Hey all! I know I've a lot of unfinished stuff on FFN but here's something that came to me. May be slightly OOC, but yeah, well. Here ya go.
When Wilson had first come to live with House, he'd knocked on the door in the middle of the night. And House had opened it, for a change. House had looked at him for one infinitely long second, in the same way he studied a patient, the same way he studied objects in the distance when he was thinking. And he'd opened the door and let him in without a word. House always had acid, he remembered thinking, but he knew when to use it.
House was never cruel without reason.
It only occurred to Wilson, later on, that House hadn't even seen the baggage. He hadn't known about the split—he'd just known something was wrong, and opened his home. He suddenly felt warmth and affection for House, which lasted a grand total of ten seconds before he realised House had salted his coffee.
But either way, he had his stuff, and House had told him to put it in that room. Not the storeroom, not the closet and not the spare bedroom. Wilson wondered why he couldn't sleep there, before realizing it had a small infestation issue. House knew he hated bugs. He had liked House in a soft, fuzzy totally un-House way, before discovering that a cat had died on that couch.
That room was a place either of them rarely went. Full of random stuff, ranging from an old electric keyboard to a dried up hula skirt. A bizarre image of House doing a hula-dance flickered through his head one day, and he laughed and laughed and laughed. And that day, House dosed him with amphetamines. He supposed he showed all the signs of being on depression meds.
He had put his suitcases, his old family albums, his mothers wedding dress (he didn't know why he had it), his brother's basket ball and his childhood mementos in that room. He put everything that truly mattered, in some deep sentimental way.
Many years down the road it struck him that he never took that stuff out of there, even when he got married again (and again). Maybe it was a premonition that he'd be back.
So when they were older and living together constantly, Wilson decided it was time to root up those memories. House quoted something in Hindi and fell asleep. He'd said it meant that there's no point digging up old graves. A shiver ran down his spine as he considered what else, in that room, could be equated to dead bodies.
Wilson went through his photo albums and held his brother's ball for a while. He stroked his mother's dress and caught a scent of the lavender perfume she always wore. It was still there, after all those years.
He looked around the dusty room and suddenly felt nine again, in his grandfather's attic, looking for ancient pirate gold, before his brother, David, had told him that Pirates didn't put their gold in attics, doofus. The room was coated in dust, and the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the filthy windows, giving the room a glow. He suddenly noted a box that he'd never noted before. He went over to it, tripping over Houses' skipping rope in the process. It opened easily, unlike most of the other stuff in that room, which had been securely fastened shut. Bad memories, House had told him, in a completely serious way, before leaving. When House spoke like that it meant that every word was truth in its ultimate form, with no deceptions.
On top was a miniature version of the Taj Mahal, made of real marble, with tiny details etched into the cold stone. Despite it looking pathetic compared to the real thing, he felt connected to that young House, whom he knew had loved the building on sight (no, he had not admitted it) and who had wanted to take home a piece of that perfection. He remembered that House had once told him about the Taj Mahal. About how you feel you're no longer on Earth, in the silence of full-moon nights when everyone sits down and is quiet for a moment, simply for the reason of not being noisy.
He set it aside. It reminded him of House's less-than-perfect parents, and he thought maybe it reminds him of the same thing. He shivered at the thought. House though he was a masochist because he felt other people's pain. He didn't know what to call House, who punished himself more than he had ever punished anyone else.
Underneath lay a sandalwood fan, with a small red knot thingy attached to the bottom end. It was carved and polished, a lady's fan. Wilson felt unbelievably gay as he took it out and tried it, but was gratified to feel the puff of air on his face in the still room, scented slightly with sandalwood. He turned it around and almost dropped it in his shock. The other end was splattered in blood. Who's blood, he had no clue, but his strange mind pulled a connection. It looked exactly like House's blood on the buffed hospital floors where it had splattered after… after… He couldn't continue. He told himself he was being ridiculous. Everyone's blood looked the same. But his mind insisted, so he put it aside, as far away as he could reach.
