Warning/Spoiler: Spoilers for the finale of season 8 of course. Off-fic character death. :)
Summary: Does dying really change anything?
Written for Halloween challenge, more specifically for the suggestion of a 'Ghost!Wilson fic that wasn't terribly sad.'
Disclaimer: These are not my people, just using them for my own personal jollies.
.
He's bouncing pebbles off the grass. If he had the inclination he would line them in diamond formation like he used to do at Scout camp.
But the ground is sodden; the blades of grass bending against their will against the pounding rain, and the pebbles are sinking as soon as they hit the moist earth.
He isn't dressed for the occasion and he has to keep pulling at his sweater to stop it sticking to his skin. His jeans are already a lost and soggy cause and his hair is matted and sticking to his face.
House is a little late leaving the hospital. He guesses a seizure, or a bleeding orifice that's keeping him; it's usually one of the two.
He waves as House exits the glass doors and limps towards the parking lot. His face is one of consternation, his expression is sombre.
"You still here?"
"Yep."
.
.
"What do you do when I'm at work?"
He itches his wrist and rolls up his sleeves. "Not much. Walk around mostly. Sometimes abuse your TiVo. Go to the movies."
House looks decidedly unimpressed. "Is that it?"
"What else do you expect me to do?"
"Well, just… something not boring, like going in the women's changing rooms or rob a bank. There are a million better things that you could be doing."
"I may be dead House but I'm not morally bankrupt."
"You are the dullest dead guy ever." House stuffs a handful of potato chips into his mouth. "I'm disappointed in you Wilson."
"Because I'm not drilling peepholes and robbing money which I can't even use?" He rolls his eyes. "Fine, I'll steal a helicopter next Friday and plant a whoopee cushion in The White House the following Monday."
"I'll give you three-hundred bucks if you do the whoopee cushion thing."
"Yeah, because I have a lot of use for money these days."
.
.
It's odd.
Not experiencing thirst or hunger, or that twang in you bladder when you need to use the bathroom. It's taken a bit of getting used to, admittedly. It's been peculiar not having a sandwich during Jeopardy or Thai food during Law and Order.
Now he just stares at whatever House is devouring on his plate with intense jealousy.
.
.
"House?"
"What?"
"Are you not freaked out by this?"
"By what?"
"This! Me. Me being here. Around… here."
"Yes."
"Then why-"
"I was." House's gaze shifts to the bathroom. "I thought I was losing my mind again, you know."
He winces as he hears those words.
"But then I thought, so what. Doesn't matter. I'd rather have you here than not at all."
.
.
They say the dead hang around because they have unfinished business, or a balance that needs readdressing.
He has neither of those things on his books.
Maybe he just likes it here.
Maybe this works.
.
.
They are near his burial plot and he feels comically under-dressed. Even House has made an effort by ironing his shirt, but here he stands in the same dishevelled outfit made up of a sagging sweater and a pair of crinkled jeans. He wishes he had died in something a little more presentable, a nice chequered shirt perhaps or at least a creaseless t-shirt. Shoes would have been a boon, but people rarely succumb to cancer with their shoes on.
They squelch their way through the sticky turf. House's cane gets wedged in the mud occasionally as he limps through the rows of curved marble.
"I don't know why you come here so often."
"I have to pay my respects."
"You see me anyway." As House shuffles the flowers in his hand he notices the ragweed amongst the small bunch of chrysanthemums. "Oh that's really nice. Nice to see you pranking me even in death."
"Dying doesn't change anything, Wilson." House places the flowers and weed on the headstone and smiles.
.
.
"Do you smell?"
"Do I smell?" His eyebrows knit in confusion. "Do I smell as in do I physically smell or do I smell as in 'I can smell your feet and they smell like chemical warfare', which they do by the way."
House waves a hand and slips his glass of scotch onto the table. "You've been wearing those clothes forever."
"I can't just change. I don't have a wardrobe any more, or clothes of my own for that matter." He sniffs his sweater. "Do I smell?"
"Well I don't know. That's why I asked you."
"I can't tell if I smell."
"Why not?"
"It's my smell."
"Surely, you can smell your own smell Wilson."
"I don't know if I smell my own smell. I can't tell."
"Well I can't smell you that's why I'm asking."
"Well I can't smell me so-"
"But…" House drunkenly flaps his hand, "…forget I asked."
House leaves him on the sofa, his nose still buried in his sweater.
.
.
They celebrate what would have been his 46th birthday by watching Die Hard: an ironic title given his own method of quiet expiration.
They've watched this movie a hundred times or more and they know the script word for word.
"Yippie-ki-yay motherfucker," they mutter as Bruce Willis dispatches a terrorist through a window.
.
.
"House?"
House sighs. "What? I'm trying to watch Danny Glover be too old for this shit."
He licks his lips. "Are you sure that you're okay with this?
House presses his hands against his eyes. "We're not going through this again."
"Because I can-"
"Shut up."
"Hou-"
"Look, I don't give a damn. If you're a hallucination then fine and well done for being one of the most vivid and annoying hallucinations of all time. If you're not a hallucination then fine. You're here, you're sitting with me watching some South Africans getting their ass handed to them by Mel Gibson's mullet and Danny Glover's moustache. Whatever this is is fine." House pauses, awaiting a hesitant response.
"Bu-"
"So shut up, sit down, and watch the damn movie."
.
.
It's been eight months since he died and he is still hanging around. He's not sure if this is limbo or if this is his own personal humdrum heaven.
But he's okay with this, and, more importantly, House seems okay with this.
And if this is all there is and he has to spend the rest of his time lounging in the same old clothes, smelling the same old Pepperoni pizza, sitting in the company of the same old miserable ass of a man, then that's fine with him.