New Fic: One Noble Function: Gettysburg
Title: One Noble Function: Gettysburg
Author: Namaste
Summary: House and Wilson on their final road trip. PG, friendship. This chapter, 1,700 words. The road reminds Wilson of places he never went, and places his brother may never go.
Previous chapters: One Noble Function: Atlantic City, One Noble Function: Washington D.C.
Excerpt: Danny had always acted out this part of the story, using his BB gun as a prop, swinging it above his head, then jabbing it in front of him. James usually found himself jumping aside, never really sure if Danny was so lost in the story that he didn't see him standing there.
The year he turned 12, Danny became obsessed with the Civil War. It started with a movie, or maybe a class assignment. Wilson couldn't really remember now, but he could remember Danny tearing through every book in Mom and Dad's library, then sweeping through the school library and spending half of the summer in the city library.
He painted his plastic army men with paint left over from his model airplanes -- tiny brush strokes of blue and gray. He locked himself in his room when he couldn't find anything to replace the cavalry's horses and Mom and Dad refused to buy him a separate set of soldiers.
"It's a phase," Mom had said. "It won't last. It's like the dinosaurs and the models. Give him a few weeks and he'll forget all about it."
She told James to humor him and keep him company. "You're his big brother. It's your job to make him feel better."
The interest didn't fade, though. Looking back now, Wilson told himself that he should have seen it as something other than the last phase of childhood. It was more likely the first of signs of the mania that would hit full force in just a few years. At the time, though, James did what he was told. He'd feign interest as Danny drew out intricate maps of battle plans and troop movements.
Before long, Danny begged for a trip to Civil War sites for their family vacations. James would add his voice of support -- knowing that Mom and Dad would never give up the regular house at the shore.
"It's important," Danny would say. "It's history."
"It's 400 miles out of the way," Dad would answer, shutting down every argument.
Wilson could still see the shattered look on Danny's face now as he stared out at the road through the diner window, pretending he didn't notice as House helped himself to the last few bites of the French toast off Wilson's plate.
"We should go to Gettysburg," Wilson said.
House checked his watch. "Eight fifty-two," he said. "I'll mark that down as the moment we had the first clear sign that the cancer has spread to your brain."
"It's not a symptom."
"Really? Because I can't think of any other explanation."
"Gettysburg is important."
"It's boring."
"It's history."
"Like I said. Boring." House reached across the table for another piece of French toast. Wilson blocked him and finished it himself.
"I suppose you don't want to go because your Dad forced you to go to all the Civil War sites when you were a kid," Wilson said.
"Nope. He hated listening to anyone talk about someone who wasn't him."
"That's something he passed down to you, genetics or not." Wilson stared out the window again. They were less than a hundred miles away from Gettysburg. It was closer than Danny had ever been. Unless it was one of the places Danny ran to sometime during his lost years.
He wondered if Danny even cared about the Civil War anymore. He rarely seemed to care about anything much. He was taking his meds diligently now, but they seemed to dull some of his brightest edges even as they helped him regain control. He'd barely reacted when Wilson stopped to see him one last time and told him he wouldn't be back. Danny had just nodded and looked at a spot on the wall somewhere to the right of Wilson's shoulder, though Wilson knew the walls of Danny's room were bare -- unlike the bedroom wall back at home when he was a kid, covered with maps and photos of Lee and Jackson, Lincoln and Grant.
"You don't have to come," Wilson told House. "I can meet you in a day or two in Lancaster. Or you can go to Intercourse and make rude jokes about the Amish and their town names."
House scowled. "And who's going to whine about my jokes if you're not there?"
Wilson took a last sip of coffee and pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. He placed it next to the check.
"Fine," House said. "One day. And jokes about Intercourse are way too easy. Wait until we get to Bird-In-Hand."
----------
It was dark by the time they made it to Gettysburg. House had insisted they ride the wooden roller coaster at the park outside Lancaster, and Wilson couldn't find any reason to argue with him. Until the fourth trip.
When they rolled into town, the cemetery's gates were closed and the museum shut down for the night.
"We might as well push on," House said. "Nothing to see here. Probably sold out all the rooms at Ye Olde Hotel too."
