Title: Redux & Reiteration
Author: SrslyNo
Summary: Have House and Wilson lived past lives? Is that why there friendship is screwed up? Can you imagine them in a duel?
Characters: House and Wilson friendship, squint for pre-slash, Tritter OOC, Chase.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Angst. AU. Set right before "Birthmarks."
Disclaimer: Borrowing the characters from the show. Promise to have them dry-cleaned before returning.
Beta: Heartfelt thanks to amazing betas, bookfan85 and leakey_lover.
A/N: Written for sick!wilson fest. Prompt: 78. Wilson is bothered by a past life.
Concrit welcome.
Wilson returned to Amber's apartment.
He had to remember to call it his now.
Sitting on the couch, running his hands through his hair, he leaned his face into them, covering his eyes. He was a muddle of emotions, back from one of the many therapy groups he'd joined. He felt lighter for going, but guilty. He didn't speak about the friendship that he threw away.
"Not only do you lie to constables, but you also lie to others."
Looking up, Wilson was startled to see a very tall man with white hair and light blue eyes standing in front of him wearing clothes from a different era. The stranger resembled…Detective Tritter.
There could only be one reason for this hallucination – he finally tipped over the edge of insanity. Wanting to yell, he willed himself to stay calm, wondering how to get rid of a bad memory dressed in a bad suit of clothes. Before there was time to say or do anything, the man emitted a dry chuckle and spoke again.
"Forget about showing me the door, Dr. Wilson. Yes, you are looking at an iteration of someone you know as Michael Tritter. A time warp made from a hall of mirrors. I come from the past. You know the detective from his 35th reincarnation. His soul is punching a lot of overtime hours on the time clock, so I've earned a few hours of down time.
"But it's not my soul I came to discuss. It's yours. Before i start, do you have something to smoke? Chew?"
Wilson shook his head, stunned.
"A toothpick?"
All Wilson managed to do was shake his head again. He was on silent running. Frozen in time, only his dark eyes followed the man around the apartment as the oddly clad figure studied the items around him. Drawn to the kitchen, he stood in the center and gave each appliance his full attention. Pointing to the tall rectangle box. "So this is a refrigerator?" He opened the freezer door, touching the metal to see how cold it was. "Beat's a root cellar any day."
"I checked Best Buy and Costco. Seems they're fresh out of root cellars. A side-by-side was the best they could offer," was Wilson's lame rejoinder.
The former cop was dressed like he stepped out of a romance novel. Light brown trousers stuffed into gleaming black calfskin boots. A mossy green fitted jacket that stopped at the waist in front but grew into long flowing tails in the back. It covered a vivid blue silk embroidered waistcoat that was meant to intensify the watered down pigment of his eyes, but failed. A snowy white shirt with a high collar and cravat, locked into place with a jeweled gold pin, completed the ensemble. It looked damned uncomfortable.
"It is damned uncomfortable, but it's what gentlemen wore in 1821." The man turned around, with his chest out and arms behind his back.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wilson was convinced that he missed the exit for "rational" and was probably barreling past "unhinged." Reaching for his cell, he prayed that his therapist was still in her office.
"It's unnecessary for you to make the call, Dr. Wilson. You're not addled or dreaming. I'm here for a purpose, but first allow me to introduce myself. I'm Judge Micah Travers."
Wilson hoped his delusion was chemically induced. His medication was either too much, too little, or too wrong. Without excusing himself, he darted into the bathroom, examining the prescription label and pills, but his hands shook so badly the tablets scattered to the floor or rattled into the sink. He groaned when a warm puff of air tickled his ear, and a voice whispered, "I told you. You're fine."
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
Knowing that answering upped any psychotic symptoms to "certifiable," Wilson faced the man looming over him and huffed, "Is this one of your sadistic games meant to drive me crazy?"
Not touching him, the all too human ghost stretched out an arm, speaking soothingly, "I'm not here to exacerbate Tritter's wrongdoings. Come sit down. I'll explain."
Not knowing what else to do, the doctor sat back down on the couch.
"You and House have a shared destiny, but the two of you continue to allow your friendship to go off-track. It's happening again, right now."
Wilson's eyebrows drew together.
"You both are young souls. He's lived four lifetimes to your five, but the two of you never miss a chance to be together, whether it's as father and son, brothers or friends. However, each time you misread each other, and have to keep coming back."
Through a haze of sputtering and upraised hands, Wilson said, "Oh no. If you're tr-trying to tell me that House and I are soul mates, then think again. We're bad for each other and deadly to others."
The blue-gray eyes leveled at the brown. "Or, so you believe. The two of you defined 'rerun' long before there was television. Your loyalty and affection for each other, interspersed with disagreements are most entertaining. The one you call Chase? While hanging out for his third reincarnation he began a betting pool as a pleasant diversion for other souls anticipating upcoming "in-body" experiences. Many don't expect you to ever understand each other until the next millennium, and with global warming, you may have to settle your differences as cockroaches."
