Calm
Wilson sat on the only empty bench he could find.
Coming to this park had become a daily ritual of his for the past few years. Any time he could sneak away from the hospital and come here, he would. It had become his escape.
From his work, from his patients, from his life...from him.
Wilson loosened his scarf and took a sip of coffee as he looked around him. He smiled to himself as a couple of kids laughed and ran after a soccer ball, that the wind was helping keep just a few feet ahead of them.
He set his cup down on the bench and sighed.
He had always wanted kids of his own. He had always felt that he had a lot to offer them.
House didn't seem to think so, though. He had laughed the second the thought had left Wilson's lips.
"You'd be a terrible father."
The words had come out nonchalantly, as House flopped down on the couch and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. It was as though House didn't realize (or care) how important this was to him.
An argument had ensued, and House had remained the calm to Wilson's storm, stating matter-of-factly that kids needed more than "financial support." Keeping an eye on Wilson's clenched fists, House had continued, pointing out that kids didn't need a father whose life was his job and couldn't tell the truth to save his life.
Later, as House smirked while holding a bag of frozen peas to the side of his mouth, he had added "violence" to the list of things that kids didn't need from a father.
Furious, Wilson shoved as many of his belongings as he could into a pillowcase and had stormed out of House's apartment, while House was soaking his injuries in the bathtub with a bottle of Scotch. He left his set of keys on the defrosted bag of peas House had left to saturate the coffee table.
Wilson had tried to act happily surprised when his ex-wife informed him that she was pregnant. Truth was, it wasn't a surprise at all. He had planned this from the beginning; he had known where to go to get what he wanted.
He always did.
And she knew that.
Which was likely why, instead of getting hysterical upon walking into her house and finding the father of her unborn child underneath the only man she had ever hated more than Wilson, she had calmly told him to get out and assured him that he would have nothing to do with their baby.
House had just wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and informed her that it was for the best anyways, since Wilson would likely make a terrible father.
Wilson felt sick just thinking about it.
He felt worse once the rogue soccer ball he had seen earlier, hit him square in the face.
"Hey Mister!"
Wilson removed his blood covered hand from his nose, and shut his eyes to stop the park from spinning.
"Mister, are you okay?"
Wilson opened his eyes, and found himself staring into a smaller, much younger version of himself. He looked down at his hands, and back up at the kid.
"Hey...I don't suppose your Dad has some tissues...or something?"
The kid furrowed his brows and shook his head. "I don't know my Dad, but my Mom might..."
"No!...Thanks. I'm...I'm okay." He looked down at his blood filled hands and realized that he most certainly was not okay.
Wilson saw the kid start to turn away, and realized he was losing his only chance. He had been waiting for this moment every day for as long as he could remember. He had played it out in his head so many times, and it didn't go like this. It went so much better.
"Hey. I'm...sorry you don't know your dad."
The kid turned back around briefly, smiled, and shrugged. "Mom says he was an asshole, so I'm not."
Wilson, left bleeding and alone on the bench, watching the only thing he'd ever wanted jog away, couldn't agree more.
Coming to this park had become a daily ritual of his for the past few years. Any time he could sneak away from the hospital and come here, he would. It had become his escape.
From his work, from his patients, from his life...from him.
Wilson loosened his scarf and took a sip of coffee as he looked around him. He smiled to himself as a couple of kids laughed and ran after a soccer ball, that the wind was helping keep just a few feet ahead of them.
He set his cup down on the bench and sighed.
He had always wanted kids of his own. He had always felt that he had a lot to offer them.
House didn't seem to think so, though. He had laughed the second the thought had left Wilson's lips.
"You'd be a terrible father."
The words had come out nonchalantly, as House flopped down on the couch and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. It was as though House didn't realize (or care) how important this was to him.
An argument had ensued, and House had remained the calm to Wilson's storm, stating matter-of-factly that kids needed more than "financial support." Keeping an eye on Wilson's clenched fists, House had continued, pointing out that kids didn't need a father whose life was his job and couldn't tell the truth to save his life.
Later, as House smirked while holding a bag of frozen peas to the side of his mouth, he had added "violence" to the list of things that kids didn't need from a father.
Furious, Wilson shoved as many of his belongings as he could into a pillowcase and had stormed out of House's apartment, while House was soaking his injuries in the bathtub with a bottle of Scotch. He left his set of keys on the defrosted bag of peas House had left to saturate the coffee table.
Wilson had tried to act happily surprised when his ex-wife informed him that she was pregnant. Truth was, it wasn't a surprise at all. He had planned this from the beginning; he had known where to go to get what he wanted.
He always did.
And she knew that.
Which was likely why, instead of getting hysterical upon walking into her house and finding the father of her unborn child underneath the only man she had ever hated more than Wilson, she had calmly told him to get out and assured him that he would have nothing to do with their baby.
House had just wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and informed her that it was for the best anyways, since Wilson would likely make a terrible father.
Wilson felt sick just thinking about it.
He felt worse once the rogue soccer ball he had seen earlier, hit him square in the face.
"Hey Mister!"
Wilson removed his blood covered hand from his nose, and shut his eyes to stop the park from spinning.
"Mister, are you okay?"
Wilson opened his eyes, and found himself staring into a smaller, much younger version of himself. He looked down at his hands, and back up at the kid.
"Hey...I don't suppose your Dad has some tissues...or something?"
The kid furrowed his brows and shook his head. "I don't know my Dad, but my Mom might..."
"No!...Thanks. I'm...I'm okay." He looked down at his blood filled hands and realized that he most certainly was not okay.
Wilson saw the kid start to turn away, and realized he was losing his only chance. He had been waiting for this moment every day for as long as he could remember. He had played it out in his head so many times, and it didn't go like this. It went so much better.
"Hey. I'm...sorry you don't know your dad."
The kid turned back around briefly, smiled, and shrugged. "Mom says he was an asshole, so I'm not."
Wilson, left bleeding and alone on the bench, watching the only thing he'd ever wanted jog away, couldn't agree more.