Brave Face
Title: Brave Face
Author: Rivercrossing2
Prompt: #10: House disappears, and Wilson is the only one in the hospital that notices.
Rating: PG
Words: 1,950 (oneshot)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): none; House Wilson strong friendship.
Warnings: Spoilers for "Broken", and general Season 6 up until "Instant Karma".
Disclaimer: Just take my word for it that I don't want to be sued.
Summary: One day House doesn't show up for lunch, and Wilson (because he's Wilson) gets worried.
A/N: Due to the onslaught of real life pressures, this one goes bravely unbeta'd.
“So…how do you think he’s doing?” Wilson asked Cuddy one day, as they sat in her office. It had been weighing on his mind to ask someone else what they thought about the state of House’s recovery, because when asked directly how he was doing, House’s standard answer was a snippy “I’m fine.”
“He seems…happy,” Cuddy formulated slowly, though with a disbelieving look on her face; it was clear to Wilson at that moment that he wasn’t the only one who was apparently worried. “He’s almost…too happy.” She sipped at her coffee delicately, however with a look of disease on her face; all the while eyeing him warily out of the corner of her eye. It was almost as though she thought he were the cause of House’s newfound sense of hope, and Wilson couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty for having taken House in, like a homeless man who had nothing, out of the cold.
“If it helps you feel any better, his happiness appears to be genuine,” Wilson inserted, coming quickly to his best friend’s defense, in spite of best instincts. Wondering, as he did, why he still felt the need to protect House at all costs; House had clearly shown, even in the mere past two weeks’ time, that he could more than take care of himself. “I think he’s really trying to…um…” He tried to search for the right word to apply to the situation; something that fit spirituality and House, but only wound up with a phrase that made himself want to cringe: “better himself”.
“Which is weird,” Cuddy pointed out, frowning into her cup as though the steam trailing upwards was more interesting than anything he had to say, “isn’t it?”
“I thought you’d be happy for him,” Wilson observed, for some reason still feeling as though he should be providing evidence to back up his statement, so he added quickly, “He’s been cooking…he’s living with me, and not on his own…he’s going to therapy, Cuddy, for chrissakes...! And I believe that he’s finally realized how important his connections here are to him. He needs the puzzles to thrive…you’re doing the right thing in keeping him here,” Wilson added, with sound conviction.
Nevertheless, Cuddy still seemed uncertain. “You’re going to be meeting him for lunch today, yes?” she asked, instead of responding to his initial statement.
“Of course,” Wilson said, blinking back at her, puzzled, “why do you ask?”
“Just making sure,” Cuddy said, staring back deeply into his eyes and locking them there, with what seemed to be a forced significance, “because he needs you in his life too, just as much as he needs this job.”
“He’s living in my apartment,” Wilson pointed out dryly, half-laughing to himself at the absurdity of it all. “I think I’ve made it quite clear how much he’s involved in my life.”
“Perhaps,” Cuddy said convolutedly, with a faraway look in her eyes; and while he was irked by the statement, he did not press it further.
“In fact,” Wilson remarked, “I’m going to be meeting him in a few minutes…and thank God, because I’m famished…it’s been almost nonstop patients coming to see me today.”
“How’s that going?” Cuddy asked sympathetically; she knew how stressful a job in Oncology could be, dealing with people who were on the verge of death all the time. “I hear the transfusion center is completely packed with patients coming in to get chemo.”
“Pretty packed,” Wilson said with a nod, wishing she would stop asking about his job; it was the last thing that he wanted to think about. While House needed him as an anchor at work, House made Wilson’s job that much easier; with House around, life never got boring, because House was about as unpredictable as the weather.
It was a beautiful Fall day, and Wilson smiled as he watched the fall leaves blowing through the hospital windows. He bid Cuddy goodbye and headed up to his office to wrap up some last-minute paperwork, before meeting House in his office to head down together for lunch. (He’d missed these scheduled lunches; it was the time when he and House traded notes about what had gone on during their day; and now, it was even better, for they went through the ritual once again later, at dinner.)
As he entered the diagnostic wing, Wilson was surprised to notice that House’s office was empty, and he wasn’t in the conference room. He poked his head inside the room, where Chase, Cameron and Foreman were busy with their noses buried in paperwork. “Hey, have you guys seen House?” Wilson asked the group, trying to hide his disappointment as he wondered where House could have possibly gone.
“We…thought he was with you,” Foreman declared, a visible expression of confusion etching over his usually passive features. “He said he was taking off for lunch.”
“He went inside your office,” Cameron added, “I thought he was going to talk to you.”
“He’s not there?” Chase seemed to be the only one who was concerned, as he studied Wilson’s expression.
