Shalt Surely Die (PG-13)
Title: Shalt Surely Die
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Words: 718
Summary: Once you know, you have to choose.
Notes: The "Works in Progress" meme that's going around led me back to a draft from 2008, which happened, through pure chance, to fit nicely with a scene that intrigued me from Monday night's episode of House. So here we go. Thanks to Nightdog, Topaz, Corgigirl, Mare, and Purridot for concrit and support.
Three days after House’s challenge to get back into it or else, Wilson wakes up, naked and overheated, next to a nameless person.
A misnomer - the person has a name, obviously. Every person does. Wilson simply doesn’t know what that name is. Not even a nickname; they haven’t murmured so much as a “Babe” or “Hey You” between them in the - the bleary red numbers of the hotel bedside clock read three twenty-eight - four hours since they made their acquaintance.
It doesn’t matter.
But it damn sure ought to.
When James was ten, Troy from down the street cornered him one Sunday afternoon. “Did you know that people in Africa, when they die, they go to Limbo?”
“I thought limbo was that dancing game we played in phys ed.”
“Yeah,” Troy said, rolling his eyes like James was stupid. “But it’s also a place you can go after you die, and it’s nice but not as nice as Heaven. Only Christians get to go to Heaven.”
“But Limbo’s nice?” They were walking past the scrub field where the bigger kids played baseball sometimes.
Troy shrugged. “Not as good as Heaven, but it’s OK. The main thing is you don’t get to meet God in Limbo.”
James considered that. He hadn’t met God yet, so he didn’t imagine he’d really be missing out on too much if he didn’t meet Him after death.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I guess Limbo will be good enough for me.”
Troy stooped to pick up a nickel, then looked James in the eye. “Oh, you’re not going to Limbo.”
“What?”
“Limbo’s only for people who’ve never heard of Jesus before. You’ve heard of Jesus but you’re not Christian, so you’re going to Hell. Your whole family is.” Troy said it so calmly, like “Winter comes after fall,” or “Two plus two is four.”
James’ hands curled into fists. “Take it back.”
“I can’t take back the truth,” Troy said with a stupid smile, and James threw a punch right into his teeth. It hurt James’ hand, but he didn’t care.
“Take it back.”
There was blood on Troy’s lip, and a tiny shiny dot of it on his right front tooth. “You hit me!”
“Take it back.”
Troy shoved James; James shoved back; they ended up scuffling on the ground for a few minutes until Troy pinned James with his freaky long legs and arms. “Once you know about Jesus,” Troy said, shoving James’ face into the dirt, “you have to be a Christian and go to Heaven, or don’t and go to Hell. Those are the only two ways.”
Another push at James’ head, and then Troy got up. “Once you know,” he said again, “you have to choose. Follow Jesus and get Heaven, or go on your own and get Hell.”
Troy kicked him in the side and walked off; James tried to pretend he wasn’t about to cry.
Wilson thought of Limbo after the knife-in-socket stunt, when House said he’d seen nothing after almost killing himself.
He thought of Limbo the first time he ever saw House walk away scot-free from a self-generated disaster.
He thought of Limbo when House, self-proclaimed Asshole King, Burner of Bridges and Destroyer of Relationships, had five people tripping over themselves to offer comfort for faked brain cancer.
He thought of Limbo when accepting the truth made Sam walk out and accepting a lie kept Cuddy close.
Once you know, you have to choose. But House doesn’t know, so he doesn’t have to choose.
Wilson knows.
He tries to put on blinders, deny, hide, run... But it’s too late. It’s been too late for years. Wilson knows, and he has to choose, and although he pretends that he falls ass-backwards into the wrong path, it’s a deliberate choice. Every time.
He goes on his own.
The person next to him mumbles and yanks the covers. The ugly bedspread and scratchy blanket underneath scrape across Wilson’s skin as they go. His right leg is exposed, from toes to hip, and it’s cold in this tapioca room.
He doesn’t bother to ask for covers back, to ask for warmth or comfort, or even a moment more of sleep. He collects the clothes he can find, leaves the others behind, and goes.
