The Chosen One
Prompt: #46 (see master prompt list).
Pairing: None; House/Wilson friendship.
Category: Hurt/Comfort
Rating/Warnings: R, for graphic description of child abuse (nonsexual)...spoilers for "The Social Contract" of Season 5.
Words: This part: 3,760 (6,780 in all)
Summary: When Wilson's estranged Uncle suddenly passes, Wilson is forced to remember a part of his past that he'd long since thought once buried and forgotten.
Disclaimer: If I owned House, why would I be writing fanfic?
Beta: None...all mistakes made by me; feel free to point any out, but please do so respectfully!
Author's Notes: I had trouble with the original prompt, so this is what came out instead (my apologies to the prompt's creator). The only thing that remains true to the original prompt is the sensitive subject of child abuse...for which I hope I have done justice. :)
Written for: sickwilson_fest 's Round 5. Enjoy!
When his older brother Adam called late one night in early Spring to tell James Wilson that his Uncle Peter (his father's brother) had passed suddenly from a heart attack in the middle of the night, Wilson didn't know what to say; what to feel. Instead, he felt nothing; it was very much how he felt the time when he'd had to turn off his (now dead) girlfriend Amber's bypass machine, and say goodbye to the love of his life for the very last time.
“What day is the funeral?” he heard himself say upon reflex. Was that his voice? He sounded so tired…like a miserable, pathetic and beaten old man.
“It’s next weekend,” Adam replied gloomily, though he remained speaking in the same distant tone he always used when his older brother James was concerned. “a Saturday….and we’re all expected to be there.” Pause. “Including you.”
“Did he have any heart problems prior to the attack?” Wilson was trying to wrap his head around the unexpected cause of death. (It seemed ironic to him that his Uncle should die of heart failure, when he’d never had a heart to begin with.)
“None that we know of,” was his brother’s pat answer. “As far as anyone knew...well, you know Uncle Peter….after we stopped visiting, and especially when Dad passed, he became kind of…well, a recluse.”
“Right,” Wilson replied, as though any of this mattered. “Well…thank you for telling me,” he added with sincerity, although the words felt like marbles in his mouth. “I’ll make sure to clear my schedule.”
“Good enough,” Adam said smugly, and promptly two seconds later the phone went dead.
Wilson returned the phone to cradle mechanically, his mind only focused on one thing: God, do I sound like an unbelievable idiot.
Oh, how he hated this sense of obligation to a family that had seemed to slowly disintegrate over the years…first with the discovery of his brother Daniel’s illness (late-onset schizophrenia, finally diagnosed in his late adolescence)…then, his father’s early death at forty-two from a stroke, followed by his mother’s own stroke in the same exact year (following his father’s footsteps, like she had the whole time he’d known her when she was alive). After his father’s death, and Daniel’s disappearance three years later, Wilson had thrown himself into his practice while Adam had lingered for several years (to care for their mother, Wilson had thought), only to disappear himself to the other side of the country. Adam now lived in Los Angeles and only came to Havertown, Pennsylvania (a small suburban area not far from Philadelphia) when someone had died.
Wilson had been shocked to find Adam had no interest in visiting their younger brother Daniel when he was found. Daniel now resided in a psychiatric institution in lower Manhattan, and Wilson was the only one who visited him (at least three times a month, because that was the most times Wilson could handle emotionally). It was devastating, seeing how Daniel’s disease had progressed (which, to Wilson, seemed more like a regression; it was the wrong word to use). Equally devastating was how Wilson felt there was nothing he could do to help his brother, who he’d searched for over so many years.
Wilson wondered now how Daniel would react to Uncle Peter’s death. (His doctors would probably advise against telling him, considering how fragile his emotional state could be; Wilson wasn’t sure he agreed.) He could recall how much Daniel had taken pleasure in Uncle Peter’s company after their father had died…but this was not a happy memory for Wilson, who could remember how his Uncle picked favorites, and there was always a sinking sensation whenever his Uncle would pick up young Danny and position his small body atop strong shoulders.
“I love Uncle Peter so much,” a six-year-old Daniel would confess with painfully innocent admiration to his older brother James, who lay silently in the opposite bed---and his unnatural idolization of their only Uncle would leave Wilson feeling sickened to the point of mild nausea for hours afterwards, often finding it difficult in the end to sleep at all.