“Could be,” Wilson supplied, trying to act natural as he tried to avoid the feeling of dread that was beginning to settle like a rock in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll go see.”
Numbly, he turned away from the group, wishing that the panic that was swelling in his throat would disappear, as well as the onslaught of disturbing images which began to assault his mind and his senses: House in a coma; House with his eyes turned upwards, face blue, eyes unblinking; House with his leg twisted in an unnatural fashion, paralyzed with agony, unable to move.
The moment Wilson was sure he was out of their site, he took off running for his office and threw open the door, realizing with a sinking sensation that no way could House have gone past him and into his office unnoticed in the amount of time he had left.
Terror coursed through Wilson’s and landed with a quaking thud in his gut, and he took off running again for the elevator. The elevator button took forever to light up, and time seemed to come to a standstill as he rode the elevator at a snail’s pace down to the first floor. Once there Wilson threaded his way through a myriad of doctors and patients for the cafeteria, hoping that House had meant to surprise him and show up there first. His eyes scanned the cafeteria desperately, but: No House.
The cafeteria was filled with strangers, and by then he was out of breath; he could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest; it felt as though it wanted to jump out of his throat and flee. Fearing the worst, Wilson whipped out his phone and dialed House’s home by mistake, and as he waited anxiously, after five seconds and still getting no answer, he realized what he’d done and called his apartment, with the hope that House had come down with the flu and gone home (even though House never took sick days, even if he’d been vomiting before driving to work).
Feeling ill, Wilson forced himself to ride the elevator back up to the second floor, House’s floor, and the same floor of his own office---where he returned to unwillingly, because he was out of ideas.
Once inside, Wilson collapsed on the couch, out of breath and trembling with fear and anxiety. He was about to pull himself back up again in order to call 911 when his thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise-unidentifiable---that seemed as though it were coming from outside. Oh God…please don’t let it be a wild animal out on my balcony…it’s the last thing I need…
There was a separation area between his office and House’s conference room, which contained a door that lead to both balconies which faced one another side by side. House’s balcony was therefore next to Wilson’s, so it could be either on his or House’s balcony.
Momentarily distracted by his fear that House was dying in the gutter somewhere, Wilson forced himself to focus and grabbed for a weapon---he’d need protection---on his desk. His fingers closed around a glass paperweight, and while clutching this in one hand, he inched his way out into the portal between his office and House’s domain. Terrified to find out what was on the other side of the door, Wilson, hand shaking, somehow managed to peel back the blinds.
What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, because it wasn’t an animal at all that was inhabiting House’s balcony: it was House, who was sitting out on the bench that had been put there during his hiatus. Wilson’s relief at seeing House sitting against the wall of his balcony turned to horror as he realized, to his disbelief, that something was very wrong about this picture. House looked as though he were in agony, as he wasn’t sitting upright, but hunched over as though in pain. He wasn’t clutching his leg, which was confusing to Wilson. However his face was contorted with grief, and had a look of despair that Wilson had never seen.
To Wilson’s horror, he realized with shock that House was doing something he’d never done in Wilson’s presense, or anyone else for that matter: House was crying. He rocked back and forth, hugging himself, completely unaware of Wilson’s presence in the doorway, seemingly in his own world. Wilson wanted to run to him, but for some reason, his legs were rooted to the spot; he simply couldn’t move.
The longer Wilson stood looking out, the more he could see how much pain House was in, and it made his heart ache as he watched House’s body quake and tremble as though he were afraid, but he knew that in reality House was probably terrified, for he had come out here to hide. When House looked up at the sky, as though pleading for someone to help him that wouldn’t come, the tears on his face were clearly visible. He looked every bit like a lost little boy, and Wilson couldn’t imagine the pain he must be in, for it to force the vulnerability out of him.
House had never shed a tear in front of him; he was too invincible to do that. Now he was shedding buckets, and it was clear that House had been lying to him all those weeks; he wasn’t “fine”; in fact, far from it. It seemed that Wilson didn’t know House as well as he’d thought; perhaps, he never had; perhaps he’d only thought he knew him. House wasn’t as tough as he made himself out to be, Wilson realized; it was only a phisod, and he was seeing the lifting of the veil.
He stood there, wishing for all the world that he could go out there and do something to help his friend, but knowing at the same time that House would only resent him for it; would only push him further away.
So he did not go. He remained where he was; in fact, he concluded that it was simply best to leave House as he was. (Only this time, he was leaving House alone for the right reasons.)
That night, over dinner, neither mentioned the fact that they had missed lunch. House appeared to be in better spirits than the night before, and they toasted a day’s work well done. Wilson forced himself to bite his tongue about what he had seen; as far as he was concerned, he had never been there. And that night, they celebrated their journey together by watching a marathon of Monster Trucks, before retiring to bed in peace to begin the new day.
