Title: In His Footsteps
Author: SrslyNo
Summary: After years apart, Wilson has changed, becoming more like House. House wants to know why. Part 8: West displays jealousy, and Wilson recalls a disastrous meeting with his brother (Yes, the LLB. See A/N).
Characters: House/Wilson, Wilson/OC, LLB (he's aliiiive!!)
Rating: R for Language
Warning: Future AU, slash. Eventually, there might just be a happy ending among all this angst. ;)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
A/N: I want to extend a big thank you to my betas, sharp eyed bookfan85 and bishojo_kitsune for saving me from goopy melodramatic characterizations.
Concrit welcome.
This fic encompasses, "A Glassful of Shattered Hope" (slight allusions to DCE and LLB) which should be read before beginning this chapter to understand Wilson's relationship with his brother.
BTW...Thanks for following along!
The elevator chimed as the doors whispered open onto the hallway, and an uneven gait echoed down the empty corridor. The sound stopped when Wilson reached his apartment.
It had been a long day, made longer by pompous asses who delighted in holding committee members captive while hearing themselves talk.
"Christ" Wilson hissed under his breath while searching for the vial in his jacket pocket and dry swallowing a pill before walking in on West. The phantom pain was still kicking up a fuss, but he didn't want the evening ruined with West spouting on and on about alternate pain management techniques like massage and acupuncture when he could prevail upon the internist to write a Vicodin prescription. Besides, he involuntarily smiled, in a few minutes he was going to feel better when the medication entered his bloodstream on a tide of scotch.
The aroma of baking meatloaf kissed him as soon as he walked into the condo. He'd forgotten how the fragrance of home cooking transformed an atmosphere; but, standing while preparing foods and sauces from complex recipes didn't relax him anymore. Bending down to take a roast out of the oven was a logistical nightmare.
Now he invested more time into what he drank with food than preparing it.
West's back was toward him as he passed the kitchen, dumping phone, keys and spare change on a small table as he headed directly toward the liquor cabinet. Downing a good percentage where he stood, he thought refilling it now was one of his better ideas. It would save him another trip later.
After loosening his tie, he headed back to see what West was up to.
He was willing to acknowledge that the right ingredients were brewing tonight to put him in a pleasant mood. He decided a rare display of affection might be in order, and slipped an arm around West's waist, kissing his cheek and nuzzling an ear.
He was taken aback when West sidestepped him, moving to the other side of the kitchen.
Annoyance was never buried too deep to bubble quickly to the surface, "What the hell is that about?"
Not looking up, West answered, "Can't you see I'm busy? Why don't you make yourself comfortable. Finish what you're drinking and go start on your second, or is it your third?" West's voice was cool, but maybe a shade more so than normal. A weatherman would claim an arctic front was moving in.
Stopping at the fridge, Wilson added a couple of ice cubes to his near-empty glass, watching West from the corner of his eye. This was very unlike him, and Wilson was concerned, "Did you lose a patient? You didn't tell me about any—?"
Still turning his back away as he brought the meatloaf out of the oven, and covering it with a tent of foil, "That implies you're interested in me and what I do. An internist can't match an oncologist's grim fight with death." West's shoulders hunched as he moved on to the side dish and mashed the potatoes into submission. "Seriously, why don't you get out of your jacket and tie? I'll have the food on the table by the time you return."
Table? Wilson looked back to the living room. The small round dining table was set with a tablecloth and candles. A bottle of cabernet was open and chaperoning two long-stemmed glasses. Jesus. He thought they'd be eating on the sofa watching "Kitchen Nightmares." He shrugged and went off to the bedroom as he heard behind him drawers and cabinet doors open and slam shut with the resonance of a thunderstorm gathering on the horizon. Unless West's mood improved by dessert, he resolved to get Nate out the door before nine. He wasn't up to any arguments tonight.
Errant residents, egotistical chairpersons, and stonewalling a devious House was enough for one day. Right now, he would gladly switch roles with one of those tubers that West was intent on beating into a pulp.
The dinner progressed smoothly but quietly from one course to the next, with Wilson downing a glass or more of wine with every course. They were on the second bottle when West broke the silence. By that point, Wilson's sole interest was appearing to behave more sober than he felt, and quietly writing the night off as a loss.
