"Love is not a victory march; it's a cold and broken Hallelujah."
Disclaimer: characters not mine. Neither is the show. And actually – the poems aren't mine either. The one titled "Angel in my Dreams" was written and belongs to my friend Mike. The short, titleless one was written and belongs to my best friend Yukari Youkai (read her stories). I had my friends write poems for me because I can't think that fast when it comes to poetry. ENJOY! OH! And anyone who finds the line from Dead Poets Society gets a cookie!
House hadn't been looking to go Wilson's office. But there he was; standing in front of the closed door. The chair was turned, facing the window, so he couldn't tell if Wilson was actually in there or not. He opened the door slowly and limped inside.
"Hello?" he called out. The chair quickly spun around. Wilson stared in surprise.
"Oh, House. I didn't hear you come in." he kept looking at House. House noticed Wilson was clutching two pieces of plain lined paper.
Wilson saw House looking at the papers as well and tried to shove them away, obviously embarrassed about something. House approached the man.
"Whatcha got there?"
"Nothing." Wilson continued to try to unsuccessfully shove the worn papers out of sight.
"What is it? Poetry?" House guessed and figured he was right by the overly shocked expression on his friends face.
"Um, uh. . ." Wilson stuttered. He tried to hide the poems again but House grabbed at them before he could shove them away.
"They can't be that bad. I heard you majored in English at one point in your life." House settled himself down in a spare chair and looked at the first paper. Wilson's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.
The first paper had a short poem. It had no title and no hint to whom it could be for, if anybody. The poem said:
No Romans with their genii flags
No drummerboys of solemn tone
Dusty remembrances of glory lost
Rough fabric stretched over gaping wounds
And I was you and you were me
And we were all alone.
House finished the first poem and placed the papers in his lap. He turned to Wilson, who was now in the process of hiding his face in his arms as if to disappear. House raised his eyebrows.
"You wrote this?" he couldn't believe it.
"Yes." A muffled answer came from Wilson. "Please don't read the other one." He begged. But it was too late. Wilson peeked out of between his arms and sighed, begging in his head that something would stop House before he finished the poem. But he knew deep inside that House was a very determined person. Wilson had to face the music.
House flipped to the second page. This one was a little longer and it had a title. He blinked his eyes - Wilson's handwriting wasn't the best – and began.
"Angel in my Dreams"
the angel in my dreams
he spoke to me and said
'I'll be with you forevermore'
and to the fields I was led
a field of pretty flowers
sweet scented and romantic
I saw the angel once again
And here I was enchanted
He pointed out, over the sea
And to the rocks below
Then said 'I feel as if you are the sea'
And now I truly know
House finished and had trouble keeping his mouth closed. It was. . . it was beautiful. He was about to put that paper down when he saw small writing near the bottom of the page. He read it and took a sharp intake of breath. That's when Wilson knew he read it.
Down near the bottom of the page said:
Dedicated to Greg House.
Wilson picked his head up to see House gazing at him. They stayed like that, locked in that moment, for what seemed like eternity.
"That's real cute." House was obviously referring to the dedication, but Wilson didn't know it and thought he was referring to the poem itself. Wilson was angered. He had to admit, it was good poetry and he wasn't trying to be cute in writing it.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race." Wilson surprised and confused House.
"That was interesting to know. . . but what the hell is that supposed to mean?" House asked, adjusting himself in the chair. Wilson bit his lip, humiliated that he said that, not knowing what House was referring to.
"Oh." He bit on his nail.
"I was talking about the dedication." House said. Wilson looked to the floor. House had to confess, he was startlingly touched by the dedication. Something inside him seemed to crumble to pieces as he read the poems. House suddenly realized something. Everything made sense. The poems. The dedication. The constant "arguments" and witty remarks exchanged back and forth.
Was it possible that. . .? House thought. And was it possible he felt the same way about Wilson?
"You want to know why I wrote these for you?" Wilson unexpectedly asked, startling House out of his trance.
"Yes. I don't think it's April First and it's not my birthday." House joked. Wilson paused before answering. He took a deep breath and took the plunge.
"Because I think I'm in love with you." Wilson let it sink in before continuing. "Actually, I know I'm in love with you. I was going to give these to you later. But you found them first. . ." Wilson's gentle face looked at House, waiting for a response.
House stared back with about the same intensity, all the while thinking. Abruptly realizing that he might, no he had, the same feelings for Wilson. That he had those feelings for longer than he thought but he had just bottled them away. Tucked them into a corner.
"Yeah." Said House getting up and moving close to the man. "I think I love you too."
You like? I like! Love the poems? So did I, that's why I had to use them both so I worked them both into the story. And. . . did you find the line. I probably made it too obvious so I have a lot of cookies to make! My first attempt at slash so you can tell me if I should ever attempt to write it again.