My first one-shot that didn't grow any other chapters :) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own House. M.D.
The Days Between
Wilson is watching House shout at a nurse through the glass doors of the asylum. He's wearing his normal clothes while most of the patients have long since abandoned normality, and wear those provided by the hospital. They mill about the common room, playing board games, watching TV, rocking themselves in the corner. He looks frustrated, and the nurse looks increasingly angry, but Wilson's waiting for it - and there it is; a tiny smile curls House's lips as he looks away.
It's all a game to him.
Then the nurse tries a new tactic for getting him to take the drugs, she's used to dealing with difficult people and suddenly the routine is back in place. They'd physically forced him to take them before now, when they weren't the ones he wanted. House nods, takes the pills and sits down.
That troubles Wilson, he looks defeated, but isn't that what House needs to learn? To know where the game ends and reality begins.
He'd come to visit, to tell House something, but decided to watch instead, through the glass doors like it was a zoo. A few other visitors sit with family and friends in the room, but they seem to be doing as Wilson is; watching as though through glass. One woman is trying to talk to a young man; her son, Wilson thought. The boy has Catatonic Schizophrenia. Wilson knows the disease well; the variations, the progression and most intimately of all that hopeless look he can see in the mother's eye as she talks of failed relationships, work, friends and…what else is there?
Amber, the hospital and House. That's what he'd spoken of to his brother. Detached from him he had rambled about whatever he could think of. But his brother was a stranger and stared back as though through glass.
And every one of those things he'd spoken of had slipped from his own reality. But he went back. He was still at the hospital, and it was strangely calm without House. It was routine: dull and predictable, slowly driving him mad.
The last thought makes Wilson bark a laugh at the irony. House laughs at the same time; the timing so exact that they could have been talking to one another. But House is across the room, on the other side of the glass, chuckling to himself after stealing the remote control off a claustrophobic patient.
And the laughter isn't real.
Wilson had felt the stifling routine encompass him on the second day. It was lunchtime, and he'd found himself with two deserts, one tucked away out of House's sight. The empty chair seemed to stare at him more intensely than it had done yesterday.
That afternoon Wilson skipped clinic duty. Cuddy pretended not to notice, giving him the benefit of the doubt. So he did it again the next day, and the day after that. Cuddy came to his office to find him playing cards on the computer. She shouted, he apologised, rubbing his forehead, elbows on the desk, sleeves rolled up. She left quickly, swinging her hips and letting the door slowly close by itself.
A tiny smile curled on Wilson's lips.
He watches as House plays with two die in his hand, spinning them round his palm with long fingers. He looks as though he could be in his office at that very moment, staring at a white board with a list of symptoms, connecting the dots in his head like constellations; horoscopes that foretell a patients fate.
But he's not staring at a whiteboard, nor is he watching the TV. It's slight, but Wilson sees it, he's looking into space as though at a person. But he blinks, shifts his eyes and concentrates a little too deliberately on the television; the die moving faster in his hand.
And he drops one - the red dice bounces playfully along the floor. That isn't right, thinks Wilson, a little taken aback. House's eyes seem to become heavy, and he sits back in his chair looking at the remaining dice in his hand as though he wondered why it was still there. He lets it fall.
Two soberly routine weeks went by at the hospital and Wilson suddenly found himself sitting in his office, watching the genetically modified mice from oncology run around their plastic cage on his desk. He wasn't even sure what made him take them, even as he sat there he mused on how irresponsible it was. He unwrapped his green lolly pop and sucked on it while he pondered his faulty logic. He had an appointment in five minutes. This was ludicrous.
Cuddy had walked in on Wilson smiling to himself. They looked sheepishly at each other for a moment as though Cuddy had walked in on something private. She narrowed her eyes.
"Everything alright, Wilson?"
He hastily pulled the lolly from his mouth.
"Yes, yes, just doing an observation," he lied.
Cuddy nodded slowly and her face turned sad.
"I've cancelled all your appointments this afternoon. I had a phone call this morning. You need to go see House."
"Why? Is there a problem?"
Cuddy sighed, walked into the room, and gently closed the door behind her.
So Wilson stands, mid-afternoon watching House through the glass doors of the asylum. He can still taste the remnants of his unfinished lolly, but now it just makes him feel sick.
"Excuse me, sir," smiles a young doctor, her hand ready on the glass door, "Are you waiting to see a patient?"
Wilson hesitates, not sure if he's ready. But he nods and the woman slides open the door.
The sounds of the room filter out; snippets of conversation, the television bleating to itself, the laughter of a group of patients playing monopoly without die.
"You're here for Greg House?" smiles the doctor, pushing her short ginger hair behind her ear "I've seen you before," she explains, "He's right over there."
