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Wilson idly scans the aisles of the little corner store, rubbing his eyes as he shuffles along. It’s late – far later than is reasonable – and he’s downright exhausted. He probably looks a mess, too; he hasn’t been sleeping very well recently because of House’s damn lumpy couch, so his eyebags must be horrendous. Not to mention his shirt is completely rumpled and hair is all tousled - he hates going out while looking less than his best.
But House has been craving ice cream, pestering Wilson to get him some all week, and then earlier he’d looked up at him with his big stupid sad eyes and said “Pretty please?” and House knows he can’t resist him when he does that. Which is probably the point, actually, and it’s almost definitely Wilson’s fault for reinforcing that behavior.
Still, it’s not like he actually minds all that much. He wouldn’t admit it out loud – God knows the man’s ego is already big enough – but moving in with House has done wonders for his mental health, uncomfortable furniture and third divorce aside. He’s regaining the spark that he always seems to lose with marriage, actively letting himself indulge and have fun without worrying about what excuses he’ll have to make when he comes home.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts as he arrives at the freezer section, quickly locating House’s favorite ice cream flavor and triumphantly grabbing his prize. Wilson makes his way over to the till with House’s wallet in hand – he managed to pilfer it just before he left, to give the man a taste of his own medicine. Not that it’ll make much of a dent in the massive debt that House still owes him, but it’s the thought and thrill that counts.
With a tired but friendly smile to the cashier, he places the tub down, distractedly tapping his fingers against his thighs as she scans and bags it. Somewhere to the side, the little bell above the door rings as someone enters, but he pays no mind to it, letting his thoughts wander to tomorrow’s workload. He’s got a meeting in the afternoon, he’s pretty sure, and a whole bunch of paperwork... great.
“That’ll be five dollars,” the cashier drones, clearly bored, and Wilson winces for a moment – that is a lot for one tub of ice cream, what the hell – but then he remembers it’s House’s money, so it’s not that big of a deal. Damn, he should’ve got their entire grocery supply for the week. He mentally kicks himself for the oversight.
He’s about to fork over the cash when there’s a soft click from behind him. The sound gives him pause for a moment, but he thinks nothing much of it – not until a quiet, measured voice rings out.
“Open the register.”
Wilson freezes.
Slowly – with dread sinking ice-cold into his stomach - he turns around.
The first thing his eyes lock onto is the gun. The polished black metal gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights of the store; steady fingers wrap around the trigger, and he’s briefly, selfishly grateful that it’s not pointed at him, but at the cashier. The man holding it is young, confident – he’s not wearing a mask, or anything to hide his face. Wilson has seen enough true crime documentaries to know that that’s a very bad sign.
He’s snapped to full attention as the man’s frigid eyes land on him, though, lips locked into a sneer.
“Now,” he commands, swinging the gun around and jabbing the cold tip of the barrel against Wilson’s gut, “or I shoot him. And trust me...”
He leans in close, hot breath fanning over Wilson’s cheeks as he talks.
“It ain’t gonna be pretty when I do.”
Wilson hardly dares to breathe or even blink as terror grips him inside and out, his wallet dropping forgotten to the floor as his whole body locks in place. From the corners of his eyes he watches as the wide-eyed cashier scrambles to follow the order, babbling nonsense out of terror, but a quick snarl from the gunman shuts her up.
A million panicked thoughts race through his mind, most of them flitting by too fast to sort through. Time passes in a jumbled mess, the only constant the unceasing pressure of the gun against his side; it feels like forever has passed when the register is finally cracked open, the cashier backing off and quietly pleading for the man to put the gun down.
There’s a low chuckle as it digs in harder, and Wilson is helpless to stop the petrified whimper that escapes his lips.
“Hm,” the gunman says, tapping his chin with his free hand as if he’s lost in thought. “No, I don’t think I will.”
That’s all the warning he gets before the man squeezes the trigger.
Pain.
Ice-sharp, jagged daggers of pain rip through his abdomen, all-consuming in ferocity. A stuttering gasp, then another as Wilson stumbles back, clutching at his stomach with numb fingers.
Distantly, as though he’s watching through someone else’s eyes, he looks down at his own body. Dark blood oozes past his fingertips, soaks into his shirt, wet and hot; a disbelieving chuckle bubbles up from his lips as his knees waver and collapse beneath him. He finds himself propped up against one of the shelves, face-to-face with rows upon rows of 6-pack beers; somewhat deliriously, he finds himself thinking that if he’s going to die, at least he can get himself drunk as a skunk. Would probably take the edge off a little, if nothing else – that is, if he can get his arms to reach that high. Also, he kind of needs them to slow down the bleeding. Damn.
He’s vaguely aware of more commotion nearby. His vision flickers in and out of focus. It’s hard to concentrate on what’s happening around him when all of his attention is soaked up by the awful white-hot feeling of metal buried deep in his flesh, but he just about manages.
There's sirens, then shouting. Another gunshot – two more - and a figure tumbles lifeless to the ground. The gunman? Another victim? He doesn’t know. A moment of silence, then there’s hands on him, and unfamiliar faces in his line of sight.
Panic jolts through him. Instinctively he tries to worm away, eyes glazed with terror, too gripped by pain to even think – what if the gunman brought backup? What if they’re here to finish the job? The motion only jostles the wound more, though, and with a shuddering cry Wilson feels himself fall limp.
“Hhh,” he slurs out intelligently, the sound rife with panic. He tries again. “House...”
Oh, God, House.
It’s his last thought before everything fades to black.