Devil's Playground - chapter 12 (conclusion)
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 12/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
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.
It's not until House dismounts from his bike and removes his crash helmet that his courage falters. Breath condensing into ghostly plumes in the cold night air, he stares for long minutes at the entrance to the bar, fear whispering into his ear and leaving him immobile - crippled not by the unwanted surgery on his leg but by hateful indecision.
Finally, though, instead of worrying over what he is doing, he manages to focus solely on why he is doing it, and as a consequence, he pictures Wilson's face. He visualizes the beguiling grin, the brown eyes sparkling with mirth - his friend laughing at some smutty joke back in happier times, and then he compares that Wilson to the man he'd seen earlier that night - doubled over in acute distress and as ingenuous as a child.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he walks into the bar and tries not to shiver when he feels black, pitiless eyes staring at him the moment he steps through the door. Michael's already there, then.
"Look who's come slithering back with their tail between their legs," Michael says when House walks up to stand beside him.
Placing his motorcycle helmet on the counter and hooking his cane over the edge of the bar, House maintains a dignified silence.
Metal squeals as Michael, in high spirits, swivels to and fro on his bar stool. "I think about it constantly," he parrots, holding up his wrists. "How poignant was that?"
House's hands clench by his sides until his knuckles turn white. "Let's get this over with," he says in a harsh whisper.
"You're doing the right thing, House." Grinning broadly, Michael hands over the contract. "In a day or so - three at the most - Wilson will..." He holds his forefinger up to his temple and pulls an imaginary trigger. Tutting in mock disapproval, he watches House blench out of the corner of his eye. "Who'd have guessed he could be so fragile?"
House unfolds the contract and reads it carefully. As far as he can tell, it's no different to the one he'd read before. "He's not indestructible," he snaps, goaded into springing to Wilson's defence. "Any man will break if he's pushed too far." He pats his jacket pocket and discovers it's empty. "I need a pen."
"House?"
Identifying Andrew's voice, House reluctantly turns around and feels the blood rapidly drain from his face. Not only is Andrew standing there in front of him, but he's brought along the one person House doesn't want to see: Wilson. Andrew must have woken him up and driven him straight to the bar. House stares at them moronically.
"Well, well." Leaning forwards so House doesn't block his view, Michael leers at Wilson. "What do we have here?"
Wilson looks at Michael, and his face is so pale - so filled with visible terror - that there can be only one conclusion.
House rounds on Andrew. "You told him?" he asks in disbelief. "Everything?"
Nodding his head gravely, Andrew looks back at House without apology. "Virtually," he says. "You left me with no choice." He moves closer to Wilson. "Michael won't hurt you," he reassures him. "Not whilst I'm here."
His heart galloping, House turns away and slumps against the bar. How could he? How could Andrew go and betray him like this? The one thing he'd dreaded... Michael rolls a pen across the counter towards him, and it comes to a stop by his quivering hands. House stares down at it in a daze.
"House?"
Wilson's approached him, come up right alongside him, and House closes his eyes, suddenly feeling afraid.
This was it. Wilson, appalled by his behavior, was about to verbally flay him to shreds. Or punch him. God, it wasn't as if he didn't deserve it.
Squaring his shoulders, House waits for the first blow. So uptight is he, that when thin fingers curl around his elbow, he almost jumps out of his skin. The fingers touching him are gentle though, and confused, House opens his eyes. He daringly meets Wilson's gaze.
"What's going on?" Wilson asks, his voice shaking.
"You know what's going down," House replies after a pause. "Andrew told you."
"Andrew said you lied to me," Wilson says, his voice pitched just loud enough for House to hear. "About Amber."
"That's true, I did." House stares into the dark, bewildered eyes, straightens his spine and swallows the bile pooling at the back of his throat. "I lied to you because I was jealous." Wilson starts to shake his head, unwilling to believe the extent of House's treachery, so House clasps the back of Wilson's neck and jerks his friend's body close. He presses his forehead to Wilson's. "I made a terrible mistake," he admits in a harsh whisper. "Not just one mistake - a whole succession of them."
Wilson's breath hitches. "No."
"Yes!" House stresses, tightening his grip. "I'm here to repair the damage, and you mustn't interfere. I want you to go home."
"We need to discuss this." Wilson pulls back so that he can search House's face.
