Devil's Playground- chapter 10
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 10/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: R
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
All life is sacred. Wilson had been taught that from a very early age - practically, just a babe in arms. The preservation of human life should be valued above all else.
But when the Grim Reaper was dawdling and you were tired of hurting, tired of worrying, sick to death of the grind of day to day living... well... was it such a terrible sin if you took measures to quicken his steps?
Wilson thinks not. It's his life, he reasons, pushing open the bathroom door and following through, without knocking. If he chooses to end it prematurely, then, surely that should be up to him.
Brushing his teeth when Wilson enters, House freezes, surprised at the interruption. He stares at Wilson in the mirror and raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Hoping for an eyeful?" he asks.
Without acknowledging him, Wilson leans back against the door, the topic of suicide, as ever, taking pride of place in his thoughts. How many ways are there for a man to take his own life? he muses. Dozens, at least. Maybe, hundreds. He mentally ticks them off. Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Starvation. Exsanguination. Now, that was a possibility. He knows where to carve to inflict the most damage and in which direction to cut.
Wilson looks around the bathroom vaguely, wondering if House buys razor blades and if he does, where he keeps them.
"Some perv you are." Still keeping an eye on him, House spits into the basin. Toothpaste froths between his lips.
He looks rabid, Wilson thinks absently. He returns to his original line of thought. What about drowning?
Wilson pictures driving to the coast, divesting himself of his clothes and walking out into the cold, dark sea. He imagines what it would feel like to drift limply beneath the waves. Drowning was supposed to be one of the best ways to go, wasn't it? Almost peaceful? Still, knowing his luck, he'd be rescued by a pod of dolphins, he thinks gloomily. However, it was possible to drown in just two to three inches of water. Wilson eyes the bathtub with interest.
House clears his throat. "Wilson?"
"Yeah?" he says, tensing.
"If I booked you in for a brain scan, would they find one?" House finishes rinsing out his mouth and gropes for a dry towel. "You're acting like a flake. What's wrong?"
"What makes you think something's wrong?" Tilting his head, Wilson examines his friend curiously.
"Haven't I just answered that?" House snaps, vexed. He blots his mouth, then throws the towel aside and turns to face him. "You, however..."
What else? Drug overdose. House has enough pills stashed away here to kill a whole army. He also owns a gun. Bullet fired into the brain is pretty effective. And quick. "Nothing's up," Wilson says, shrugging.
"Don't give me that." House frowns at him. Assessing. Interpreting body language. "Where have you been?" he asks finally.
Wilson swallows. "Went to see Cuddy." He crosses one foot over the other and jams his thumbs into denim pockets. "I'm going back to work."
House's back stiffens. "Great! We're going to be finding bald, little kiddie heads spinning around in a centrifuge. We can use them for bowling."
Sucking in a huge, gulping breath, Wilson blinks rapidly, in pain and shock. Then there's... there's... He squeezes the bridge of his nose, then savagely rubs the back of his neck. There's jumping. Off of a roof, bridge or cliff. Electric-shock. House would know all about sticking a utensil into a wall socket; maybe he can give me some pointers. Hanging - another good one. Easy. All I'd need for that is a rope or belt. His eyes widen. Or a tie.
Wilson pushes himself away from the door and turns to leave.
"Not so fast." House takes hold of his arm and jerks him back.
Wilson tries to place his hands on House's chest to shove him away, but House is stronger. Two stumbling steps later and Wilson's forced to stand in front of the basin, House's hands bearing down onto his shoulders, effectively immobilizing him.
"Take a good, long look in the mirror," House's low voice rasps from behind him. "What do you see?"
Wilson glimpses hollow eyes and sunken cheeks before he shifts his gaze and glares accusingly at House. He's livid. "I know what you see. Someone on a par with Freddy Krueger! You think I'm a raving psycho!"
"No, I don't." House shakes him slightly, long fingers remorselessly digging in. "I see a man that's been knocked off his feet. You're walking around in a daze. How can you be fit enough to go back to work?"
"House, I run a department. I have responsibilities."
"Your first responsibility is to take care of yourself. Cuddy told you to take as much bereavement leave as you need. Why rush back? Wait until you feel better."
"I am better. Much better." Wilson stares earnestly into the cynical eyes. "I've already lost too much time."
"Baloney. You've lost nine days. Your department's running along fine without you."
Wilson shakes his head obstinately. "Not as smoothly."
House rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Aren't you the indispensable one."
