SONG
[insert lyrics to your chosen song here]
Since he first heard the song it's mesmerized him, and especially now, it has a strange comforting quality to it.
The song doesn't even make any sense, not that he's ever been able to tell. But something about the woman's part…her voice just grabs him and puts him in a trance.
Staring out the windshield, he momentarily forgets about the gun in the glove compartment.
He's been driving around with the gun in there for weeks now. It's a threat and a comfort, especially in the middle of a long day filled with people he can't save and work he can't get done because he's too preoccupied with the thought of death in his glove box.
He's not going to do anything right now - House is expecting him to show up with supper soon.
So for now he's "safe," though he's still thinking about it. He's always thinking about it.
Her voice makes him want to die, but in that good, pure way; makes him want to escape more than "die" perhaps.
Besides, if he died, he wouldn't be able to listen to the song anymore.
He turns into the first burger place he sees and presses repeat on the CD player.
CUT
He doesn't plan to cut himself.
It doesn't really occur to him until one day when he's opening some letters at his desk, and stabbing his arm with the letter opener suddenly seems like a great idea.
He pushes it into his skin, and pushes, and pushes, but it won't break. Letter openers, it would seem, are designed to bust through envelopes only.
He's liking the pain, though, so he rummages through his desk for the box cutter he knows is in there somewhere.
The phone rings just as he finds it; he wants to ignore it, but he decides to answer it in case it would prevent someone stopping by his office.
Once that's taken care of, he checks the box cutter's blade; looks brand-new.
He looks furtively around and makes a tiny little swipe at the side of his wrist; nothing at first, but then a thin stripe of blood surfaces.
His breathing quickens, the thought of someone walking in making it all the more…thrilling? Jesus, it's like he's about to fucking masturbate in here.
He rolls his right sleeve up a bit more, then slowly scrapes the box cutter along his upper arm. It's not a terribly long cut, but this one starts to bleed immediately.
It doesn't even really hurt all that much; it's more the sight of the blood that's fascinating.
He's just put his sleeve back down when he hears House's cane rap on the balcony door. He jumps, shoving the box cutter back the drawer as quickly as he can.
House comes in and starts to ask about lunch before he looks at Wilson and frowns. "What the hell did you do to your arm?"
Feeling a little sick, Wilson looks down at his shirt, through which a line of blood has soaked. "I was leaning down to pick up some files and scraped it on the edge of the desk," he says without hesitation. "Didn't know I'd broken the skin."
House is already coming over to look at it, and Wilson shies away. "I'm sure it's fine," he says, moving around the desk. "I'll just grab a Band-Aid from the nurse's station and we can be on our way to lunch. I'll meet you in the cafeteria okay?"
He hurries out of the room before House can say anything.
While the pain provides release - he's discovered that steak knives are much better for pain, and while there is scarring there is much less blood - now he's too concerned with House noticing.
At first he thought he wanted House to notice; but as House seems to grow wary of his excuses, Wilson gets scared.
It's such a teenage-girl thing anyway, he tells himself. A silly thing for a forty-year-old man to be doing.
It would something to mock, not something to help him with.
So he convinces himself to stop, telling himself it's stupid when even he knows it's just so he doesn't have to worry anymore about other people noticing.
And of course once he stops, the more he craves it.
Just another thing to eat at him.
Damn it.
CUTTING BOARD
He brings the cleaver down hard, splitting the onion in two.
Wilson enjoys cooking. Really he does.
But there are days like this - and there are many of them - when he enjoys absolutely nothing, and everyone is absolutely horrible, and the nameless dread threatens to consume him.
The cleaver cuts cleanly through the newly-formed wedges of onion.
On these days, though, everything is effort. Including suicide.
Which sucks, because this is when he feels most like he could just give up and be fine with it. There's nothing, not even House, that really makes it seem worth staying.
The onion is now being ruthlessly minced.
And yet here he is.
He stares without seeing at some spot on the counter, the knife starting to slice into the cutting board itself.
However many minutes later, he looks down and sees a huge mess of pulverized onion.
He can't even remember what he was trying to cook.
…House likes salsa, he thinks, grabbing a tomato.
INTERCHANGEABLE
Wilson slams the door and then leans back against it, shaking. He gradually slides down to the floor and sits there for at least ten minutes, staring at the opposite wall.
House has been particularly impossible lately. Nothing Wilson does or says or tries is worth anything, and House refuses to even try to feel better.
He needs to let off some steam.
The well's pretty much dried up at home for good, he figures. Anytime he tries anything, Bonnie snaps about how he only spends time with her anymore if they're fucking. Which he could ignore if they then actually fucked, but no; she just turns over, he feels mildly guilty and annoyed, they both go to sleep angry.
He pulls a piece of paper out of his wallet. It has three phone numbers on it, but no names.
It never matters which one he calls, for they're utterly interchangeable. Oh, they have their differences of course, physical and otherwise; but it's utterly irrelevant which apartment he drives to.