Uncle Peter was not someone to be idolized, Wilson knew…in fact, far from it, for their Uncle had a dangerous side, and that dangerous side had shown itself many times to young James whenever he and Uncle Peter were alone. This occurred often during the long hot days of summer when his mother and father had taken their annual trips to Europe alone, leaving the three sons behind in what his parents had considered to be their Uncle’s trusted care.
On these days, Uncle Peter would spend hours in the den, listening to old rock-and-roll records while the brothers played outside, only calling them in whenever a chore needed to be done, or a meal to be had, or if something wasn’t quite the way he wanted it. Other than that, the boys were left mainly to their own devices, and being the oldest, Wilson was usually the one left in charge. (This meant mainly that whenever Adam and Daniel roughhoused, James would be the one to have to pull them apart.) Adam and Daniel both trusted their older brother with their lives (Daniel in particular) and they had many adventures that summer in the woods and hills, playing follow the leader or creating their own games, and basically enjoying their childhood without any annoying adults around.
The second summer was the time that Wilson discovered his Uncle had a dark side, and this dark side must have stemmed from his Uncle’s past---for though his Uncle wasn’t, his grandfather was an alcoholic, and this must have been where Uncle Peter learned that hitting was an “accepted” form of discipline. It happened without warning and usually whenever James had forgotten something that needed to be done. The first time, it was an unexpected slap across the face, an act that had stunned James into speechlessness, and he hadn’t cried until his Uncle had departed him off to his room, where he had stayed in bed for the rest of the evening, claiming to be sick. He couldn’t remember now what he’d done wrong (if he’d done anything), but he recalled that his Uncle had said, “You’re the oldest; you know better” seconds before automatically stinging his nephew’s cheek with the back of his sturdy hand.
What was curious was that his Uncle didn’t seem to pick on the other sons; only James. One time, Daniel was late arriving for dinner and his Uncle was furious. They waited for several minutes at the dinner table, and when Daniel finally arrived (covered with mud) his Uncle very calmly ordered James into the den. (It was more the calmness in his Uncle’s voice, rather than the dread of knowing what was to come, that had frightened young James more than anything else.) There, in the den, his Uncle would take off his belt and whip James hard, twice, across his backside. The act would leave James in breathless agony, creating several angry red welt marks that remained wretchedly swollen for days, and often at night James would have to lie on his side instead of his back, because it was too painful.
The discipline was always mercifully swift, but it left an irrevocable mark on James’s psyche. He would watch his brothers with a hawk’s eye and if any one of them got into trouble, he would take the blame. (One time, Adam stole a neighborhood boy’s brand new bicycle, and James marched him to the front door and ordered him to give it back and tell the owner he was sorry---which, however reluctantly, he did.) Thankfully, his Uncle never found out.
James knew that his Uncle’s actions weren’t in the realm of acceptable adult behavior. Their father never hit, and in their parents’ eyes, James and his brothers were equal to their love, no matter how old or young. Even so, he didn’t say a word to either of his parents about it, for fear of being discovered as the undeserving child he was beginning to think he’d become. The hitting continued, until one summer when his Uncle gave his nephew something completely unexpected: a black eye.
It was a fight over something stupid, like curfew; Daniel had wanted to stay up to read, but his Uncle kept on telling him ‘no’, only getting madder and madder. Without thinking, James had opened his mouth and said, “He just wants to read…what’s wrong with that?” and his Uncle had responded by yelling, “Who told you to speak?” and before James knew what was happening a fist came plummeting towards him from out of nowhere, a sharp pain erupted inside his head, and suddenly everything went black.
When he didn’t revive immediately, his Uncle had wound up panicking and had rushed James to the emergency room. He woke immediately to seeing a doctor’s face hovering over him and many other concerned voices fading in and out, lost amongst the beeping and other weird noises everywhere, all coming at him at once. He screamed, crying out, and the nurse had quickly come to his side and instantly taken his hand, shushing him and telling him that it was okay; everything would be all right. His Uncle was getting arrested, getting taken to jail---but not before the cop had ordered his Uncle to call James’s parents (they were in London) and tell them, step by step, exactly everything that had happened.
His parents were furious and had taken the first flight home the next day. James and his brothers had spent the night at the hospital, sleeping in the ER’s waiting room. That was the last time they had ever seen Uncle Peter, because his parents cut off all personal contact. The next summer, they went with their parents to England and had a wonderful time, and James had tried to forget everything that had happened between him and Uncle Peter, and he did, for the most part…
…up until now, that was.
