In Succession

Title: "In Succession"
Author: nieded
Prompt: housefic50; 02; Middles; James Wilson
Fandom; Pairing: House, MD; Gregory House / James Wilson
Rating: PG to PG-13ish
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Authors Notes: Um, thanks Sam for listening to me again about another one of my crazy ideas. Thanks to all the folks who have supported me on my other works. This is for y'all. :D

Synopsis: They meet again and again and again.



----

Joshua arrives to school late, half-way through the school year. The principal ushers him quietly down the hallway to his fifth grade classroom where all the heads turn as he stumbles in. He hears boys and girls whisper (Who’s that? Where’s he from?), but he’s too tired to answer questions. The other students review their times tables, but he already knows them. The day passes and he twiddles his thumbs, silently waiting for the bus to come.

And then...

Recess comes around and a little boy cautiously approaches him, introduces himself as Damien Middleton from some country road outside of Trenton, and hey, can they be friends? Joshua shakes his head, watching the little kid’s shoulders sag while thinking, ‘I’ll be gone in six months anyway.’

For the rest of the year he talks to no one, learns nothing (he already knows it all), and leaves for Cairo in the spring.

Life continues on.

----

He stumbles out of bed, blearily reading the clock. 2:37 it tells him. Not late enough to dress but surely early enough to piss and swallow Vicodin with a chaser of scotch. He kicks the mass of blankets to the foot of the bed with one leg, slowly sliding his lower half off the edge until he all but crumples on the floor. With one hand he snatches the bottom of his cane and struggles with as little grace as possible while nobody can watch. Up he goes with a one step, two step, thud, and push. The slow familiar movements mobilize his otherwise rusty joints into some semblance of motion.

His feet and rubber tip of his cane echo down the hallway; otherwise the apartment stays silent except for the faint snores rolling from the apartment living room. Wilson practically hibernates when he bunkers down to sleep.

The bathroom door clicks quietly shut and the lights come up with a flick of a switch, bright, emanating, and reflecting off the sterile walls. The lights shine; he grimaces and shies from the luminosity and a rather haggard reflection of himself in the mirror. He maintains daily a hate-hate relationship with waking up that ends when he crawls back into bed.

He peers over the toilet (and when had he cleaned it last? Must have been Wilson) before shrugging his pajama bottoms down. He turns away from the disgruntled reflection peering up at him from the toilet water and pisses all over it instead. Five minutes later he shuffles out, back into the less luminous (and more eye-friendly) hallway acutely aware of his leg, the lone shoe he must have kicked around earlier, and the cease of dormant activity coming from his sofa. Not ready to face Wilson at such an ungodly hour (especially since he probably woke Wilson with his mid-night insomnia), House instead exits into the kitchen from the hallway door.

Alcohol, he thinks, sounds like a brilliant idea. If he sits down, the dull, possessive ache in his thigh recedes a bit, and he won’t need the Vicodin just yet. He glances at the clock, 3:58, and wonders if he can push it until five without the pills.

The glasses chink together as he mixes scotch and ice, little eddies swirling around as the cubes first slosh into the liquid. He sips slowly, anticipating a rush of warmth, a buzz, or a high of some sort; a transcending experience that connects him to the outside – wherever that might be. But the alcohol barely burns as it slides down his throat, dissolving into his bloodstream pumped full of Vicodin and too high of an expectation, too less of a drive and will to live if there are no cases (it’s the mystery, surely), and perhaps a little thanks to Cameron (the idea that he can still be desired, albeit in a damaged sort of way).

He shuffles rhythmically, a pattern of padded feet, sloshing liquid amber, and weary breathing through the kitchen and out into the living room. He can make the couch out in the dark, and if he holds his breath and stops the shaking in his leg, he can almost hear Wilson’s shallow, short breaths.

When he inches forward and peers over the couch (manic gleam, et al), he sees Wilson sleeping still, his snoring having been interrupted by a nightmare. Well then.

In one fluid motion, Wilson bats at something invisible, the whole momentum of his flinging arm carrying him until he rolls off the couch. House winces as the younger man barely misses the corner of the coffee table before hitting the floor with an audible groan. House cranes his neck to peer over the back of the couch, assessing the damage which appears to be... Wilson starts to snore, head crooked in at an odd angle with drool slowly sliding out of his gaping mouth.

The gap between Wilson’s parted lips looks cavernous and makes House begin to question things he never asked before, like why his friend chose oncology and how did his teeth stain that particular shade of yellow. The answer should be obvious, but House has never been one to pick apart miniscule and unimportant bad habits with the people he tries not to lose.

(He never talked about Stacy’s smoking while they were together. In a way, he found it endearing that she did have flaws unlike he first wanted to perceive. He smiled on those good days when one cigarette was enough, and her smile back appeared all the more beautiful when he imagined a curl of smoke slipping between her perfect rows of teeth.)

Then again, he knows habits can be increasingly telling, and how come he never knew Wilson talked in his sleep?

“God, d-d-don’t,” the oncologist mutters, thrashing his head to the side. The slick drool rolls down his neck and collects in the battered McGill t-shirt.

“Don’t what?” House asks to no one, tilting his head to one side. Wilson rolls over, stomach to the floor and his arm and side crushed into the bottom of the couch. He mutters something, slurring into the patch of spit his face buries into. House hears a litany of profanity and something suddenly sharp and open spouting into the carpet. At first House’s eyebrows raise upwards in disbelief, but Wilson repeats it over again. And again and again.

“Don’t t-t-touch my w-wings,” he whispers. “Don’t touch my wings!”

House drops his chin to his chest and lets a smile slip in between his scruffy patches of facial hair (because it’s okay to smile when no one looks), and asks to the air, “Don’t what?”