The two men stare at each other in an all too common battle of wills, and then, unexpectedly, House's grip gentles. He slides his hands lightly down Wilson's arms to his wrists, then, briefly letting go, he leans forwards and wraps his arms carefully around Wilson's waist in a loose embrace. "You've lost a lot of weight," he notes unhappily.
The temperature in the room warms up by several degrees.
Wilson's body relaxes. He rests his hands on the edge of the washbasin. "What am I still doing here, House?" he asks, trying to focus a mind that, recently, has been reluctant to play ball.
"What do you mean?"
"I thought that I'd stay on to keep an eye on you but, lately..." Wilson considers breaking away from House's hold, but ever since he'd lost Amber, he gains a lot of comfort from being touched. Had House, somehow, picked up on that? He stays put - a willing prisoner. "Who's taking care of whom?"
House has the nerve to sound faintly amused. "Does it matter?"
"Yes," Wilson says adamantly. He echoes House's solemn words of ages past. "It matters."
House pulls a face. "It shouldn't."
Where was I? I'm losing track. Oh, yeah. Exposure. Not so keen on that one. Car-crash. Hmm. Yeah, okay. Poison. Didn't I read somewhere that some fool intentionally swallowed a poisonous spider, once? Wilson imagines eight hairy legs wriggling around in his mouth and almost heaves.
"Cuddy told me my assistant resigned yesterday. He came into some inheritance. I've worked with him for a long time, House. He hasn't even bothered to call me to say goodbye."
House nods slowly. "You blame him? If I came into some money, I wouldn't call you, either; I'd be off. He's looking after number one. Sulk but learn."
"Cuddy's filled his position already. She introduced me to my new assistant, today." Wilson straightens up, then leans back casually, without thinking, against House's chest. His friend, wholly delighted, shifts his weight further onto his left leg to compensate.
Wilson stares into the reflected blue eyes. "His name's Andrew. I know this guy; I bumped into him last week. When I went for that walk." He inhales shakily. Blowing yourself to kingdom come with sticks of dynamite or a home-made bomb. How many is that? Twelve? Thirteen? Inhalation of volatile substances. "I was in serious trouble, House. Andrew helped me. Came out of nowhere. I trusted him on sight."
There, at last, he's finally admitted it.
House's electric gaze intensifies, keen as a sword.
Wilson sighs with profound relief. Here it comes, he thinks. He'd set the trap and House, nose twitching, curiosity piqued, had snatched up the bait. "Trouble?" House will probe gently. "You didn't mention this last week. What kind of trouble?"
And Wilson, thus encouraged, can confess everything. He can spell out what a chore it is to get out of bed in the morning. He can divulge that he has to force himself to bathe and get dressed. He can explain that the reason he's losing weight is because, half the time, he can't be bothered to eat, and when he does actually force something down his throat, all the food tastes the same and like cardboard.
He can tell House that he'd deliberately stepped out in front of a truck.
Would House go ballistic? Probably. His friend would scream at him and mock him and because House would be truly frightened, he might even hit him. But House would eventually calm down, and when he did, he would try to help. Wilson knows this for a fact. House's idea of assistance would not be like anyone normal's, but it would serve its purpose. It would keep him afloat.
Who was taking care of whom? It shouldn't matter, House had said, and House was right.
House opens his mouth, preparing to speak, and Wilson holds his breath.
"You can't trust someone on sight," House informs him dismissively. "It takes decades to get to know someone. Everyone has an agenda. You met this guy last week, and now he's working for you? Don't you find that totally weird?"
A man in freefall, Wilson grips House's forearms tightly - disappointment bitter on his tongue.
"You're too gullible," House scolds him. "Don't let your guard down around this man. Show some caution. Give me a chance to check him out. You listening?"
Skin waxen, Wilson nods jerkily. Suffocation, he thinks, his vision blurring. That's... that's fifteen. Um. Self-immolation...
*
"You sit here. In your plush little office..."
Mouth thinning, Wilson looks down at his desk.
"You're incompetent," Mrs. Cleland says.
"I'm not incompetent, Mrs. Cleland." His patient looks at him with glacial eyes, and Wilson stares right back, just as coldly. "If you'd bothered to seek professional help as soon as you first discovered the lump, instead of waiting eleven months with your head buried in the sand, perhaps we'd be looking at a more favorable prognosis."
"Who do you think you are?" She trembles with a mixture of grief and rage. "I'll be taking this further," she says. "I'm suing this hospital. I'm suing you."
