Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: R (language?)
Random: Happy Birthday, Leslie. I know you love words. Here are a bunch of them. They're all yours.
Summary: Outcasts always mourn.
You hate cliché. They turn the most significant events into banal two sentence conversations that last shorter than the average commercial. And that's how you remember it because you couldn't prevent it from happening, but you can blame society for deeming it so fucking acceptable.
It was ordinary right before; you'd both been eating takeout at your apartment. You noticed, you did, that Wilson was a little pale, a little sweaty. But he was eating Thai food, after all. You made fun of his tie and insulted his wife in short order; formalities were such a bore. He responded, pointing out the amount of sex that you weren't having, and how Cameron could change that fact, provided you stopped being an asshole. That's when he rubbed a hand up and down the cuff of his arm, seeming a bit confused. You would've commented, except you had a mouthful of domestic beer. But when his hand moved from his arm and went to his chest you knew exactly what was happening. He slid sideways out of his chair while his heart, which had withstood three loveless marriages and your friendship, began to fail him. You were at his side before his shoulders made contact with the floor.
"Greg?" he said, as he grimaced.
He tried to loosen his necktie, but his panicked fingers wouldn't cooperate. You tugged at the collar of his shirt and he clutched your forearms. All of the sudden he stilled and his eyes closed, like someone had flipped a switch, turning James Wilson off indefinitely. You shook him and his eyes fluttered open. Women were always jealous of his eyelashes.
"Wilson, don't," you sputtered. You were never comfortable with the intimacy of using a person's first name, which implied a state of need, and in the end left you feeling weak. "Please," you hissed. "Look at me."
The way Wilson's eyes regarded you, almost a sleepy betrayal, caused your airway to tighten and fear to settle around your heart like a vise. You loomed over Wilson's crumpled form like a gargoyle projects from the side of a structure, grotesque but undoubtedly human. You didn't get scared, but you tore into the pockets of his pants and cursed sensible slacks as you searched for his cell phone: Julie's version of a leash. You quickly called an ambulance and when you were finished dropped the phone just as fast.
You leaned close, searching for expelled breath, hoping for a miracle, and resisted the urge to turn martyr for him when you didn't find either one. You gently tilted back Wilson's head and knew it was the last thing you could do for him. You pinched his nose and pressed your lips to his. You swear to this day that his lips pressed back, and just as firm, but then again, you never said you loved him.
The funeral was three days later. You weren't invited but showed up regardless.
His coffin was brushed steel; even in death he couldn't get away from the hospital. You don't remember the forecast including anything about rain, but you didn't cry and it must've been another person's tears that fell one at a time onto the shoulder of his tasteful jacket. You stared down at him, everything in place, and you didn't need contact from other human beings, but you discreetly tousled his hair because no one should be buried with a haircut like his. He was laid to rest with your yoyo in his side pocket; you were sick of the damn thing, anyway. And you only let Cuddy wrap her arms around you because you wanted to feel her breasts pressed against your chest.
You took a vacation because you didn't feel like arguing.
Cameron came over on your first day off and picked up your laundry. You let her because it's a woman's job, and you told her as much. She stayed only because she brought DVDs and said she'd cook you dinner. You hadn't muttered a word all day, which didn't make her angry, but when you watched Die Hard, she said she thought Alan Rickman was sexy and you laughed. She got irritated, decided to take it upon herself to defend the actor's honor, and pinched your side. It was harder than you thought and made your eyes water. When they didn't stop watering, you figured it was allergies. You stifled a sob or two because of what a tragedy it was for a woman to find Alan Rickman sexy. You held her until she fell asleep because she was upset over Wilson's death. It was her sweater to which you were allergic. That's why you woke up the next morning with puffy bloodshot eyes and a raw throat. She changed into a different sweater, but they must've been made of the same material, because you were allergic to that one, too.
You kept no more than one friend at a time, anything more was too taxing, and that's why you started spending time with Cameron. She talked to you a lot and you listened because there was no such thing as 'Must See T.V' anymore. You learned things about her. She lost her virginity at eighteen behind a Ferris wheel, though you didn't make a joke of it at the time, deciding to wait until later. You found out other things about her. The weight of her left breast, for example, and when she goes down on you she has a hard time staying down, often leaving bite marks next to your navel and crescent shaped scratches decorating your flanks. The first thing you did when you woke one morning and discovered she slept without underwear was to part her thighs like a ripe fruit. You had woken up hard and, judging by the fact that when she came she nearly pulled a Tyson and bit off your earlobe, you're certain she was in agreement. Also, her middle name is Marie.
She's moving in with you now because it's less of a hassle when your friends live with you. You met her parents because they happened to be in town at the time and you gave them both seats at you dinner table because her father is, for sure, a very big man. Three years later she'll give birth to your child. He will not be spoiled if you hug him every chance you get because it won't be difficult to love a son named James.