Wilson groans, rolling over again to clutch his stomach and the smile slips instantly from House’s face. “D-don’t,” the younger man pants, clutching to the fabric of his own t-shirt. Another groan slips and his face crumples in pain. “Don’ttouchmywings.”

The room falls silent as House holds his breath and Wilson rolls over again until he lies on his back, his jaw already slack as another pool of saliva slowly trails down the curve of his lip and the jut of his chin. House leans heavily on his cane and peers inside his almost empty glass wishing his alcohol was as cavernous and open-ended as the depths of Wilson’s mouth.

Five o’clock the little clock chimes above the television, time for another Vicodin. House limps away temporarily forgetting about nightmares. He tries not to pick apart his bad habit and what it says about him as he reaches for the amber pill bottle – the same color as his scotch.

-----

When he wakes again, the sun slants through the Venetian blinds drawing lines across his face. At nine o’ clock he can hear Wilson stumble through his morning routine. House rolls his head back and forth against the pillow, testing his migraine and tolerance for the day before reaching for the Vicodin at his bedside.

He pulls himself off the bed, head slumping forward as he palms the smoothed over surface of his cane. Up, he pushes himself, slowly traipsing out the door and into the semi-dark hallway where a crack of light shines out from the bathroom. He listens patiently – no shower running, no hairdryer, or brushing of teeth. Just silence. He turns to peer down the hallway towards the living room. All he sees are the blankets kicked down off the couch.

But either way, nature calls. The odd silence throughout the apartment escapes his muffled commotion as he shuffles towards the half-open bathroom door. He grips the knob with his left hand and leans completely on the door, pushing it open without regard for Wilson’s privacy.

“Hello!” he bellows with false cheer, squinting into the bright fluorescent lights. His eyes adjust slowly before focusing on Wilson, shirtless with his nice suit slacks dragging through a puddle on the floor.

House tilts his head to the side when Wilson lacks a reaction to his entrance. “It’s almost nine. Shouldn’t you be at work by now? Or do you often prolong starting your day by flooding my bathroom?”

In the mirror, House can see Wilson blink once, twice before shrugging slowly, rolling out his shoulders. “It’s almost nine already?” he asks wincing.

House has never seen Wilson from this view before, his back sloping downwards as he slouches to reach for something on the countertop, his chest in the mirror as his skin folds around his stomach as he crouches. His shoulder blades jut out as he straightens up again with a comb, running it through his hair a couple of times to form some semblance of neatness. He forgoes the hairdryer, leaving it in a pile on the floor and instead turns around to grab his button down shirt and vest.

House nods, bouncing his cane on the tiles repeatedly a couple of times. “Yeah, it’s almost nine. Running late?”

“Rough night.”

“You don’t have to stay on my couch, you know,” House counters pointlessly. Wilson needs more than a place to sleep.

“I didn’t stay on your couch, actually,” the oncologist says nonchalantly, craning his neck to one side. He winces again as he gently kneads a knot forming in the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I woke up on the floor.”

House smirks crookedly, remembering the snatches of nightmare he saw. “Did the Boogey Man come to get you?”

Wilson rolls his eyes and slips his arms into his shirt, working the buttons before spinning around again for his toothbrush. His bones jut out from underneath the blue fabric, sharp and pointed shoulder blades accenting his narrow frame. He ignores House’s comment while squeezing out iridescent toothpaste from the nearly empty tube.

“And what are you doing up so early? Your alarm clock doesn’t go off for another half hour,” he states, jabbing his toothbrush in his mouth. “Rough nigh? Dith the Boogey Man getcha?”

House cringes, listening to Wilson parrot off his own words around globs of saliva. Watching his friend lean over the sink to spit isn’t really on his list of things to see. Wilson bends over to get closer to the faucet, leaving House to stare at his own reflection in the mirror, scruffy even for his standards, and perhaps a little red in the eyes.

“But really,” Wilson says, and then House’s reflection disappears as Wilson straightens up again. “Rough night?” His tone sounds a little less sarcastic than when House had asked, and a little more endearing but with all the same impatience.

“My leg hurt. Boo hoo,” House snaps, rolling his eyes heavenward. Wilson narrows his eyes and rests his hands on his hips evenly. House stares at him through the mirror, catches the gaunt texture to his face, the way his features come to a point at the tip of his nose and how everything meets in odd, sharp angles jutting out – his high cheekbones and narrow chin. “That and you were screaming obscenely in your sleep. Hot chick, huh? How embarrassing.”

“Right,” Wilson smiles, lips tightening into a line straight line.

“I heard she tickled you with a feather,” House continues, watching the younger man’s expression hardening.

“What else did you hear? That Santa Claus is dead and George Michael is gay? I’m sorry, by the way.”

“Yes, I’m heartbroken like the dutiful preteen girl I am. I so thought he’d be mine!”

“Right,” Wilson says again, impatient with their conversation. He throws on his sweater vest and turns to face House. “Excuse me, but I’m late for work.”

House lets him push past into the hallway without protesting much. He really needs to use the bathroom, but he leaves the door open as he shouts follow the oncologist into the living room. “So who was she? What’d she look like? Big breasts, platinum bleached hair, legs up to her chest? Were they real?”

Wilson finds his suit coat draped over the arm rest of the sofa gathering wrinkles. He shakes and brushes it down with his hand a few times before yanking it over his arms and around his shoulders. “Which, the legs or the breasts?” he shouts back. “Prosthetics for sure. No way is anyone that flexible.” The flushing toilet drowns out what House says next, and Wilson doesn’t mind.

House staggers out dramatically, shaking out his hands. Outside the breeze wafts in through the open doorway, wrapping around his bare ankles and through Wilson’s hair. “Was she good?” he asks, leering. “She threw you off the couch.”

“So what?” Wilson counters. “Your couch is only two feet wide. It is possible to just,” he makes a pushing motion with the flat of his palms, “fall off the couch.”

