And summer's lease hath all too short a date .
-- William Shakespeare, Sonnet XVIII
"Don't you think about what comes after?"
House's voice is low and direct. Wilson hides a discreet smile as he continues to fold -- t-shirts, boxers, Jockeys -- the everyday clothes of everyday lives. He's not going to think about this right now.
"I told you -- it's not worth it." Wilson picks up a black t-shirt, the neon lettering on its front advertising a bar, a rock band, some faraway attraction that neither of them will ever see. Obviously one of House's.
"Aren't you the least bit curious?"
Wilson sighs; House is as tenacious as a pit bull when he's got hold of a question. He won't let go, he'll push and pull and worry at it until the mystery is solved or until it's somehow escaped his jaws, dashing away into the tall timber.
"Of course I'm curious." Wilson shakes a pair of flannel pajama pants, checking to see if any socks fall out. "I mean, who wouldn't be?" No escapist socks emerge, and Wilson begins folding the pajama pants.
"So what do you think happens?"
Wilson stops folding. "House, we've been through this."
House looks away, begins tapping the end of his cane on the hardwood floor. "What do you think happens?" he asks again.
The silence stretches out. Wilson's shoulders sag a little as his left hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck.
"Life goes on," he says at last. He's very tired tonight; much more so than the other nights. He'll have to lie down soon and rest. "Endless cycle, streams and rivers flowing down to the sea, but the sea is never filled, yadda yadda yadda."
For a moment House doesn't reply. The cane continues to tap.
"You're just saying that," House says. "You're just saying that because in your stupid caring way you think it'll make this all better."
Wilson smiles then, just a little. "No," Wilson says. "I'm saying this because I think you're jealous that I'm going to find out before you."
And he picks up another t-shirt, fresh and clean and smelling of ozone and sunshine from the clothesline and begins to fold it.
He can't tell if it's his or House's.
In the end, it doesn't matter.
fin