Wilson's head bobbed with nervous energy. "Yes, well you haven't exactly helped the friendship along."
"Sometimes none of it makes sense unless it's defined as a test. All the echoes of myself have roles to play in the universe too. Travers shrugged. "Didn't stop the two of you from mending fences, did it? At least you're more civilized now. You don't come to blows or use guns."
Wilson could feel a headache coming on. He wished he had a gun of his own to stop it. Coupled with the pounding in his head, he had a sinking feeling.
"We shot at each other?"
"Ah. Of course, you don't remember. Forgive me."
Bile was threatening to ignore gravity. Wilson could taste it in the back of his throat, but didn't betray his distress. "I'm not an expert on past life experiences. Don't play cat and mouse with me."
The cosmic earthling sat down with a flourish, lifting his coat tails, crossing his legs, and brushing a fleck of invisible dust from his wool-covered thigh in one smooth movement.
Wilson imagined the nonesuch routine took hours to perfect.
"More like days, but that's beside the point." Clearing his throat, Travers continued, "I'm here to show you how your friendship first went wrong and out-of-control. Perhaps, if objectively observed, you could break the pattern. Even though the names are different, you should recognize the players. Consider reincarnation no more than a repertory company performing a series of plays."
Intrigued, Wilson leaned forward. "Go on," he encouraged.
Conversely, the man next to him sat back and stretched out his legs. He began, "You two first met in the city where you always first meet…"
New Orleans - 1821
The sun banished the stars from the horizon. The day was heating up from the languorous night.
Beyond the humid cypress swamps, a heavy mist breathed up from the ground, dimming the outline of several grazing horses, a lone wagon and five men standing in a secluded meadow. The patch of green was protected by the long dark shadows of pine trees.
A few great oaks invaded the open area.
A small company of elms stood by for support.
Under a mighty canopied oak the men split up into two small groups. One man, a doctor and neutral party to the proceedings, walked back and forth checking if either of the seconds were making progress with the prospective combatants.
Dr. Charles was young and competent, with dirty blond hair that brushed across his forehead and curled around his ears. Women and men commented alike that he was too pretty for his own good.
Standing with his back against the broad tree trunk, Charles rummaged through his satchel for the tenth time, assuring himself that he had packed all the right equipment: tools to dig out lead bullets and plenty of gauze. "Damned idiots," he growled under his breath in a slightly off British accent.
The snorts and soft nickers of horses intertwined through conversations he heard on both sides of him. Terse words were traded between the older men, Travers and Hough, and the two Wilkins brothers were squabbling again.
"James, listen to me. Hough is your closest friend," pleaded David. "After our parents died and Jonathan never returned from the battlefield, it was Hough who took it upon himself to raise us as if we were his own kin. He managed Southern Elms for you until you reached majority."
"And, yet today, he is busy preparing to kill me," James answered.
"No one here would blame you or say anything if you stood down. You can't believe Julia is worth getting injured or dying over, and you know from being his second what a crack shot Hough is."
"Not to mention helping to patch up not a few scratches and grazes he received from jealous husbands." His hands trembled as James momentarily covered his eyes. "Don't remind me."
David risked placing a hand on his brother's arm. As close as the young men were, they seldom touched.
"You're willing to ruin your friendship or face worse to protect your fiancée? You confided in me right after the announcement, you had misgivings."
James held his ground. "It doesn't matter now. Julia's honor was called into question. For Hough to publicly declare her a 'black widow' was unforgivable. Her reputation is ruined if I don't marry her."
Seeing nothing but cold determination in the dark brown eyes, David implored, "Don't be a stubborn ass. At least, talk to him one more time."
Not looking his brother in the eye, James answered softly, "If he wants to retract his statement, then he should make the first move."
Much the same kind of conversation was going on at the other side of the tree. Judge Travers, in the role of second, did his best to convince his long-time neighbor of the folly in continuing the duel.
He eyed the eccentric before him, trying to find the best way to dissuade his headstrong tendencies. Just like his rumpled clothes, the unshaven face of Gregory Hough gave no testimony to the early hour. Not a man to follow society's dictates, he could be found sporting wrinkles, creases, and stubble whether it was midnight or midday.
Puffing on the stub of a cigar, Travers asked, "You know you are behaving like an imbecile?"
"I suppose if I don't agree with you, you're going to hold me in contempt," answered Hough.
"I already do, and if it prevents you from committing murder, all the better." The Judge found Hough to be contentious but stimulating company. A man who made up his own laws as he saw fit,
"You think I would dirty my best ammunition on that moron over there? I explained my plan," Hough sneered.
