Chapter nine, in which Wilson finds out this world isn't as good as it first seemed...
"Get out!"
Wilson flinched as a glass of red wine splashed in his face, dripping down his neck and staining his shirt with little blood-red rivulets.
"Bonnie, I just-" He was cut off by the front door of his apartment slamming in his face. He sighed and ran a sleeve over his face, trying to mop up the wine.
The door suddenly opened again and a suitcase of his clothes was thrust at him.
"Bonnie, what did I do? Please talk to me!"
"You cheated, you bastard!" she screamed vehemently. "Now just go running off to House like you always do- in fact, it wouldn't surprise me if you were cheating on me with him!"
"What?" Wilson was left speechless as the door slammed in his face again. Why hadn't House told him about his marital troubles? He would never have gone home if he knew this was what he was going to!
He sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. He wanted desperately to get home, back to his own universe. He hated how everything was identical here, except people. He wanted his old life back, the one where he was at least happy.
Wilson realised how selfish that was of him. Here, House was the one happy and in a stable, loving relationship, and all he wanted to do was get away. He felt torn. He knew if he ever had the choice of going back to his own world, or staying in this one, he would find it almost impossible to decide.
He heaved a sigh and looked at his watch. 11:03. It didn't really seem fair to call House again. A hotel it was then. He picked up his suitcase and walked dejectedly down the hall and out into the cold night air. He fished a coat out of his bag and meandered slowly down the pavement, seriously considering going to the nearest bar and getting hammered, but he pushed down the thought. He needed to be at work tomorrow.
He turned the corner and crossed the street, making a beeline for the hotel two blocks away. It was a faceless, nameless institute, designed solely with the purpose of housing drunken business travellers and soulless executives too cheap to cough up more than $70 a night. The place suited his mood perfectly and he quickly checked in, the tired-looking receptionist giving him a sympathetic look as he caught sight of Wilson's wine-stained shirt.
The room was small and drab. Wilson downed a few mouthfuls of the strongest liquor in the mini-bar and fell asleep in front of the TV, feeling utterly sorry for himself.
The pale morning sunlight slanted through the blinds, rousing Wilson from an unsettled sleep. He couldn't quite remember what he'd been dreaming about, but it left him with a deep sense of unease and a strong longing to get back home, to his own world. He began to realise the true weight of circumstances both here and at home; here, House was happy and had a strong family surrounding him and Wilson was the one with the crappy home life. Back in his own universe, House was the one who usually ended up alone and miserable, whereas Wilson managed to get whatever woman he wanted.
He wondered if he would ever get the chance to return to his own world. He knew it would be a tough decision to make; he wanted to stay here and watch House enjoy the life Wilson had always wanted for him, but at the same time, Wilson had a compelling urge to leave this universe behind. Everything grated on him slightly; the air, birdsong, traffic, people's voices; it was all slightly different and it made his skin crawl. He needed to get away.
He hoped he wouldn't have to actively make the choice to leave. After all, Wilson thought, he'd been dumped here seemingly at random; he could just pray that he'd be sent back again in much the same fashion. Unfortunately, Wilson's logical side took over the desperate part of him, urging him to investigate the situation further. Wilson had an itching desire to see if he could find out the exact decision that had lead to the enormous differences between the worlds and he made up his mind to do everything he could to find out.
He sighed. He supposed he'd better call House and ask for a lift into work, but he didn't want to provoke the endless questioning that car journey would inevitably bring.
"What's up with you and Bonnie?"
"Why did you sleep in a hotel?"
"Is it time to start looking for the next ex-Mrs Wilson?"
He could really do without all of that, so he ordered a taxi and made it to work half an hour earlier than his normal time. He was relieved to see his clear schedule and settled down to paperwork, starting with his department's quarterly budget report.
Three hours later, he considered calling Bonnie, but thought better of it. She'd probably hang up on him anyway, judging by her mood last night. She'd been furious, God knows why. Wilson theorized that his other self must have cheated, and Bonnie had somehow found out or guessed. He remembered how the marriage had ended the first time round; in much the same way, in fact. She'd thrown him out and he'd gone to stay at House's place.
The differences between the worlds was hammered home yet again, in a way Wilson didn't like. Here, he had no friend to turn to in his time of need. House had a family here; he couldn't spend three months on his couch. He was on his own. Alone and miserable.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, Wilson swinging wildly between manic bouts of paperwork and dull, melancholy brooding. Finally, five o'clock swung round and Wilson packed up his things and left the hospital, heading back to his apartment to try and talk to his wife.
There was no answer when he knocked on the door, so Wilson used his key and hoped he wasn't going to get another glass of wine thrown at him. He entered the silent apartment and looked around.
"Bonnie?" No answer. Wilson's shoulders relaxed slightly. Maybe she wasn't in, maybe he could postpone this to another day. A bubbling, hissing sound caught his attention and he followed the noise into the kitchen. A pan of pasta was boiling over on the stove and he quickly crossed the room and turned the heat down.
"Bonnie?" he called again, a hint of urgency in his tone. Could she really have gone out, but been forgetful enough to leave a pan cooking on the stove? Wilson turned around to leave the kitchen and stopped short, the breath catching in his throat.
"Bonnie!" She was sprawled on the kitchen floor against the back wall, half in the alcove where the table was. He hadn't seen her from the doorway. Wilson dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse, first in her wrist, then her neck. He lowered his cheek to her mouth to feel for breath signs. There was nothing. He fumbled for his phone, tears stinging in his eyes, his usually calm nerves shattered. The buttons seemed blurry, the numbers dancing mockingly in front of his eyes.
Finally the ambulance was on its way. Wilson pulled Bonnie out of the alcove into the middle of the floor and started CPR, not really counting the numbers of breaths and compressions he was doing, not noticing how cold she was, how pale her skin was in comparison to his own. All he could focus on was the thought that it was some how his fault; he had killed his wife. If he'd been faster getting home, he could have prevented this, saved her life.
It was only when the ambulance crew physically pulled him off her so they could take her to hospital that Wilson snapped out of his daze. When she was pronounced DOA twenty minutes later he felt his soul shatter. He was destroying this golden world piece by tiny piece. He needed to get home.