House fic: "That time David came back"
Title: That time David came back (Prompt #001 of my fanfic100 table: Beginnings.)
Author: Fiorediloto
Characters: House, David, Wilson
Rating: Gen.
Spoiler(s): A little sentence of this could be considered a spoiler, but, well, it doesn't spoil anything.
Disclaimer: Does anyone of you really think I own anything of this? Pfff.
Many many thanks to: aphroditeroslin, my sweet sweet beta-reader ♥
A/N: The title's been (partially) stolen from deelaundry's That time Cameron had Mono. Hope you don't mind, Dee.
He looked like one who had crossed oceans and infinite lands to arrive there - and nothing, nothing could send him away before he’d reached his objective. Apart from this light of absolute determination in his eyes, encased between thick eyebrows and wild hair, he had nothing special which could catch Gregory House’s attention. Maybe a slightly familiar look, but nothing else.
Apart from any poetry, he was probably the usual drug addict.
He shut the door closed with a little push of his right heel, bringing his eyes back to the file. «Headache, cough, fever. Wow. It could be something serious.»
The man kept not looking at him, without reacting. His hair, bound behind his neck, was brown and dirty, and House doubted the patient was unshaven for the same reason he was. Or maybe he was. Neither of them had a razor. Not that this was exactly true - if he needed to, he could always use Wilson’s.
«You’re not Dr. Wilson.»
«Can you read minds? Don’t tire yourself. That’s why you have a headache.»
The man wrinkled his forehead. He was probably around thirty, but he looked older. His clothes didn’t seem this new, either.
House limped to the chair and let himself fall onto it with a half sigh.
«I asked if I could see… Dr. Wilson.» The patient put a hand on his mouth, interrupted by a couple of harsh coughs. Even though it was late Spring, he wore two half gloves made of black, faded wool. The patient licked his dried lips, passing the back of his hand on the corner of his mouth.
«He’s busy holding the hand of some dying patient. Oncology, the wonderful department,» commented House, putting a hand in his pocket for Vicodin. «Other symptoms?»
«Look, really, I need to talk with Dr. Wilson,» said the man, quickly.
«He probably has got a sweet face, but I can assure you he’s a monster with patients» declared House, opening his eyes wide to give emphasis to the phrase and swallowing a Vicodin at the same time.
The man shook his head, getting down from the bed with a series of disjointed movements that just didn’t look right for his young age. On the contrary, they made him seem many years older.
House registered everything before placing his cane against the door to block his way. «When did they beat you?»
«I…,» started the other man, perturbed, but he shook his head: «I just need to see Dr. Wilson».
«You have a broken wrist, and that bluish bruise on your face doesn’t look like a hickey.»
«Listen...»
«Dr. Wilson won't give you anything to help you see pink little elephants. Now sit down. And take off your clothes.»
«I’m not an addict!» replied the man, slightly widening his eyes as if the accusation had taken him by surprise.
Good performance, seasoned with a bit of naive amazement which gave it a fresh flavour of genuineness. A good actor, maybe. Or maybe he was sincere.
«I said sit down. And take off your clothes. I have five minutes left to find out what’s wrong with you and then go back avoid my clinic hours.»
The man - it made him sick to think about him as “the man”, his name should be on the file. Oh, here. David. Just David? - David sighed and climbed back onto the exam table, taking off a sweatshirt which had seen better times and a grey shirt with a rip on the collar. He took off his right glove, too, showing his wrist, which was swollen around the bone and a gruesome bluish colour.
House came closer, dragging the chair below him on the wheels.
«… bites?» he remarked, vaguely surprised.
David turned his eyes on the wall, with a more stoic than embarrassed expression. «I usually don’t do it,» he said. «Just when things get really bad. I usually choose those who… those who look like less… well, you got it,» he ended, in a whisper.
«These have to be cleaned.»
«I won’t last much longer, anyway.»
House raised his eyes.
«I did the test a month ago. Can you wrap my wrist?»
«Why do you want to see Wilson?»
«You know,» answered David, slowly. «When you know you’re gonna die you feel like fixing the things you left pending.»