“But you didn’t just roll off. You flailed.”

“You’re… You watched me?”

“Maybe.”

Wilson sputters.

“Well, I said I couldn’t sleep well,” House excuses, half-shrugging with an innocent expression.

“Well… that’s not disturbing at all.”

“Why should it be?” House asks, leaning forward over his cane. “Who would I tell to your sex-crazed fantasies to anyway?” Wilson purses his lips and begins to walk out the door. “After all, I respect you at least enough to keep your dirty secrets.”

Wilson halts and spins halfway around. “What dirty secrets?”

House examines the oncologist’s face carefully, the tight mouth and white fingers wrapped around his briefcase, his legs braced apart, back straight and jaw set. But despite his defensive position, his eyes scan House furtively, wide and open, honest, searching for an explanation.

House lets his mouth quirk into something unfamiliar, a smile of near reassurance (if only he knew exactly what he’s reassuring). Slowly, he starts to shut the door after Wilson’s heels, whispering simply, “You’re late for work. You’d better fly fast,” closing the space to the outside and on Wilson’s shocked expression. House knows that no matter how horrible he can be at subtlety, Wilson defines the word and understands completely.

(“I want you to come with me,” Stacy asked, shifting her weight between her two feet.

“Why? Your parents won’t like me. I’m one of those… new idealist types who believe in birth control and premarital sex. What will they say if they knew about us doing the nasty? Unless they already know about that story you told me with those college boys when you were sevente –”

“They don’t and they don’t need to. You can be charming when you want to,” Stacy replies, flipping a lock of brown hair from her face.

Greg rolls his eyes and throws his hands up, kicking the air dramatically. “That’s the problem: I don’t want to. Why do I have to go anyway?”

“Because, they’re family.”

“Not my family.”

“They could be,” Stacy remarks, shooting Greg a pointed look.

He scoffs, “Look. Do I look crazy to you? You’re the one who shares the DNA with them, not me.”

Later, after Stacy had stormed out of the room (and to the country by herself to visit Mom and Pop), the phone rang.

House rolled his head back against the couch before picking up the receiver. “What?” he barked.

“You know, funny thing,” a voice said on the other end, and House automatically rolled his eyes. “I got this phone call from Stacy, and she told me what you said about her family.”

“God, Wilson,” House groaned. “Don’t take their side. You’ve heard her talk about them. They’re all crazy.”

Wilson audibly inhaled before releasing his breath. “I think she was hinting that she wants to get married.”

“Married? But – Oh. Oh.”

He sucks in another, slow and dragging breath, exhaling, “Here’s her parents phone number and address…”)

----

Stacy’s mother grew up in Louisiana and spent her teenage years listening to soulful jazz musicians before escaping north just after World War II. Greg can still close his eyes and will away the rest of the world, hearing the southern twang Stacy adapted from her mother meld with her New Jersey accent – the barest hints of soulful, swinging music swooping with every word.

Her parents moved out of Trenton a decade ago when Stacy had been thirty and never knew Doctor Gregory House. It took an hour and a half to drive to their little ranch with a dog, their zinnias blooming, and not a cloud in the sky. For whatever reason, their secluded acres of rolling grass reminded Stacy’s mother of Louisiana, even if New Orleans thrived with activity, and Trenton’s countryside was nowhere near the Gulf of Mexico. Stacy’s mother – Sela – told more stories about her childhood, and Stacy found herself visiting more and more.

Greg was hesitant to meet the parents at first, but obliged after much abuse from Stacy (and even a little pestering from Wilson. And god, who gave Wilson the right to tell him what to do? He barely made it through residency without a mental breakdown), but after seeing the country and listening to the old record player spouting out swinging saxophones and decorative trumpet licks, Greg fell in love with more than just swing music, but the countryside.

He takes the same path out on his motorbike now; helmet off because he loves the wind whipping around him while his knuckles turn white around the handlebars. Sometimes he even drives past the old Middleton ranch. Along with Stacy’s hint of a southern accent, he can almost hear the jazz and the deep roaring laugh from Stacy’s father, though both parents died long ago.

(“Smokers,” he told Wilson later when he got back from his fifth visit. “Both of them like chimneys.”

“Well, not everyone can be perfect,” Wilson sighed nervously with a closed lip grin. House couldn’t tell if it was the cigarette stench clinging to his clothes still that permeated his senses or something else wafting through Wilson’s apartment.)

He goes there when he wants to be alone because no one can find him. In the mini drought, the grass dries up and now crinkles underneath his tennis shoes, his cane mercilessly grinding into the dusty driveway. Today he doesn’t think of Stacy (although he swears she slips into his subconscious all the time. He hears her singing along to the radio, in the wind whipping past his ears laughing delightfully at the speed and force of his motorcycle pummeling down the black top). Instead he thinks about the drained, apprehensive look on Wilson’s face just as he closed the door.

Wings, he thinks, because Wilson has always thought in double entendres and hidden meanings. Today House just can’t figure out what it all means. Certainly, it represents something private. What had Wilson muttered out in his sleep? Don’t touch my wings? But why not and what did wings represent anyway? Why did he seem so distracted that morning after House confronted him?

His watch bleeps at him, distracting him from the whispering grasses and the high noon sun. 11:11 it tells him, and it seems like all he thinks about is time.

He hobbles back to his bike, leaving behind the bellowing laugh of a long dead soldier, the crooning voice singing along to scratched, fuzzy-sounding records, and an image of curling smoke puffing out of Stacy’s mouth to fill his lungs with sweet, sweet air. The old Middleton ranch dissolves in the distance.

On the way home he feels short of breath, dizzy, and confused. He’s late for work again for the third time this week, and his cell phones lies at the bottom of his bag, unreachable with no signal this far out.