"Fine. But be advised - legal proceedings can drag on for months." Wilson stands up and sweeps a trembling hand towards the door. "If I were you, I'd get a move on."
*
Immersed in paperwork, he picks up the phone on the eighth ring. "Wilson," he murmurs tiredly. He listens to the person on the other end, then peers, bleary-eyed, at his watch. "What, now?" he says. He listens some more. "Okay, I'll cover. I'll be straight down. No, it's okay. I understand. I know you're short-staffed." He puts the phone back in its cradle and buries his head in his hands.
"God," he says.
*
He accidentally knocks his mug flying. Scalding coffee spills out onto his desk and over his hand. Wilson doesn't even flinch. He watches as brown liquid soaks into the report he'd just finished writing up, smudging the ink. Droplets sprinkle like shed tears all over his keyboard. A pool of coffee drips off of his desk and trickles steadily onto the floor.
Wilson looks down at the stains spreading rapidly across his white coat, then lifts unseeing eyes.
Abruptly, he shoves his chair back.
*
Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Andrew steps out onto the hospital roof. The door eases quietly shut behind him. "Doctor Wilson," he calls, and damn it, if he can't still hear the terror - the shrill note in his voice. "Step away from the edge."
There's a moment when he can almost taste Wilson's frustration.
Jerking his hands off the wall, Wilson turns with a smile designed to scorch Andrew's eyes. "I'm not going to jump," he says brightly. "I'm just unwinding."
"You can unwind just as easily in the oncology lounge," Andrew says, smiling pleasantly back at him. "After I've glued down all the knives."
Wilson presses his fingertips to the sides of his head, his face scrunching up as if he's experiencing extreme pain. "Look," he breathes, his tone defeated. He drops his hands and puts them together in an attitude of prayer. "Andrew, I swear I wasn't going to do anything stupid. Please," he begs, "I really need a moment to myself." He looks at his new assistant pleadingly. "You can go back in. I'll follow you. l... I'll see you down there shortly."
Andrew studies him as if he's a specimen on a slide. "As you tumble past the window?"
Wilson actually laughs. "No," he says, his tone now light. "I'll take the more orthodox route. Believe me, I'm fine."
Andrew hesitates, then nods. Reaching behind him, he pushes the stairwell door slightly open. "I'll meet you in the lounge in a minute, then."
"Sure." Wilson smiles again. "I'll be right there." He lifts his hand in a half-wave, and then he lunges for the wall.
Had all things been equal, he would have gone over it.
But Andrew can't be fooled, and he is quick, determined and knows this human very, very well. He alights gracefully on the wall before Wilson's feet have left the ground.
Looking up, startled by his abrupt appearance, Wilson staggers backwards with a cry of alarm.
Crouching, Andrew shoots out a hand to steady him. "Don't be scared," he says. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Wilson stares at him, his eyes huge.
"Though, why I'm bothering to reassure you..."
"Who...?" Wilson looks Andrew up and down. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm someone who's got their work cut out for them." Andrew directs a quick glare towards the heavens. Composure unraveling like a good mystery, Andrew leaps nimbly down off the wall and is secretly impressed when Wilson refuses to flinch. "This is what happens," he lectures, "when humans meddle with forces they don't understand."
"Humans?" Wilson asks. He stays within Andrew's reach. "You're not one of us; is that what you're saying?"
"I'm not saying anything," Andrew replies. His gaze tracks over Wilson's face. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"Why should I be?" Wilson looks down as if in shame. "You've saved my life twice."
"And no doubt, I'll be forced to do it again; am I right?"
Meeting his eyes unyieldingly, Wilson doesn't answer.
Andrew's gaze becomes pensive, and then he sighs. This wasn't Wilson's fault. How? he wonders. How had things gotten this bad? "You're really that desperate to die?" he asks extraordinarily gently. "You have no reason to stay alive?" Wilson closes his eyes briefly, and Andrew knows he's thinking about House. Good, he thinks. You must realize that if House loses you, he will never survive. Especially, if you die at your own hand. Newborn hope is decimated when Wilson shakes his head mournfully.
"No, I don't," Wilson replies.
Despairing, Andrew glances away. Well, you're not going to kill yourself, he thinks grimly. Not on my watch. He looks back into the drained face and understands that if he doesn't take drastic action and soon, then those dark, wretched eyes would forevermore be unhappy.
"Think again," Andrew says.