House chuckles in amusement, but the laugh sounds shrill and unnatural. All shades of wrong. Everything is wrong. "Despite my aptitude for languages, when do I ever talk?"
"Come back with me."
House's face twists with regret. "I can't."
Wilson tugs at his arm. "Please."
Lightly laying the back of his hand against Wilson's cheek, House says, "I wish I could." He hesitates and tries to smile. He wonders if it's possible to build a bridge out of apologies and whether it could ever be wide enough to span the rift he'd caused between them. "For your sake, I wish I'd never met you. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry that I ever chose you to be my friend."
Wilson frowns at him. "I'm not."
"Because you're ill. The things Andrew told you... they haven't yet sunk in." House sighs, exhausted. "Go home." House wrenches away from him and uncaps the pen. He bends over the contract and scrawls a G. What had Andrew been thinking - bringing Wilson to this bar? he fumes to himself. He knew that Michael would be here. He scribbles the H. Before he can finish his signature, a hand closes over his wrist. "Wilson," he murmurs tiredly, "I have to do this. Let go." Before he can stop his friend, the pen is snatched from his fingers, and House clutches at Wilson's sleeve in frustration, trying desperately to get it back.
Holding the pen at arm's length, Wilson easily evades him. "You are coming with me," he informs House calmly.
"Why would you even want that?" House wants to know.
Instead of answering, Wilson regards House with infinite patience.
House stares back at him for an eternity, trying to make sense of his motivations, but evidently, insight had located to the same place as that damned pen.
Just beyond his reach.
*
Epilogue
"Mr. Godfrey?" Wilson lightly touches his patient on the arm and waits until the watery, blue eyes focus on him.
The old man recognizes him and smiles in greeting. "Hello, Doc."
"Hello. Andrew's just informed me that you wanted to see me urgently?"
"I do?"
Both men frown in tandem.
"Stan!" Andrew exclaims, abruptly materializing beside them. "How's my man?" He suddenly cowers as if Mr. Godfrey has badly frightened him, and then he puts up his fists and leaps into a mock fighting stance.
"Hello, boy," Mr. Godfrey says, chuckling.
Straightening up, Andrew grins at him. He brushes the back of his hand casually across Mr. Godfrey's forehead. "Everything okay?"
"Yes," Mr. Godfrey says. "I've just remembered why I asked to see the good doc."
"Well, I wouldn't want to eavesdrop." Andrew stuffs both of his hands into his pockets. "Later, Doctor Wilson," he says.
Wilson smiles at him. "Bye, Andrew." He watches as his assistant saunters off whistling before turning back to his patient. "Okay. What can I be doing for you?" He runs a practiced eye over Mr. Godfrey and quickly scans his chart. Mr. Godfrey didn't appear to be in distress or excruciating pain. On the contrary, he seemed rather excited.
"Doc, a few weeks back, when my daughter Hannah was visiting me, she said she'd like to get you something as a thank you. For everything you've done for me."
"Mr. Godfrey, you know that's not necessary," Wilson protests.
"Ah, but it is," Mr. Godfrey maintains. "Anyway, Andrew happened to be wandering by, and he said that your birthday was coming up. Today, isn't it?"
"Yes," Wilson replies, taken aback not only by the uncomfortable subject matter but, also, by his patient's unusual lucidity. "Actually, it is."
"Andrew suggested that if my daughter really wanted to give you a gift, she could give it to you on your birthday. He said he could think of something you'd really like - only, there was a problem. Hannah would need to enlist the aid of somebody who enjoyed painting. Well, guess what, Doc? Hannah has dabbled in oil paints and acrylics all her life!"
"Well, imagine that." Wilson smiles down into the thrilled eyes. "What a wonderful coincidence."
Mr. Godfrey nods, then frowns again. "Where was I?" he asks.
"You were telling me about Andrew's idea," Wilson prompts him.
"So I was. Andrew explained what he had in mind, and Hannah was all for it. Me, Doc? I had my doubts. I told him. I said, 'Are you crazy, boy? The doc's not gonna like that; it sounds awful.' But would he listen?"
Wilson gazes at his patient with genuine fondness.
"Well, we argued for a bit, but Andrew reassured us that you'd love it. He said it would remind you of your friend. And well, the long and short of it is, my daughter did her best. She gave it to Andrew for safekeeping and, earlier, he left it by my locker there, Doc. The one by my bed. You see it?"
