A little character sketch of Wilson, through Wilson's eyes.
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The alarm woke me up.
Day in, day out, the same thing. Wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, stand in the shower. I don't wash, I don't masturbate, I don't sing, nothing. Just… stand there. I think those twenty minutes are the only time I feel human all day.
Then I get out and have to put my face on. It's a whole damned ritual to put my face on, a mix of psychology and prepping and physical action, a meticulous series of steps involving the blow-dryer, the tie, the suit, the pills…
It's never a good day if I can't put my face on. People don't know how to react, my patients don't open up to me, I swear my employees don't even recognize me when I can't put my face on.
It's not an age thing. I've worn this same fake face for twenty years. It's not a makeup thing, I don't wear makeup. It's not a hair thing even if the blow-dryer is part of my ritual. It's not a drugs thing, I've got a note and besides, they're just SSRIs. It's just… a face.
It's not even a mask. If it were a mask I could take it off willingly. Willfully. And I can't. It has to be torn off, ripped away from my flesh in a bloody, violent mess. That's why it's a face. That's why it's my face.
Because that's all anyone ever sees. The nice, kind, caring, understanding Dr. Wilson everyone sees is the face I wear.
Three wives have tried to take it off me. I'd like to believe none of them succeeded. If they did succeed then I have to assume that's why they left. Because they all said at varying points near the end that I wasn't the man they'd married. I cannot let myself think they saw me without my face lest I give into my urges and never date again. I could redecorate, throw out all my stuff, live as a monk or something. With lots of cats. Cats never care what face I wear so long as I feed them and change the litter box.
One woman succeeded at taking my face off. I know she did. She never said anything but I know she did. I knew then, too. That's why Amber's death hit me so hard, because she'd seen who I really was and didn't leave.
Enough introspection for one day. The water's getting cold. I wash up and turn off the shower.
I have a stupid ritual I have to perform.
-00000-
I am a master of disguise. Or I would be if this weren't my face.
I feel like hell. This morning alone I have smiled and flirted and comforted my way through my patient rounds, an hour in the clinic, and three meetings with patients.
Two people told me 'thank you'. And I mean that in the most morbid way possible.
No one has any real concept of how much it hurts me to tell someone they're going to die. Especially not 27 year old Rebecca. Too much tanning as a teenager was coming back with a vengeance through melanomas. Or even 63 year old Fred. His first prostate exam, for whatever reason, and it had already spread to his pelvic bones. It hurts me that she's so young, that he has grandkids, that hers could have been prevented, that his could have been caught ten years earlier if he'd just paid attention…
I'm going to drive myself insane.
I need a break.
Speak of the devil…
Heh. If House were the devil I'd have given him my soul years ago. He can have it. I'm not using it. I'm just holding up a face, hiding behind a persona I first put on the day after Danny disappeared.
House limps into my office, sprawls on my couch, starts playing with my toys. He has a clay bunny a patient of mine made when she went into remission. Clara, 4 years old. He's saying something, I don't even care what it is. All I hear is his voice.
As he drags me to lunch I swear I can feel the tearing of flesh. It's the most delicious pain I can imagine.
This man is the better half of me. Not because of love, no, nothing so simple as that. But because he makes me take off my face before I forget who I am.
I won't get to put it back on until tomorrow morning. I'm going to confuse my patients, scare my fellows, disturb the clinic patients, and play with House. I'm going to be myself for the rest of today.
End