Determined to not memorize the numbers, he picks one and dials. He'll recognize the voice and adjust his personality as required.
"Hello?"
Wilson smiles; it's the dumbest one, and she likes it rough. The perfect combination for what he needs right now. "Hey, you busy tonight?"
She giggles. "I have a feeling I'm going to be busy very soon…"
He twitches at her awkward attempt at sexiness but ignores it, saying he'll be there soon.
He glances in the rearview mirror and messes his hair up a bit; he loosens his tie for good measure. She likes to think he works soooo hard and needs to release all that pent-up aggression from a long day at work.
Driving across town, he feels better already. At first he felt guilty for using these women, but he was careful to only accept offers from ones who just want to have some fun and don't expect him to leave his wife for them.
Besides, they certainly seem to get some enjoyment out of the deal.
At least there's one thing he knows he does right.
STRIKE TWO
Honestly, he hadn't expected House to offer to help him move, but…wow, this would be a lot less depressing with him here.
Bonnie's staying with her mother for the weekend while Wilson clears out his stuff, and the house is disturbingly silent.
"I'm getting divorced," he said casually.
"Finally," House said with a roll of his eyes.
"…Moving my stuff out this weekend."
Silence, then: "Call me when you're settled in, we'll celebrate."
Of course House hadn't offered to help because he didn't feel he'd be any help. He's gotten slightly better with the whole feeling-useless thing, but Wilson still thinks he's severely underestimating himself.
No rushing it, though. Might have helped if he had stuck with the physical therapy, but…well, that's House. He'd rather deal with it alone, even if it makes him miserable.
Whereas Wilson would happily welcome company to deal with this.
He sighs and tapes up another box of books.
The marriage could have probably lasted another year or two if he hadn't told Bonnie about the others, but really he's gotten bored with it. When even adultery isn't exciting anymore, it's time to move on.
He does feel bad for hurting her, but he'll pour out his guilt in alimony payments and be over it soon enough.
WELL-LIKED
Wilson has always enjoyed blowing his hair dry. The noise cancels out the world; whether it's someone he resents in the next room or the silence of an empty apartment, with the sound of the dryer in his face he can't hear any of it.
He clicks off the dryer and runs the brush through his hair a couple more times. He grabs the blue-and-yellow tie hanging from the shower rod and wraps it around his neck; a burst of self-loathing makes him tighten it until he chokes.
Seconds later he's tied his thousandth Windsor knot, straightening it as best he can.
He stares at himself in the mirror and contemplates the day ahead. The co-workers' faces that will light up when he arrives; the patients who will seem honestly comforted by his approach.
He has no idea why they like him. Why anyone has ever liked him.
He doesn't think he goes out of his way. He certainly doesn't mean to trick anyone into thinking he's something that he's not. He's just…polite. And kind when he can be, because why be mean for the sake of being mean? Although House has always seemed to enjoy it…
When Wilson looks in the mirror, he sees a pathetic, adulterous, hypocritical, weaselly closet case who should be long dead.
He has no idea what those other people see.
He has no idea what the patients see, the ones who don't seem to mind that they're sick because he's the one that's treating them.
He has no idea what those women see, the ones who don't seem to mind that he fucks them and then avoids them out of shame of self-hatred.
He has no idea what House sees.
He has to believe that House sees the real him, the one behind his inadvertent façade. He doesn't believe that House would have had anything to do with him otherwise.
His spirits are momentarily lifted by the very idea of House.
Wilson wants to die so badly it hurts.
He tears his dark-rimmed eyes away from the mirror and heads to work.
RESIGNATION
He doesn't meet House's eye. He knows what House is going to ask, and he doesn't have an answer.
"Why - why- WHY in the name of Christ are you getting married again?!" he barks. "Twice burned isn't enough for you?"
Wilson likes House's anger. It feels like House is jealous, and that gives him a sick thrill. "I just…"
"Why. Just give me one good fucking reason."
He finally looks up. "I love her." She's a decent enough distraction for now.
House rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. "…I guess I can't stop you."
Of course you can stop me, Wilson thinks, a tiny smile on his face. Just tell me you don't want me to get married again. Tell me you want me all to yourself, even if it's just to buy food and watch bad movies with you and write you prescriptions, just say it I KNOW YOU'RE FUCKING THINKING IT GODDAMMIT JUST SAY IT--
House does look as if that's what he's thinking. But House always looks like he's thinking, like he's figuring something (or someone) out - and usually he'll tell that someone what he thinks.
But not with Wilson. Whatever conclusions he reaches with him, House keeps them to himself. Like Wilson isn't worth testing out his own hypotheses on.
House sighs again, but this time with resignation. "I'll go dig out my good suit," he says, limping towards the bedroom.
Wilson waits until he's gone, then puts his head in his hands.
He's just going to have to make this marriage work. On the off chance he survives to die naturally, he really doesn't want to die alone; so it's either die now or deal with a wife.
He can't help but feel he's taking the coward's way out.