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 10/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: R
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
All life is sacred. Wilson had been taught that from a very early age - practically, just a babe in arms. The preservation of human life should be valued above all else.
But when the Grim Reaper was dawdling and you were tired of hurting, tired of worrying, sick to death of the grind of day to day living... well... was it such a terrible sin if you took measures to quicken his steps?
Wilson thinks not. It's his life, he reasons, pushing open the bathroom door and following through, without knocking. If he chooses to end it prematurely, then, surely that should be up to him.
Brushing his teeth when Wilson enters, House freezes, surprised at the interruption. He stares at Wilson in the mirror and raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Hoping for an eyeful?" he asks.
Without acknowledging him, Wilson leans back against the door, the topic of suicide, as ever, taking pride of place in his thoughts. How many ways are there for a man to take his own life? he muses. Dozens, at least. Maybe, hundreds. He mentally ticks them off. Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Starvation. Exsanguination. Now, that was a possibility. He knows where to carve to inflict the most damage and in which direction to cut.
Wilson looks around the bathroom vaguely, wondering if House buys razor blades and if he does, where he keeps them.
"Some perv you are." Still keeping an eye on him, House spits into the basin. Toothpaste froths between his lips.
He looks rabid, Wilson thinks absently. He returns to his original line of thought. What about drowning?
Wilson pictures driving to the coast, divesting himself of his clothes and walking out into the cold, dark sea. He imagines what it would feel like to drift limply beneath the waves. Drowning was supposed to be one of the best ways to go, wasn't it? Almost peaceful? Still, knowing his luck, he'd be rescued by a pod of dolphins, he thinks gloomily. However, it was possible to drown in just two to three inches of water. Wilson eyes the bathtub with interest.
House clears his throat. "Wilson?"
"Yeah?" he says, tensing.
"If I booked you in for a brain scan, would they find one?" House finishes rinsing out his mouth and gropes for a dry towel. "You're acting like a flake. What's wrong?"
"What makes you think something's wrong?" Tilting his head, Wilson examines his friend curiously.
"Haven't I just answered that?" House snaps, vexed. He blots his mouth, then throws the towel aside and turns to face him. "You, however..."
What else? Drug overdose. House has enough pills stashed away here to kill a whole army. He also owns a gun. Bullet fired into the brain is pretty effective. And quick. "Nothing's up," Wilson says, shrugging.
"Don't give me that." House frowns at him. Assessing. Interpreting body language. "Where have you been?" he asks finally.
Wilson swallows. "Went to see Cuddy." He crosses one foot over the other and jams his thumbs into denim pockets. "I'm going back to work."
House's back stiffens. "Great! We're going to be finding bald, little kiddie heads spinning around in a centrifuge. We can use them for bowling."
Sucking in a huge, gulping breath, Wilson blinks rapidly, in pain and shock. Then there's... there's... He squeezes the bridge of his nose, then savagely rubs the back of his neck. There's jumping. Off of a roof, bridge or cliff. Electric-shock. House would know all about sticking a utensil into a wall socket; maybe he can give me some pointers. Hanging - another good one. Easy. All I'd need for that is a rope or belt. His eyes widen. Or a tie.
Wilson pushes himself away from the door and turns to leave.
"Not so fast." House takes hold of his arm and jerks him back.
Wilson tries to place his hands on House's chest to shove him away, but House is stronger. Two stumbling steps later and Wilson's forced to stand in front of the basin, House's hands bearing down onto his shoulders, effectively immobilizing him.
"Take a good, long look in the mirror," House's low voice rasps from behind him. "What do you see?"
Wilson glimpses hollow eyes and sunken cheeks before he shifts his gaze and glares accusingly at House. He's livid. "I know what you see. Someone on a par with Freddy Krueger! You think I'm a raving psycho!"
"No, I don't." House shakes him slightly, long fingers remorselessly digging in. "I see a man that's been knocked off his feet. You're walking around in a daze. How can you be fit enough to go back to work?"
"House, I run a department. I have responsibilities."
"Your first responsibility is to take care of yourself. Cuddy told you to take as much bereavement leave as you need. Why rush back? Wait until you feel better."
"I am better. Much better." Wilson stares earnestly into the cynical eyes. "I've already lost too much time."
"Baloney. You've lost nine days. Your department's running along fine without you."
Wilson shakes his head obstinately. "Not as smoothly."
House rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Aren't you the indispensable one."
