Title: The Thin Line
Characters/Pairing: Wilson POV, Amber/Wilson, slight House/Cuddy
Spoilers: House's Head, Wilson's Heart, slight for Occam's Razor
The Thin Line
House's most annoying attribute must be his inability to be wrong, Wilson mused as he watched the orderlies wheel Amber's body away. With all the patients he saw, all the unusual diseases he treated, why couldn't have been wrong—just this once? But once Dr. House gave his final diagnosis, he was never wrong, and this was no exception.
He started walking, not knowing where he was going; only knowing he needed to get away from this room that still felt too cold. The chill of loss had settled in his bones, and he was desperate to get warm.
By some bizarre instinct, his feet carried him to the floor House was on. He could still see the deep remorse in his friend's eyes, see the rare tears tracking down his face even has he had pronounced Amber's death sentence. Everything after that was a blur, until he was standing by her bed watching her wake up. He knew House had seized, knew he was in a coma, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He moved toward the glass slowly, unsure if he wanted to see House or not. True, he'd done everything he could to save Amber's life, taking risks that had eventually put him in this coma. However, if it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have been on that bus in the first place. Amber had been willing to let that go; he wasn't sure if he could.
Eventually, he found himself peering in through the window. What he saw hit him like a punch in the gut and he had to get closer to before he could believe his eyes. However, the scene before him didn't change when he entered the room.
He'd wondered occasionally about his friend's relationship with their boss, but the answer he'd gotten years ago had made him ignore all the signs. "There is in fact a Great Wall of China with armed sentries posted every 20 feet between love and hate." It was typical House. When confronted with emotion, he denied it and deflected it with precision wit. Only now, when confronted with the evidence, did Wilson realize that House had never actually said which side of that "Great Wall" he was on.
But the cozy vignette he was looking at gave him the answer to that. House was still unconscious, and Cuddy was curled up in the chair by his bed. It was supremely unfair. Why should House, the misanthropic terror of the hospital, be granted the privilege of having the woman he loved keep vigil over him when he—Wilson—had just lost the woman he loved because of House?
The anger he'd been suppressing welled up and melded with this new jealousy, breeding an animal of rage deep in his chest. As if he'd sensed the powerful emotion and had been drawn to it, House stirred in his bed. His eyes opened and blinked, unseeing. Look at me, Wilson willed him. Look at me, you miserable bastard.
On command, the blue eyes turned toward him. They were wary, unsure… even afraid. He refused to be moved by the emotion he saw there. So he knew what was going to happen. That only meant he knew he deserved it. He kept his own eyes cold as he returned the look, and then he deliberately turned away.
House was wrong after all, he realized as he left the hospital. There is, in fact, a thin line between love and hate.