A/N: This is something that I came up with on the spot. I'm joining in on the whole "Wilson visits House at Mayfield" loop. Here is my take. Please R&R. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to David Shore. I'm merely borrowing.
Elbows propped on his thighs, and fingers entwined. Brown eyes stared at the older sleeping man. He had found himself on that very chair all too often.
It was only at night. Wilson took a liking to dropping by the Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital after his shift. It had only been a month since House had checked in, but Wilson had yet to visit him in the daytime. There was something therapeutic about watching his friend sleep. Wilson liked the silence. It had given him time to think.
He couldn't help but be alert of his every-day routine: Wake up, go to work. "I'm sorry, you have cancer" spoiled the lunch, so he began to skip it. Having your lunch stolen from you is one thing, but skipping it all together was something different. The absence of House, to any sane human, would seem like something perfect. It only made things worse for Wilson.
He had once found himself in House's apartment. A glass of bourbon laid untouched on the coffee table. Random files of medical cases covered the surface of the piano bench. Strange, though, that Wilson would still call the apartment tidy. He had fallen asleep on the couch, pathetically admitting that he missed him. And that was only the first night.
It was shortly after then, that Wilson allowed himself to pay nightly visits to House. Same time. Same chair. He was lingering longer tonight, for no specific reason. He did not want to go home. Hell it wasn't even his home. It was the home of a dead girl-friend he can't seem to let go. Wilson learned long ago that he was pathetic, he had no other choice but to embrace this fact.
"You're pathetic."
The voice was all too familiar. Wilson immediately sat up straight at the sight of House's silhouette suddenly moving to an upright position. Had the lights been on, the embarrassment on Wilson's face would've been plain to see. He breathed in. This was something he was not expecting.
"Hi," he softly said.
"He sounds like Wilson," House replied, resting his back against the headboard.
"How are you feeling?" Wilson asked.
"He feigns sympathy like Wilson," House yet again played.
Wilson sighed. He was in no mood for word games.
"House, it's me," he stated.
"But is it really you?"
Wilson was not sure of where House was trying to get. He thought for a moment. Perhaps he was on meds with side effects of paranoia. Perhaps he was just being House. He let himself answer honestly.
"I really don't know at the moment."
House laughed at his answer. It was rare to hear House laugh, but this was not a good laugh.
"That makes two of us," he replied. Wilson creased his brows.
"What do you mean?"
"I could be dreaming. I could be hallucinating," House said honestly.
Wilson didn't know how to feel about House denying his current existence. They were both half awake and things did not make sense. But as long as they were talking in honesty…
"I miss you," Wilson said softly.
"No you don't," House replied, almost immediately. Wilson didn't like the fact that House kept labeling everything he said as false. He was getting annoyed rather quickly.
"And how would you know?"
"Wilson would've visited me a lot sooner."
Wilson sighed yet again. House was never easy.
"Well, I've been busy," he vaguely answered.
The silence that followed stuck for a while. Wilson kept his eyes on the silhouette of House's body, which to him, seemed a bit frail. Maybe it was the darkness.
"How are you feeling, Greg?" Wilson tried yet again, softer this time.
"Oh, the first-name basis! Is that supposed to make me break down and give you my sob story?" House sarcastically replied.
Wilson was officially annoyed. Even in the dark, even in the middle of the night in a psych ward, House had the power to squeeze any genuine compassion Wilson felt. He didn't want to yell. He didn't want to argue, not tonight. So he stayed silent.
Somewhere in that silence, House must've caught on. After a few more awkward seconds, Wilson heard House sigh.
"I'm feeling like shit," House said softly. Wilson didn't move, for fear of showing any interest and losing what House was about to say to him.
"They've…taken me off Vicodin," he added.
"Well I should hope so," Wilson couldn't help but reply.
"My throat hurts from puking every five seconds."
"It's called detoxing," Wilson sarcastically said.
House immediately sighed loudly. Another silence. Then--
"I'm not about to 'feign sympathy' for you, House," Wilson added. "You asked to be here."
"I know," House replied softly.
"You knew this was going to happen."
"I know."
Wilson didn't want to built tension, but it was something he was used to doing around House. No answer was clean and simple. Everything had an underlying meaning. He couldn't show House any sign of compassion without being shot down by House's protective wall of sarcastic comments. It was like setting yourself up to lose.
"They've asked me to…re-evaluate the past ten years of my life," House explained. His tone had changed and it was something different to Wilson. "They're saying its possible the hallucinations could've started back when I was first prescribed."
Wilson knew House enough to know that he had not been hallucinating the past ten years. The very thought of the fact that the doctors suggested it just disgusted Wilson. But it wasn't the thought that disturbed Wilson. It was the way House had said it. He had sounded almost as if he believed them.
"House…you know you haven't been hallucinating for that long," Wilson said, carefully watching House's outlined figure in the dark.
"Don't be brain-washed by these people, " he added.
"How do I know I'm not hallucinating you right now?" House suddenly shot.
"House, I'm right here! I'm real!" Wilson replied, almost frightfully.
"I don't know that."
Wilson stared for a few moments. Whatever the doctors were telling House, he was obviously too distorted with pain to actually give it a second thought. Wilson was mad. He was mad at House for not coming to his senses.
"I can't tell what's real and what's not anymore, Jimmy," House whispered. With that, he slid from the headboard and covered himself in the sheets, turning his back to Wilson.
Wilson stayed rooted to the spot. Not only did House just give up on a puzzle, he was okay with it. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to pull House from the covers and shake him, to let him know that he was real. He was not a hallucination.
He stayed in that chair for just a little longer. He was glad that House was now sleeping. Tears might've glistened in his eyes, but it was dark out. He let one fall just to prove to himself that he was, in fact, real.
Wilson wasn't so sure anymore. A scarecrow could've shown more proof.
A/N: Reviews, please. Thank you!