The two men stare at each other in an all too common battle of wills, and then, unexpectedly, House's grip gentles. He slides his hands lightly down Wilson's arms to his wrists, then, briefly letting go, he leans forwards and wraps his arms carefully around Wilson's waist in a loose embrace. "You've lost a lot of weight," he notes unhappily.
The temperature in the room warms up by several degrees.
Wilson's body relaxes. He rests his hands on the edge of the washbasin. "What am I still doing here, House?" he asks, trying to focus a mind that, recently, has been reluctant to play ball.
"What do you mean?"
"I thought that I'd stay on to keep an eye on you but, lately..." Wilson considers breaking away from House's hold, but ever since he'd lost Amber, he gains a lot of comfort from being touched. Had House, somehow, picked up on that? He stays put - a willing prisoner. "Who's taking care of whom?"
House has the nerve to sound faintly amused. "Does it matter?"
"Yes," Wilson says adamantly. He echoes House's solemn words of ages past. "It matters."
House pulls a face. "It shouldn't."
Where was I? I'm losing track. Oh, yeah. Exposure. Not so keen on that one. Car-crash. Hmm. Yeah, okay. Poison. Didn't I read somewhere that some fool intentionally swallowed a poisonous spider, once? Wilson imagines eight hairy legs wriggling around in his mouth and almost heaves.
"Cuddy told me my assistant resigned yesterday. He came into some inheritance. I've worked with him for a long time, House. He hasn't even bothered to call me to say goodbye."
House nods slowly. "You blame him? If I came into some money, I wouldn't call you, either; I'd be off. He's looking after number one. Sulk but learn."
"Cuddy's filled his position already. She introduced me to my new assistant, today." Wilson straightens up, then leans back casually, without thinking, against House's chest. His friend, wholly delighted, shifts his weight further onto his left leg to compensate.
Wilson stares into the reflected blue eyes. "His name's Andrew. I know this guy; I bumped into him last week. When I went for that walk." He inhales shakily. Blowing yourself to kingdom come with sticks of dynamite or a home-made bomb. How many is that? Twelve? Thirteen? Inhalation of volatile substances. "I was in serious trouble, House. Andrew helped me. Came out of nowhere. I trusted him on sight."
There, at last, he's finally admitted it.
House's electric gaze intensifies, keen as a sword.
Wilson sighs with profound relief. Here it comes, he thinks. He'd set the trap and House, nose twitching, curiosity piqued, had snatched up the bait. "Trouble?" House will probe gently. "You didn't mention this last week. What kind of trouble?"
And Wilson, thus encouraged, can confess everything. He can spell out what a chore it is to get out of bed in the morning. He can divulge that he has to force himself to bathe and get dressed. He can explain that the reason he's losing weight is because, half the time, he can't be bothered to eat, and when he does actually force something down his throat, all the food tastes the same and like cardboard.
He can tell House that he'd deliberately stepped out in front of a truck.
Would House go ballistic? Probably. His friend would scream at him and mock him and because House would be truly frightened, he might even hit him. But House would eventually calm down, and when he did, he would try to help. Wilson knows this for a fact. House's idea of assistance would not be like anyone normal's, but it would serve its purpose. It would keep him afloat.
Who was taking care of whom? It shouldn't matter, House had said, and House was right.
House opens his mouth, preparing to speak, and Wilson holds his breath.
"You can't trust someone on sight," House informs him dismissively. "It takes decades to get to know someone. Everyone has an agenda. You met this guy last week, and now he's working for you? Don't you find that totally weird?"
A man in freefall, Wilson grips House's forearms tightly - disappointment bitter on his tongue.
"You're too gullible," House scolds him. "Don't let your guard down around this man. Show some caution. Give me a chance to check him out. You listening?"
Skin waxen, Wilson nods jerkily. Suffocation, he thinks, his vision blurring. That's... that's fifteen. Um. Self-immolation...
*
"You sit here. In your plush little office..."
Mouth thinning, Wilson looks down at his desk.
"You're incompetent," Mrs. Cleland says.
"I'm not incompetent, Mrs. Cleland." His patient looks at him with glacial eyes, and Wilson stares right back, just as coldly. "If you'd bothered to seek professional help as soon as you first discovered the lump, instead of waiting eleven months with your head buried in the sand, perhaps we'd be looking at a more favorable prognosis."
"Who do you think you are?" She trembles with a mixture of grief and rage. "I'll be taking this further," she says. "I'm suing this hospital. I'm suing you."