James Wilson, 41, looked back on those years and felt the same cold sweat break out on his forehead that he’d always felt when his Uncle had called his name. He didn’t know why he’d even asked his brother when the funeral was; he didn’t care for going to the funeral at all. His Uncle had never acknowledged his presence with affection; why should he care that his Uncle was dead? It was nothing to be sad over, as far as Wilson was concerned; in fact, quite the opposite---it was something to celebrate.
His best friend Gregory House’s father had died the past year, and Wilson could recall the same night after they’d gone to the funeral: he had found House sitting at his desk, drinking his favorite drink (bourbon). When Wilson had asked what was going on, House had confessed back with a small smirk of amusement, “I’m celebrating”. Wilson hadn’t understood that up until now: House had just found out that his father wasn’t his biological father, but he wasn’t upset about this, he was glad. Wilson hadn’t known too much about House Senior other than that he was an incredibly strict military man, and that he and his son’s relationship was a rocky one at best. Now, Wilson could only imagine what kind of a man House’s father must have been, for his son to celebrate the fact that their DNA didn’t match. He chuckled now in spite of himself, recalling the odd image of House lifting a glass in his dead father’s memory, seeming strangely confused as to whether be happy or sad.
It was a Friday when he received the call, and that night, Wilson waited for House to get home (they shared a condo in Wilson’s name), as House was having a late night. When House finally arrived, he found Wilson sitting in the kitchen, in almost complete darkness.
At the sight of Wilson, House nearly jumped out of his skin and then, once he’d collected himself (somewhat), groaned loudly with irritation. “Jesus, Wilson---what the hell is the matter with you?! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” House yelled, without stopping to say hello.
Before Wilson could respond, the room was flooded with light as House lumbered painstakingly over to the kitchen table (it must have been a bad pain day) before finally plopping himself down with relief into the nearest chair. “Seriously,” House grumbled bitterly, glaring hotly across the table at his grim-faced roommate, “you scared the living daylights out of me, Wilson---you know that?”
“Sorry,” Wilson said quietly. He knew House could tell something was wrong, probably from the look on his face, or the sound of his voice.
“Oh boy,” House huffed with irritation, scowling, “you didn’t kill a cancer kid today, did you? Because they really have enough bad luck as it is.”
“Cut it out,” Wilson snapped, glaring back in House’s direction, and surprisingly, House fell silent. “No,” Wilson said after an awkward minute of silence, “it has nothing to do with a patient…and I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“No point in asking…you look like crap,” House replied with conviction, causing Wilson to visibly squirm. “You’re obviously lying, which I find extremely interesting…for one thing, it means whatever this is, you’re feeling shameful about it because clearly it’s eating away at you, and two, I find it interesting because you’re keeping it from me, your best friend, which means you care what I think---so, are you going to tell me what’s going on,” House added with unrestrained exasperation when Wilson failed to respond, “or am I going to have to keep guessing? Because I’ve had one hell of a day, and I’m really not in the mood to be playing twenty questions with you---”
“I got a call from my brother Adam today,” Wilson wearily confessed before House could finish the sentence.
Another long period of silence followed, as Wilson tried to not look House directly in the eyes, though he could feel House’s eyes curiously searching his face for answers that couldn’t readily be given. “Danny okay?” House asked suddenly, his voice quiet and with what sounded to be a genuine concern.
The question caught Wilson completely by surprise, because House rarely expressed any sort of concern regarding Wilson’s personal life, unless it affected him directly---which had always been ironic, because they’d been friends for over ten years.
“Daniel’s fine,” Wilson answered at last, when he could finally find his voice.
“Your other brother called, he’s clearly okay…and both of your parents are dead…so, that only leaves…you, right?” House asked, though he seemed to not want an answer. The question irked Wilson, because House always presumed he knew everything, and he knew nothing at all about his Uncle Peter whatsoever.
“I have other family members, you know,” Wilson pointed out crossly.
“Okay, okay, now, no need to get snippy.” House was looking at him with intense curiosity, with his bright blue eyes that had seen so much over the years; eyes that now seemed to be boring straight into James Wilson’s soul. “So…seriously…what’s this about? As your best friend and roommate,” House added with a smug grin, “I demand to know.”