But the deck was stacked against him, and quiet was the last thing he was going to get. What he couldn't see or imagine was that the equivalent of a hurricane and a tornado were about to duke it out for the right to destroy the same trailer park.
While refilling another glass of the rich purplish black wine before starting on the dense creamy vanilla gelato in front of him, a small crumpled cocktail napkin was pushed under his nose. "Have I become a slobbering drunk? Don't I already have a napkin?" Wilson looked down at his lap. A perfectly good piece of linen was occupying it. He dropped his spoon, and snatched the small square of paper, "What's this?"
Returning to the chair opposite, West sat with his arms and legs crossed, attempting to look casual, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.
"I found it while going through your kitchen drawers looking for a decent knife. You're lucky. I couldn't find one."
Funny, Wilson didn't feel lucky.
What he did feel was West's eyes boring into him.
He picked up the flimsy scrap again, inspecting it closely. It was a white cocktail napkin with 'Phil's' printed diagonally across it in dark green letters. Underneath, someone wrote a phone number. Shit! It wasn't a 'someone.' It was House's handwriting, and House's number.
Wilson rubbed his neck as he remembered where he got it. His brother gave it to him when he decided to drop in unexpectedly at his bar. Part of his colossally stupid plan to get his life back together and on track after losing his leg.
What was it his grandmother used to say? "Man plans while God laughs."
He must have given God a hernia that day from laughing so hard over his idiotic idea to visit Jonathan...
Wilson asked the cab driver to wait outside of Phil's for him. It was a crap shoot whether the evening would turn out to be a warm reunion, or a vitriolic clash. If it was the former, he'd pay off the cab and send him on his way. If the latter, well then he'd be out of the tavern in less time than his iPod could play "Surrender" by Elvis Presley.
He walked over to the heavy door and opened it, taking a step inside, and peered into the darkness before letting it swing shut behind him.
It wasn't "Cheers," but then this wasn't Boston.
It was Pittsburgh. A small respectable bar that bridged 'sub' with 'urban.' Someplace he wouldn't mind going into for a drink…if he knew his brother didn't own it, and if he wasn't practicing abstinence.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly he looked around. Wood. Lots of it. Paneling, cabinetry, tables, chairs, planked floors. He savored the scent of liquor that drop-by-drop soaked into the porous surfaces over the years. It resembled the interior of an old sailing vessel and smelled like an ancient cask of amontillado. Quite comforting. Glasses and bottles soldiered in ranks and sparkled under two silent televisions displaying obscenely healthy men and women throwing and chasing balls for the sole interest of lulling Phil's patrons into ordering more drinks. A few low mumbles could be heard, but the darting movements coming from both screens hypnotized most of the regulars into silence.
The only movement inside was a lone waitress checking for signs of life and refills from her customers. A bartender stood with his head down as he studiously cleaned a glass while chatting quietly with one of his regulars.
Wilson couldn't make out the bartender's face, but thought this was his likeliest target. He slowly and gingerly wound his way past tables, chairs and bar stools. Careful not to tread on peanut shells or glistening melted pools of ice and spirits, he arrived at several abandoned seats next to the bar. Choosing the center one, he created a mote of privacy around him. Eyeing the stool, he decided it was a hazard that would do nothing for his dignity as he climbed up or got off it, so he made an executive decision and shunned it. Shoving the seat out of the way, he leaned his elbows onto the surface of the bar and tried to ignore the raw fumes floating off the locals' drinking near him as he stared at the amber rainbow of back-lit shelves in front of him.
He wanted to laugh at his predicament. He couldn't be in a more appropriate hell.
He didn't flash a credit card or cash. Didn't raise a finger in request. He waited. Eventually the bartender would ask him what he wanted, and he would tell him.
"You're new here. What can I get you?"
Wilson looked up and was startled to see his brother looking back at him wearing almost an identical face to his. In the years apart, their features seemed to blend together the way old married couples do. In this case, youthful carelessness on the part of one, and pain and alcohol abuse from the other hastened the family resemblance. Now the easiest way to tell them apart was by the hair. Jonathan's was gray all over, while Wilson's was white around the temples.
"Jon."
"Jimmy? Is that really you?" Jonathan was surprised. Also shocked to see the etched lines, the premature aging, and some unfathomable hurt pouring from his little brother's eyes, but decided to respond by covering with the famous Wilson family charm instead. "Did you come in here by accident or did you stop by to place a pebble on my headstone and pay your respects after all these years?" It still hurt being painted a loser to your family by your brilliant, younger brother.