House thought about the man who’d shot him, and felt relieved as he noticed that David didn’t seem to be carrying a gun in his pocket. He slid to the drawer with a light push of his foot, where he took some gauze and came back to wrap the man’s broken wrist. David clenched his teeth, but didn’t complain about the pain.
«Are you friends?»
David shook his head, starting a laugh that was broken off by a cough. «No, no,» he said eventually. «Dr. Wilson doesn’t have… I don’t think he has friends like me.» He bent his head slightly to one side in a way that, aside from everything else, House couldn't help but find sensual. «You are… a friend of his?»
«Let’s say.»
«Are you or not?»
«He lives at my place. He cooks well; cleans up my home.»
David’s already pale face became even paler, but then he lowered his eyes and nodded. «I knew it wasn’t going to last long. His marriage, I mean.»
«Which one of the three?»
David sighed and said nothing.
«You’re out of luck, man. Wilson isn’t here,» said House, getting up and releasing part of his weight on the cane. «A nurse is gonna come and clean those.»
«What do you mean, “he’s not here”?» repeated David, jumping down from the exam table. «You said he was in Oncology.»
«Until…», he looked at his wristwatch, «ten minutes ago, he was. He’s probably already on the road.»
«Did you do this on purpose to keep me from seeing him?» called David, confused and irritated.
House shrugged. «Who knows. Have a nice day.» He turned towards the door, resolute to exit the room, but an abrupt pull informed him that his patient had grabbed his cane, and House found himself stuck with his back against the door.
The scene was way too familiar.
«You had no rights to do that. It was… it is… important to me. I told you. And you didn’t give a fuck!» said David, almost crying, his voice broken and made hoarse by the cough.
Reminiscence: The voice, nearly identical, shouting against him You committed a crime!
Now everything was clear.
«You haven’t seen him in ten years,» House started, studying his reactions, «and now you think that stopping by and telling him goodbye is gonna change anything? Do you want to ease your conscience?» He interpreted David’s confusion as a confirmation and continued: «Or maybe you’re just searching for money, and the story of AIDS is just, surprise, a story.»
David opened his eyes wide, then lowered them to the floor. The hand that was grabbing the cane released it, and the vagabond’s arms raised and tightened around his chest, as if he were cold. «I’ve never… I’m not searching for money. After all this time, I don’t even now if… if he still remembers me.»
«May 9th, the day you left. Today, right? He’s probably at home, cramming his stomach with peanut butter and weeping like he does every year. An incurable romantic, our Jimmy, isn’t he?»
Not that he actually knew this. Wilson had never told him. He’d just put the pieces together. That night he’d found Wilson sitting on a step in an ill-famed street (two years before), that day he’d found him depressed in front of his own pancakes for no obvious reason (one year before). That little, little D written down on his calendar in the kitchen in the field of May 9th.
David looked as though he had been punched in the stomach. He whispered, through his teeth: «I… I was the only one who used to call him by that name.»
«He’s never liked it.»
«With me he did,» replied David.
«Then maybe that’s the reason.»
David breathed in, hesitantly. «Listen… Just tell him something for me. Would you?»
«I’m not gonna tell him you’re sorry, or other bullshit like this.»
«No, it’s not that. Tell him… please, tell him I’m fine. Just that.»
House nodded.
«One last thing,» murmured David, licking his lips. «James… does he talk about me?»
«No.»
«Never?»
«Should he?»
David raised his eyes, encountering House’s. How could he possibly have not noticed that before? They had the same eyes, identical. Then the patient picked up his clothes from the exam table and put them on quickly. When David exited the room, House didn’t try to stop him this time.
Running out of the door, the man bumped against Wilson’s shoulder. He didn’t look up, murmured an apology and went on his way.
«Looks like you’ve done your Evil Deed of the Day today too. What did you do to make him run away that fast?»
«He’s fine.»
«What?»
«I said he’s fine. He’s fine, if you’re interested.»
«Why should I… who is he? House…?»
«Shouldn’t you be at home?»
«I had some work to finish.»
«Then go back and finish it. I’m going home.»
«But who was that man?»
