This story is based on a dream I had two year ago, but had a hard time getting it down on "paper." Hope you enjoy.
My thanks to the most awesome beta ever, hwshipper.
.
Wilson sits near the exit as the bus rattles away from the curb. Leaning forward, he turns the scrap of paper in his hands and squints at the penciled instructions blurred from his fidgeting. Doesn't matter. He has the list of local and intra-city buses memorized.
This is his sixth transfer. With each successive bus, there are fewer passengers and more unrecognizable neighborhoods. When he clambers aboard the last one, the #3 Special, all the seats are at his disposal.
When he gives the transfer to the driver he makes a nervous joke, "Is this the Mexington Avenue bus?" The driver stifles a yawn. Either he has heard the same line a hundred times before or he is too young to get the Tracy and Hepburn reference. If House were with him, he would roll his eyes. If House were with him.
Wilson lets out a silent sigh and chooses a seat facing the center aisle, affording him a panoramic view of the shops across the street. He checks his watch. The bus ride has chewed up almost two precious hours that he could have spent at House's bedside. A nurse is on duty, but Wilson wants to be there. Slipping the paper into the breast pocket of his overcoat, Wilson plays with the wedding band on his finger, absently twirling it and picking out the textured border design with his fingertip. They never had a civil ceremony. House simply placed a gold band on his pillow after five years of living together. Wilson put it on, and nothing more had been said.
After three weeks of scouring jewelry shops and department stores in the Plainsboro area Wilson found an identical one. Anticipating House's pleasure, Wilson reciprocated with his own version of the ceremony, placing the ring and a rare Japanese porn video on the pillow. Wilson watched with amazement as House tucked the DVD under his arm, but swept the ring into his nightstand drawer.
"You need to be reminded who you belong to, but I don't," House said quietly.
Wilson never felt better about a rejected gift in his life.
Wilson shoves his hands into his pockets and turns his attention to the urban landscape sliding past the windows. Neon martini glasses and blinking "Open" signs streak by, glowing like tropical fish in a tank.
The bus farts to a stop and the doors spring open.
The driver mumbles, "End of the line. Everybody out."
Wilson stands up and scans the rows. Everybody consists of him. A quick examination of the neighborhood isn't reassuring. He can barely make out the soot stained shops. Gates, paint, and boards obscure windows. He suppresses a shudder. If he were driving through the area he wouldn't stop for a red light, let alone walk down the street. He steps off the bus and onto the gritty, damp pavement. The icy air stings his face and he buries his hands in his coat pockets, cursing his memory for forgetting his gloves. Before Wilson takes another step, the bus rumbles away in a cloud of noxious fumes.
Alone, except for the street lamp and the cone of light piercing the misty air, Wilson is reluctant to stray from his island into the shadows. Spotting in the distance the glint of golden globes shining above a storefront, he squares his shoulders and heads toward the landmark. The murky lighting claws at his nerves and the lack of traffic makes him claustrophobic. He can't hear his own footsteps.
He tamps down his panic, and he looks at his feet. Crushed autumn leaves. The papier mâché pulp deadens the sound of his tread. Almost at his goal, Wilson deeply inhales and holds his breath before striding across an alley, avoiding the sweet sour stench of stale urine and fresh human feces. He barely raises his head to check for the glint of a knife or the barrel of a gun. His lungs force him to gasp for fresh air, and relief floods him when he reaches the pawnshop. He peers up before walking onto the black and white honeycomb tile of the entry. He could have sworn from far away the spheres looked gold, but up close the metal is tarnished to black.
His shoes softly scuffling against the ceramic floor, Wilson ignores the display windows with their earthly treasures. A gilt arrow on the door points to a button. He presses it, but hears nothing. He counts to ten before pushing the buzzer again. There is a clattering noise and he's sure someone is standing behind him. He quickly glances over his shoulder, hoping to surprise whoever is there. The lurker is a sheet of newsprint tangoing in the wind, floating and scraping over the sidewalk. The dance ends dramatically when the paper comes to a halt and clings to the base of the window. Turning back toward the door, Wilson stifles a yelp as a pair of enormous eyes set in a gnarled face stares back at him.
"Doctor Wilson."
"Abraham Bertram?" Wilson asks, keeping his voice even, not betraying his desperation.
The door opens wider, and the old man steps aside for Wilson to enter. "I wasn't sure if you were coming."