Author: Rivercrossing2
Prompt: #10: House disappears, and Wilson is the only one in the hospital that notices.
Rating: PG
Words: 1,950 (oneshot)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): none; House Wilson strong friendship.
Warnings: Spoilers for "Broken", and general Season 6 up until "Instant Karma".
Disclaimer: Just take my word for it that I don't want to be sued.
Summary: One day House doesn't show up for lunch, and Wilson (because he's Wilson) gets worried.
A/N: Due to the onslaught of real life pressures, this one goes bravely unbeta'd.
“So…how do you think he’s doing?” Wilson asked Cuddy one day, as they sat in her office. It had been weighing on his mind to ask someone else what they thought about the state of House’s recovery, because when asked directly how he was doing, House’s standard answer was a snippy “I’m fine.”
“He seems…happy,” Cuddy formulated slowly, though with a disbelieving look on her face; it was clear to Wilson at that moment that he wasn’t the only one who was apparently worried. “He’s almost…too happy.” She sipped at her coffee delicately, however with a look of disease on her face; all the while eyeing him warily out of the corner of her eye. It was almost as though she thought he were the cause of House’s newfound sense of hope, and Wilson couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty for having taken House in, like a homeless man who had nothing, out of the cold.
“If it helps you feel any better, his happiness appears to be genuine,” Wilson inserted, coming quickly to his best friend’s defense, in spite of best instincts. Wondering, as he did, why he still felt the need to protect House at all costs; House had clearly shown, even in the mere past two weeks’ time, that he could more than take care of himself. “I think he’s really trying to…um…” He tried to search for the right word to apply to the situation; something that fit spirituality and House, but only wound up with a phrase that made himself want to cringe: “better himself”.
“Which is weird,” Cuddy pointed out, frowning into her cup as though the steam trailing upwards was more interesting than anything he had to say, “isn’t it?”
“I thought you’d be happy for him,” Wilson observed, for some reason still feeling as though he should be providing evidence to back up his statement, so he added quickly, “He’s been cooking…he’s living with me, and not on his own…he’s going to therapy, Cuddy, for chrissakes...! And I believe that he’s finally realized how important his connections here are to him. He needs the puzzles to thrive…you’re doing the right thing in keeping him here,” Wilson added, with sound conviction.
Nevertheless, Cuddy still seemed uncertain. “You’re going to be meeting him for lunch today, yes?” she asked, instead of responding to his initial statement.
“Of course,” Wilson said, blinking back at her, puzzled, “why do you ask?”
“Just making sure,” Cuddy said, staring back deeply into his eyes and locking them there, with what seemed to be a forced significance, “because he needs you in his life too, just as much as he needs this job.”
“He’s living in my apartment,” Wilson pointed out dryly, half-laughing to himself at the absurdity of it all. “I think I’ve made it quite clear how much he’s involved in my life.”
“Perhaps,” Cuddy said convolutedly, with a faraway look in her eyes; and while he was irked by the statement, he did not press it further.
“In fact,” Wilson remarked, “I’m going to be meeting him in a few minutes…and thank God, because I’m famished…it’s been almost nonstop patients coming to see me today.”
“How’s that going?” Cuddy asked sympathetically; she knew how stressful a job in Oncology could be, dealing with people who were on the verge of death all the time. “I hear the transfusion center is completely packed with patients coming in to get chemo.”
“Pretty packed,” Wilson said with a nod, wishing she would stop asking about his job; it was the last thing that he wanted to think about. While House needed him as an anchor at work, House made Wilson’s job that much easier; with House around, life never got boring, because House was about as unpredictable as the weather.
It was a beautiful Fall day, and Wilson smiled as he watched the fall leaves blowing through the hospital windows. He bid Cuddy goodbye and headed up to his office to wrap up some last-minute paperwork, before meeting House in his office to head down together for lunch. (He’d missed these scheduled lunches; it was the time when he and House traded notes about what had gone on during their day; and now, it was even better, for they went through the ritual once again later, at dinner.)
As he entered the diagnostic wing, Wilson was surprised to notice that House’s office was empty, and he wasn’t in the conference room. He poked his head inside the room, where Chase, Cameron and Foreman were busy with their noses buried in paperwork. “Hey, have you guys seen House?” Wilson asked the group, trying to hide his disappointment as he wondered where House could have possibly gone.
“We…thought he was with you,” Foreman declared, a visible expression of confusion etching over his usually passive features. “He said he was taking off for lunch.”
“He went inside your office,” Cameron added, “I thought he was going to talk to you.”
“He’s not there?” Chase seemed to be the only one who was concerned, as he studied Wilson’s expression.
“Could be,” Wilson supplied, trying to act natural as he tried to avoid the feeling of dread that was beginning to settle like a rock in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll go see.”