Walking around to the other side of Mr. Godfrey's bed, Wilson sees a gift wrapped in beautiful, gold foil wrapping paper leaning against the locker and lifts it up. "This it?" he asks.
The old man peers at it myopically. "That's it, Doc." He weakly waves his hand to indicate that Wilson should stop dilly-dallying. "Well, hurry up and open it; it's yours. And happy birthday."
Wilson hesitates. He really hates opening presents in front of others, but his patient looks more animated than he's been for quite a while, and Wilson doesn't have the heart to disappoint him. He carefully peels aside the wrapping.
Cradled inside the paper is an oil painting set in an unremarkable, wooden frame, but it's the painting itself that catches the eye - it offers a view from a clifftop over an ocean. In the far distance, by a large cove, a tempest wreaks havoc. Forked lightning thrusts down from a blackened sky. Fuelled by the rage of the storm, the sea is wild - churning. Staring at the painting, you could almost taste the ozone in the air - hear the crashing of the waves as they battered furiously against jagged rocks.
Closer to the viewer's eye, though, the difference couldn't be more dramatic. Menacing thunderclouds have given way to clear blue skies. The sea below is calm - the water as turbulent as a millpond's. Waves lap gently at a sandy beach, and rays of sunshine gild the water with a honey glow.
The composition shouldn't really work, but thanks to the consummate skill of the artist, (and, maybe a touch of celestial intervention) it does. Wilson's gaze is drawn down to the lower right-hand corner of the picture, and there, the artist has painted, with the most delicate of brushes, a few words that simply say this:
When he hath tried me
I shall come forth as gold.
-Job 23:16
The painting is unique and breathtakingly exquisite. For a long moment, Wilson stares at it, too choked to speak.
"Andrew said it was called 'The calm after the storm'. Does it remind you of your friend?" Mr. Godfrey asks. "At the moment, his name escapes me." His brow creases in concentration. "I know it reminds me of a cheese."
Half-laughing, Wilson blinks away the moisture in his eyes. "Cottage cheese?" he guesses.
"That's it," Mr. Godfrey says, his face lighting up. "Cottage cheese."
Wilson looks back at his present and runs his finger lightly across the scripture. "Yes," he whispers, "Andrew was right. It does remind me of House."
The blue eyes watching him become sober. "Doc? You really like it?"
Wilson breathes in deeply and exhales the air in a long sigh. He thinks back to that morning, when House had given him a gift for his birthday. Shocked delight had quickly given way to consternation when he'd unwrapped it to discover a do it yourself Last Will and Testament. House had been watching him attentively when he'd opened it, and Wilson hadn't really known how to respond. Was the present a joke? A test? Proof positive that House had bad taste? He still doesn't know.
Hannah's gift, though... Wilson doesn't have to pretend that he likes it, or analyze the meaning behind it - it's just divine. "It's absolutely perfect," he answers sincerely. "I can't get over it. It means more to me than you could possibly ever know. Your daughter's extremely talented and kind. I'll send her a thank you note, of course, but the next time she visits, will you ask a member of my staff to contact me? I'd like to thank her personally, as well."
"Will do." Mr. Godfrey looks wistful. "Birthdays are great, aren't they?"
Wilson doubts very much that this particular patient will live long enough to see another birthday, and the thought fills him with sadness, but somehow, the rough edges of the grief have been smoothed over. When he died, Mr. Godfrey would be going on to a better place. Wilson had believed in an afterlife before, but having faith was not the same as knowing. He nods. "Yes, Mr. Godfrey," he says softly, "they're the best."
Wilson lays the painting aside and takes the tenderhearted man's hand in both of his - careful not to hurt him. "Thank you for this. I'll treasure it always. I've got to go, now. My friend is taking me out to dinner, and for the first time, he's agreed to pick up the tab." He winks. "The thought of having to delve into his wallet has hit him hard. He's been lying down in my office all day with a damp cloth across his forehead."
Mr. Godfrey looks pleased for him. "You go, Doc. Enjoy yourself."
Wilson lays Mr. Godfrey's hand gently back down on the blanket.
"Don't have too much alcohol, now," Mr. Godfrey jokes.
"Oh, don't worry, I won't." Wilson looks back over his shoulder, and there's a wide-eyed look of innocence on his face that would have bothered a certain angel if he'd still been around to see it.
Fortunately, he wasn't.
"For some reason, House has banned it," Wilson says.
