Written for Livejournal's Wilson Fest. Post-ep for "Wilson's Heart."
Prompt: red wine and death.
To the outside world, Amber's funeral is a beautiful day—sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. No chance of rain. To him, it's the most fucked up thing he's ever seen. It shouldn't be sunny; it should be dark and pouring rain and every town should be on watch for tornados and hurricanes and every other storm in the book. If there were a God, surely he'd know that.
-
His words during the funeral are quiet. He looks out at the people there, and with the exception of Amber's family—her parents, her grandparents, some aunts and uncles and cousins—he wonders just how many of them actually cared about Amber.
Are they here for her, or are they just here for him?
-
Afterwards, he stays with Amber.
He lets his ride go home after fifteen minutes, reassuring. I'll get a ride, it's fine, don't worry about it.
He feels empty. Stretched thin. And yet somehow he's still able to reassure.
Another ten minutes and he feels someone come up behind him. He does not turn.
"I'm sorry," Thirteen whispers.
She steps into place next to him, sweeping her long brown hair out of her face to reveal a hardened expression, belied by red-rimmed eyes.
She looks down. He does not acknowledge her.
"I'm sorry," she says again. "I know that…" Her voice trails off, a little uncertainly.
He sighs and finally turns to look at her—a silent, remorseful statue in black. "Thanks," he says, just as empty.
-
Eventually, she ends up giving him a ride home.
Outside of the apartment building, he hesitates in the passenger seat of her car and she notices. "Are you okay?" she asks.
He feels like laughing. He feels like crying. He feels like screaming. (He's heard that question too many times.)
"I can't go inside yet," he says instead.
She bites her lip. "Oh." Her fingers tap anxiously on the steering wheel. He can tell this isn't her forte (they're both stumbling here).
"I'm sorry," he says. (The answer doesn't change.)
She looks at him. And his second "I really am sorry" mixes with her "Do you want to go to my—"
She stops. He stops. They look at each other.
"Sure," he says.
-
In the living room, they open a bottle of red wine. She continues to glance at him with a hesitant air and he realizes that her couch is the same color as theirs.
He finishes first, with a sigh. "Good."
"Yeah, it is," she says quietly. She drinks from her glass. She's almost done.
"So…" He swallows. He pours himself some more wine. "Do you guys have another case yet?"
She shoots him a slightly confused look. She doesn't understand why he's asking. (Neither does he.)
"Not yet," she says. "Have you heard from…?"
He shakes his head. And then, a little too quickly: "So how are you?"
Even more puzzled. "How am I?"
"Yeah." He shrugs—shakily, a poor pass for casual. "You know, we—I mean…How are you doing?"
She stares at him. Her expression slowly drains, falling into something broken. He drinks some more wine.
He almost thinks she's never going to answer when she says softly, "I tested positive."
He turns to look at her with the same empty mask he's worn for what seems like forever. Her words confuse him for a moment (he can't comprehend that someone else can feel pain too). "You tested—?"
"Yeah." She casts her gaze downward. "Yeah."
He's quiet—and, admittedly, surprised—for a while. Finally, he says, "Oh. I'm…"
The word sorry dies on his lips, because he simply doesn't have the energy for it right now.
And suddenly, without warning, she starts sobbing.
He doesn't think before sliding over and pulling her close, holding her so tightly that he might break her. She shakes violently in his grip, chest hitching, tears falling thick and fast from her eyes. Her hand clutches at his shirt like a life raft as she drowns in his arms.
When he kisses her, it's wet and uncomfortable and it tastes like salt, and he quickly hears her struggling for breath because she can't breathe through her nose and all of a sudden neither can he, and it takes him a moment to realize that she's not the only one crying.
Just as his head starts to spin, she pulls back, gasping. Her eyes are bright and her lower lip is trembling. She draws in an unsteady breath.
When he reaches for her hand, she holds on tightly, squeezing hard, trying to reassure herself that someone is still here.
-
In the darkness, they're both selfish—slamming each other back, hands grappling frantically at whatever they can reach. Teeth sinking into flesh. Nails raking across pale and empty plains.
The whole time, he tries not to think. But here, with his mouth at her thigh and her fingers pulling at his hair, he can only think of how different it is, and how this ghost is nothing like the one who died.
Later, when the frantic motion slows to a crawl, he slips into place beside her, breathing hard. She reaches up a hand and gently cups his face, and it's only then that he realizes that there are tears still streaming from his face.
It takes him another, longer moment to realize that her face matches.
-
Sunlight streams in through her window the next morning, harsh golden locks that branch over the blankets like the shadows of a tree.
He wakes up only moments after her and finds her watching him with raw and tired but still sympathetic eyes.
Before she can say a word, he gets out of bed.
My first Wilson x Thirteen piece. Oh, the angst.
I seriously do like Wilson x Thirteen—it's actually one of my favorites—but there are only a couple of fics out there. Sigh. I'll just have to change that, won't I?