Judge Travers continued to stare and assess the man he'd known since childhood. Until the day he died, he'd never understand how the pigheaded fool's mind worked. No discourse or reasoning ever progressed in a straight line.
He pulled the remnant of the cigar from his mouth and crushed it underfoot into the soft wet grass. "It's in your best interest and his if you talk to him one last time."
Eyes downcast, Hough nodded assent, adding, "It most likely will be."
The two former friends met in the center of the field. They peered past one another to the trees behind them rather than look each other in the eye. If they did, their pride and arguments might crumble to dust.
Hough urged, "You know I'm right. Your fiancée is no more than a greedy fortune hunter interested in your estate."
"Odd how your apologies always come out like accusations. What do you want me to do? Break off the engagement? Be a cad like you were with Sarah?"
Shrugging, Hough explained, "Sarah and I were wrong for each other. I saved her years of tears by telling her to go find someone else she could coddle and give orders to." Looking away into the distance. "It didn't take her long to find a replacement in Marcus.
"Of course, your case is different. Julia would see to it that you were happy and never notice what hit, tripped or poisoned you until it was too late, just like her first two unsuspecting husbands. Is it worth jeopardizing your life to prove I'm wrong?"
Wilkins's hands moved to his hips. "I have no choice in the matter. Didn't you consider for once how speaking your mind freely would affect me? That I'd be forced into defending her?"
In their anger both men's eyes met the other. Both experienced regret. In everything they always found compromise, except when it came to the women who corroded their friendship.
"I'm sorry, Wilkins." Hough issued the apology to the grass under his boots.
"For what?"
"Annabel's death. I should have been there for you. Instead Julia took advantage of your loss and loneliness."
"It was malaria. There was nothing you could to do. Besides, you didn't like her either." Wilkins snorted.
Each stared at the other the way a sailor in a becalmed ship yearned for land.
Neither could think of anything to say to bridge the distance between them.
They walked back to their seconds.
The next time they met, they were nearly touching back-to-back.
Flintlocks raised in salute.
Coats off, their fine linen shirts fluttered at the slightest gust of wind.
Paces were counted from one to twenty.
They pivoted and stood with only the sides of their bodies exposed as targets.
The doctor reluctantly announced, "On the count of three."
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
There was no fiery discharge. Neither gun went off.
A small voice wafted across the gulf between them. "Greg, I don't want to do this. For God's sake. Any apology will do." The gun shook unsteadily.
Hough took deliberate aim. Fired. A blast of flame and smoke…
The bullet went wide.
Startled, Wilkins finger jerked. A roar and the scent of brimstone and a cloud filled the air in front of him.
When the smoke cleared, Hough lay on the ground.
James's legs turned to rubber as he stumbled toward his friend. Charles reached the fallen figure first, spreading a coat over the elegant form, but a scarlet flower spread out from Hough's chest.
The doctor looked up and pronounced, "He's gone."
"No! It can't be!" He tried to get closer, but David and Travers stopped him and held him back. Try as he might, he couldn't overcome them.
Deep hurt formed behind David's eyes. "You must leave here at once. If the authorities find out—"
"—That is…anyone other than me…" added the Judge.
"…You'll be tried for murder," David completed.
"No. I can't just run away…"
James couldn't stop looking at Hough's limp body as his brother and Travers dragged him toward his horse.
David's voice barely penetrated his grief. "You must. Listen to me, James. Speak to no one. Get to Aunt Ivy and Uncle Jacob's farm in Tennessee as fast as possible. Tell them you broke off your engagement indiscreetly and can't show your face anywhere in Louisiana. I'll write and let you know when it's safe for you to return."
David's face was wet as he embraced his brother. James could not comprehend all that was happening, but he sought comfort and hugged back. The Judge watched the brothers say goodbye, and when James mounted the mare, he slapped the horse firmly on the rump to quicken her start.
The doctor joined them as they all watched intently until both rider and horse were well out of sight and the sound of hooves had faded away. The three glanced at one another and then at the fallen man.
"Get this thing off me." A voice croaked from the carcass.
All three kneeled to look at the extent of the injury. The blood on the chest was a sham. A theatrical trick first thought up by Hough and implemented by the Judge. A prime pig had been sacrificed to the cause.
Underneath the coat that was used as a blanket, the right thigh was soaked in blood. Rising up on his elbows, the injured man barked orders between gritted teeth.
"Remove the bullet, now. Then, take me home."
The young doctor ran for his bag as Travers drew a flask from his pocket, handing it to Hough.
Waiting for the whiskey to do its job, Hough turned to the three. "You think he bought it?"
David answered for all, "My brother was too scared out of his wits with grief to think straight." Staring significantly into the blue eyes, he said, "Only you could do that to him. He's probably crossing into the last parish by now."