The end.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 12/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
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.
It's not until House dismounts from his bike and removes his crash helmet that his courage falters. Breath condensing into ghostly plumes in the cold night air, he stares for long minutes at the entrance to the bar, fear whispering into his ear and leaving him immobile - crippled not by the unwanted surgery on his leg but by hateful indecision.
Finally, though, instead of worrying over what he is doing, he manages to focus solely on why he is doing it, and as a consequence, he pictures Wilson's face. He visualizes the beguiling grin, the brown eyes sparkling with mirth - his friend laughing at some smutty joke back in happier times, and then he compares that Wilson to the man he'd seen earlier that night - doubled over in acute distress and as ingenuous as a child.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he walks into the bar and tries not to shiver when he feels black, pitiless eyes staring at him the moment he steps through the door. Michael's already there, then.
"Look who's come slithering back with their tail between their legs," Michael says when House walks up to stand beside him.
Placing his motorcycle helmet on the counter and hooking his cane over the edge of the bar, House maintains a dignified silence.
Metal squeals as Michael, in high spirits, swivels to and fro on his bar stool. "I think about it constantly," he parrots, holding up his wrists. "How poignant was that?"
House's hands clench by his sides until his knuckles turn white. "Let's get this over with," he says in a harsh whisper.
"You're doing the right thing, House." Grinning broadly, Michael hands over the contract. "In a day or so - three at the most - Wilson will..." He holds his forefinger up to his temple and pulls an imaginary trigger. Tutting in mock disapproval, he watches House blench out of the corner of his eye. "Who'd have guessed he could be so fragile?"
House unfolds the contract and reads it carefully. As far as he can tell, it's no different to the one he'd read before. "He's not indestructible," he snaps, goaded into springing to Wilson's defence. "Any man will break if he's pushed too far." He pats his jacket pocket and discovers it's empty. "I need a pen."
"House?"
Identifying Andrew's voice, House reluctantly turns around and feels the blood rapidly drain from his face. Not only is Andrew standing there in front of him, but he's brought along the one person House doesn't want to see: Wilson. Andrew must have woken him up and driven him straight to the bar. House stares at them moronically.
"Well, well." Leaning forwards so House doesn't block his view, Michael leers at Wilson. "What do we have here?"
Wilson looks at Michael, and his face is so pale - so filled with visible terror - that there can be only one conclusion.
House rounds on Andrew. "You told him?" he asks in disbelief. "Everything?"
Nodding his head gravely, Andrew looks back at House without apology. "Virtually," he says. "You left me with no choice." He moves closer to Wilson. "Michael won't hurt you," he reassures him. "Not whilst I'm here."
His heart galloping, House turns away and slumps against the bar. How could he? How could Andrew go and betray him like this? The one thing he'd dreaded... Michael rolls a pen across the counter towards him, and it comes to a stop by his quivering hands. House stares down at it in a daze.
"House?"
Wilson's approached him, come up right alongside him, and House closes his eyes, suddenly feeling afraid.
This was it. Wilson, appalled by his behavior, was about to verbally flay him to shreds. Or punch him. God, it wasn't as if he didn't deserve it.
Squaring his shoulders, House waits for the first blow. So uptight is he, that when thin fingers curl around his elbow, he almost jumps out of his skin. The fingers touching him are gentle though, and confused, House opens his eyes. He daringly meets Wilson's gaze.
"What's going on?" Wilson asks, his voice shaking.
"You know what's going down," House replies after a pause. "Andrew told you."
"Andrew said you lied to me," Wilson says, his voice pitched just loud enough for House to hear. "About Amber."
"That's true, I did." House stares into the dark, bewildered eyes, straightens his spine and swallows the bile pooling at the back of his throat. "I lied to you because I was jealous." Wilson starts to shake his head, unwilling to believe the extent of House's treachery, so House clasps the back of Wilson's neck and jerks his friend's body close. He presses his forehead to Wilson's. "I made a terrible mistake," he admits in a harsh whisper. "Not just one mistake - a whole succession of them."
Wilson's breath hitches. "No."
"Yes!" House stresses, tightening his grip. "I'm here to repair the damage, and you mustn't interfere. I want you to go home."
"We need to discuss this." Wilson pulls back so that he can search House's face.
House chuckles in amusement, but the laugh sounds shrill and unnatural. All shades of wrong. Everything is wrong. "Despite my aptitude for languages, when do I ever talk?"