He’d really rather have Limbo.
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Words: 718
Summary: Once you know, you have to choose.
Notes: The "Works in Progress" meme that's going around led me back to a draft from 2008, which happened, through pure chance, to fit nicely with a scene that intrigued me from Monday night's episode of House. So here we go. Thanks to Nightdog, Topaz, Corgigirl, Mare, and Purridot for concrit and support.
Three days after House’s challenge to get back into it or else, Wilson wakes up, naked and overheated, next to a nameless person.
A misnomer - the person has a name, obviously. Every person does. Wilson simply doesn’t know what that name is. Not even a nickname; they haven’t murmured so much as a “Babe” or “Hey You” between them in the - the bleary red numbers of the hotel bedside clock read three twenty-eight - four hours since they made their acquaintance.
It doesn’t matter.
But it damn sure ought to.
When James was ten, Troy from down the street cornered him one Sunday afternoon. “Did you know that people in Africa, when they die, they go to Limbo?”
“I thought limbo was that dancing game we played in phys ed.”
“Yeah,” Troy said, rolling his eyes like James was stupid. “But it’s also a place you can go after you die, and it’s nice but not as nice as Heaven. Only Christians get to go to Heaven.”
“But Limbo’s nice?” They were walking past the scrub field where the bigger kids played baseball sometimes.
Troy shrugged. “Not as good as Heaven, but it’s OK. The main thing is you don’t get to meet God in Limbo.”
James considered that. He hadn’t met God yet, so he didn’t imagine he’d really be missing out on too much if he didn’t meet Him after death.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I guess Limbo will be good enough for me.”
Troy stooped to pick up a nickel, then looked James in the eye. “Oh, you’re not going to Limbo.”
“What?”
“Limbo’s only for people who’ve never heard of Jesus before. You’ve heard of Jesus but you’re not Christian, so you’re going to Hell. Your whole family is.” Troy said it so calmly, like “Winter comes after fall,” or “Two plus two is four.”
James’ hands curled into fists. “Take it back.”
“I can’t take back the truth,” Troy said with a stupid smile, and James threw a punch right into his teeth. It hurt James’ hand, but he didn’t care.
“Take it back.”
There was blood on Troy’s lip, and a tiny shiny dot of it on his right front tooth. “You hit me!”
“Take it back.”
Troy shoved James; James shoved back; they ended up scuffling on the ground for a few minutes until Troy pinned James with his freaky long legs and arms. “Once you know about Jesus,” Troy said, shoving James’ face into the dirt, “you have to be a Christian and go to Heaven, or don’t and go to Hell. Those are the only two ways.”
Another push at James’ head, and then Troy got up. “Once you know,” he said again, “you have to choose. Follow Jesus and get Heaven, or go on your own and get Hell.”
Troy kicked him in the side and walked off; James tried to pretend he wasn’t about to cry.
Wilson thought of Limbo after the knife-in-socket stunt, when House said he’d seen nothing after almost killing himself.
He thought of Limbo the first time he ever saw House walk away scot-free from a self-generated disaster.
He thought of Limbo when House, self-proclaimed Asshole King, Burner of Bridges and Destroyer of Relationships, had five people tripping over themselves to offer comfort for faked brain cancer.
He thought of Limbo when accepting the truth made Sam walk out and accepting a lie kept Cuddy close.
Once you know, you have to choose. But House doesn’t know, so he doesn’t have to choose.
Wilson knows.
He tries to put on blinders, deny, hide, run... But it’s too late. It’s been too late for years. Wilson knows, and he has to choose, and although he pretends that he falls ass-backwards into the wrong path, it’s a deliberate choice. Every time.
He goes on his own.
The person next to him mumbles and yanks the covers. The ugly bedspread and scratchy blanket underneath scrape across Wilson’s skin as they go. His right leg is exposed, from toes to hip, and it’s cold in this tapioca room.
He doesn’t bother to ask for covers back, to ask for warmth or comfort, or even a moment more of sleep. He collects the clothes he can find, leaves the others behind, and goes.
He’d really rather have Limbo.