Wilson ignored him, and found a place across the street from the main entrance. "The park opens at 6 a.m.," he said. "I'll be over there and back before you even wake up."
House just snorted and let his door slam behind him.
-----------
The sun had just cleared the ridge on the east side of town -- Seminary Ridge, Wilson thought to himself, remembering the words written down in Danny's hand on homemade maps on lined notebook paper. Wilson rode slowly past the fence separating the cemetery from the battlefield, trying to keep the engine's sound as low as possible.
It was a clear morning, just a hint of clouds in the sky. It was cool -- still late spring in Pennsylvania. Wilson remembered Danny going on and on about how hot it had been during the battle. He'd insisted on draping himself in an old wool blanket and walking through the back yard in the heat of midday, so he could feel what it had been like for the soldiers in their heavy uniforms.
It was easy to follow the battle lines. Monuments battled for space on both sides of the narrow road. Men frozen in time with their muskets over their shoulders, men on horseback with swords drawn overhead pointing across quiet land, cannons that would never fire again aimed at somewhere to the west.
He pulled over when the trees thinned out, and turned off the engine. The roads were nearly empty this early in the day. One sedan was following the same route he was, but it kept going up toward the high ground south of town.
Wilson slung his leg over the bike and took off his helmet. The view was clear down the slope with just a low mist hovering over the grass. There was a farm at the far end of the field and as Wilson walked down the path toward the fence line, he thought he heard a rooster's crow.
"Here," Danny had said, again and again, telling James the story of the battle as if James had never heard it before. "That's where the fight was the worst. Pickett's men had to cross the open land, going uphill, with the shells and the bullets picking them off, one after the other."
Wilson took a step toward the fence, stepping off the paved path and on to the dirt and grass.
"Where the fence turned, some of them made it all the way to the Union lines. They were just wailing away on each other," Danny had always acted out this part of the story, using his BB gun as a prop, swinging it above his head, then jabbing it in front of him. James usually found himself jumping aside, never really sure if Danny was so lost in the story that he didn't see him standing there.
Wilson saw the break in the fence, the spot where it angled away from the road.
"They said that there was so much blood, the ground turned red," Danny would say.
Wilson looked down at his feet. The ground felt soft here, like after a hard spring rain. He wondered if the bloody ground had felt muddy and soft then. The dirt was a rich black soil, but somewhere down there, on some microscopic level, there was still blood. He stooped down, felt the dirt between his fingers. It was damp and clung to his fingertips.
Wilson looked out across the field and the mist rising slowly as the morning sun heated the land. He thought maybe he saw something moving in the tall grass. He leaned forward. The rooster crowed again.
Then the sound of an engine broke the quiet, a familiar engine. House's bike, revved up and moving far faster than the posted speed limit. Wilson checked his watch. It was just after seven o'clock. House usually didn't stir until nearly nine, but here he was. House's tire squealed when he hit the brakes, the bike sliding sideways on the asphalt before he brought it to a full stop.
"I told you history was boring," House said after he'd turned off the engine. "Nothing but statues and monuments."
"It's not all boring." Wilson looked back across the field. The mist was still there, but the only thing to see was a cow moving slowly across the pasture and a couple of starlings flitting overhead.
Maybe Danny would have liked to come here, he thought. Maybe part of him was still that kid who loved to know history. He could have brought him here, Wilson thought. He should have, when there was still time.
When he finally turned away from the fence, he saw House staring at him -- his eyes studying Wilson in that look that always meant House was trying to figure something out, trying to wrest some secret out of Wilson's past. Something that Wilson didn't want to give.
Wilson didn't look him in the eye as he walked back to his bike, didn't look at House at all until he had his sunglasses on. He put on his helmet and fastened the strap and took one last look across the field. He could write his parents at least and tell them to bring Danny. Or maybe just put some money aside for Danny to come on his own, when he was ready.
Either way, Wilson's time wouldn't stretch far enough for everything he might have done. Should have done. Danny would have to find his own way from now on. But maybe Wilson could find a postcard on their way out of town. Something with a map. Something that Danny could hang on those bare walls to remind him of somewhere else. Some other time.
House was still staring at him. Wilson didn't wait for any of the questions that he knew House wanted to ask.
"I could go for some cinnamon rolls." he said. "Sound good?"