Numbly, he turned away from the group, wishing that the panic that was swelling in his throat would disappear, as well as the onslaught of disturbing images which began to assault his mind and his senses: House in a coma; House with his eyes turned upwards, face blue, eyes unblinking; House with his leg twisted in an unnatural fashion, paralyzed with agony, unable to move.
The moment Wilson was sure he was out of their site, he took off running for his office and threw open the door, realizing with a sinking sensation that no way could House have gone past him and into his office unnoticed in the amount of time he had left.
Terror coursed through Wilson’s and landed with a quaking thud in his gut, and he took off running again for the elevator. The elevator button took forever to light up, and time seemed to come to a standstill as he rode the elevator at a snail’s pace down to the first floor. Once there Wilson threaded his way through a myriad of doctors and patients for the cafeteria, hoping that House had meant to surprise him and show up there first. His eyes scanned the cafeteria desperately, but: No House.
The cafeteria was filled with strangers, and by then he was out of breath; he could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest; it felt as though it wanted to jump out of his throat and flee. Fearing the worst, Wilson whipped out his phone and dialed House’s home by mistake, and as he waited anxiously, after five seconds and still getting no answer, he realized what he’d done and called his apartment, with the hope that House had come down with the flu and gone home (even though House never took sick days, even if he’d been vomiting before driving to work).
Feeling ill, Wilson forced himself to ride the elevator back up to the second floor, House’s floor, and the same floor of his own office---where he returned to unwillingly, because he was out of ideas.
Once inside, Wilson collapsed on the couch, out of breath and trembling with fear and anxiety. He was about to pull himself back up again in order to call 911 when his thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise-unidentifiable---that seemed as though it were coming from outside. Oh God…please don’t let it be a wild animal out on my balcony…it’s the last thing I need…
There was a separation area between his office and House’s conference room, which contained a door that lead to both balconies which faced one another side by side. House’s balcony was therefore next to Wilson’s, so it could be either on his or House’s balcony.
Momentarily distracted by his fear that House was dying in the gutter somewhere, Wilson forced himself to focus and grabbed for a weapon---he’d need protection---on his desk. His fingers closed around a glass paperweight, and while clutching this in one hand, he inched his way out into the portal between his office and House’s domain. Terrified to find out what was on the other side of the door, Wilson, hand shaking, somehow managed to peel back the blinds.
What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, because it wasn’t an animal at all that was inhabiting House’s balcony: it was House, who was sitting out on the bench that had been put there during his hiatus. Wilson’s relief at seeing House sitting against the wall of his balcony turned to horror as he realized, to his disbelief, that something was very wrong about this picture. House looked as though he were in agony, as he wasn’t sitting upright, but hunched over as though in pain. He wasn’t clutching his leg, which was confusing to Wilson. However his face was contorted with grief, and had a look of despair that Wilson had never seen.
To Wilson’s horror, he realized with shock that House was doing something he’d never done in Wilson’s presense, or anyone else for that matter: House was crying. He rocked back and forth, hugging himself, completely unaware of Wilson’s presence in the doorway, seemingly in his own world. Wilson wanted to run to him, but for some reason, his legs were rooted to the spot; he simply couldn’t move.
The longer Wilson stood looking out, the more he could see how much pain House was in, and it made his heart ache as he watched House’s body quake and tremble as though he were afraid, but he knew that in reality House was probably terrified, for he had come out here to hide. When House looked up at the sky, as though pleading for someone to help him that wouldn’t come, the tears on his face were clearly visible. He looked every bit like a lost little boy, and Wilson couldn’t imagine the pain he must be in, for it to force the vulnerability out of him.
House had never shed a tear in front of him; he was too invincible to do that. Now he was shedding buckets, and it was clear that House had been lying to him all those weeks; he wasn’t “fine”; in fact, far from it. It seemed that Wilson didn’t know House as well as he’d thought; perhaps, he never had; perhaps he’d only thought he knew him. House wasn’t as tough as he made himself out to be, Wilson realized; it was only a phisod, and he was seeing the lifting of the veil.
He stood there, wishing for all the world that he could go out there and do something to help his friend, but knowing at the same time that House would only resent him for it; would only push him further away.
So he did not go. He remained where he was; in fact, he concluded that it was simply best to leave House as he was. (Only this time, he was leaving House alone for the right reasons.)
That night, over dinner, neither mentioned the fact that they had missed lunch. House appeared to be in better spirits than the night before, and they toasted a day’s work well done. Wilson forced himself to bite his tongue about what he had seen; as far as he was concerned, he had never been there. And that night, they celebrated their journey together by watching a marathon of Monster Trucks, before retiring to bed in peace to begin the new day.