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It was a normal Thursday morning for Wilson.
Well. About as normal for someone who recently lost the love of their life to a tragic bus crash then retired from their stable position at a teaching hospital to deal with (read: run away from) their grief.
Wilson crawled out of bed after another sleepless night, took his antidepressants while waiting for his coffee to heat up, and ate breakfast in relative silence.
On the menu today was slightly burnt toast covered in strawberry jam and a bowl of grapes. Just like it was yesterday, and the day before.
Wilson took a bite of toast, the crumbs spilling onto the wooden countertop. He paid it no mind as he stared out the window at the bustling streets of the city.
Men in two-piece suits and women in blazers and pencil skirts hurried up and down the street, some flagging down taxis to get to their destination. Across the street, a group of teenagers with large, overflowing backpacks waited for the school bus to arrive. They laughed and chatted mindlessly about whatever was going on in their lives.
Wilson took a sip of his black coffee.
It burnt his lips and tongue. His eyes watered but he continued drinking through the pain. He didn't mind the sting anymore.
Before the accident, Amber would've laughed and kissed the pout off his lips. She would've lovingly scolded him for drinking his coffee too fast and needing to learn to enjoy his breakfast and their peaceful mornings together.
But how could he now? After everything that has happened?
After losing everything on that fateful day five months ago, the city below had the audacity to move forward. It seemed like he was the only one stuck in place.
*
Wilson didn't go to his grief counseling group that day.
After a somber morning and unproductive afternoon, he was feeling too much and too little all at the same time.
He needed to be alone with his thoughts.
That's what he told himself, anyway, as he walked up and down the uneven pavement outside his apartment complex.
He walked up and down the street for most of the afternoon. His body was numb, exhausted from being on his feet for hours without a break. If he was still at Princeton, he would've been able to stand and walk around for much longer without needing a break. Looks like he'd gone a bit soft.
Now, to an outsider, it was a total accident.
Wilson wasn't looking where he was going, too focused on the cracks in the cement. With his hands in his grey hoodie, he was lost in thought, too overcome with grief and depression to pay attention to his surroundings.
And that's how he didn't see the other man speed walking towards him.
The other man wasn't looking where he was going either, clearly. His eyes were glued to his phone screen and fingers frantically typing on the screen.
It was only natural that they bumped into each other, shoulders hitting one another.
It didn't hurt, not really, but it was still rude. Despite that, Wilson met the other man’s blue-grey eyes. He gave a tight lipped smile and a single nod in acknowledgement and apology.
Then he froze.
It was him.
Stranger Danger. At least, that's what Wilson’s been calling him since he doesn't know the guy’s name.
Stranger Danger was a young, scruffy-looking man, who magically appeared by House’s side immediately after Wilson's departure from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He had short, unkempt brown hair and wore flannels and jeans. If Wilson didn't know any better, he’d assume that the guy was a patient, not a … friend, acquaintance, or maybe an innocent victim desperately trying to escape House’s clutches.
The man in question smiled awkwardly and turned away, continuing to type away on his phone. If he recognized Wilson, he did a good job of hiding it.
Before Wilson knew what he was doing, he grabbed the guy’s arm, effectively stopping him in his tracks. If his grip was too tight and too desperate, then that's no one's business but his own.
The stranger looked down at Wilson's hand on his arm. The bunched up fabric of his multicolored flannel. Disgusting. Wilson would never wear a flannel. Not in a million years.
He looked up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
"Um, can I help you?"
Wilson didn't hesitate. To hell with House and his mind games.
"Who are you?" He asked, no, demanded.
Stranger Danger laughed sheepishly. "Um, my mom said I shouldn't talk to strangers." He joked.
Wilson didn't laugh. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed the man in front of him.
"Cut the crap. I've seen you with–with him,” Wilson hissed, refusing to say you-know-who’s name.
The man blinked owlishly, completely lost.
Wilson continued, “...You're always walking around here, outside my apartment, acting all buddy-buddy. Seriously, do you think I'm that stupid?"
Stranger Danger looked around, trying to find this mysterious person.
"Dude, I don't know who you are or what you're talking about,” he explained, attempting to free his arm from Wilson’s vice grip.
Wilson growled, letting his hand fall to his sides. He unconsciously balled them into fists.
"You KNOW who I'm talking about."
The man clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. Similar to a cocky teenager disobeying their parents. His demeanor completely changed. What a dick, no wonder why House…likes him.
“No, I don't,” he explained, clearly uninterested in where this conversation was going. “Listen man, I live around here and have a lot of friends, clearly unlike yourself, so be more specific or I'm gonna walk away.”
Wilson stammered, his cheeks flushing from anger and embarrassment.
"For the love of–House! Greg House!” Wilson yelled and threw his hands in the air. He must look like a crazy person, given the concerned looks of passersby. “He’s a crazy, selfish, drug addict with a cane. Does that ring any bells?"
The stranger's eyes widened, almost comically. An invisible light bulb appeared above his head, jogging his memory.
"Ohh, you mean Greg. Mi amigo. Love that guy."
Wilson snarled, pointing an accusatory finger. "No you don't. No one does!"
"Clearly you do if you're this worked up about him," The man pointed out.
It was like he dumped a bucket of ice water on Wilson's head, rendering him completely useless and unresponsive.
“No, I most certainly do not! I'm not his friend–”
The man scratched his chin thoughtfully, unable to hide his growing smirk.
“If you're not friends with Greg, then why do you care what he's doing, or who he's doing for that matter?"
Wilson splutters. “Will you stop calling him that?! And I don't care! I just–”
The man ignored his comment, bulldozing through his sad attempt of a defense.
“You're asking a complete stranger why they're hanging around your ex boyfriend. Right, you don't care." Stranger Danger, Scruffy Beard, Whatever, rolled his eyes.
Wilson faltered.
"We're–he's not...I'm not gay!" He exclaimed, his face beet red. His hands were shaking at his sides, though he couldn't explain why.
Stranger Danger gave him a look.
One that said he didn't believe him. Wilson isn't quite sure he believes himself either.
“...Right. Well, I'd say it was nice meeting you but that would be a lie,” the man stated bluntly.
Then, without another word, he spun on his heel, walking away before Wilson could embarrass himself any further.
Wilson stood alone on the sidewalk, cheeks flushed and stomach in knots.
Just when he was coming to terms with the catastrophe that is his life, he's hit with a tidal wave of new and confusing emotions about Greg House. God damn it.
The crowd moved around him, ignoring the ex-oncologist’s clear midlife crisis.
One thing was for sure, he needed to call Lisa.
*
Across the street, Lucas watched Wilson scramble up the stone steps and into his apartment complex. The man chuckled and opened up his contacts app, quickly dialing House’s number.
He grinned from ear-to-ear as the phone rang.
House is gonna owe him big time.