"Come back with me."
House's face twists with regret. "I can't."
Wilson tugs at his arm. "Please."
Lightly laying the back of his hand against Wilson's cheek, House says, "I wish I could." He hesitates and tries to smile. He wonders if it's possible to build a bridge out of apologies and whether it could ever be wide enough to span the rift he'd caused between them. "For your sake, I wish I'd never met you. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry that I ever chose you to be my friend."
Wilson frowns at him. "I'm not."
"Because you're ill. The things Andrew told you... they haven't yet sunk in." House sighs, exhausted. "Go home." House wrenches away from him and uncaps the pen. He bends over the contract and scrawls a G. What had Andrew been thinking - bringing Wilson to this bar? he fumes to himself. He knew that Michael would be here. He scribbles the H. Before he can finish his signature, a hand closes over his wrist. "Wilson," he murmurs tiredly, "I have to do this. Let go." Before he can stop his friend, the pen is snatched from his fingers, and House clutches at Wilson's sleeve in frustration, trying desperately to get it back.
Holding the pen at arm's length, Wilson easily evades him. "You are coming with me," he informs House calmly.
"Why would you even want that?" House wants to know.
Instead of answering, Wilson regards House with infinite patience.
House stares back at him for an eternity, trying to make sense of his motivations, but evidently, insight had located to the same place as that damned pen.
Just beyond his reach.
*
Epilogue
"Mr. Godfrey?" Wilson lightly touches his patient on the arm and waits until the watery, blue eyes focus on him.
The old man recognizes him and smiles in greeting. "Hello, Doc."
"Hello. Andrew's just informed me that you wanted to see me urgently?"
"I do?"
Both men frown in tandem.
"Stan!" Andrew exclaims, abruptly materializing beside them. "How's my man?" He suddenly cowers as if Mr. Godfrey has badly frightened him, and then he puts up his fists and leaps into a mock fighting stance.
"Hello, boy," Mr. Godfrey says, chuckling.
Straightening up, Andrew grins at him. He brushes the back of his hand casually across Mr. Godfrey's forehead. "Everything okay?"
"Yes," Mr. Godfrey says. "I've just remembered why I asked to see the good doc."
"Well, I wouldn't want to eavesdrop." Andrew stuffs both of his hands into his pockets. "Later, Doctor Wilson," he says.
Wilson smiles at him. "Bye, Andrew." He watches as his assistant saunters off whistling before turning back to his patient. "Okay. What can I be doing for you?" He runs a practiced eye over Mr. Godfrey and quickly scans his chart. Mr. Godfrey didn't appear to be in distress or excruciating pain. On the contrary, he seemed rather excited.
"Doc, a few weeks back, when my daughter Hannah was visiting me, she said she'd like to get you something as a thank you. For everything you've done for me."
"Mr. Godfrey, you know that's not necessary," Wilson protests.
"Ah, but it is," Mr. Godfrey maintains. "Anyway, Andrew happened to be wandering by, and he said that your birthday was coming up. Today, isn't it?"
"Yes," Wilson replies, taken aback not only by the uncomfortable subject matter but, also, by his patient's unusual lucidity. "Actually, it is."
"Andrew suggested that if my daughter really wanted to give you a gift, she could give it to you on your birthday. He said he could think of something you'd really like - only, there was a problem. Hannah would need to enlist the aid of somebody who enjoyed painting. Well, guess what, Doc? Hannah has dabbled in oil paints and acrylics all her life!"
"Well, imagine that." Wilson smiles down into the thrilled eyes. "What a wonderful coincidence."
Mr. Godfrey nods, then frowns again. "Where was I?" he asks.
"You were telling me about Andrew's idea," Wilson prompts him.
"So I was. Andrew explained what he had in mind, and Hannah was all for it. Me, Doc? I had my doubts. I told him. I said, 'Are you crazy, boy? The doc's not gonna like that; it sounds awful.' But would he listen?"
Wilson gazes at his patient with genuine fondness.
"Well, we argued for a bit, but Andrew reassured us that you'd love it. He said it would remind you of your friend. And well, the long and short of it is, my daughter did her best. She gave it to Andrew for safekeeping and, earlier, he left it by my locker there, Doc. The one by my bed. You see it?"
