God, guys, I'm so sorry, really I am. I'd love to give you all a basketful of excuses, all neatly giftwrapped and perfectly logical. I could tell you my godmother died, that my best friend graduated, that I'm now a senior in high school and that my laptop crashed. But, you know, they are, after all, just excuses. They happen to be true excuses, but still. I owed it to you all to keep writing and I didn't. I let real life pull me away from the thing I loved doing best, left you all waiting for a chapter for what, a year? Almost TWO? I suppose most of you have left and given up hope. I don't blame you, really I don't.
You've all been lovely, and I've been inconsiderate. I put off the chapter for a while 'cos of the spanish. Then it was because of Camp. And then school, and then life and then Doctor Who until at last it had faded from my list of things to do.
I didn't mean it, dudes and dudettes. And I gotta make it up to you somehow.
So.
This is not a present day chapter. That, my friends (if indeed you don't mind me calling you friends...) will be up by February 1, 2008. No excuses.
This chapter is from before the accident. I'm posting this so that way I can get the next chapter in hand and ready. Are you sitting comfortably?
Let's begin.
House belongs to me. I have DONE IT AT LAST! MUAHAHAHAHA!!!
Actually, no. I wish. Buuut, if it did, if I had the legal rights, I'd give it to you all for putting up with me. God, I wish there was something I could do for you all. ... Oooh, I know, I wish I could end the Writer's Strike for you all, so we could have House back. There.
INTERLUDE
Wilson hated himself for it. He was alone. Again.
Some people drink. Some people gamble.
Some people cheat.
It was never on purpose, he'd swear it on his life, just… well, just that he cared.
He cared, and he'd give what he could to make others feel better. And if there was a face that he knew and loved, he wouldn't be able to turn away. House ridiculed him for caring too much.
"What does he know about caring?" Wilson startled himself by saying the words aloud, and the glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. He muttered a swear, and drank from the bottle instead.
Bitter, sharp, burning. He could sit and compare the taste of alcohol to his life, but he didn't feel that productive.
House said he got introspective when he got drunk.
Well.
Introspection was…
Introspection was… well, too deep to think about. The man on the television burbled happily on about French bread, and Wilson considered standing up and getting the remote.
The clock interrupted his thoughts. Ten chimes.
He had time. Time to think, time to drink…Throwing the rumpled remains of a Kleenex across the room, he leaned forwards and grabbed the phone off the table. The number came automatically to his mind, and he punched it in with only a moment's hesitation.
It rang once, twice, a third time, and –
"Hello, you've reached the office of God. Stop calling me unless it really matters. If it does, leave a message and I'll erase it later." BEEEEEEP.
Wilson stared at the phone for a moment, and then hung up.
A second later, it was off the hook again.
"House, it's me. It's Wilson. Listen, I…" He trailed off. What did he want to say? More importantly, what could he say? How did you explain this sort of thing?
Biting his lip absently, Wilson hung up again, and sat back down again. Maybe he'd know something was wrong. Maybe he'd care enough to call back.
Until then, he'd keep the only company at hand – a slowly diminishing bottle of wine.
Drink always sympathized.
This is me, P'Bantonox, feeling like crap. I'll shut up. I got all my moaning out at the beginning. Pretty out of the ordinary for me. And A/Ns aren't for moping. So here's the news.
THE STORY WILL CONTINUE. I'm extending it. It's the least I can do for you. I owe you all, so here's the news. It's gonna be ten chapters long.
The next chapter explains the reason for the Title "Will Be." It's also seven pages long, last time I checked.
I hope to see you all soon on Feb 1.
Missed you. P'Bantonox.