House nodded and Wilson led the way back into town.
Author: Namaste
Summary: House and Wilson on their final road trip. PG, friendship. This chapter, 1,700 words. The road reminds Wilson of places he never went, and places his brother may never go.
Previous chapters: One Noble Function: Atlantic City, One Noble Function: Washington D.C.
Excerpt: Danny had always acted out this part of the story, using his BB gun as a prop, swinging it above his head, then jabbing it in front of him. James usually found himself jumping aside, never really sure if Danny was so lost in the story that he didn't see him standing there.
The year he turned 12, Danny became obsessed with the Civil War. It started with a movie, or maybe a class assignment. Wilson couldn't really remember now, but he could remember Danny tearing through every book in Mom and Dad's library, then sweeping through the school library and spending half of the summer in the city library.
He painted his plastic army men with paint left over from his model airplanes -- tiny brush strokes of blue and gray. He locked himself in his room when he couldn't find anything to replace the cavalry's horses and Mom and Dad refused to buy him a separate set of soldiers.
"It's a phase," Mom had said. "It won't last. It's like the dinosaurs and the models. Give him a few weeks and he'll forget all about it."
She told James to humor him and keep him company. "You're his big brother. It's your job to make him feel better."
The interest didn't fade, though. Looking back now, Wilson told himself that he should have seen it as something other than the last phase of childhood. It was more likely the first of signs of the mania that would hit full force in just a few years. At the time, though, James did what he was told. He'd feign interest as Danny drew out intricate maps of battle plans and troop movements.
Before long, Danny begged for a trip to Civil War sites for their family vacations. James would add his voice of support -- knowing that Mom and Dad would never give up the regular house at the shore.
"It's important," Danny would say. "It's history."
"It's 400 miles out of the way," Dad would answer, shutting down every argument.
Wilson could still see the shattered look on Danny's face now as he stared out at the road through the diner window, pretending he didn't notice as House helped himself to the last few bites of the French toast off Wilson's plate.
"We should go to Gettysburg," Wilson said.
House checked his watch. "Eight fifty-two," he said. "I'll mark that down as the moment we had the first clear sign that the cancer has spread to your brain."
"It's not a symptom."
"Really? Because I can't think of any other explanation."
"Gettysburg is important."
"It's boring."
"It's history."
"Like I said. Boring." House reached across the table for another piece of French toast. Wilson blocked him and finished it himself.
"I suppose you don't want to go because your Dad forced you to go to all the Civil War sites when you were a kid," Wilson said.
"Nope. He hated listening to anyone talk about someone who wasn't him."
"That's something he passed down to you, genetics or not." Wilson stared out the window again. They were less than a hundred miles away from Gettysburg. It was closer than Danny had ever been. Unless it was one of the places Danny ran to sometime during his lost years.
He wondered if Danny even cared about the Civil War anymore. He rarely seemed to care about anything much. He was taking his meds diligently now, but they seemed to dull some of his brightest edges even as they helped him regain control. He'd barely reacted when Wilson stopped to see him one last time and told him he wouldn't be back. Danny had just nodded and looked at a spot on the wall somewhere to the right of Wilson's shoulder, though Wilson knew the walls of Danny's room were bare -- unlike the bedroom wall back at home when he was a kid, covered with maps and photos of Lee and Jackson, Lincoln and Grant.
"You don't have to come," Wilson told House. "I can meet you in a day or two in Lancaster. Or you can go to Intercourse and make rude jokes about the Amish and their town names."
House scowled. "And who's going to whine about my jokes if you're not there?"
Wilson took a last sip of coffee and pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. He placed it next to the check.
"Fine," House said. "One day. And jokes about Intercourse are way too easy. Wait until we get to Bird-In-Hand."
----------
It was dark by the time they made it to Gettysburg. House had insisted they ride the wooden roller coaster at the park outside Lancaster, and Wilson couldn't find any reason to argue with him. Until the fourth trip.
When they rolled into town, the cemetery's gates were closed and the museum shut down for the night.
"We might as well push on," House said. "Nothing to see here. Probably sold out all the rooms at Ye Olde Hotel too."
Wilson ignored him, and found a place across the street from the main entrance. "The park opens at 6 a.m.," he said. "I'll be over there and back before you even wake up."