Walking around to the other side of Mr. Godfrey's bed, Wilson sees a gift wrapped in beautiful, gold foil wrapping paper leaning against the locker and lifts it up. "This it?" he asks.
The old man peers at it myopically. "That's it, Doc." He weakly waves his hand to indicate that Wilson should stop dilly-dallying. "Well, hurry up and open it; it's yours. And happy birthday."
Wilson hesitates. He really hates opening presents in front of others, but his patient looks more animated than he's been for quite a while, and Wilson doesn't have the heart to disappoint him. He carefully peels aside the wrapping.
Cradled inside the paper is an oil painting set in an unremarkable, wooden frame, but it's the painting itself that catches the eye - it offers a view from a clifftop over an ocean. In the far distance, by a large cove, a tempest wreaks havoc. Forked lightning thrusts down from a blackened sky. Fuelled by the rage of the storm, the sea is wild - churning. Staring at the painting, you could almost taste the ozone in the air - hear the crashing of the waves as they battered furiously against jagged rocks.
Closer to the viewer's eye, though, the difference couldn't be more dramatic. Menacing thunderclouds have given way to clear blue skies. The sea below is calm - the water as turbulent as a millpond's. Waves lap gently at a sandy beach, and rays of sunshine gild the water with a honey glow.
The composition shouldn't really work, but thanks to the consummate skill of the artist, (and, maybe a touch of celestial intervention) it does. Wilson's gaze is drawn down to the lower right-hand corner of the picture, and there, the artist has painted, with the most delicate of brushes, a few words that simply say this:
When he hath tried me
I shall come forth as gold.
-Job 23:16
The painting is unique and breathtakingly exquisite. For a long moment, Wilson stares at it, too choked to speak.
"Andrew said it was called 'The calm after the storm'. Does it remind you of your friend?" Mr. Godfrey asks. "At the moment, his name escapes me." His brow creases in concentration. "I know it reminds me of a cheese."
Half-laughing, Wilson blinks away the moisture in his eyes. "Cottage cheese?" he guesses.
"That's it," Mr. Godfrey says, his face lighting up. "Cottage cheese."
Wilson looks back at his present and runs his finger lightly across the scripture. "Yes," he whispers, "Andrew was right. It does remind me of House."
The blue eyes watching him become sober. "Doc? You really like it?"
Wilson breathes in deeply and exhales the air in a long sigh. He thinks back to that morning, when House had given him a gift for his birthday. Shocked delight had quickly given way to consternation when he'd unwrapped it to discover a do it yourself Last Will and Testament. House had been watching him attentively when he'd opened it, and Wilson hadn't really known how to respond. Was the present a joke? A test? Proof positive that House had bad taste? He still doesn't know.
Hannah's gift, though... Wilson doesn't have to pretend that he likes it, or analyze the meaning behind it - it's just divine. "It's absolutely perfect," he answers sincerely. "I can't get over it. It means more to me than you could possibly ever know. Your daughter's extremely talented and kind. I'll send her a thank you note, of course, but the next time she visits, will you ask a member of my staff to contact me? I'd like to thank her personally, as well."
"Will do." Mr. Godfrey looks wistful. "Birthdays are great, aren't they?"
Wilson doubts very much that this particular patient will live long enough to see another birthday, and the thought fills him with sadness, but somehow, the rough edges of the grief have been smoothed over. When he died, Mr. Godfrey would be going on to a better place. Wilson had believed in an afterlife before, but having faith was not the same as knowing. He nods. "Yes, Mr. Godfrey," he says softly, "they're the best."
Wilson lays the painting aside and takes the tenderhearted man's hand in both of his - careful not to hurt him. "Thank you for this. I'll treasure it always. I've got to go, now. My friend is taking me out to dinner, and for the first time, he's agreed to pick up the tab." He winks. "The thought of having to delve into his wallet has hit him hard. He's been lying down in my office all day with a damp cloth across his forehead."
Mr. Godfrey looks pleased for him. "You go, Doc. Enjoy yourself."
Wilson lays Mr. Godfrey's hand gently back down on the blanket.
"Don't have too much alcohol, now," Mr. Godfrey jokes.
"Oh, don't worry, I won't." Wilson looks back over his shoulder, and there's a wide-eyed look of innocence on his face that would have bothered a certain angel if he'd still been around to see it.
Fortunately, he wasn't.
"For some reason, House has banned it," Wilson says.
The end.