“Well, in that case,” Wilson replied, finding much to his surprise a small smile beginning to pull at his lips, but it quickly faded when the reality of the moment caught up to him. “my Uncle Peter’s…well…he’s dead,” Wilson announced simply, feeling ill as he spoke; the words themselves sounding strange to his ears.
“Oh,” was all House said in a strangely accepting response, then: “What was his cause of death?”
Boy, some people have a one-track mind, thought Wilson to himself with dismay before quietly answering, “Heart failure.”
Another silence, and then the unexpected question: “How well did you know him?”
“He was my father’s older brother,” Wilson muttered, his eyes falling quickly to the table.
“Doesn’t answer the question,” House pointed out promptly, with a strangely intensifying interest that was beginning to easily grate on Wilson’s nerves. “Were you and this man...close? Otherwise…I see no reason to be sitting here, by yourself, moping around in the dark---”
“When my parents went on vacation he watched over myself and my brothers---for two whole summers,” Wilson blurted out loudly, before he could stop himself and change his mind. Immediately he forced himself to stop going, because if he did, he knew he would start telling House things he’d later regret.
“Why only two?” House asked suspiciously (the dreaded question).
“Well….there was a…rift,” Wilson answered safely, “between himself and my father….but, that’s all in the past,” he added awkwardly. “It…doesn’t matter, now.” Pausing for a moment, Wilson found his own turn to be suspicious, and gazed hard at House quizzically before asking the one question that had been on his mind from the start of House’s pointless interrogation: “Why are you so interested, anyway?”
“Because you’re being elusive, and you never sit by yourself in the dark,” House replied smugly, a little too knowingly for Wilson’s taste.
Good answer, Wilson found himself thinking in spite of himself. “I’m going to have to go to the funeral,” he heard himself saying to no one in particular (maybe himself), at the same time relieved to announce it, surprising himself by his own acceptance.
“Curious that you use the words ‘have to’,” House murmured contemplatively, staring at Wilson so hard Wilson wanted to shrink into something invisible and never return to normal size.
“You know,” Wilson snapped without thinking, “just because we live together, it doesn’t mean we have to know everything about each other.” He was beginning to feel himself losing control, and the last thing he wanted was to get into a fight. Not this day.
“You’re not telling me something.” House’s eyes were twinkling; he wasn’t about to budge. “I’m not going to move from this spot until you tell me what it is.”
Wilson felt himself jerk away as though House had slapped him. “You’re testing my patience, House,” he warned, willing his anger to remain at bay as he dug his nails into both palms.
“Am I supposed to be scared?” House asked mockingly, looking more amused by Wilson’s actions than anything else---instead of the expected outcome Wilson had hoped he would be: offended. “Because it’s not like your being pissed off at me is anything new.”
“Well this time you’ll be sorry, okay?” Wilson snapped back, a bit too roughly, he realized: and he regretted the words the very moment he said them. Trying to avoid House’s surprisingly startled expression, Wilson pushed himself abruptly away from the table, heading for his own room without looking back.
* * *
The next morning, Wilson was startled to find that he was not the first one in the apartment to be awake so early (it was 7 am). Much to his amazement, House was already up and waiting for him patiently while he reclined lazily at the kitchen table, craftily eating pancakes with one hand and intently reading the newspaper with the other . He gave Wilson a curt nod of acknowledgement, before jerking his head in the direction of the empty chair and announcing calmly, “Your breakfast is ready.”
Well aware that House was a good cook and fully capable of making good pancakes, Wilson was pleasantly surprised to find that they were macadamia nut pancakes---his favorite, as well as his own specialty. “Thank you,” Wilson managed to weakly omit, before eventually taking his place across from House at the table. A cup of steaming hot coffee was already set out in front of him, filled almost to the brim with what he knew to be just the right mixture of half-n-half and sweetener, just the way House knew he liked it.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he told House, who was casually reading the paper as though nothing were amiss. “I’m not angry anymore.”
“Yes you are,” House replied starkly, shifting the paper abruptly aside, his eyes sparkling with the mysterious wisdom of a man who knew too much about something he shouldn’t. “Maybe not at me, per se, but somebody…and I’m guessing that somebody is your Uncle, for reasons that you currently are not specifying---”
“House---” Wilson groaned and pressed both palms over his eyes, trying to block out…well, he wasn’t sure what, but something. “Not this early---please! At least let me hold onto my appetite before you decide to shove this ridiculous petty stuff down my throat.”