The roar of the engine takes over, and momentarily he forgets everything. His tires squelch a sparking cigarette butt, and he thinks that it’s okay. Smoking is a bad habit anyway.

----

(Wilson had only been to the Middleton’s ranch once for Stacy’s thirtieth birthday. House watched him slowly climb the porch steps, thoughtfully soaking in the sight of the old wooden steps and siding, the hot summer air. He looked out of place in his jet black slacks, and blazer draped over one arm; shirt neatly pressed and tie askance.

He skipped out after the cake and a rowdy chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ (courtesy of House), making his and a kiss on Stacy’s cheek.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“I have to get going, you know. Mary’s coming home from her conference and I told her I’d be there to greet her.”

Stacy smiled, leaning into House’s shoulder. “That’s sweet of you,” as Wilson turned and ushered himself out the front door.

Just after the door swung shut, she saw his blazer draped over a chair and nudged House. “Greg, James left his suit coat. Could you –”

Greg rolled his eyes and snatched it from the back of a chair, calling out as he jogged outside, “Always forgetting things, like marriage vows or that his wife doesn’t come home until tomorrow!” as the door slammed shut on his feet.

“Wilson!” he shouted, dashing outside dramatically. He almost ran into the oncologist who hadn’t moved past the last step of the porch. They bumped into each other, coat flying from House’s grasp to land in a patch of muddy gravel. “Oops.”

“House –”

“Say, isn’t your car over there? Why are you just standing here?”

“My jacket –”

“Is now over there, which still doesn’t explain why you only made it past the foot of the porch.”

Wilson sighed almost wistfully and shrugged his shoulders, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. He tilted his head and gazed down the dusty gravel road. “I lived in this... in a place like this once.”

House struggled to conjure a memory of Wilson talking about this before. He had never mentioned living anywhere but the suburbs of Princeton. “When you were a kid?”

“Y – Just, a long time ago.”

House shrugged and nudged him. “Come one, stop being sentimental and girly, and let’s get wasted.”

“Yeah.”)

----

At half past noon, the doors to the main entrance of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital fly open and House hobbles in. His grandiose entrance (flailing arms and a loud roar) go unnoticed by most of the staff walking past, and doesn’t receive much more than a baby’s squeal of delight. Perhaps, he thinks, he’s losing his touch.

Immediately he smells the antiseptic stench invade his nostrils, wiping out the last traces of countryside and gasoline clinging to his coat. His sunglasses slide down his nose anticlimactically and his arrival to work spoils the rest of the morning. The only thing that could possibly save his day would be no clinic duty.

“House, I’m so glad you decided to show up. Clinic, now,” Cuddy commands, barreling past, heels clicking against the tiles. Before House can retort, she disappears around a corner and into her office. He can only respond by blinking once, twice, until his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting. So much for hoping for the best. He stumbles off towards the elevator.

Tinny music fills the small elevator as it lurches upwards. House secludes himself in the very back corner, cane pulled tight against his body as doctors and nurses fly in and out. When the little green light announces his destination, he pushes off the wall forward, battling through the crowded square and out into the hallway. Fresh air, he thinks and breathes.

He inspects his surroundings in the Diagnostics Department; the blinds to his office are drawn just as he left them the previous night. He steps inside to silence (and really, how much silence can he take?), scrutinizing the disarrayed chairs and donut crumbs sprinkled over torn apart newspaper. He wonders momentarily if Foreman came in today at all. Chase could care less about disorder (once surrounded by it for the first quarter of his life), and Cameron feeds her compulsiveness in people, not on cookie crumbs. But Foreman lives to organize, stack, and neaten his surroundings.

(“Space,” he had said once while scooting back from the conference table. “I can’t work when people are all in my face. Like... I’m not going to go into a restaurant where there’s tons of cigarette smoke. It’s gross. People are disgusting.”

House scoffed, leering over Foreman’s shoulder. “Then maybe you should have picked a different profession. I wouldn’t be keen on my doctor freaking out while I’m having a seizure.”

“That’s different,” he snapped back, rocking back on his chair dangerously close to House. “Under pressure, I can do my job. When I just want to relax, people need to respect personal space.”

House smirked and leaned back, the weight of the chair leaning against his shoulder collapsing as Foreman fell to the ground.

“Even if you don’t like people,” he said, limping towards the coffee maker, “you still need them. Or at least that’s what Wilson says. I’ve never taken his word for it.”)

His day flickers by with little sign of his staff. Cameron runs through once, shuffling over papers on her desk before skipping out, Chase twice, and when House finally crawls out of his office the chairs and table look neat and wiped down. He decides it’s time to pay a visit to his neighbor next door.

“It’s five o’clock, Jimmy, my boy!” he rasps in his best grandfatherly impersonation, “and what have you done for your country?” He halts just inside, waving manically his makeshift paper and pencil flag.

Wilson looks up briefly; ready to brush off his friend’s entrance before he reads, “Jew country? House –”

“Boy it’s rank in here. Hoowee!” he cuts him off, wrinkling his nose. “I know you’ve hit middle age, but I didn’t think flatulence was that big of a problem.”

Wilson hunches his shoulders over his desk and looks around exasperatedly. He actually expected to get work done today. It does smell rank, like sweat and vomit and something else; perhaps the faintest traces of smoke. The balcony door stands, propped open, and a slight breeze shuffles in from the open windows. “I had a sick patient,” he excuses, waving his hand over the room. His posture begs House not to press further for information.

Of course, House reads this easily in Wilson’s tight shoulders and cringing expression, but needs to poke at least a little fun at cancer patients. “You? A doctor w-with… sick patients? Did he puke on you? Bonus points to him if he did.”

“Right. Did you need something? Lie to me, make this worthwhile so I don’t have to beat you over the head once I find out you’re just – I don’t know – here to make me miserable.”

