Shower Shoes

Title: The Waiting Place
Rating: PG-13
Summary: No matter which way she chose, she was still out of gas.
Warning(s): Major Character Death, AU as of "House's Head"
Word Count: 3,124
Thank You: nightdog_barks  and blackmare_9  for seemingly neverending awesomeness. You ever read a fic and think, "Wow, I shudder to think what this was like pre-beta?" This is that fic. And if you read it and still, shudder...well, that's my fault, not theirs.
Notes: This is inspired by Dr. Seuss' Oh, the Places You'll Go. *hides*

You can get so confused
that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles cross weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place...

( The Waiting Place )

Every day was a blatant redundancy.

Every day was a rerun of a boring sitcom. Every day was a monologue he knew too well. Every day was a commercial he’d already fucking seen.

Every day was one more quarter lost to the depths of the vending machine. Every day was the forgotten pizza crust in the back seat of the car. Every day was the sock that slipped off his ankle when he walked.

Every day was one stolen lunch short of annoyance. Every day was one pill short of anger. Every day was one phone call short of insanity. Every day was one scowl away from being…him.

Every day was a blatant redundancy.

So Wilson went home, sat on the couch, and watched a commercial he hadn’t seen.

It’s the one where House calls for help, and Wilson doesn’t answer.

He hasn’t cleaned out the fridge yet, hasn’t even opened it. His just sits there, in his apartment—her apartment—their apartment, and smells the rotting leftovers of everything they shared. And everything he now has to eat alone.

He stares at the closed refrigerator door.

He wonders if there’s some leftover laugh on the top shelf. He craves its authenticity, and the delicate way it eased through her smile.

He thinks maybe there’s a box of her warmth in between the ketchup and the mayonnaise. He longs for a spoonful of it before he climbs into his bed—her bed—their bed.

There’s probably some leftover hope in one of the produce drawers. He hopes so.

Maybe if he looks hard enough he’ll find a leftover wish or two. If so, he’ll drizzle them over two bowls of ice cream. He’ll eat one, then watch the other melt into a puddle while he pretends that she was there to eat it with him.

He knows there’s leftover love in the fridge, but he’s misplaced it, along with the milk and the parmesan cheese.

He walks over to the refrigerator and decides to look for it. But when he opens the door, he doesn’t find it, or any of the other leftovers.
He sees a row of small styrofoam plates covered with aluminum foil. This was supposed to be tomorrow’s dinner. Tomorrow never came.

The only leftover is loneliness.

He’ll never finish all of this by himself.


Author's Note: So...I'm not sure if this counts for Dark!wilson as much as dark themes. :/ It's more emo!Wilson. Could one of the mods let me know if this is still eligible for the Dark!Wilson drabble contest?

P.S. Am I the only one who thinks that emo!Wilson should totally be a comm? I can just picture it, Wilson letting his hair grow long, listening to MCR, acting generally ornery and misunderstood with several piercings--it'd be cooler than the opposite of mad cow disease!