Wilson nods his thanks, the young doctor slides the door shut and continues into the room. She looks back over her shoulder and gives Wilson a warm smile, her eyes lingering on House a moment as she turns.
House would surely remark on that. Mrs Wilson number four?
But he doesn't, he doesn't even acknowledge Wilson when he first sits down, doesn't notice him.
"House?" Wilson asks tentatively, gripping his hat between his hands.
House looks at him, surprised to see him suddenly sitting so close. He nods as though to confirm it's still him.
"Hi," he frowns, "What happened?"
Wilson looks momentarily bemused.
"You should be at work," deduces House, "something's happened for you to visit now. Either that…or you're not real," he finishes melodramatically.
Wilson doesn't know what to say, and his mouth lingers on the right words.
"Don't worry, I know you're real; I'm not sexually attracted to you. My subconscious insists that all hallucinations should pass for soft-porn at a moments notice."
Wilson swallows and looks at his hat, rotating the wool in his hands. He doesn't linger on what that implies about Amber.
"So how are you?" he asks, weakly attempting to postpone his intent. He can savour a few moments first.
"Delightful," says House dryly, "the hot redhead's been hitting on me."
Wilson looks to House's left to see a rather frazzled looking ginger man with bandages on his hands.
"Not Francis," says House rolling his eyes as he follows Wilson's gaze, "the Doctor," he motions surreptitiously with his head behind him.
Wilson looks over House's shoulder.
"There's nobody there, House."
House eyes him suspiciously, and begins to smile.
"Funny, Wilson." he replies and Wilson grins half-heartedly.
"She's pretty," he confirms.
House just nods. Their smiles fade and they lapse into silence, absorbing the sounds of the room.
"So what drugs are you trying this week?" Wilson asks, attempting to keep the conversation moving.
House frowns.
"Started Sertindole yesterday. Not worth its plastic shell; makes me groggy and disorientated."
"Does it work?"
"No."
"I can talk to the doctors if you like and -"
"Why?" questions House sitting forward, his tired eyes narrowing, "You never offered before. I saw you two days ago and gave you the same sob story. Why are you here, what's happened?"
Wilson falters, rubs his forehead with a sweating hand and looks House in the eye.
"I'm sorry, House. Your mother's died."
House's eyes soften and he lets them fall. He sits back, his mouth slightly open.
"How?"
"It was a car accident, she died instantly. A van pulled out on her. There was nothing anybody could do."
House nods slowly and runs a hands through his hair.
"Nothing anybody could do?" he asks angrily, "the van could've not pulled out on her."
"I'm sorry, House."
House pauses for a moment, and any fight leaves him.
"Okay," he mutters.
He looks at Wilson as though wondering why he's still there.
"Okay?" Wilson stutters the words knowing that House was anything but okay.
"Yeah, you can go."
"House, I -"
"Go, Wilson," House interrupts sternly.
"And you just left?" asks Cuddy angrily.
"What was I supposed to do?" Wilson whines, placing his key in his car door, Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital loomed behind him.
"Stayed - he's grieving…"
"He asked! He still has a right to privacy." He pulls open the car door and sits down.
"He's unstable."
"He was always unstable…"
Cuddy paused and her anger subsided.
"And it never once ended well," she uttered, hanging up the phone.
Wilson punches the steering wheel, sighs deeply and rests his forehead on the cool plastic.
House sits on the edge of the grounds. It was cold but he welcomed it, it stopped the drugs from fogging his mind and it reminded him of a world outside the glass doors and bleached walls of the asylum. He wants to run until he can't breath, clear his head, push his body to its limits to relieve his mind for just a moment. He almost welcomes the dull pain in his leg. But they'd insisted on wheel-chairing him; the chair now sits mockingly a few metres away. At least they'd left him alone.
One by one they leave. Dying changes everything, but it leaves Greg House the same: lonely.
A young doctor stands on the wide lawn of Mayfield Asylum, keeping House just within sight. It's cold and she folds her arms across her thin uniform, her short red hair blows about her face. It was time for him to come back in ten minutes ago, but she waits when she sees his posture; head bowed, hands gripping the bench tight. She had thought his leg in pain at first, and thought she should help, but that wasn't right. She'd been watching House with interest since his arrival; his visitors, his interactions, his arguments - and his pain. She had seen the look on his friend's face, the visitor had left consumed with sadness and frustration. He had bore bad news.
She walks slowly towards him, with growing confidence that she knows exactly how to help. She stands next to him, he doesn't look up.
"Go away," he says with the same emotionless tone he had used with Wilson.
"No," she answers. He looks up with red, startled eyes.
Then she hugs him, her warm arms reach protectively around his shoulders. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to, because he hugs her back.
The End.
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