13.) Wedding
Marriage is strange. At least, the concept is.
Think about it. We are, at face value, carefully moulded sacks of flesh, survival instincts and electrical wiring; glossed over with a polish of empathy and social niceties. We spend decades learning how our chemicals fluctuate, figuring out which colour olive tastes better or whether we should take those shoes in mauve or puce. (Or if there's even a difference.)
Each sack meticulously carves its life out from the blank canvas it's been given, and then BANG! Another sack barges its way in, splices the wood in half, mashes it clumsily with its own and sprinkles the remaining pieces around to resemble a heart. Love. But even that just about makes sense. Procreation needs an emotional backdrop. Monogamous relationships mean offspring will have two human shields instead of one. Well, theoretically.
Yet, one sack gives the other a shiny metal band for their finger (alright, sacks don't have fingers, but metaphors are difficult to sustain) and a signed piece of paper, and suddenly everything changes. Your life not only isn't your own, but it doesn't exist. Neither does theirs. There's only a strange little amalgamation, a whirlwind of household chores and mailboxes and waking up in someone else's arms that seemed a little warmer before. Everything's shared. You're supposed to become practically the same entity, right down to the last name. It's illogical, yet we keep trying.
Something's gone wrong somewhere...yet, I have that same band on my finger.
And it glows in the sunlight.
"I do."
Wilson's smile broad and genuine, warm brown eyes staring into cold rifts of blue. She's smiling, too. To him, it's the happiest expression in the world. But I can see the forced lines, the muscles curved when they want to be still. The doubts iridescent in her stare.
But who knows, perhaps I'm looking for them.
"Samantha Carr, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"I do." The inflections are apathetic; the slope of the voice - stop it, stop it, Wilson's looking at you now, he can see the distaste in your expression. Come on, wrench a smile for all the times he's done the same.
The family, all the friends I don't know or don't care enough to; they're looking at Wilson, then at me. Thank god, their relaxed smiles say. Thank god he's extracting himself from that leech, getting himself married; making himself happy. It sets my teeth on edge. 'Happy' and 'married' are not synonyms; and 'happy' and 'married to Sam Carr' are near-antonyms.
"You may kiss the bride."
Wilson swings Sam down and kisses her, and the applause surrounds and swells, but I don't care to join in; I'm watching them, intently. Wilson presses the kiss in, but Sam pulls away abruptly. A quick flash of hurt through Wilson's eyes.
And I smile, a real one this time.
I didn't imagine that.
"How long do you give it?"
Wilson span around to see Thirteen, with a wicked smile and a near-empty martini glass, perched on a bar stool next to him. "I'd say around the year mark. That's when the panic'll set in."
"You're a mean drunk." He unconsciously took the glass from her hand and downed what was left, the slightly tipsy buzz growing brighter. "Alright, I'll bite. At least two years. They're in love, and even if anything goes wrong, Cameron will do anything to save Chase's feelings, and Chase...well, he's not going to let her go easily. He chased her down like a lovesick puppy."
"Really? You're taking the optimistic route? Marriage hasn't just treated you badly, it's slammed you against the wall a few times and run you over with its SUV."
"Poetic imagery. But they're different," he sighed. "They're co-dependent. All my ex-wives became dependent on me. And I enabled it. Then when we got married it became suffocating, so they left." Wilson blinked and stared at Thirteen. "Either I'm more drunk that I thought, or you're better at manipulating."
"Possibly both. But you're not done with marriage." He followed her glance to the dance floor, where a rosy-cheeked Cameron was gazing into Chase's eyes as they twirled together.
"How do you figure?"
"Simple. You're not trying to hit on the hot, drunk bisexual, and you're spending all your time with your near-life partner. Minds are magnetised by certain relationship types, and marriage is the flame to your - hic - moth."
"Life partner?" House's face flitted across his vision. "You don't mean..."
"Hey, I'm drunk." Her face lit up with an evil glow. "I don't mean anything you're not thinking yourself. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go vomit."
Wilson promptly sidestepped her as she staggered into the nearby bathroom, somehow still elegantly. Chase and Cameron's silhouettes were still twining on the other side of the room.
He hoped she was wrong.
(On both counts.)
Thirteen lay sprawled on the ground, counting the stars.
The grass was wet and cold beneath her bare skin, dewdrops beading on the back of her neck and sending shivers down her spine. She liked this. It had been masochistic at first, but now it had more hope than bitterness.
Clicked her fingers, let her eyelids fall shut. The familiar vision materialised against the black backdrop. Her, sketched in meticulous detail, walking across a shimmering beach with that beautifully clichéd white dress trailing behind her. And It, waiting patiently on the other side with the guests. Watching her breathe, move; come to life.
Who would it be this time? The first question was the same one House, and most others, would likely ask. The damned gender. A default picture sprang to mind - she pushed it away. Tonight is a night for making things. Dark hair, wisps catching around her eyes and dancing in the wind. Smooth, curving lines; younger than her, but not by much. Cupid's-bow lips and green eyes that sparkled at the paintbrush's touch; sunlight on algae-stained water. Slim, diminutive. Bouncing with the kind of energy that threatened to carry her away with the next breeze.
Thirteen purposely walked slower, teasing her. She laughed; a melody dissipating into the air, still ringing in her ears. Close, now. Almost close enough to make out the laughter lines by her eyes.
A name sprang to mind -
"Shit," she gasped aloud, bolting upright as the name shot through the fabric of the daydream as if a bullet through paper, crumpling the scene into shards. She didn't even bother to pretend to herself she'd imagined it. This always happened, she could only get close -
Oh, the metaphorical implications. Alice, Alice, Alice. The one she pushed away. The one that keeps coming back, but just not literally.
"Let me go!" she yelled futilely into the air, suddenly realising how cold it was outside.
This feels...that's it. Two words and I've cracked it. This shouldn't feel anything! It's a business deal, a mindless transaction, yet I've got bloody butterflies in my stomach like a teenager on prom night.
"We get married now?" Dominika gives me a sideways glance, tilting her head and quirking one eyebrow in questioning. It's a surprisingly...alluring look. "I have doctor's appointment at seven."
"What's wrong?" I curse to myself internally; I sound sentimental.
"'Tis woman problem. You don't need to know," she replies, looking confused, yet slightly pleased that I'm actually talking to her.
"Right, let's get this show on the road!" The minister walks briskly into the room, holding out the papers. "We have our witnesses. Do you want to do the whole for-better-for-worse religious spiel, or should we just get on with it?" This guy can tell a green card marriage when he sees one.
"I would, but I'm not on great terms with God at the moment. Non-existent entities can be really bitchy sometimes."
"Right, then. Dominika Petrova, do you take Gregory -"
"Yes."
"Okay, fine. Gregory House, do you -"
"Yes, he does. Can we sign forms now?"
"Okay." He steps back, she deftly curls her signature onto the paper and holds out the pen to me.
I freeze.
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
I don't know. The band fits perfectly. Something's stirring. I don't know. Maybe I get why Wilson liked being married so much. I just don't know.
But for that split second, I wonder.