Wilson follows Bertram, but motions an apology with his hands. "If this is a bad time—"
"For you more than me. Unfortunately, that makes it the right time for both of us," Bertram replies. "Let's go to the back." The words are soft, sympathetic, and wrapped in an Eastern European accent reminding Wilson of his grandfather.
The room swims in twilight, most of the illumination leaking from the doorway at the end of the room. The goods tilt and lean in disarray like tombstones in an abandoned cemetery. Wilson sticks to the old man as closely as he can; Bertram knows his way with practiced ease. As Wilson zigzags down the aisle, monuments melt into a mishmash of musical instruments, books, towering vases, and trunks. Trying to avoid tripping over a bicycle pump, his coat button snags onto a slinky tassel from a black silk shawl embroidered with a gaudy Chinese dragon.
Bertram is immediately at his side and leans in to examine the snarled threads. Wilson has a bird's eye view of a large bald spot, and reflexively runs his hand over the top of his own thinning head of hair.
Carefully untangling the strands, Bertram clucks his tongue and speaks to the garment as if it were a person. "Shame on you, Sally, you old girl, none of your flirtatious tricks. The doctor is taken." As he pats the fringe back in place, he winks and explains, "She just turned one hundred, you know, but she's still a flapper at heart."
He places a gentle hand on Wilson's shoulder and ushers him without further incident into the back room.
The contrast between the shop and the back room is as different as the interior of a dumpster and the glow of a theater marquee. This is the first sane haven Wilson has seen since he stepped onto the first bus. The office is much like his, done in oak with a simple ceiling globe spreading peach-tinged light into every corner. A large desk dominates with chairs flanking each side. Bertram sinks into the alpha chair and waves Wilson to the one opposite. Glass fronted bookcases cover all four walls. Books and gleaming tools occupy the shelves. Wilson deduces some of the devices are for measuring. Behind Bertram is an impressive array of various sized hourglasses filled with sand ranging in various Painted Desert hues. A selection of devices that defy explanation dot the room. House might know what they are, but House isn't here. He is at home in bed. But the point is moot. If House weren't dying, Wilson would not be sniffing around city armpits. Exhausted, he clasps his hands and stares at them. His goal seems ridiculous, seeking out Bertram for an impossible favor. He might as well ask Santa.
Wilson is at a loss for words. He looks at his watch again, and the ache in his gut worsens. How fast can he call a taxi and make it home before…
"The person you care about most in the world is dying," Abe purrs softly, but his tone is matter-of-fact.
Wilson manages an affirmative shake of the head. Remembering the jaundiced eyes, he begins to rise from his chair and whispers, "He only has hours. Look, I'm keeping you from your family, I should go home."
Abe jumps up, displaying unusual spryness for someone his age. "No, sit. We have time. Let me get you some tea. We'll talk." Abe disappears behind another door.
Water gushes from a tap and a kettle scrapes on a burner. A few minutes later Bertram holds out a tray with steaming cups of tea. Wilson takes one. A bowl of sugar cubes is placed on the desk. Returning to his chair, Bertram fits his reading glasses upon his nose, and silently sifts through papers.
The tea's aroma gives off an herbal scent. Wilson sips and feels his neck muscles relax like the loosening strings of a guitar.
Abe removes his glasses.
"Tell me about your loved one. How close are the two of you?"
"My partner, House." Wilson sighs under the penetrating stare. "We've been in a committed relationship for over a decade. Friends for much longer." After all this time Wilson is uncomfortable discussing his relationship. Not that he is embarrassed, but this is something that is private between the two of them. Only Cuddy knows, the cleaning lady, a few others.
"House is ten years older than me, sixty-seven. Cancer." House's decline had been slow, but Wilson still isn't ready to face the reality. The word catches in his throat even though he pronounces it daily in his work. He rubs his eyes to wipe away freshly forming tears. Something in the tea must be making him emotional.
Bertram nods his head in sympathy. "My brother told me you are a good man in need of a miracle. Normally my clientele come from a different stratum, but you helped my niece when I had already done all I could for her. I'm prepared to help your partner."
Wilson clutches at the threadbare lifeline while feeling a need to be honest. "There's very little time."
"Time is my specialty, doctor. That's why you're here. But I do need something from you. You must be willing to sacrifice a part of yourself." Bertram gets out of his chair and opens the door to the pawnshop. "If you aren't serious, you should leave now. As it is, you know too much."
.
.
TBC