"Fine. But be advised - legal proceedings can drag on for months." Wilson stands up and sweeps a trembling hand towards the door. "If I were you, I'd get a move on."
*
Immersed in paperwork, he picks up the phone on the eighth ring. "Wilson," he murmurs tiredly. He listens to the person on the other end, then peers, bleary-eyed, at his watch. "What, now?" he says. He listens some more. "Okay, I'll cover. I'll be straight down. No, it's okay. I understand. I know you're short-staffed." He puts the phone back in its cradle and buries his head in his hands.
"God," he says.
*
He accidentally knocks his mug flying. Scalding coffee spills out onto his desk and over his hand. Wilson doesn't even flinch. He watches as brown liquid soaks into the report he'd just finished writing up, smudging the ink. Droplets sprinkle like shed tears all over his keyboard. A pool of coffee drips off of his desk and trickles steadily onto the floor.
Wilson looks down at the stains spreading rapidly across his white coat, then lifts unseeing eyes.
Abruptly, he shoves his chair back.
*
Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Andrew steps out onto the hospital roof. The door eases quietly shut behind him. "Doctor Wilson," he calls, and damn it, if he can't still hear the terror - the shrill note in his voice. "Step away from the edge."
There's a moment when he can almost taste Wilson's frustration.
Jerking his hands off the wall, Wilson turns with a smile designed to scorch Andrew's eyes. "I'm not going to jump," he says brightly. "I'm just unwinding."
"You can unwind just as easily in the oncology lounge," Andrew says, smiling pleasantly back at him. "After I've glued down all the knives."
Wilson presses his fingertips to the sides of his head, his face scrunching up as if he's experiencing extreme pain. "Look," he breathes, his tone defeated. He drops his hands and puts them together in an attitude of prayer. "Andrew, I swear I wasn't going to do anything stupid. Please," he begs, "I really need a moment to myself." He looks at his new assistant pleadingly. "You can go back in. I'll follow you. l... I'll see you down there shortly."
Andrew studies him as if he's a specimen on a slide. "As you tumble past the window?"
Wilson actually laughs. "No," he says, his tone now light. "I'll take the more orthodox route. Believe me, I'm fine."
Andrew hesitates, then nods. Reaching behind him, he pushes the stairwell door slightly open. "I'll meet you in the lounge in a minute, then."
"Sure." Wilson smiles again. "I'll be right there." He lifts his hand in a half-wave, and then he lunges for the wall.
Had all things been equal, he would have gone over it.
But Andrew can't be fooled, and he is quick, determined and knows this human very, very well. He alights gracefully on the wall before Wilson's feet have left the ground.
Looking up, startled by his abrupt appearance, Wilson staggers backwards with a cry of alarm.
Crouching, Andrew shoots out a hand to steady him. "Don't be scared," he says. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Wilson stares at him, his eyes huge.
"Though, why I'm bothering to reassure you..."
"Who...?" Wilson looks Andrew up and down. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm someone who's got their work cut out for them." Andrew directs a quick glare towards the heavens. Composure unraveling like a good mystery, Andrew leaps nimbly down off the wall and is secretly impressed when Wilson refuses to flinch. "This is what happens," he lectures, "when humans meddle with forces they don't understand."
"Humans?" Wilson asks. He stays within Andrew's reach. "You're not one of us; is that what you're saying?"
"I'm not saying anything," Andrew replies. His gaze tracks over Wilson's face. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"Why should I be?" Wilson looks down as if in shame. "You've saved my life twice."
"And no doubt, I'll be forced to do it again; am I right?"
Meeting his eyes unyieldingly, Wilson doesn't answer.
Andrew's gaze becomes pensive, and then he sighs. This wasn't Wilson's fault. How? he wonders. How had things gotten this bad? "You're really that desperate to die?" he asks extraordinarily gently. "You have no reason to stay alive?" Wilson closes his eyes briefly, and Andrew knows he's thinking about House. Good, he thinks. You must realize that if House loses you, he will never survive. Especially, if you die at your own hand. Newborn hope is decimated when Wilson shakes his head mournfully.
"No, I don't," Wilson replies.
Despairing, Andrew glances away. Well, you're not going to kill yourself, he thinks grimly. Not on my watch. He looks back into the drained face and understands that if he doesn't take drastic action and soon, then those dark, wretched eyes would forevermore be unhappy.
"Think again," Andrew says.
To be continued.