AN: Woo! Second House fic within the last couple of days. Not bad, if I do say so myself (and I do). Anyway, I'll get right to it so you Kats and Kittens can just start reading, yea? Yea! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the television show House. I do not own the characters of the television show House. And nothing depresses me more than these two facts . . .
Moments of Grace:
Wilson sat rigid in front of Cuddy's desk, her voice echoing throughout his mind with little regard as his eyes focused on a point over her shoulder. He latched onto the occasional phrase: Hollow-point bullet. Penetration of the right eye. Instantaneous death. They barely made sense, all jumbled together like that -- a string of broken words he couldn't piece together to mean anything.
In one ear, out the other, House would say . . . would have said.
Cameron, Chase, and Foreman stood to the side, their heads lowered as they shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. They were obviously only in the room as a formality -- to answer questions that Cuddy may not have been able to, seeing as they had been there when it happened. Wilson cursed them all silently.
He and House had been lovers for several years, only recently having built up the courage to make their relationship public. Apparently, it had been old news to most. Rumors had floated around long before the two had even started anything, and the surprise came mostly from the fact that everyone had figured it out before they did.
"Doctor Wilson?"
Cuddy's voice pulled him from his inner thoughts, and his eyes shifted back to her pain-filled face to meet dark, obsidian orbs.
"Huh?" He asked dumbly, his eyebrows raising. He felt like he was in medical school again -- spacing off in class and acting stupidly surprised when a professor would demand an answer from him when he clearly did not know what they had been discussing in the first place.
"Do you understand everything I've explained to you?"
Wilson wanted to strangle her. She was treating him like a terminal patient's family member. He had dealt with enough of them to know that this was procedure, though this being his first time on the receiving end made him hate his job even more than he usually did. He ground his teeth before clearing his throat, pinning the woman with a steady gaze, and taking a deep breath.
"You're saying that a psycho came into his office, shot him in the abdomen, and then proceeded to fire a bullet into his right eye, thereby shooting out the back of his head and causing instantaneous death."
Cuddy's jaw fell slightly in utter horror at the abrasiveness of Wilson's observation, and a gasp came from the trio on his left -- Cameron, no doubt.
"Have I got it right?" Wilson inquired with a quirked eyebrow, as if he had just diagnosed a simple case of the common cold. It was quiet for a long moment, and, suddenly, Wilson's own words were able to settle into his stream of consciousness. He swallowed audibly, covering his mouth with a shaking hand.
"Oh, God," he gurgled before leaning over the right side of the chair and immediately regurgitating onto the newly steam-cleaned carpet. Cuddy was around her desk in an instant, trash can in hand as she leaned down next to him, rubbing soothing circles on his back until he was finished.
"Oh, God," he continued, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his white doctor's coat and shoving the heels of his palms into his closed eyes. He pressed into them painfully, attempting to prevent the tears that welled just behind his eyelids as his throat constricted. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God." His voice cracked as his breathing became labored, and he slumped further into the rather uncomfortable chair.
Just this morning he had woken in House's arms. Just this morning he had made the older man get up early so that he would actually get to work on time. Just this morning they had shared a bagel and playfully fought over the morning newspaper sections. Just this morning . . . House had been alive.
If Wilson hadn't made him go to work on time, would House still be here? If they hadn't shared a normal morning together, would he and Wilson be standing on their balconies, chatting about normal morning things? If they hadn't been in such a rush to beat the 7am traffic, would they just now be walking in, oblivious to any and all things that might have happened? If House was still alive . . .
If House was still alive, Wilson thought. House is dead. He's gone. For real, this time. No do-overs, no take-backs. He's really, truly gone for good.
At this revelation, Wilson's hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes opened, staring blankly ahead at the wall.
"Wilson?" Cuddy's voice was distant, unreachable, and the man sat as if all the bones in his body had, suddenly, liquified. "Wilson! Damn it, he's not breathing! Wilson, come on!" She smacked his cheek, but the sensation was lost on him. He couldn't feel anything anymore. Without House . . . there was nothing left to feel.
0 o 0 o 0
Wilson woke in a cold sweat, a piercing cry ringing throughout the small apartment bedroom. His thin form shook violently, and his chest shuddered with every labored breath. Suddenly, the bedside lamp clicked on, and he jumped slightly, surprised by the abrupt change of lighting.
"What?" A husky, tired voice asked from his right. Wilson's breath caught in his throat as a pair of firm, warm hands cupped his shoulders and turned him to face brilliant, worry-laced blue eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?" He stared with a mixture of bewilderment and fright at the face in front of him -- stubbled jaw, defined cheek bones, age-lined forehead, weathered skin. It was all there, everything that he thought he had lost. And it was here in front of him now; tangible, palpable . . . kissable.
Wilson, suddenly, found his gaze shifting downward to the man's side, and his fingers began desperately probing the patch of skin above the polka-dotted boxers where a bullet wound had been. When he found nothing out of the ordinary, he turned back to find a questioning stare. He placed his hands on either side of the perplexed -- but thankfully silent -- face, closely inspecting the right eye and stringing his fingers into the man's brown locks to check the back of his head for any signs of injury.
Nothing. No sticky, wet blood. No hole in either end of his skull. No cuts, bruises, or trauma of any sort.
The man was fine, and this thought caused Wilson's eyes to close as he breathed a sigh of relief. Tears formed behind his eyelids, but he did nothing to stop them from streaming down his face and curving around his cheeks to meet beneath his chin and drip to the sheets below.
"Hey," a soft voice coaxed him back from his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to find Gregory House, alive and well, staring at him with concern. "Everything okay?"
"You were shot," Wilson replied quietly, his voice cracking as the lump in his throat slowly but surely dissipated.
"Yea, I remember," House smirked slightly, the worried look never leaving his eyes. "I was there, you know. But that was almost two years ago."
"You were dead." Wilson forced the words in a rushed whisper, House barely catching them before understanding dawned on his face.
"How can I be dead if I'm right here with you?" He asked with a chuckle, his voice taking on a tone that a parent would use with a child that had a nightmare.
"I don't know," Wilson replied dazedly, shaking his head and rubbing the thumb of his right hand over House's temple. "Maybe I'm dead too."
House's smile faded slightly.
"Why would you be dead if I was dead?"
Wilson thought carefully before answering, "Because a life without you just isn't worth living, Greg. It just isn't worth holding on to . . . not if you aren't here to share it with me."
The older man stared deeply into Wilson's dark, brown eyes before pulling him into a tight embrace.
"I'm right here," he whispered into his lover's ear, closing his eyes and taking in the man's scent greedily. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."
Wilson returned the gesture ten-fold, burying his face into the crook of House's neck as more tears came and his body shook with silent sobs. After a while of encouraging words and comforting caresses, exhaustion overtook them both, and they lay back down in the warmth of each other's arms.
"House?" Wilson whispered sleepily, yawning against the older man's neck.
"Mm?" House grunted, reveling in the feel of the warm burst of air that the other had just expelled.
"Can we stay like this forever?"
"I'll call Cuddy later and tell her we're not coming in."
But Wilson was already fast asleep, the nightmare gone from his mind and his dreams.
AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard to any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?
Aw, fluff is just so darn cute, isn't it? Hope you enjoyed this one, Kats and Kittens. I know I did. :) Later, Gators! I'll see what else I can cook up this week before I go back to working full time for the summer. Yick!