“Why would I want to make you miserable?”

“You always want to make me miserable.”

House shrugs and invites himself to sit in one of the guest chairs. “Maybe I’m trying to make you less miserable. You’re wife just left you –”

“Which gives you permission to make fun of my dying patients? Yes. I’m jumping with glee.”

“—And you’re having nightmares.”

Wilson stiffens, eyes shifting across the room swiftly to find an escape. He waits a fraction too long to respond with something menial. “You were late for work. Three times this week.”

House grunts and shifts in the chair. “Boy, do you know how to kill a conversation.”

“Boy, do you really know how to barge in uninvited,” Wilson retorts without missing a beat. His entire face slopes downward in an unpleasant frown as he leans forward. “It was just a nightmare, House. You don’t need to know everything.”

“Right,” House snorts, leaning back in his chair comfortably. Wilson reacts, leaning forward as if a rope connects him. As House sinks further back into his seat, Wilson scoots forward on edge, ready to attack or defend. “Maybe I don’t need to know everything, but if it was no big deal, you’d tell me. You’re at least… embarrassed about it.”

“So it makes perfect sense. Because I don’t want you to know, I should tell you anyway, especially if it might be embarrassing. I don’t donate to the ‘Feed House’s Neurological Dysfunctions’ foundation you’ve monopolized.”

“So, you are embarrassed,” House states, unfazed by Wilson’s barbs.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

“Uh, annoyed? Peeved? Ready to kill you?”

“So… You’re dream was about me then?”

“No! House!” Wilson runs his hands over his face wearily, cursing softly under his breath. “It has nothing to do with you. I know you think the world revolves around you, but honest. This doesn’t involve you. It never has. Don’t do this.”

House stills momentarily, carefully watching every twitch and movement Wilson makes, cataloguing and registering it for careful scrutiny.

“God, you’re… Diagnosing me, aren’t you?” Wilson asks.

House doesn’t answer, but only says, “You said this doesn’t involve me, ‘It never has.’ Has this been going on for a long time?”

“House…”

“Probably before we even met, I’m guessing. Were you traumatized as a child? Abused? Did the other boys not like your fairy costume for Halloween?”

“House…”

“Hey, I’m trying to get a patient history here. Any substance abuse? Did the football players make fun of your cheerleading outfit? I know those uniforms can be snug –”

Wilson snaps, slamming shut a heavy medical text on the desk. The whole room reverberates with the sound, silencing House. “You don’t… You don’t even care, do you?” Wilson pants. “You just want a mystery to solve because you’re bored. If I actually had something I was going through, that wouldn’t interest you in the slightest.”

“…Are you going through some –”

“No. I’m not, but you wouldn’t care anyway, and you’d be the last person I’d tell. I won’t feed any more of your addictions, House.” The blinds shudder as another chilly gust of air wafts in from the open windows. The faint smell of sickness has almost faded, and House can only pick up the slightest scent.

“What are you hiding?” he murmurs, leaning forward on his chair, a glint in his eyes full with the thrill of the hunt.

But Wilson only sighs and buries his face in his palms. House can see the gray hairs on his head and the wrinkles in the creases of his hands tarnishing his youth. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head blindly. “Nothing.”

----

(James Wilson heard of him before, his holier-than-thou attitude and sharp tongue; the numerous patients he saved yearly – even cases having nothing to do with nephrology. They had never actually met before beyond passing each other in the hallway, and he would never be able to tell what Doctor House looked like.

That is until they collided with each other in the clinic. It had been a Thursday. James hated Thursdays.

He meant to walk out of the clinic when a stack of files slipped from his arms and fell to the ground, scattering in a five fee radius around him. Without looking, he stretched forward to reach for a folder when House rounded the other side of the reception desk, yelling at the administrator (Stevens, a Jewish dumbass that House despised. For Chanukah, he gave him a makeshift flag sporting the words ‘Jew Country’. Later, he fainted at the discovery that Cuddy was Jewish too), screaming obscenities while ignoring his path of travel. He stomped on James’ his hand, twisting his ankle as he catapulted himself over the oncologist’s crouched back. Limbs flailed in every direction.

Several moments passed as James blinked dizzily on the floor and House laid spread eagle on the tiles before one of them gathered enough intelligence to speak.

“Are you... alright?” James asked out of politeness. He was certain his wrist had been damaged worse than the other guy’s entire body combined, but put forth the extra niceness. Who knew who could be watching? And he had been waiting for the head of oncology to kick the bucket any day now.

“Just dandy. That’s the first time I’ve ever flown to get out of the clinic,” House snapped, rolling his eyes as he slowly sat up. “Although it kind of looks like I missed, doesn’t it?”

“Umm... you’re... ankle?”

“Ah, must be a doctor. Who are you? That married, young, Jewish boy up in oncology?”

James guffawed. “Well, actually... yes.”

“God, everybody is wrong about you.”

“B-but –”

“Oh, James Wilson is so nice! I bet you never tried to throw one of them face first into the tiles.”

“B-but –”

“Oh, relax,” House sneered, inspecting the younger man. He certainly looked the part of the family doctor, nice shoes (French?), nice tie – except the color, and eighty billion pens in his coat pocket. Right. “Do you have to take everything at face value? I was actually kidding about you throwing people into the dirt, but I suppose telling five people their going to die every day kind of takes away your sense of humor.”

“I have... I have humor!”

“Ha. Ha. Why’d the chicken cross the road?” House asked, sneering as James sputtered. “See?”

“That... That doesn’t count. The sheer stupidity of that shut down my brain. Hey – Are you... You’re bleeding; let me take a look at that.”

House flailed, scrambling to get to his feet. “I’m a doctor too! Don’t –”

“Just... hold still...”

