Cameron and Foreman watched through the glass walls of the Intensive Care Unit as Wilson's body burned with fever from the septic infection. The Ampicillin wasn't working fast enough; they were adding Vancomycin and an older antibiotic, colistimethate, to the mix -- the more the merrier, House had said. His knuckles had been white where he gripped his cane, as if this anchor were the sole means of keeping him in control of the situation.
James's temperature was still climbing and time was slipping away.
"Did you hear about the proposal the Oncology department presented to Dr. Cuddy?" Cameron's voice was soft and pensive.
"You mean the one to have the Department Head position rotate between senior staff until Wilson gets back?" Foreman shook his head. "Yeah, I heard. House thinks they're crazy."
Cameron frowned.
"Why? It's not a bad idea -- I understand Cuddy's giving it serious consideration."
Foreman watched as a vented, sedated Wilson moved restlessly in his bed.
"Oh, you know House," he replied. "He doesn't think anybody ever does anything good except to gain some advantage. He said if he ever gets himself shot, he hoped we'd claw each other to pieces for a promotion over his cold, dead body."
Cameron blinked, then turned away from the glass.
They had their own jobs to do. There was nothing anyone could do but wait.
House waited in his office, throwing his ball and catching it on the bounce.
He'd been doing this since James had come out of surgery. That had been hours ago; his hands were tired but still he threw the ball and caught it, over and over.
Wilson's parents hadn't yet arrived -- their flight was somewhere over the Canadian Rockies at the moment -- but Wilson's brother had. House had met the younger man before, at James's weddings and other family gatherings, but this morning -- weary with stress and worry, Jonathan Wilson's dark hawk eyes had so resembled his older brother's that for a moment House had been speechless. Foreman had had to step in and begin the conversation.
In the end, Jonathan waved off the flood of information and simply said, "Do whatever you need to do." He'd looked at House. "I know you're his best friend. You'll take care of him."
The knife had twisted in House's gut.
The ball bounced, and he missed. Letting his head drop, House stretched his legs out onto the nearby ottoman. Just a few minutes, he thought. Just a quick nap to recharge ...
He slept.
Once upon a time .
Wilson opened his eyes, and groaned.
When is this going to STOP?
The WaWa convenience store. Two customers and three men in ski masks were staring at him, and he immediately identified the time period as approximately five minutes before everything had turned to shit.
He remembered the initial bewilderment he'd felt (ski masks? in the summer?) and the surge of adrenalin and nausea that followed when he realized the men were armed.
His legs were frozen in place; he seemed powerless to do anything but relive these moments. Past and future time fell away; there was only now.
One of the gunmen lunged towards him. Grabbing Wilson's shoulder, he shoved him in the direction of the other two customers. A young woman (Teresa Pasqale), her eyes wide with terror, clutched a Tombstone-brand frozen pizza; the teenaged boy (Tyler Orozco) beside her had a large bag of potato chips in his hand.
The three hostages stood, huddled together, as the store clerk opened the cash register. No guns were pointed at the young man -- it was obvious he had been a partner in the hold-up all along.
Wilson carefully kept his hands in plain sight; his heart was pounding and his mouth bone-dry. The gunman guarding the customers seemed to be extremely nervous, shifting from foot to foot and pulling at his ski mask. James watched with a fascinated horror.
Please don't take it off please don't take it off please don't ...
The gunman took it off.
A tiny whimper escaped Wilson's throat as his legs threatened to give way. Teresa moaned beside him.
He doesn't care if we see -- he's going to kill us anyway.
Vision blurring, he tried to blink away the threatening tears and looked around. Colors seemed brighter, sounds louder -- all his senses heightened, taking everything in, the adrenaline in his body producing a feeling of dizzying hyper-reality.
This is crazy. My death, in a friggin' convenience store. His breath was coming in shaky gasps. Why me? There was no answer, not that he really expected one.
Hope I don't fucking piss myself.
He tried to stand a little straighter, fighting to stay calm. I haven't really prayed since I was a bar mitzvah boy, he thought, but if I'm going to die I can still do this.
Summoning the ancient words from his childhood, he edged closer to Teresa, preparing to take one more step.
A wave of heat washed over him, and he gasped, the prayer falling away.
House was beside him, next to Teresa.
Wilson stared. House looked at him; wide blue eyes locked into brown, he appeared to be just as surprised as Wilson. The gunman seemed not to notice the extra hostage.
Not real, James thought frantically. This isn't real it's not happening not real what the hell is HAPPENING?
Time was standing still.
"Jimmy," House said. "I need to tell you. There was beer in the refrigerator."
God, it was hot in here.
"What?"
"Beer," House repeated patiently. "In the refrigerator."
Wilson made a helpless little sound.
"There was beer," he said.
House nodded.
So hot ...
"I didn't need to come here."
House shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"Your goddamn mind games," James said softly, as the full realization of what House had done dawned on him. A quick blaze of anger replaced fear, and he stared at House with narrowed eyes.
"You fucking son of a bitch."
Third time's the charm. Teresa's voice, David's voice, together inside his head. Time restarted with a jolt.
There was a crash from the front of the store -- something large had fallen or been knocked over.
So HOT ... burning ...
Their guard (Big Jay) jumped. His gun went off, the bullet striking Tyler Orozco in the chest. The teenager's body spasmed at the impact, a look of pure surprise on his face. He tried to say something, but couldn't get it out and collapsed on the floor.
"God damn", the gunman screamed, panicking and squeezing off more shots into the floor, the ceiling ... "fuckin' A!"
I shouldn't have been here. I didn't have to be here, James thought. He was beyond angry. His rage was a furious, all-consuming firestorm. Teresa was screaming. The iron reek of blood filled his nostrils. Everything was speeding up, discrete moments piling together and rushing into the past.
Some part of his mind not overwhelmed by the flooding sensory input tried to get his attention.
This. Isn't. Real.
Wilson's own words from long ago, echoing in his head. ... this stupid, screwed-up friendship ...
The heat was almost unbearable.
Birdsongs, at the edge of his hearing. In his hand, a crow's black feather.
The gun muzzle came down, swinging towards the remaining hostages.
Enough. Real or not, it stops here.
The voices in his head died away like a radio station moving out of range, except for one. Is this worth it? Has it ever been?
"Fuck it," he said, and stepped protectively in front of House, just as (how many hours ago?) he had stepped in front of Teresa with the desperate hope of saving at least one life this disastrous night.
The gunman fired.
A wave of whining electricity; his back arching like a hunter's bow at full draw.
Whatever world this was shattering into a million glittering pieces, a funhouse mirror crashing down.
House jerked awake.
What the fucking hell was that?
He'd been somewhere with Wilson, there had been men with guns, a screaming woman ...
His desk phone rang and his pager went off, simultaneously.
tbc ...