Title: Weekends With Wilson
Summary: Looking at Wilson's weekends before and after Amber. Sounds awful doesn't it? I think it reads better than the summary.
Characters: Wilson, Implied Amber, House
Rating: G
Word Count: 400
Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. It's downright laughable to think I ever would. Nuh-uh. Not a chance.
A/N: I was struck with an idea about Wilson's relationships, and with the upcoming weekend, came up with this idea.
Unbeta'd. Please R&R.
It's Friday, and lamplight leaks from under Dr. James Wilson's office door as he works late into the night. Not too long ago, it was the most promising day in the week, and he couldn't lock the door behind him fast enough.
There were dinner plans, followed by fevered kisses all through the night.
If the pager behaved, the weekend was theirs.
Sleeping late into the following morning, curled in each others arms.
Brunches, walks, shared crossword puzzles . . . a mutually agreed upon matinee.
Talks.
Sips of dark red wine.
Laughter and bruised lips.
Long drives. Sunday sunsets.
Regrets rising with the moon about how fleeting 48 hours could be.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
It ended.
But, time never stopped.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
It renews like watch hands spinning endlessly over the numbers on a dial.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
He dreads the weekend.
He sleeps into the afternoons.
Scavenges leftovers for meals.
After sufficient time passes, he crawls back to bed.
Sunday sunsets bring promise.
He can lose himself for another five days of work.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
Seven times seven.
He thinks he stays the same, but he changes.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
Brown lettuce and green bread force him out of the apartment. He takes the car so he can return in five minutes.
The next time he takes twenty.
One weekend he slows down for the market, then speeds up as the highway sign attracts his attention.
He keeps to the posted speed limit and pays only enough interest to the vehicle ahead of him to keep a safe distance. He doesn't notice the colors or makes of the cars and trucks that surround him, or the motorcycle that follows behind.
He drives east. Stops at land's end. When the sky begins to glow, he returns home.
Sunsets still mark time, but the ache recedes.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
He searches for answers at the water's edge.
He tentatively accepts a rebirth.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
A routine emerges. Saturdays fill up with tasks and short errands.
On Sundays, feet sink into wet sand. Legs dangle from a wooden dock.
He's alone.
A broken pier, a faulty moor. The people he loves all drift away from him.
His brother. His wives. His girlfriend.
He wipes a tear from his eye, cheating the lapping waves of a prize.
A half-smile twists his lips. He can think of one leaky skiff not seaworthy enough to cast off.
Boards creak under the weight of an uneven gait. He looks up, and a face that normally takes on the color of driftwood, tints with the warmth of another Sunday sunset.
The sight triggers a new regret, Too bad it's the end of the weekend.
fin
Thanks for reading. Comments are welcome. 3