“Why Jimmy.” House exclaimed after reading the other’s nametag.

The oncologist froze, hands mid-air and ready to attack House’s bleeding forehead. “It’s James.”

“Jamie?”

“James.”

“Jim? Jimbo?”

“James.”

House shrugged, letting the younger man inspect the cut on his forehead. He studied the face, the serious, set jaw imprinted on such a young man. “Oncology, huh? Wilson it is then.”)

----

At 7:13 House’s eyes flicker to the clock. He digs out a deck of cards from the bottom drawer and examines the tattered corners. With one foot on the desk, he shuffles the deck aimlessly, listening to the fluttering sound of worn pieces of paper folding over themselves. It’s been a long day even though he’s only been here for less than eight hours.

7:20 passes.

7:23.

7:26. House kicks off from his desk, wheels whirring as he soars towards the balcony door in his chair. He slows just before ramming into the glass windows and peers outside, head craning over his bookshelf an in between the blinds. The balcony looks empty until he sees a shadow move, and catches a glimpse of Wilson leaning heavily on the balustrade. His shoulders hunch forward, a puff of smoke escaping between his lips. House can see the condensation mingling with his breath and gathering on the windows. If he presses close enough to the window, he can see the hospital wall and... He squints and studies what he sees.

Just along the building wall, Wilson’s shadow dances across the brick, every curve and bend of flesh mimicked in the dark, contouring lines. When he breathes, his shadow’s shoulders lift, and when he drops his fingers from his face, his silhouette’s hand extends and creeps along the wall. Wilson’s shadow imitates perfectly except for one thing. At first House shakes his head to clear his vision, but he knows they’re there. Protruding from Wilson’s shadow are wings.

They stretch out above the rooftop, bows covered in jet black feathers escaping the wall’s boundaries. House inhales sharply and wraps his fingers around his Vicodin, calculating how many he’s taken already, how many he needs to fall asleep, and how much morphine will wash away the sinking feeling in his stomach. The shadowed wings dissolve into nothingness and House concedes to his imagination. He tries to convince himself that it was just an illusion thanks to a lack of sleep and an overload of paperwork, praying he hasn’t lost his mind.

Wilson shifts to reveal the glowing ember of a cigarette tip illuminating the whole night. He inhales slowly, exhaling as smoke circles around his head. House squints and blinks, trying to clear his vision but realizes that this is not just another illusion unlike before. Wilson jams the stub into the stone roughly before tossing it over the ledge. The light tumbles to black, and leaves House pondering what it all means.

----

Wilson shifts in his lawn chair so he can see through House’s balcony door. The room looks empty, iPod removed from its dock, and the backpack usually thrown to one side missing. James rifles through his trouser pockets until he pulls out a solitary cigarette and places it between his lips. House has gone home and for now, James is safe.

On one hand, Wilson plays the role of dutiful doctor (that morning he leaned forward in his chair, sympathy and ‘I’m so sorry’ expressions exeunt from his voice. “John, you’ve got to stop smoking. Essentially, you’re killing yourself, and there’s only so much I can do,” he said, looking John Stevenson, 42, in the eyes while praying the familiar smell couldn’t be detected on his own shirt and hair and skin). On the other hand...

He maneuvers his cigarette with a twist of his mouth, flicking on and off his lighter. His eyes and face light up, seconds at a time as the flame ignites and snuffs out. He lets the tip of his cigarette burn before inhaling slowly, a rush of cloudy heat filling up his lungs.

James loves the thrill of it, the easy addiction he tries to give up time and time again. In all honesty, it’s been a decade since he’s last touched a cigarette until recently and now it only happens once and a great while, relaxing on the balcony alone.

He smokes because maybe House is right; he cares too much and, puts his nose in other people’s business (House’s business). Somewhere between wife number one and wife number three, his sense of adventure and ideas of fun were quelled and quieted. All he owns now remains a cruel, underrated humor and a sardonic grin.

Smoking resolves the ancient feeling buried in his bones, and erases the day’s guilt (the century’s). This addiction looks simple compared to the complexities of James’ desire and unique neediness. This habit pales next to the empty Vicodin bottles littering House’s bedroom, which he hopes justifies his distinct hypocrisy.

“Just... Don’t smoke. Quit,” he demanded sternly. “We’ve got programs here at the hospital to help you. I can refer you to Doctor Ling. She’s wonderful and –”

“Doctor, I understand your concern, but I’m going to die. If I do these programs –”

“You’ll have a better quality of life, John.”

“I’ll always be sick, won’t I? It’s just a question of how long I’ll be sick. I can’t... I can’t do this.”

Doctor Wilson ushered him out, feeling a little bit like Charon – just the in between guy linking John Stevenson and his death. He smiled grimly, watching his patient walk away. It wasn’t a matter of life and death here, just the distinction between two kinds of death. Sitting behind his desk, his hands wavered as he closed the file. He sighed, eyes squeezing shut as he pulled his desk drawer open and rummaged to the bottom for a pack of cigarettes.

When James thinks about it (which he does more often now), he regrets the middle of his life when he decided to become a doctor. He inhales, drowns in the billowing smoke swirling around his head, trying to forget everything (his death, his life, his old age); wishing to be reborn.

----

“What exactly is it that you dream about?”

“Are you... actually going to listen to me, or is this just another ploy to ridicule and mock me?”

“You’re melodramatic, and I can’t help it. I’m curious.”

“You can help it.”

“I – Does it...”

“House.”

“Is it your brother?”

“House.”

“Look, Wilson. I’m your... friend, right? You’ve camped out in my living room for the last three weeks, and here’s what I’ve learned: you’re a bigger pushover than I ever imagined, your pancakes are awesomely awesome –”

“Did you just compliment me?”

“– and you drool and hibernate like a bear.”