House shrugged, limping towards the doors. «Do I look like one who can remember the patients’ names?»
Author: Fiorediloto
Characters: House, David, Wilson
Rating: Gen.
Spoiler(s): A little sentence of this could be considered a spoiler, but, well, it doesn't spoil anything.
Disclaimer: Does anyone of you really think I own anything of this? Pfff.
Many many thanks to: aphroditeroslin, my sweet sweet beta-reader ♥
A/N: The title's been (partially) stolen from deelaundry's That time Cameron had Mono. Hope you don't mind, Dee.
He looked like one who had crossed oceans and infinite lands to arrive there - and nothing, nothing could send him away before he’d reached his objective. Apart from this light of absolute determination in his eyes, encased between thick eyebrows and wild hair, he had nothing special which could catch Gregory House’s attention. Maybe a slightly familiar look, but nothing else.
Apart from any poetry, he was probably the usual drug addict.
He shut the door closed with a little push of his right heel, bringing his eyes back to the file. «Headache, cough, fever. Wow. It could be something serious.»
The man kept not looking at him, without reacting. His hair, bound behind his neck, was brown and dirty, and House doubted the patient was unshaven for the same reason he was. Or maybe he was. Neither of them had a razor. Not that this was exactly true - if he needed to, he could always use Wilson’s.
«You’re not Dr. Wilson.»
«Can you read minds? Don’t tire yourself. That’s why you have a headache.»
The man wrinkled his forehead. He was probably around thirty, but he looked older. His clothes didn’t seem this new, either.
House limped to the chair and let himself fall onto it with a half sigh.
«I asked if I could see… Dr. Wilson.» The patient put a hand on his mouth, interrupted by a couple of harsh coughs. Even though it was late Spring, he wore two half gloves made of black, faded wool. The patient licked his dried lips, passing the back of his hand on the corner of his mouth.
«He’s busy holding the hand of some dying patient. Oncology, the wonderful department,» commented House, putting a hand in his pocket for Vicodin. «Other symptoms?»
«Look, really, I need to talk with Dr. Wilson,» said the man, quickly.
«He probably has got a sweet face, but I can assure you he’s a monster with patients» declared House, opening his eyes wide to give emphasis to the phrase and swallowing a Vicodin at the same time.
The man shook his head, getting down from the bed with a series of disjointed movements that just didn’t look right for his young age. On the contrary, they made him seem many years older.
House registered everything before placing his cane against the door to block his way. «When did they beat you?»
«I…,» started the other man, perturbed, but he shook his head: «I just need to see Dr. Wilson».
«You have a broken wrist, and that bluish bruise on your face doesn’t look like a hickey.»
«Listen...»
«Dr. Wilson won't give you anything to help you see pink little elephants. Now sit down. And take off your clothes.»
«I’m not an addict!» replied the man, slightly widening his eyes as if the accusation had taken him by surprise.
Good performance, seasoned with a bit of naive amazement which gave it a fresh flavour of genuineness. A good actor, maybe. Or maybe he was sincere.
«I said sit down. And take off your clothes. I have five minutes left to find out what’s wrong with you and then go back avoid my clinic hours.»
The man - it made him sick to think about him as “the man”, his name should be on the file. Oh, here. David. Just David? - David sighed and climbed back onto the exam table, taking off a sweatshirt which had seen better times and a grey shirt with a rip on the collar. He took off his right glove, too, showing his wrist, which was swollen around the bone and a gruesome bluish colour.
House came closer, dragging the chair below him on the wheels.
«… bites?» he remarked, vaguely surprised.
David turned his eyes on the wall, with a more stoic than embarrassed expression. «I usually don’t do it,» he said. «Just when things get really bad. I usually choose those who… those who look like less… well, you got it,» he ended, in a whisper.
«These have to be cleaned.»
«I won’t last much longer, anyway.»
House raised his eyes.
«I did the test a month ago. Can you wrap my wrist?»
«Why do you want to see Wilson?»
«You know,» answered David, slowly. «When you know you’re gonna die you feel like fixing the things you left pending.»
