Ficlet: A Normal Reaction
Title: A Normal Reaction
Characters: Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,000
Summary: Some thoughts Wilson might have had when he believed House was dead.
Written for the sick-wilson Emotional Hurt challenge.
A/N: First line is from the S5 episode "The Social Contract."
You only snap on one subject, House had once said. Losing people.
So Wilson wondered why, now of all times, he was just sitting there. Sitting on the ground like a useless lump while Foreman and House’s fellows milled around nearby.
It didn’t seem like they were going to talk to him, or even sit with him. Which was good. He had nothing to say.
The EMTs had given him something to drink-he was holding the cup in his hand right now. He thought he should probably take a sip. In a minute.
They’d put one of those blankets on him, too. He didn’t think he needed it, though. He wasn’t cold, he wasn’t a victim, he was fine. Still, it was probably a good idea to keep the blanket on; if he pushed it off, the others might look at him or come closer. It felt like the blanket was keeping them away.
That’s stupid, Wilson thought, but he believed it anyway.
He wondered why they hadn’t brought House out yet. How hard could it be to find one guy in a pile of rubble? He needed to get home soon, because Sarah…
Oh, wait. No.
Wilson just barely stopped himself from laughing. He bit the insides of his cheeks hard. It would be a big mistake to laugh. They would definitely look at him then, and maybe think something was wrong with him. They might even want him to go to the hospital, and he was done with hospitals.
Then some movement caught his eye.
Oh. There’s House.
The firefighters were carrying him out in the body bag. Wilson watched them put House on a gurney and start to take him away, and he felt a little guilty at the sense of relief spreading through him. He could go home now, and there’d be no one there to look at him.
But then Foreman was standing in front him, giving him the standard-issue I’m So Sorry eyes that doctors gave families. Foreman bit his lip and looked away, like he was nervous. He was never nervous.
And then Wilson remembered. He couldn’t go home yet. He still had one more thing to do for House.
*******
Wilson wondered why he still wasn’t crying. He’d thought that when he got home, it would all come flooding out. That seemed like a normal kind of reaction.
But that wasn’t what happened. He’d come home, made some tea, then gone to bed. And now here he was, lying on his side and staring at the window. It was light outside, so he probably wouldn’t fall asleep. But crawling into bed had seemed like the right thing to do; that’s what he’d done after Amber died.
After Amber died, he couldn’t stop crying. There was a stretch where he’d thought he might never have a day where he didn’t cry a little. But that had felt right. Normal.
Sometimes he cried when a patient died. Not in the open, of course; he’d go to his office and lock the door. Sometimes he didn’t cry. But he always felt something.
He couldn’t feel anything now.
He wondered if maybe House had taken that from him-his ability to feel. Logically, he knew that was crazy. But there had to be some reason he was so empty.
Huh. Wouldn’t that be just like House? He couldn’t even exit the world without taking one last thing from him. Hell, he couldn’t even stick around for five more fucking months…
Oh. He did feel something after all.
Wilson closed his eyes. What had Amber said before she died? She didn’t want anger to be the last thing she felt? He didn’t want that, either. He didn’t want months of anger until he died. Alone.
But that’s what House had left him with.
Then without meaning to, he wondered what House had felt right before he died-if he’d been scared, or in pain, or relieved, or just high.
High, Wilson decided, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He was high and he didn’t feel a thing.
Not-feeling was better. He wished he could go back to just a few minutes ago, when he was numb. It took him another moment to realize he could, at least for a while.
He sat up, reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out his Paxil. He’d started taking it again after the thymoma diagnosis. It usually affected his sleep, even giving him nightmares, and he normally hated that.
But he knew if he took just one extra pill, it would probably knock him out for hours. And that sounded good.
Wilson emptied two tablets into his palm, then stared at the bottle. He wasn’t sure why; he wasn’t really thinking clearly. He was just sliding his thumb along the vial.
Gradually, though, it dawned on him how easy it would be to take three pills. Or how easy it would be to just toss back the rest of the bottle. And then the problem of how to live the rest of his life would be solved.
No one would blame him, either. Some people would even think it was a normal reaction. How much, after all, can one person take?
Maybe that’s what House had been thinking.
Wilson shook his head. No. He couldn’t focus on House. His death really was just about him now. There was no one else.
Wilson eyed the pill bottle. So easy.
And then suddenly he remembered something, and the thought made him laugh out loud for real this time. No, he couldn’t do this now. He still had one more responsibility. He had to arrange House’s funeral.
Of course, Wilson thought, tears finally springing to his eyes. Of course.
He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. OK…He had one more thing to do for House. He could do that.
He quickly slipped the two tablets into his mouth and put the bottle away. Then he lay back, in the still bright room, and waited for the dark.
