-19-
"Free"
He finds a cafe in the heart of the Soho district, orders a cup of espresso and a blueberry scone. Yes, he is really the maverick, eating breakfast fare at dinner time, while all around him there are salads and soups and grilled chicken sandwiches being consumed.
This really is a freeing respite; Wilson is glad he took it.
He settles back in his chair and people watches. Without regard for tomorrow or what Rosa might think or what depravity House is immersed in at this very moment, Wilson does what he damn well pleases.
His favorite couple is a Yuppie twosome who look like they've hooked up for the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it. His suit complements her dress so perfectly, they might be auditioning to be the next Barbie and Ken. It's interesting. They hardly speak, just peruse their menus. After the waiter takes their orders, New, Improved Ken scrutinizes the screen of his cell while Bitchin' Barbie Babe checks her makeup in her pocket mirror.
Wilson renames them Harry and Isabel and wonders when they will realize that they are sick of each other.
He finishes his coffee, picks one last crumb from his plate with his fork before heading off to explore more of Soho.
House would probably enjoy this sort of thing, Wilson decides, strolling through the village on this crisp fall evening. Shop windows are filled with interesting items of varying usefulness. Pen knives, feather boas, a t-shirt emblazoned with a ragged depiction of the American flag, a teddy bear bank, a skeleton head.
Canes.
The canes are what compel Wilson to stop in front of the window on the corner. "Wow," he breathes, since It seems someone has taken great pains in setting up a truly impressive display: canes of ebony, ivory, beechwood and other more exotic woods have been laid out to resemble Chinese fans in an emperor's palace. Wilson has the sudden urge to go inside and make one his own. The black walking stick with the gold plated crook is classic yet subdued. How would it feel to stroll across the street, twirling it at his side? The thought is so random it makes him giddy. But when he thinks of House and how it must be to really need the thing, the notion immediately loses its appeal.
He continues on his way, refusing to beat himself up too badly. After all, this is his night. Now, here's a surprise: the theater across the street is hosting a John Ford film festival. Tonight's film, according to the marquee, is "The Searchers". Wilson has a thing for this film of the old west, where a Civil War scarred John Wayne goes on an obsessive search for the niece abducted by the Comanche.
Standing to the side of the ticket booth, Wilson scrutinizes the original 1956 lobby cards in the window. How good it would be to lose himself in the sands and hills and dust strewn western towns.
He plunks down his $8.50 the cashier and heads off to another world.
She really should leave for the day. The office lights are off; a soft film of grey light bleeds through the half closed blinds. The janitor will be around soon to empty the waste basket beneath her desk and run the vacuum. His job, at least in this room, is not much of a challenge. Cuddy prides herself in keeping her area pristine. Occasionally, she might grab a rag and some polish and do a bit of dusting. It helps her think. An orderly place begets an orderly mind, her sister used to say.
She really should leave. But she can't seem to move from her place behind the desk. A flow of humanity moves past her office; these people are oblivious to how her gaze follows them. She might as well be invisible. An interesting concept, since she is the most high profile person in the hospital.
Her thoughts wander as she sits in the half-light, observing the patients, the caretakers, the occasional grief stricken passerby. This cross section of humanity doesn't move her today. She is tired.
Eloise is taking Felicia home tomorrow. The last of the fever kids, as House might have dubbed her. If House were here, mother and daughter might not be leaving. House would convince them to stay until he came up with something tangible, something that might make sense and lead them to a resolution of the problem. His obsessiveness might have given them hope. It might have also sent them running. The look in his eyes when he is driven can be terrifying to the uninitiated.
A ghost drifts by her window. It is a shadow of a man, hunched slightly, his limp pronounced. He moves as though he is lost, as if this unfamiliar world might just swallow him whole if he dares to stop.
Cuddy's brow creases in drowsy confusion. Her lips move, forming the name she would like to utter but doesn't think she should. It might jinx the moment, break the spell.
After a moment, she places the flat of her palms flat on her desk and pushes herself to her feet.
The shadows have grown restless now, reaching out, sliding over chairs and knick-knacks, the sofa and chairs, putting a claim on her office; the only illumination creeps in from the corridor: buttery soft light pooling on the blue carpet.
Her steps are purposeful as she moves through these shadows and heads for the door. She dips one hand into her purse, searching for the keys she will use to lock up. One hand touches the door handle as she peers into the outside world again.
"House," she mutters, opening the door.
After finding a seat in the darkest corner of the balcony, Wilson settles in to watch the movie. The opening credits roll and already he and his bag of Hershey's Kisses are transported. The old west reels him in. Guns, horses, leather chaps, spurs that jingle, jangle jingle. Now he feels better. His disenchantment with Rosa, and his worry over House's disappearance take a seat in the opposite corner of the theater, as if they don't even know him. They'll join him after John Wayne rides off into the sunset. Until then...
Awww, what the hell...?
Someone has decided to park themselves in the seat next to him. The theater is about half full and there are plenty of other seats for the taking, but this person, this perfumed, dark haired beauty, has decided to plant herself here.
From the corner of his eye he sees the woman's shy, small smile. He quirks back a grin before making a valiant attempt to return his attention to the film. For some reason he can hear her breathing; the shift of her breasts beneath her jacket distracts him.
Shit.
So he is not surprised when half way through the gunfights and gold and purple sunsets, she rests one hand on his thigh. The taste of Hershey's Kisses is still strong and sweet on the back of his tongue as she moves her hand north, as John Wayne draws his Colt.
Oh...
That simple declaration seems to say it all. There is not a whole lot more he can mutter or mull over, since is blood rushing toward his crotch like an ambulance barreling toward an accident scene.
He closes his eyes as the pounding of horses hooves and the war whoops of Indians become the soundtrack to the beauty's ministrations. Wilson grits his teeth and shifts in his seat, jerking his hips to comply with the rhythm of her hand.
oh...
And then she's gone, having had the courtesy to wipe him off, pack him in and zip him up prior to spiriting herself away.
...fucking oh...
On the screen, John Wayne is smirking, swaggering, like he knows the deep, dark secret in the last row of the balcony. "Someone teach ya?" he drawls.
This is too funny. The ridiculousness of the situation slaps him on the back, urging him to let loose, to provide an exclamation point for the oddly wonderful release. In response, laughter percolates in the center of his chest, bubbling and rising until it explodes from his lips. A hundred snake-like 'shushes' fill the theater, which makes the situation that much more hilarious.
What would House do?
Wilson is still chuckling when they come for him. Two brutes shine their lights in his eyes and lead him downstairs, shoving him out into the chilly autumn night without a word.
Reality grasps one hand, guilt the other as he begins the walk toward the parking garage. By the time he gets there he is sober, somber and knows exactly what he needs to do.