Stuck In A Moment

It snows in April, a freak storm that comes down large, wet globs that stick to the ground in clumps, and House watches from his desk as it piles up on the balcony, white mountains with soft curves and steep slopes.

He lost a patient on Wednesday, and it hurts the way all his failures do, sharp and bitter, with a hint of regret. The trained monkeys don’t say anything, keeping to themselves the way he’s taught them to, though he knows Cameron wants to say something, her mouth pulled into a tight line as she watches from the corner of her glasses.

Wilson haunts his shoulder, a steady voice telling him that it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing he could do. But Wilson has lost too many, understands too little. He’s too calloused, skin growing back too fast, too often. House doesn’t trust his false promises, his unthinking comfort.

He closes the blinds, locks the door, and refuses to talk to anyone. He sleeps on the couch instead, dreaming of all the ways it could have gone, all the ways he could have not failed. He dreams in black and white, crisp lines and sharp contrasts, where his mistakes are clear and simple, easy to spot.

When he leaves for the night, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window of his car, his hair and clothes speckled white with snow. He tilts his head upwards, opens his mouth, catching a few stray flakes on his tongue, and remembers what it was like to be young.

By the time he gets home, the snow has melted, leaving him wet and cold.

The next day, the sun appears, peeking out from behind gray clouds, and House feels more like himself, sliding back into old, familiar skin.

It’s suddenly warm again, and the snow begins to melt. It almost looks like rain, pouring down from the trees, catching morning sunlight as it falls. Wilson shows up too early, just before eight, with bagels and sheepish smile, loudly concerned in that way of his, trying to draw House out. It happens, he says, even to the best of us.

House ignores him and pours them coffee, downing two Vicodin so that the world blurs at the edges, keeping it away just a little longer.

We aren’t gods, Wilson is saying from where he is by the window, bright against the dark of the dark of the room, though sometimes you forget. His mouth curls into a smile, gentle and kind, and House knows that he’s just trying to talk the crazy away from the ledge, from taking that one last step that would let him fall. House would tell him that he’s not a moron. He gets it. He really does. But it doesn’t mean that when he’s not good enough, not smart enough, not fast enough, people die. People die, and it’s his fault.

Let’s go, he says instead, and Wilson tries to push (You’re being stubborn, he says like House doesn’t know, his tone just shy of angry), but House has his stupidity filter on, letting Wilson fade into the background like the rest of the world, too far away to touch.

He takes the bike to work, careful not to slip on the melting ice.

The balcony is a puddle at the moment, soaking the concrete wet, and there are no new cases at the moment. (The last one hit him hard, Foreman whispers when he thinks that House isn’t listening. House says something nasty and leaves.)

He goes to the roof, even though it’s day and not night, the sun warm on his skin, too bright for his eyes. Two more Vicodin, and they slide down easily even when all his throat wants is water. It’s quiet up here. When he closes his eyes, he can hear the wind moving through the trees, a calm, gentle sound that always reminds him of spring.

Wilson finds him there, stretched out on the ledge, eyes closed, on his back, facing the sun, separated from the rest of the world.

I thought I’d find you here, Wilson says, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes squinting. He has a smug, cat-got-the-canary face. Wilson always knows where to look, when he tries. Sometimes, House would like to resent him for that.

House sits up, his hand resting on his cane. Don’t you have work to do? he asks with a scowl, even though he knows the truth. He’s still not quite himself yet, restless and uncomfortable still, not willing to go back in, but he’s getting there. Each second brings him closer to the moment he’ll be ready.

Yeah, Wilson says, his smile as bright at the blue sky above. He sits down next to House, and their fingers brush, skin against skin, as he rests them on the ledge. Yeah, he says again, so softly House can barely hear him over the rustling of the leaves.

FIN.