"About that." Wilson saw a shot glass appear in front of him, and saw the shadow of a bottle tipping toward the glass. His hand felt like lead, but forced it to cover the opening, shaking his head, "No thanks." Guilt hung heavily around his shoulders preventing him from looking at anything other than the polished wood of the bar.
"That night when Julie invited you over, and I didn't let you in. The things that I said. I had no right to hurt you like that. I've come to--"
A cold laugh cracked through the air, cutting off the sentence. Wilson looked up as Jonathan spoke. "I get it now. Should have picked up on it the moment you said my name. The 9th step, Jimmy? Come to make amends in order to feel better about yourself? Sure you're not rushing things? The way you stared at those bottles earlier, I'd say you're only on the 5th. Fine. Whatever. Amends, then. The two of us can drink to it. Whadya say?"
Two more glasses appeared in front of him, and the fiery liquid rushed from the throat of the bottle into the first, and then into the second glass.
Wilson was stung by the words as he heard the musical rush of scotch swirling and settling into the squat tumblers. He couldn't hear anything else. He had to get out of there, but first…
His voice became brittle. "Fine. You're right. I'm a fucker, but you should know I spoke to Mom and Pop before I came to see you and told them to call you. I also explained to them that I was wrong. I should never have talked them into not seeing you." Wilson began to push himself away from both the bar and the beckoning scent of peat and spirits.
"Wait." He felt a restraining hand on his upper arm. Jonathan walked away, but returned a few moments later, handing him a napkin.
There was a phone number on it. House's number in his own hand. Wilson eyebrows knitted together as he tried to understand what it meant.
"Just thought you should know. House tracked me down after the two of you had some helluva rift years ago. He comes by now and again, but doesn't tell me much. He explained that you two finally got together, but then you broke it off. Disappeared off the radar." Jonathan shook his head in disgust. "And, I thought you were the smart one." There was a drop of silence before he continued, "Anyway, he said to give you his new number if I ever saw you."
Jonathan leaned over and jeered, "Don't misunderstand who I'm doing this for. Not for you, but for him.
"Oh yeah, and thanks for bringing me back from the dead after all those years, bro. Now, can you do me one additional favor? Leave, and don't come back." Jonathan turned around and walked away.
"Can't leave fast enough," Wilson replied dryly.
As he reached for a fresh bottle, Jonathan saw Jimmy's reflection in the mirror and his cautious progress to the exit. Something wasn't right. Had he stopped his brother from pouring his guts on his well-polished bar too quickly? Was there more to his confession? He decided not to wait till his folks called him, but ring them first thing in the morning. He'd missed them, and figured they would fill him in on everything.
The muggy evening did nothing to clear the tempting perfume out of Wilson's nostrils. He climbed into the cab and gave instructions to his hotel. He couldn't process how badly the evening went. If self-loathing could be bottled, it would be delivered in a 5-gallon jug that he'd chug down to the last drop. Wilson pressed his palms to his eyes. What made him think he was ready to make amends to his brother and accept the consequences?
Back at the hotel, he tipped the cabby generously and walked into the lobby. The music from the bar arrested his attention when he was halfway to the elevators. The thirst for self-hate dried up and was replaced by a more accessible need as he heard the lonely melody coming from the piano hidden away in the dark and inviting cavern. Changing direction, he muttered under his breath, "What the hell. One drink and I'll return to the program tomorrow."
To get away from West's mounting wind chill factor, Wilson moved toward the couch, still holding on to the souvenir from that long ago evening. He could hear John O'Hurley shouting, "And, the number one answer on the board about 'Lies that alcoholics tell themselves is…?! One drink and I'll return to the program tomorrow!'"
He loused up badly. When he visited his brother he thought he bottomed out, but he only reached the basement of despair. There still were catacombs to explore.
An emotional bullet train shunted him from self-pity to self-loathing in a matter of seconds. He was lost. The landmarks he counted on were gone. The attempt to reconnect with Jonathan failed. No matter what his brother thought, House forgot about him. What did he expect when he locked people out of his life? Who could put up with him, anyway? He didn't deserve their love or friendship.