House thought about the man who’d shot him, and felt relieved as he noticed that David didn’t seem to be carrying a gun in his pocket. He slid to the drawer with a light push of his foot, where he took some gauze and came back to wrap the man’s broken wrist. David clenched his teeth, but didn’t complain about the pain.
«Are you friends?»
David shook his head, starting a laugh that was broken off by a cough. «No, no,» he said eventually. «Dr. Wilson doesn’t have… I don’t think he has friends like me.» He bent his head slightly to one side in a way that, aside from everything else, House couldn't help but find sensual. «You are… a friend of his?»
«Let’s say.»
«Are you or not?»
«He lives at my place. He cooks well; cleans up my home.»
David’s already pale face became even paler, but then he lowered his eyes and nodded. «I knew it wasn’t going to last long. His marriage, I mean.»
«Which one of the three?»
David sighed and said nothing.
«You’re out of luck, man. Wilson isn’t here,» said House, getting up and releasing part of his weight on the cane. «A nurse is gonna come and clean those.»
«What do you mean, “he’s not here”?» repeated David, jumping down from the exam table. «You said he was in Oncology.»
«Until…», he looked at his wristwatch, «ten minutes ago, he was. He’s probably already on the road.»
«Did you do this on purpose to keep me from seeing him?» called David, confused and irritated.
House shrugged. «Who knows. Have a nice day.» He turned towards the door, resolute to exit the room, but an abrupt pull informed him that his patient had grabbed his cane, and House found himself stuck with his back against the door.
The scene was way too familiar.
«You had no rights to do that. It was… it is… important to me. I told you. And you didn’t give a fuck!» said David, almost crying, his voice broken and made hoarse by the cough.
Reminiscence: The voice, nearly identical, shouting against him You committed a crime!
Now everything was clear.
«You haven’t seen him in ten years,» House started, studying his reactions, «and now you think that stopping by and telling him goodbye is gonna change anything? Do you want to ease your conscience?» He interpreted David’s confusion as a confirmation and continued: «Or maybe you’re just searching for money, and the story of AIDS is just, surprise, a story.»
David opened his eyes wide, then lowered them to the floor. The hand that was grabbing the cane released it, and the vagabond’s arms raised and tightened around his chest, as if he were cold. «I’ve never… I’m not searching for money. After all this time, I don’t even now if… if he still remembers me.»
«May 9th, the day you left. Today, right? He’s probably at home, cramming his stomach with peanut butter and weeping like he does every year. An incurable romantic, our Jimmy, isn’t he?»
Not that he actually knew this. Wilson had never told him. He’d just put the pieces together. That night he’d found Wilson sitting on a step in an ill-famed street (two years before), that day he’d found him depressed in front of his own pancakes for no obvious reason (one year before). That little, little D written down on his calendar in the kitchen in the field of May 9th.
David looked as though he had been punched in the stomach. He whispered, through his teeth: «I… I was the only one who used to call him by that name.»
«He’s never liked it.»
«With me he did,» replied David.
«Then maybe that’s the reason.»
David breathed in, hesitantly. «Listen… Just tell him something for me. Would you?»
«I’m not gonna tell him you’re sorry, or other bullshit like this.»
«No, it’s not that. Tell him… please, tell him I’m fine. Just that.»
House nodded.
«One last thing,» murmured David, licking his lips. «James… does he talk about me?»
«No.»
«Never?»
«Should he?»
David raised his eyes, encountering House’s. How could he possibly have not noticed that before? They had the same eyes, identical. Then the patient picked up his clothes from the exam table and put them on quickly. When David exited the room, House didn’t try to stop him this time.
Running out of the door, the man bumped against Wilson’s shoulder. He didn’t look up, murmured an apology and went on his way.
«Looks like you’ve done your Evil Deed of the Day today too. What did you do to make him run away that fast?»
«He’s fine.»
«What?»
«I said he’s fine. He’s fine, if you’re interested.»
«Why should I… who is he? House…?»
«Shouldn’t you be at home?»
«I had some work to finish.»
«Then go back and finish it. I’m going home.»
«But who was that man?»
House shrugged, limping towards the doors. «Do I look like one who can remember the patients’ names?»