iHow many shall pass away and how many shall be born,/i
The sun had barely begun to set as Wilson sat at his desk, staring the now-empty inbox that had kept him occupied the last few hours. Cuddy knew better than let him on duty in the afternoon on Yom Kippur. She claimed he was inattentive, more worried about breaking his fast than the patients he was supposed to be treating. It might have been true. Wilson hated to admit something like that. But the sun was setting and, any moment then, he would stand and weave his way to the cafeteria. Anything sounded good then, event he remnants of the food he had avoided all day.
iWho shall live and who shall die,/i
House had been surprisingly aware, he thought, avoiding his office when he normally would have come and offered food. Even games and distractions seemed wrong on such a solemn day. The patients had come first for the hours he had worked clinic duty, doing both his work and House's. It only felt right to ease other's suffering that day. And as his stomach started to growl more fiercely he focused more. Their suffering was so like his own, small and unimportant to everyone but themselves.
iWho shall reach the end of his days and who shall not,/i
Most of the day had struck Wilson as atypically symbolic, something he often noted on holidays. Skipping synagogue always struck him as childish. But the hospital needed him, so he came in. There was no clause in contract giving him a day off to recite Hebrew litany he was only partially sure he believed in anymore.
iWho shall perish by water and who by fire,/i
There was a single prayer he still remembered from when he'd gone and listened to the words, rather than just mouthing off multi-syllabic prayers in a foreign language. Wilson had found, that through out the years, he couldn't forget some things. Apples and honey to break a fast, latkes in December, a week of matzah sometime in the Spring. But at some point he'd stopped believing.
iWho by sword and who by wild beast,/i
It might have been when they called him in the day after Yom Kippur to tell him a child had died at midnight. He remembered that too clearly, all too clearly. She'd been a patient, an easily treatable and high survival rate childhood leukemia patient. Her house had burnt down, the smoke alarms broken and the entire family had fallen victim to smoke and flames before the neighbors even noticed. He remembered cursing G-d (he still thought that with a dash in the center, ancient lessons never truly forgotten) that day, recalling prayers and wishes that had never been answered.
iWho by famine and who by thirst,/i
House's infarction hadn't happened anywhere near Yom Kippur, for which he was thankful. Then he had been drifting away, finding more comfort in searching for answers than trying the ones people claimed to have already found. But when the day of atonement came again, he had to ask himself to forgive. He tried to ask it of House. But all he got was a grunt and a snarl.
iWho by earthquake and who by plague,/i
The years had passed and nothing had changed. He worked on Yom Kippur and fasted. Both of them worked together to remind him why he had to repent. Too many people died and yet he lived on, unharmed. House worked beside him and he didn't let anything change. But on Yom Kippur, Wilson knew he thought too deep.
iWho by strangulation and who by stoning,/i
He tried not to think of the patient sheets as books of life and death, writing out goals and sentences to be carried out. G-d was not on Earth, standing over his shoulder and watching to see what he thought. Yet he hoped they would be obeyed, writing only the best he could on the day of atonement. This was his book of life, urging each one of them to live for that one more year, month, day, hour sometimes.
iWho shall have rest and who shall wander,/i
Someone always died on Yom Kippur. Wilson had to accept that, he knew. There was no day of the year when everyone would live. He hated it. The prayers did no good in the end. Sometimes the book of life was seemed closer to the book of death, sentencing each patient and doctor to another year of searching and failing and watching the end come closer. He still heard litanies in his head as he walked the hallowed hospital halls, chanting Hebrew echoing through his memories.
iWho shall be at peace and who shall be pursued,/i
Yom Kippur was a day for no secrets, a day to forgive and forget. Just as House could do neither, Wilson did both. He accepted other's faults for a day, saw them as necessary and did nothing. But in acceptance he saw what often he did not. His marriages often failed a few days after Yom Kippur, or began their slow slip into despair. He saw the truth for that day. The tiny truths in words and actions and what other people said and meant.
iWho shall be at rest and who shall be tormented,/i
House stayed far from him on Yom Kippur. They never talked that day, never spoke a single word. Wilson knew too much for those hours, that night and that day. He saw too clearly for his dearest friend and they both knew that truth. Neither would speak it. But in that day they knew. And so each stayed apart, a ritual Cuddy had accepted and would follow. She's tried to stop it the first time it had happened, worrying they had somehow broken their little friendship. But a curt and sarcastic lie from House and a more diplomatic but equally untrue speech from Wilson had convinced her otherwise.
iWho shall become rich and who shall be impoverished./i
Yom Kippur was Wilson's day for thought. But as the sunset behind his office and darkness came, he knew he could stop. He had to stand, to go and get some food to quell the ache in his stomach and the pounding in his heart. As he moved to stand, to leave, the doorway darkened with a familiar shadow. House stared at Wilson with eyes too blue to ever be Jewish, a thought Wilson let trickle through with an amused but rueful laugh. The sun had set, Yom Kippur was over. They could go back to being themselves.
"Here." House tossed an apple onto Wilson's desk, watching the green skin bruise as it bounced on the hardwood. "Nothing else edible left. But there's Chinese in my 'fridge."
Wilson fought down a smile, taking the apple and biting down. It was sour, crunchy and smooth and delicious but still sour. He enjoyed less then he should have, wondering what he was missing. Nothing came to mind until a sound entered his enjoyment.
House's cane was tapping the side of his desk, the other man's eyes focused on something Wilson could barely see. Leaning closer, a tiny plastic container of honey lay on the desk, already pulled open and obviously stolen from the cafeteria. He almost laughed, breaking off a piece of the apple and dipping it carefully into the amber liquid.
"To a sweet new year." Wilson laughed then, crunching off the apple and honey and swallowing. He grabbed his briefcase and stepped next to House. "L'shana tovah"
iBut repentance, prayer and righteousness avert the severe decree./i