His sponsor tried to talk to him, but he was done with the program. He was tired of remembering and hurting all the time. He turned back to what worked so well - drugs, alcohol and West.
Which brought him back to why he was considering a suitable answer for the young doctor. Someone else's bottled up anger wasn't much of a diversion. Drawer slamming and veiled accusations held little charm.
As Wilson eased down onto the couch, he couldn't hide a wince of pain as he intentionally ignored West and popped another pill into his mouth, "You never are at a loss of words. Care to explain what's got your 'Fruit of the Looms' all in a twist?"
West spotted the grimace and the pill, and was sidetracked, "Is your leg bothering you?"
"Fuck, West, you're a doctor. My leg is fine. It's the missing one that's bothering me."
The internist had about all he could take, throwing all patience and concern to the wind as he said what was on his mind, "The meds are for what you're missing alright, but it has nothing to do with your anatomy. You miss House and want to get back together."
"What are you smoking, Nate, because you've barely been drinking. Is it the good stuff? I'm expecting you to share," Wilson quipped. The light tone didn't betray his barely reined in temper.
"That's House's phone number on the napkin, and since it's not your handwriting, I bet it's House's. When did he give it to you?"
The interrogation was getting under Wilson's skin, but he started to explain as he flipped the small piece of paper back and forth in his hand. "The napkin is from my brother's place, and it's from years ago." He stopped. What the hell was he doing? He went on the offense, "I don't owe you an explanation. How do you know House's number?"
"He's number one on your speed-dial, and he's been calling you. How often do the two of you stay in touch? I've seen two messages when you were too drunk to notice."
Wilson puzzled the pieces together. Sounding deceptively quiet he began, "You went through the numbers on my phone. You listened to my private messages." Wilson shook his head, "House never called me until the damned conference. What did he have to say?"
West felt a sudden chill. This was the question he'd been dreading all along. He wasn't sure what he'd say until the lie spilled out of his mouth, "Hang ups," he shrugged and turned away.
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. Nothing was making any sense. All the drinking wa muddying his thinking. House wouldn't call without leave some pithy obnoxious message; but, what difference did it make? He'd been avoiding House up until now. Still, he needed to understand what was going on. "Why West? What difference does a napkin or the position of my speed dial numbers mean to you? So, what?"
As West approached, he snatched up Wilson's cell phone from the side table and stood over him with it. "It means you haven't gotten over House. Which means there's no place for me," West's voice was a mixture of determination and sadness.
Carefully getting up from the sofa, Wilson looked West straight in the eye. "Don't do this. Don't push it."
West felt an ache in his chest. "You let me do so much for you, but when I get too close you shut me out." He stuck out his hand with the phone. "I'm not asking you to love me, or even say you care. Just let me know I'm the only one in your life."
"Look, West…Nate…" Wilson implored.
"I never ask you for anything, but I'm asking you now. Let me see you throw the napkin away and erase House's number."
Wilson turned his head to think. When he made eye contact again, he crumpled the napkin and tucked it into West's shirt pocket.
Taking the phone, he ran his fingers over the proper sequence until his thumb hovered over "delete." Why should this be so difficult? After all these years he wasn't going to phone House.
Anyway…he knew the number by heart.
He knew West was serious. If he didn't erase the number he'd lose all he had left. His lover, lunch companion, lackey, and drug supplier.
The glowing screen shined out from the palm of his hand. He huffed out a breath as he made his decision, and his thumb pressed down on the power button as the display went suddenly black preserving the number at the top of the list. He could only squeeze out two words of explanation.
"I'm sorry."
Looking calmer than he felt, West smiled, "You and me both. And here I spent all this time protecting you. Finding you a job, helping you with rehab, managing your pain; and, all along I should have protected myself from you."
West didn't waste any time. He grabbed his jacket off the couch, and left, slamming the door hard enough to be heard through the immediate "soundproofed" neighboring walls.
Wilson didn't know how long he stared at the closed door. He felt no pain. His heart was too covered with scar tissue. Nevertheless, the organ flip-flopped in his chest.
Walking back to the dining room table he picked up the cabernet and held it to the light to check the wine level. More than enough to make him sleep the night away. He cuddled it under his arm and moved toward his bedroom, murmuring, "How about a one-night stand with a bastard like me, sweetheart?"
tbc...
Thank you for reading. Comments always welcome.