-End
Characters: Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,000
Summary: Some thoughts Wilson might have had when he believed House was dead.
Written for the sick-wilson Emotional Hurt challenge.
A/N: First line is from the S5 episode "The Social Contract."
You only snap on one subject, House had once said. Losing people.
So Wilson wondered why, now of all times, he was just sitting there. Sitting on the ground like a useless lump while Foreman and House’s fellows milled around nearby.
It didn’t seem like they were going to talk to him, or even sit with him. Which was good. He had nothing to say.
The EMTs had given him something to drink-he was holding the cup in his hand right now. He thought he should probably take a sip. In a minute.
They’d put one of those blankets on him, too. He didn’t think he needed it, though. He wasn’t cold, he wasn’t a victim, he was fine. Still, it was probably a good idea to keep the blanket on; if he pushed it off, the others might look at him or come closer. It felt like the blanket was keeping them away.
That’s stupid, Wilson thought, but he believed it anyway.
He wondered why they hadn’t brought House out yet. How hard could it be to find one guy in a pile of rubble? He needed to get home soon, because Sarah…
Oh, wait. No.
Wilson just barely stopped himself from laughing. He bit the insides of his cheeks hard. It would be a big mistake to laugh. They would definitely look at him then, and maybe think something was wrong with him. They might even want him to go to the hospital, and he was done with hospitals.
Then some movement caught his eye.
Oh. There’s House.
The firefighters were carrying him out in the body bag. Wilson watched them put House on a gurney and start to take him away, and he felt a little guilty at the sense of relief spreading through him. He could go home now, and there’d be no one there to look at him.
But then Foreman was standing in front him, giving him the standard-issue I’m So Sorry eyes that doctors gave families. Foreman bit his lip and looked away, like he was nervous. He was never nervous.
And then Wilson remembered. He couldn’t go home yet. He still had one more thing to do for House.
*******
Wilson wondered why he still wasn’t crying. He’d thought that when he got home, it would all come flooding out. That seemed like a normal kind of reaction.
But that wasn’t what happened. He’d come home, made some tea, then gone to bed. And now here he was, lying on his side and staring at the window. It was light outside, so he probably wouldn’t fall asleep. But crawling into bed had seemed like the right thing to do; that’s what he’d done after Amber died.
After Amber died, he couldn’t stop crying. There was a stretch where he’d thought he might never have a day where he didn’t cry a little. But that had felt right. Normal.
Sometimes he cried when a patient died. Not in the open, of course; he’d go to his office and lock the door. Sometimes he didn’t cry. But he always felt something.
He couldn’t feel anything now.
He wondered if maybe House had taken that from him-his ability to feel. Logically, he knew that was crazy. But there had to be some reason he was so empty.
Huh. Wouldn’t that be just like House? He couldn’t even exit the world without taking one last thing from him. Hell, he couldn’t even stick around for five more fucking months…
Oh. He did feel something after all.
Wilson closed his eyes. What had Amber said before she died? She didn’t want anger to be the last thing she felt? He didn’t want that, either. He didn’t want months of anger until he died. Alone.
But that’s what House had left him with.
Then without meaning to, he wondered what House had felt right before he died-if he’d been scared, or in pain, or relieved, or just high.
High, Wilson decided, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He was high and he didn’t feel a thing.
Not-feeling was better. He wished he could go back to just a few minutes ago, when he was numb. It took him another moment to realize he could, at least for a while.
He sat up, reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out his Paxil. He’d started taking it again after the thymoma diagnosis. It usually affected his sleep, even giving him nightmares, and he normally hated that.
But he knew if he took just one extra pill, it would probably knock him out for hours. And that sounded good.
Wilson emptied two tablets into his palm, then stared at the bottle. He wasn’t sure why; he wasn’t really thinking clearly. He was just sliding his thumb along the vial.
Gradually, though, it dawned on him how easy it would be to take three pills. Or how easy it would be to just toss back the rest of the bottle. And then the problem of how to live the rest of his life would be solved.
No one would blame him, either. Some people would even think it was a normal reaction. How much, after all, can one person take?
Maybe that’s what House had been thinking.
Wilson shook his head. No. He couldn’t focus on House. His death really was just about him now. There was no one else.
Wilson eyed the pill bottle. So easy.
And then suddenly he remembered something, and the thought made him laugh out loud for real this time. No, he couldn’t do this now. He still had one more responsibility. He had to arrange House’s funeral.
Of course, Wilson thought, tears finally springing to his eyes. Of course.
He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. OK…He had one more thing to do for House. He could do that.
He quickly slipped the two tablets into his mouth and put the bottle away. Then he lay back, in the still bright room, and waited for the dark.
-End