House just snorted and let his door slam behind him.
-----------
The sun had just cleared the ridge on the east side of town -- Seminary Ridge, Wilson thought to himself, remembering the words written down in Danny's hand on homemade maps on lined notebook paper. Wilson rode slowly past the fence separating the cemetery from the battlefield, trying to keep the engine's sound as low as possible.
It was a clear morning, just a hint of clouds in the sky. It was cool -- still late spring in Pennsylvania. Wilson remembered Danny going on and on about how hot it had been during the battle. He'd insisted on draping himself in an old wool blanket and walking through the back yard in the heat of midday, so he could feel what it had been like for the soldiers in their heavy uniforms.
It was easy to follow the battle lines. Monuments battled for space on both sides of the narrow road. Men frozen in time with their muskets over their shoulders, men on horseback with swords drawn overhead pointing across quiet land, cannons that would never fire again aimed at somewhere to the west.
He pulled over when the trees thinned out, and turned off the engine. The roads were nearly empty this early in the day. One sedan was following the same route he was, but it kept going up toward the high ground south of town.
Wilson slung his leg over the bike and took off his helmet. The view was clear down the slope with just a low mist hovering over the grass. There was a farm at the far end of the field and as Wilson walked down the path toward the fence line, he thought he heard a rooster's crow.
"Here," Danny had said, again and again, telling James the story of the battle as if James had never heard it before. "That's where the fight was the worst. Pickett's men had to cross the open land, going uphill, with the shells and the bullets picking them off, one after the other."
Wilson took a step toward the fence, stepping off the paved path and on to the dirt and grass.
"Where the fence turned, some of them made it all the way to the Union lines. They were just wailing away on each other," Danny had always acted out this part of the story, using his BB gun as a prop, swinging it above his head, then jabbing it in front of him. James usually found himself jumping aside, never really sure if Danny was so lost in the story that he didn't see him standing there.
Wilson saw the break in the fence, the spot where it angled away from the road.
"They said that there was so much blood, the ground turned red," Danny would say.
Wilson looked down at his feet. The ground felt soft here, like after a hard spring rain. He wondered if the bloody ground had felt muddy and soft then. The dirt was a rich black soil, but somewhere down there, on some microscopic level, there was still blood. He stooped down, felt the dirt between his fingers. It was damp and clung to his fingertips.
Wilson looked out across the field and the mist rising slowly as the morning sun heated the land. He thought maybe he saw something moving in the tall grass. He leaned forward. The rooster crowed again.
Then the sound of an engine broke the quiet, a familiar engine. House's bike, revved up and moving far faster than the posted speed limit. Wilson checked his watch. It was just after seven o'clock. House usually didn't stir until nearly nine, but here he was. House's tire squealed when he hit the brakes, the bike sliding sideways on the asphalt before he brought it to a full stop.
"I told you history was boring," House said after he'd turned off the engine. "Nothing but statues and monuments."
"It's not all boring." Wilson looked back across the field. The mist was still there, but the only thing to see was a cow moving slowly across the pasture and a couple of starlings flitting overhead.
Maybe Danny would have liked to come here, he thought. Maybe part of him was still that kid who loved to know history. He could have brought him here, Wilson thought. He should have, when there was still time.
When he finally turned away from the fence, he saw House staring at him -- his eyes studying Wilson in that look that always meant House was trying to figure something out, trying to wrest some secret out of Wilson's past. Something that Wilson didn't want to give.
Wilson didn't look him in the eye as he walked back to his bike, didn't look at House at all until he had his sunglasses on. He put on his helmet and fastened the strap and took one last look across the field. He could write his parents at least and tell them to bring Danny. Or maybe just put some money aside for Danny to come on his own, when he was ready.
Either way, Wilson's time wouldn't stretch far enough for everything he might have done. Should have done. Danny would have to find his own way from now on. But maybe Wilson could find a postcard on their way out of town. Something with a map. Something that Danny could hang on those bare walls to remind him of somewhere else. Some other time.
House was still staring at him. Wilson didn't wait for any of the questions that he knew House wanted to ask.
"I could go for some cinnamon rolls." he said. "Sound good?"
House nodded and Wilson led the way back into town.