“Oh, never mind.”

“And well... that’s it. You’re boring. You have no freakishly weird habits that I can tell; you’re so mind-numbing it drives me nuts!”

“So you’re picking apart the fact that I had a nightmare.”

“Sounds lame, yeah I know, until you got so defensive about it.”

“I’m not here to feed your craving for mystery a-and –”

“And you’re s-s-s-stuttering...”

“And... It was one dream!”

“Give me something to work with here.”

“... Are you... admitting you have a problem?”

“I’m not the one whimpering in my sleep.”

“You need puzzles!”

“Curiosity is not a problem!”

“No, but obsession is a little different. I’ll make a deal with you. Tell me yours.”

“My...?”

“Your dreams. Something significant and I’ll tell you mine.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch here. Not everything has to be a lie, House, and maybe it’s time for you to learn how to handle the truth.”

----

House’s dreams twist and turn, mimicking real life a little too closely. House doesn’t talk about this, doesn’t even hint to the fear behind his eyes until now.

He dreams about Egypt, the heat sizzling from the earth, the rising sun. He won’t discuss his time as a child, but of the ancient pharaohs’ tombs and drinking sweet lotus wine until he’s drunk with lust.

He imagines sliding into Stacy, feeling the heat flush his face just talking about this, how he misses it, needs it, loved it (and loved her). Wilson says nothing but has the decency to look away from the private pain etched upon House’s face.

He dreams about purity, laughter, sinking into quick sand without a single thought flickering through his mind. That’s what he wants: to be empty, thoughtless, fulfilled. Instead, he absorbs useless, mindless information to feed his over-active mind.

“In my sleep... I...” he shrugs uncomfortably under Wilson’s calculating eyes. “I run, y’know... Like I used to.”

He’s never talked about this before, about how much he misses life before the Leg and his youth in general. “I run that route past where the old hospital used to be, down that small road that crosses the river, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Wilson murmurs, voice thick. He folds his hands in his lap, ankles crossed and legs stretched out in front of him. “You would have liked Montreal,” he offers. Neither look at each other, instinctively away of the awkwardness between them. Wilson keeps talking because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It was nice out there, lots of empty roads and... hanging trees. I don’t know. Just silence, your own feet hitting the pavement, your own pulse and breaths keeping time...”

“You’re an aging sentimental fool.”

Wilson doesn’t object as his eyes shutter, mouth twisting downwards. “Maybe. What does that make you? Just an aging fool?”

“Yeah, I guess.” House’s chin drops. “Sometimes I think I’m younger than you.”

“Maybe.”

House dreams about life at thirty, leaving the hospital on his bike with only the clothes on his back. The tires squeal as he swerves down the empty highway outside of Trenton, the heat and sun in his face. He pulls into a gravel driveway and past a mailbox that reads, “Mittleton,” the dust flying up behind him.

He parks the bike and jogs up the porch steps, feet clunking against the heavy stairs as sweet soulful jazz music floats out into the clean air. He knocks on the door, peeking in. “Sela? George?”

“Greg, is that you?” a woman shouts, peering out of the kitchen entryway.

“Um, yeah. Hi.”

The woman – Sela Mittleton – beams, striding forward. A lock of dark hair falls in her face as she grins. “Where’d you hide my daughter?”

“Oh, she’s still in Princeton. I just... I just took a weekend bike ride out of town, and I thought I’d swing in,” he charms, hugging her. “You know how Stacy doesn’t like the bike.”

“Well, it’s great of you to swing by. How is she? Stacy isn’t overworking or –”

“She’s wonderful.”

“You’re taking care of her then?” she asks hopefully, drawing out her words.

“Mrs. Mittleton,” Greg says, because he always says ‘Missus,’ in the way Sela remembers saying such to her neighbors in Louisiana, “I love her, but she doesn’t need me to protect her. She’s quite independent.”

Sela smiles, lips wide with teeth bared in a way Stacy grins when she’s truly happy. She sits on the couch, an old leather sofa that crinkles as Greg sits next to her. Leaning forward, her Southern twang coats her motherly voice, “And how are you? Stacy says you’ve been working every day for the last three weeks.”

Greg shrugs casually and admires the home. He’s visited Stacy’s parents a countless number of times and can’t get over how homey it feels – nothing like the numerous homes he had lived in as a child. He visits here as often as possible, even if the questions are the same, the answers are rehearsed, and the ride out here is more than just a weekend trip.

“I love my job,” he insists, “And the more days I work a week, the fewer hours I have to put in each day.”

“Well, you like that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it works out. I get more sleep that way.”

“How about your friend, James?” Mrs. Mittleton asks, eyes narrowing. She digs a cigarette out of her purse on the antique coffee table and lights it, releasing a plume of smoke in Greg’s face.

“What about him?”

“Just that Stacy mentioned he’s overloaded with work. She’s worried about him.”

“She’s hasn’t said anything to me,” he answers, shifting uncomfortably. “But you know; we’re doctors. We get busy.”

“Well,” she sighs, leaning back into the couch. “That’s okay. We’ve just got to take care of the ones we love. Remember that.”

He nods his head curtly. Outside, the sun disappears behind a storm cloud and Greg makes his excuses. He steps outside thinking about Wilson and how he hasn’t seen him in the past two weeks.

His leg twinges sharply (lacrosse had been brutal the other day), right knee bending as it gives out unexpectedly. He walks it off slowly and hops on the motorcycle, wondering if he can beat the storm coming.

The engine roars to life and he wakes up.

----

“You’re turn.”

“My turn?”

“A deal is a deal.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you have short term memory loss?”

“...Fine. You’re going to be here for awhile.”

----

Do you believe in old souls? Past lives? I know I’m Jewish, but I can’t help but believe all that Eastern philosophy: rebirth – a continuous life cycle. At some point, I’m sure I’ve walked these streets before when it was only dirt and I had no place to go.