Yet below lay a certificate of achievement for winning first prize in second grade Talentime. He smiled. He should have this frame. He could just imagine how proud House's parents must have been, knowing that their son was so musically talented…
"And the Top prize goes to… Gregory House!!!" cheering and clapping as parents and students alike celebrate that beautiful piano piece played by that young boy. His mother cheering, and his father… his father sitting as stoically as normal.
Reaching home in silence lessened by Blythe's happy chattering, not completely covering the fear and the anger underneath. Once out of the cab John holding his shoulder a little tighter than friendly. Going into the house and sending Blythe to bed, claiming to want to speak to Greg about things only a father should talk about. Greg being alone in a small living room with his father. Quiet tones, more menacing than a yell could ever be. The close-to-silent sound of a zipper being undone…
He shuddered violently as thoughts regaled his mind. Thoughts he didn't want to think.
He shoved it away. House was unbelievable. He didn't know if he could have kept all these painful memories. Not him.
He rifled through a few more things… The letter terminating House's scholarship, his graduation hat, and moth-eaten silk robe, a Shakespearean novel which he'd loved, some inspirational bookmark which Greg had probably laughed at but kept, just for kicks. Or for a girl he'd loved back then.
He took out and looked at all the stuff, but didn't really see it. He could smell classic House on the robes. He'd probably never washed them. He could see House's childhood in front of his eyes. The strange alone-ness of being as special as House, as isolated.
He felt eyes boring into his back and he turned around. House was standing behind him, watching. He didn't look angry (thank god)… He didn't look…anything. He was just watching with a measure of caution. Wilson had the manners to look apologetic. House looked shocked for a second and something flashed across his face and was wiped off before he could recognise it. House hobbled over and kneeled before Wilson could get up. He tried to say he was sorry, that he didn't mean to pry, but before he could, House beat him to it. Again.
He put his finger on his lips and rummaged through the box. Wilson wasn't so sure he wanted to see anymore. House kept giving him these wary looks, as if worried he might suddenly run away—Oh. That's what he was worried about. That Wilson wouldn't like his past. Wilson didn't smile, because House's childhood was nothing to smile about. He just looked at him, trying to talk to him with his expression. Somehow, speaking to him now would destroy the moment.
House pulled out a piece of pink paper, one of those thin receipt type things. He gave it to Wilson, and somehow looked ashamed. Wilson unfolded it and found that it was a receipt for that time when he'd first met House, and House had bailed him out of prison. They'd both bonded over the worst coffee on the face of the Earth. He'd never forget it.
House was looking for something again. He pulled out a miniature scooter which Wilson had bought him. He'd been so pissed when Wilson had bought it, that he thought House'd have thrown it away. It was a pretty piece, very realistic. Made of platinum and some darker metal, cold under his fingers. It had cost him a pretty penny, but he had to get it for House. It made him—happy, to think that House had kept it after all these years. It was nice to think that House did value these things. That House would remember…
And suddenly he realised what had been eluding him all this while. What he'd never even considered thinking about. House had said it before he'd even come into the room. There's no point digging up old graves…
It wasn't about keeping the things. It was about remembering. It wasn't about not forgetting or knowing how far they'd come and what they'd become. It was about being. It was about now. Here and now. And what they had, right in front of them.
House had seen the look on Wilson's face and had realised that Wilson had realised what House had known all along. He got up, wincing slightly. Wilson jumped to help him, but House brushed him off. He seemed to hesitate, but placed his hand on Wilson's head, and brought it down to his cheek. It was smooth and full and young, unlike his own. He considered for a moment, and pulled his hand away. Wilson had stood still, savoring the rare contact, giving back as much as House did, without moving.
"C'mon, Jimmy." His voice sounded tired and old, and Wilson felt a pang and hated being younger than House. It meant that—that… He didn't want to think about it, so he wouldn't break down. He decided to just think about now.
Wilson nodded, and they walked out, Wilson's gait unconsciously matching House's. The setting sun shone, and the moon came out on the other side as House shut the door behind them.
They never went back to that room again. After all, the past didn't count. Only Now did.
Well? REVIEW!!!
Love,
Lady Merlin