subtle about it, I realize now, but you both cared enough to want the same things for me. And now she’s gone, and I’m left with just you, House.”
House was suddenly way beyond his comfort zone. “Wow. That’s enough male bonding for the next ten years, don’t cha think?”
Wilson smiled indulgently. “Sure. In that case, could you get me some sweats and a t-shirt? I’m slowly freezing to death over here.”
House sprang off the toilet and out of the bathroom in pursuit of warm clothes for Wilson and some Housian impenetrability for himself.