Title: 1000 Words
Author: Indigo Night
Feedback: Yes please
Summary: Molly watches over the strange old man, not realizing they're just waiting until it's time for him to go home.
Disclaimer: I do not own House or the characters.
Spoilers: Nope.
Pairing: A teensy bit WilsonxHouse I suppose, if you want to stand on your head and squint at it from a 140 degree angle through some slash glasses. Whatever makes you happy.
Warnings: None specific, although one could easily see implied wumpage and unpleasantness.
Author's Note: Not entirely sure where this came from, but I think I like it. Was sort of inspired by (and is obviously named after) the song 1000 Words from Final Fantasy (The English version). If you haven't heard it you really should listen to it, it's beautiful. I think I might continue this a bit, I suppose I could go somewhere further with it. Maybe explain a bit how House came to be in this situation, and what happens when Wilson brings him home. Any thoughts? Read, Review,
ENJOY!
Molly glanced up automatically when the little bell inside the door rang.
The man who'd just shuffle into the cafe on the surface seemed to be the sort of man you'd cross the street to avoid or warn your children not to stare at. But Molly had never stood for such silly things and always made it a point to try and look beneath the surface of people before making a judgment.
He was tall and thin, dangerously so, his entire body appearing to be made of sharply conflicting angles. He walked in an awkwardly hunched way, like he was trying to make himself seem smaller than he was, only made more uncomfortable to look at by the steep lopsided tilt of his shoulders, no doubt from years of compensating for a heavy limp. He used a stick as a walking aid, literally, large stick, like he'd gone out into the woods somewhere and picked it up off the ground. But it was solid and sturdy, carefully cleaned and stripped of its bark. It fit him somehow, shabby and forlorn, but resolutely unbending.
His clothes were threadbare and had been that way for a long time, although she suspected that long ago in a former life they had been well made and respectable. The lower part of his face was hidden behind a small forest of scruff, a long jagged scar torn through his left cheek and eye to disappear into it. That eye was dull and clouded over, but the other was a depthless blue that made her dizzy whenever she tried to look into it for too long.
He paused briefly just inside the door, single crystalline eye taking in the little cafe and its few patrons before he shuffled jerkily over to the very back corner and sat in his usual seat at his usual table, almost pressing himself into the wall.
Molly subconsciously tightened her blonde pony tail, fixed her most cheerful smile onto her face, and picked up the single blue mug with the little chip on the handle that was sitting waiting for her.
Filled to the brim with fresh steaming coffee she set it in front of him. He kept his eyes demurely on the table, with one grubby, narled hand pushing a small handful of pocket change across the table at her.
"Enjoy," she said brightly, scooping up the change without bothering to count it. She knew the right amount was there.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she continued working. He clutched the mug in both hands for a while, letting it warm them and sipped slowly. After a while, once the damp chill of February in Port Angeles had abated he stopped clutching the mug and pulled out a very old, weather worn book from the very deepest pocket of his thin jacket. She wasn't sure what book it was, but the few times she'd managed to catch a glimpse at it it'd looked like something medical.
He held the book with his left hand while his right subconsciously rubbed his thigh. He did that all the time, every day. She figured whatever made him limp like he did, that was the trouble spot.
He sat there all day, reading and drinking and rubbing away. She brought him free refills and he froze, not looking up whenever she approached, only to return to his rubbing and his reading as soon as she walked away again.
She liked the old man. He was quite and polite, and he never leered at her breast or tried to pinch her ass as so many others did. Even though his appearance would have inspired mistrust, disgust, and maybe even fear in most, Molly somehow knew that he was harmless. To her he just looked old and tired and sad. He wasn't that old, not really, though of course to a twenty-three year old co-ed anything over thirty-five was old. She couldn't guess exactly how old he really was under the scruff, grime, and scars, but she was pretty sure he was younger than he looked. Life had taken a lot from him, aging him prematurely.
Its Thursday, she remembers, so around one-thirty, once the lunch rush has died down she takes him a ham sandwich with a large plate of fries, and since its been extra cold and rainy lately, which she can tell makes his leg hurt more than usual she throws in a piece of pie too. He could use the calories.
When she sets the plate and fresh bottle of ketchup in front of him he starts and glances up at her, eyes wide with surprise.
"On the house," she says lightly, winking at him, and it's heartbreaking, really, the gratitude in his weathered face.
"Thanks," he mutters, eyes flickering modestly back down to the scratched table surface. His voice is so hoarse and scratchy she can barely resist the urge to cover her own throat in sympathy.
She gives him her best smile and goes back to work. It's their little ritual. She's done it every week without fail for over a year now and yet every time he still looks utterly surprised.
Not for the first time she wonders what tragedies he's suffered to bring him here.
*V*V*V*
It was three days later when their little routines are for the first time disturbed.
She usually only worked mornings on Sundays, but one of the other girls had asked her to cover, so she was still there when the dark, stormy afternoon was drawing toward a dark, stormy evening.
The old man was in his corner as always, battered old book open on the table in front of him, rubbing away at this thigh. He seemed distracted and unable to settle down today, so she was considering bringing him some soothing tea instead of his next refill of coffee. But before she had the chance to act on that thought the little bell over the doorway tinkled its merry tune.
She looked up automatically as a man she'd never seen before entered. He was about average height, just a little on the pudgy side but it looked somehow right on him, matching his round boyish face and soulful brown eyes. His clothes were rumpled, but expensive looking and professional. He was obviously the sort of man that had a well paid job which he enjoyed and a comfortable lifestyle.
He stopped dead just inside of the door, looking around, and when his eyes landed on the man in the corner he went pale. He drifted through the cafe as though in a dream, seemingly completely unaware of anyone else present and sat down in the chair opposite the man.
Looking up from his book the man didn't look all that surprised, instead his expression was an odd mixture of relief and resignation. His restless fidgeting ceased and they both sat silently inspecting each other.
Molly knew she was supposed to go ask this new man if he wanted something to eat or drink, but she couldn't bring herself to intrude upon what was so obviously a very private moment.
"Wilson," the old man said at last.
"House," Wilson replied.
"How'd you find me?" House couldn't keep eye contact anymore and lowered his gaze back to the table.
"PI."
He nodded, again unsurprised. "Well, what took you so long?" It wasn't a real question, but a half hearted attempt to lighten the mood.
"You look like shit."
"Yeah, well..." he trailed off into a listless shrug.
They fell into a long silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Both brimming with emotions too complex and deep to express out loud, but fortunately, they didn't really need to.
Finally Wilson broke the silence. "Ready to go home?"
Glancing up House nodded slowly, "Yeah," he whispered, and Molly could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.
Maybe the nice old man's life story wasn't such a tragedy after all.