Characters: House & Wilson ambiguous
Words : 480
Warnings : Second person POV. AU Weirdness.
Summary: Wilson has been working for days, he's reached his limit and House is there.
Author's Note: This is for the 'working to exhaustion' box in the sick!wilson camp Trope Bingo challenge.
You work mechanically. Tagging those who can't be saved, mending those who can. You sew until your fingers are numb, and hold bodies together with your hands. Your smile faltered long ago and you can barely reassure. A quick press of the hand here, a touch on the shoulder there. A human contact for those who desperately need one. There are no words for what is happening, no magic prescription that will make this right. All you can do is try to heal them, knowing that it will never be enough.
As you send your most recent patient on their way you look up to receive the next shattered body but there is no-one. The floor is littered with the debris of your desperate fight for your patient's lives, their blood is painted on the tiles. The room is quiet for now and another doctor meets your eyes and nods.
You make your way down to your office. The corridors are crammed with the beds of those who have nowhere else to go, and the walking wounded, camped wherever they can. As you pick up your jacket and your case you see him there. Standing at the doorway, watching you. He looks fresh, alert, untouched by death, and you feel a burst of anger. Of course, there was no frontline battle for him. His talents are being used elsewhere.
He says something but you shrug it off, unwilling to deal with him now. Instead you leave, walking slowly along the corridor, towards the front door and escape, however temporary it is. He falls into step beside you and you can't help but be soothed by the familiar cadence of your steps together. The anger flees, leaving nothing behind. You are empty.
When you get to your car he takes the keys from you. As the hospital falls away behind you you stare out of the window, into the blackness of Princeton's night. You can hear sirens in the distance and the shouts of angry and frightened people. People who will be at the hospital tonight, or tomorrow.
The apartment is cold and dark and he lights the candles and boils water over a flame. You're wrapped in a blanket and your hands are placed around a mug of instant soup. He sits beside you as you eat, and you both stare at the dark television screen.
When the soup is gone you lie down and he is beside you, the heat of his body warming you. You fist the blanket tightly, too tired to sleep. You begin to cry, for those you lost today, for the patients that will be there tomorrow, for everything that is gone and will never be. He doesn't say anything but he is there.
As your eyes close you can hear the steady sound of his breathing and it's enough. It's enough for now.