Disclaimer: Own nothing that belongs to Heel and Toe, but owe a lot to everyone else.
A/N: Was reading a H/W story about a mizpah coin, and it reminded me of a story drafted last year but never finished. Here it is, resuscitated, and with plastic surgery.
Wilson slides a glossy dinner plate dripping with water into a slot in the dish rack and saunters out of the kitchen. He straightens a dining room chair and wedges a book onto a shelf. His mind's automatic transmission purrs along in fourth gear until he hears an inaudible cracking noise. A splintering of his soul that strands him in a dealership's waiting room. Could just as well be a cleanup on aisle two where a dozen broken eggs sprawl at his feet. Jagged edged shells, like shark's fins, swim in a sea of shimmering, gelatinous ooze, cornering his thoughts, not allowing them to flee.
He halts at the hallway and leans against the wall, his arms folded protectively over his chest. Unfulfilled dreams wash over him. No wife, no kids, no one to come home to. A sigh escapes as he wishes the gnawing ache inside him could be repaired by surgery, Superglue, or duct tape. He knows nothing short of a time machine would help.
Why the explosion goes off now and not months earlier is a mystery. He's a card-carrying, guilt-ridden Humpty-Dumpty. Sick of the scrambled mess he made of his life.
Eventually, a bittersweet thought crosses his mind: he cannot change the past, but there is always the present. He pushes away and continues to his bedroom.
Wilson pulls a suit from his closet.
House sits on his couch watching television when a phantom shriek scorches the gray matter between his ears. He has heard the sound before. His brain is playing tricks. Fiercer than a blast from a referee's whistle, he associates the noise with the hysterical beep of alarms triggered when a patient codes. It happens whenever he suffers a personal loss: his thigh muscle, Stacy, his father… Wilson.
His chin drops to his chest. He knows what he needs—someone to be his muse. Play harmony to his melody. House closes his eyes. He and Wilson are talking, but not with the same amperage that used to flow between them. He feels like they communicate with tin cans and a string.
Dressed in full body armor—suit, dress shirt, and tie, Wilson stands in front of House's door. Loaded down with a bag of groceries, he shifts the Trojan horse so he can knock. The hour is late, but the generic chatter of a talk show curls from underneath the door. Mustering confidence, he raps his knuckles loudly and steadily against the portal. Tonight the sound reminds him of the drumming of an MRI.
Thumping footsteps grow louder until the door swings open and House stands in front of him. One hand clutches the doorknob for support while the other holds the cane at an angle that prevents Wilson from breezing past.
Wilson offers the wafer of a lie that sits upon his tongue. "Returned from an emergency at the hospital. Picked up some food—bread, bacon, eggs. Hungry or is it too late?"
Small tension lines radiating around House's eyes soften as he releases the knob. Never saying a word, he turns his back, walks away, and sinks back into the couch.
In the past, Wilson would never hesitate to join House, but he isn't sure if he's welcome. He's freezes at the doorway.
House's voice is a mix of warmth and impatience. "It's never too late, Wilson."
.
.
Inscription on a joined Mizpah coin reads, Genesis 31:49. "May the Lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from another."