Travers held his friend down. Hough nearly snapped a small oak branch in his teeth while Charles fished the bullet out of sinewy muscle. A liberal dousing of the doctor's own brand of whiskey drenched the wound before he applied a heavy dressing.
David trod through the tall grass to get the waiting wagon, silently giving thanks that it's purpose was to comfortably accommodate Hough's tall frame, and not employ it as a hearse.
While they waited, few words were traded until the doctor was roused to speak. In on the plan from the start, but never believing that it would work, he aired cynical amazement at the foolish act. "You took a big chance, trusting James wouldn't kill you."
Propped up with his back against the tree, Hough shook his head. "Wilkins would never shoot me. It was just bad luck on my part that he chose the gun with the hair trigger."
"But instead of a bullet to your leg, you could have taken one to your head."
"And it would have had the same effect. Gotten Wilkins out of Louisiana and out of the clutches of the angelic but evil Julia.'"
"How will you explain to him that you're alive when it's safe for him to return?"
The question lingered in the air until Judge Travers answered. "He's not ever coming back. David will keep telling him it's unsafe until that praying mantis of a woman gets her clutches into another man, and James finally settles down in Tennessee. He's better off there. If he found out Hough's plan, he'd fall apart. You can never breathe a word about this."
Dr. Charles cast his eyes toward his patient who was woozy but still awake. "So you're willing never to see your friend again? Isn't that a high price to pay?"
The throbbing in his leg was getting the better of him, but before he slipped into unconsciousness, Hough replied, "Better an alive friend that I never see, than a dead one I can only visit at the cemetery."
Wilson sat bathed in cold sweat. He knew Travers's story was not a mere tale.
He was there. He lived it. He was Wilkins. He felt the warm air ruffle his shirt and hair. The hard saddle as he galloped away, traumatized and heartbroken, thinking he had killed his best friend.
"I thought it was about time that you learned the truth," Travers explained.
A new reality hit Wilson. His voice cracked with emotion.
"I injured House's leg."
"You were the first of many."
"There were more times between then and now?"
Travers shrugged, "What can I say? The man was cut from tragic cloth."
Wilson found he couldn't swallow. The spit was spooked out of him. "What happened after that? I never went back?"
"No, you never did. You eventually inherited your aunt and uncle's property. Established a line of thoroughbreds. You never married," Travers explained calmly.
"And, House? Hough?"
The former and future officer of the law thinly smiled. "His leg left him a cripple. He needed a cane to march down the aisle when he married the black widow."
Discomfort and jealousy overcame guilt. "You mean, that was House's plan all along? He wanted her for himself?"
"I mean House wanted her off the market so she couldn't kill any more men. Dr. Charles confided in me that between the pair, he could retire on their fees alone. It was one illness or accident after the other.
"Within five years, Julia was laid to rest in a crypt built for one. No one went to her funeral, but there were rumors, and House was somewhat of an outcast after that. Not that he cared."
For the first time, Travers seemed embarrassed. "With all his spare time, he took up the art of smoking cigars. I taught him everything I knew."
Wilson was drained and miserable. He leaned back on the couch. "I'm the one who set off the events that maimed House. It's all my fault because I didn't realize that he was watching out for me."
"Don't take on all the blame. There's more than enough to go around. Thing is, I'm starting with you first, but House deserves a visit to talk about his manipulations. Don't forget you were a pawn in his master plan.
"That's karma for you. Everyone has their part to play until they get it right. After two hundred years, your decision to resign from the hospital and hide away from House is heading you down another worm hole. I thought you should know. At this rate, it's going to take another two hundred years to work everything out, and my bet ends after 2010."
"I see." Wilson was feeling incredibly tired. He was overrun by sadness and guilt. He always thought he knew how to make safe choices and five lives later he discovered that he couldn't be more wrong.
His head felt as heavy as a bowling ball, but he questioned, "What should I do about it? Run to House and kiss him on the lips so you can win the pool? What do you win, exactly?"
"Free TiVo. That way I don't miss any "Law and Order" shows while Tritter is filing bogus police reports."
Travers watched as Wilson couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and his chin fell against his chest.
As he drifted out the door, the Judge whispered, "And you, Doctor Wilson, won't remember any of this, except an overpowering urge to rebuild your friendship with one of the most unselfish jerks on the planet."
Riiiiing!
Riiiiing!
Wilson's head came up with a start.
Riiiiing!
He grabbed for the phone.
"Yes, hello, Blythe...John finally passed? I'm so sorry for your loss…Greg won't come to the funeral?..."
Wilson paused before answering, rubbing the tension out of his neck.
"We'll both be there."
fin
Thank you for reading. Any and all comments welcome.