When I... When I dream, I’m me but I’m not James Evan Wilson. There’s no lab coat or an empty apartment. I’m different. In my sleep I recreate myself into many different things. It’s... complicated but it feels right. Like a habit.

Sometimes I’m not even human. It sounds ridiculous, I know but just listen. Sometimes I’m a wolf trekking through the forest. I always know the route, each tree, where not to step, and how to stay hidden. I feel calmest then. It must be the oldest part of me.

Or... God, you’ll never let me live this down, will you? I sometimes dream I’m in the ocean swimming. I don’t feel anything inside, but I can practically feel the currents and taste the salt as I drift further and further away from daylight.

Or I’m in an old home, standing with my two brothers –

Or I’m holding a little boy’s hand down the sidewalk, crossing the street as he tells me what he learned in class –

Or I’m sitting at a café in Paris, leaning into the shade with a cigarette in my hand –

Or – or... I’m running down a rustic road just outside of Montreal, going nowhere. Going nowhere, House.

And the wings? I fly sometimes, so high that the air thins and I dissolve into nothingness, falling down with the rain and the wind. I am an old soul, reborn but never forgotten. I’m part of the earth, and each life I live I take with me, fashioned in my dreams.

I don’t remember everything. I have only glimpses of past lives, memories dredged from the bottom of my mind. All I really know are the different forms of cancer and their treatments. I know that Elena hated pancakes, and Mary loved glories, and Julie came home smelling like some other man’s cologne. I know... I know you, House.

And what now? Someday we won’t know each other anymore; I won’t remember anything. Maybe I’ll think about you in a dream to only wake up in a struggle to conjure your face.

Someday, I’ll just forget.

----

Wilson and House spend the evening on their respective sides of the balcony. The sun sets, an orange glow illuminating and reflecting off the windows and darkening their shadows. There stills, hovering around them in silence. They’ve both talked enough for the night.

For a second, House can see the shadowed wings and old running shoes (Perhaps Wilson had wing-tipped shoes; the god of the people and messenger between the earth and heavens. House smiles; how fitting). He can picture Wilson at the bottom of the ocean – just another rippling current – can smell the cigarette stench beginning to stain their clothes. House palms a Vicodin before swallowing it, briefly wondering how many lifetimes it will take to cease his addiction to addictions.

Late that night, House slings his bag over his shoulder, leaning out the balcony door to check for Wilson. The oncologist’s lights are off, and when House shuffles into the parking garage he sees Wilson’s Volvo missing. He hops on his bike, revving the engine while savoring the gasoline stench.

For the duration of his ride home, the streets remain empty. If he had to guess what time it is, he’d say eleven – maybe twelve at night – but House doesn’t count anymore, not since he realized time has no impact on eternity. He only knows that his bones and muscles ache, and his mind begs for sleep. He leans left, swerving onto Baker Street with one hand on his prescription bottle and the other fiercely tightened on the handle bar.

Inside the lights are off, apartment silent and still. He can smell the take out pizza from the kitchen and finds a half eaten box on the table. Déja vu, he thinks. He’s walked through this room and down the same hallway. He’s limped into the living room to find Wilson muttering quietly in the dark.

He inches forward and peers over the couch (manic gleam, et al) and finds the other man sleeping. He listens intently to the shallow breaths, the slurred words tumbling over themselves.

“God, d-d-don’t,” the oncologist mutters, thrashing his head to the side. A slick of drool rolls down his neck and collects in the battered McGill t-shirt.

“Don’t what?” House asks, tilting his head to one side.

Wilson rolls over, flipping until his face buries into the couch, voice muffled. “Don’t t-t-touch my w-wings,” he whispers, unfazed and still dreaming. “Don’t touch my wings!”

House drops his chin to his chest and lets a smile slip in between his scruffy patches of facial hair (because it’s okay to smile when no one looks), and asks to the air, “Don’t what?”

“D-don’t. Don’ttouchmywings.”

The room falls silent as House holds his breath and Wilson rolls over again onto his back, jaw already slack as another pool of saliva slowly trails down the curve of his lip and the jut of his chin. House leans heavily on his cane and peers inside the open-ended, cavernous depths of Wilson’s mouth.

The sun peeks through the curtains, and House’s leg twinges. It’s time for another Vicodin, and he limps away contemplating Wilson’s wings. He imagines the dark shadows, sweeping feathers arching across his living room as he reaches for the amber pill bottle.

----

They bump into each other at a gas station off the side of the highway, one man clad in dark khakis and a button down shirt, another in a leather jacket. Coffee flies across the aisle as they crash into one another, slipping on the spilled drink. Both tumble to the ground.

“I’m sorry –”

“Watch where you’re going –”

“Sorry, so sorry. I guess I was in a rush.” They slowly stagger upwards, leaning heavily on the countertop and nearby shelves. “Hey... Do I know you?”

“What?”

“Yeah, you look... really familiar.”

“Don’t think so. I don’t hang around with you suburbia types, especially not after toppling hot coffee on me.”

“Again, I apologize but... Are you from around here?”

“Yeah, but I’m heading south to New Orleans. You?”

“Newlywed, taking a vacation here.”

“Ah.”

They glance around uncomfortably.

“But now that you mention it, you do look familiar. James... James Wilson?”

“No, sorry. Kenton Yates from New Jersey. But maybe we’re just getting names mixed up. George – Greg? – House?”

“Nope.”

“Ah.”

“Well...”

“It was nice to meet you nonetheless. Sorry ‘bout the coffee.”

“Uh huh.”

They get in their respective vehicles. One man and his wife drive north, the other on his bike speeds dangerously south.

----fin





Congratulations! You made it to the end!

Comments? -hopeful smile-