“It’s not ‘petty’ at all,” House admonished, in spite of the other man’s blatant request. “It’s troubling you enough that you had to bring it up to me last night….at the same time avoiding my questions like the plague.”
“What are you talking about?” Wilson exclaimed, glaring at House darkly as he mechanically cut up his food, much like House believed a maniac would slice up someone’s skin. “I wasn’t doing anything like that at all!”
“Like right now,” House pointed out with exasperation, feeling like he was at his wit’s end. “You’re doing it right now, in pretending that you don’t know what I mean!”
“I didn’t want to be talking about this at all,” Wilson huffed, feeling bitter and not trusting himself to stay, lest he make more of a scene than before. “Thanks for the breakfast…I’ve got to get myself to work.” Without saying another word Wilson speared the pancake pieces with a fork and stuffed them into his mouth, nearly choking on them in the process as he whirled about and started heading brusquely for the door.
“Whatever it is, you’re going to have to face it sooner or later, you know,” he could hear House calling after him, and before he slammed the door, hard, the last words he heard House saying was something that would stick with him for the rest of that day, and many days after: “Ghosts never die, Wilson…because they’re already dead.”
TBC....
Part II
Pairing: None; House/Wilson friendship.
Category: Hurt/Comfort
Rating/Warnings: R, for graphic description of child abuse (nonsexual)...spoilers for "The Social Contract" of Season 5.
Words: This part: 3,760 (6,780 in all)
Summary: When Wilson's estranged Uncle suddenly passes, Wilson is forced to remember a part of his past that he'd long since thought once buried and forgotten.
Disclaimer: If I owned House, why would I be writing fanfic?
Beta: None...all mistakes made by me; feel free to point any out, but please do so respectfully!
Author's Notes: I had trouble with the original prompt, so this is what came out instead (my apologies to the prompt's creator). The only thing that remains true to the original prompt is the sensitive subject of child abuse...for which I hope I have done justice. :)
Written for: sickwilson_fest 's Round 5. Enjoy!
When his older brother Adam called late one night in early Spring to tell James Wilson that his Uncle Peter (his father's brother) had passed suddenly from a heart attack in the middle of the night, Wilson didn't know what to say; what to feel. Instead, he felt nothing; it was very much how he felt the time when he'd had to turn off his (now dead) girlfriend Amber's bypass machine, and say goodbye to the love of his life for the very last time.
“What day is the funeral?” he heard himself say upon reflex. Was that his voice? He sounded so tired…like a miserable, pathetic and beaten old man.
“It’s next weekend,” Adam replied gloomily, though he remained speaking in the same distant tone he always used when his older brother James was concerned. “a Saturday….and we’re all expected to be there.” Pause. “Including you.”
“Did he have any heart problems prior to the attack?” Wilson was trying to wrap his head around the unexpected cause of death. (It seemed ironic to him that his Uncle should die of heart failure, when he’d never had a heart to begin with.)
“None that we know of,” was his brother’s pat answer. “As far as anyone knew...well, you know Uncle Peter….after we stopped visiting, and especially when Dad passed, he became kind of…well, a recluse.”
“Right,” Wilson replied, as though any of this mattered. “Well…thank you for telling me,” he added with sincerity, although the words felt like marbles in his mouth. “I’ll make sure to clear my schedule.”
“Good enough,” Adam said smugly, and promptly two seconds later the phone went dead.
Wilson returned the phone to cradle mechanically, his mind only focused on one thing: God, do I sound like an unbelievable idiot.
Oh, how he hated this sense of obligation to a family that had seemed to slowly disintegrate over the years…first with the discovery of his brother Daniel’s illness (late-onset schizophrenia, finally diagnosed in his late adolescence)…then, his father’s early death at forty-two from a stroke, followed by his mother’s own stroke in the same exact year (following his father’s footsteps, like she had the whole time he’d known her when she was alive). After his father’s death, and Daniel’s disappearance three years later, Wilson had thrown himself into his practice while Adam had lingered for several years (to care for their mother, Wilson had thought), only to disappear himself to the other side of the country. Adam now lived in Los Angeles and only came to Havertown, Pennsylvania (a small suburban area not far from Philadelphia) when someone had died.
Wilson had been shocked to find Adam had no interest in visiting their younger brother Daniel when he was found. Daniel now resided in a psychiatric institution in lower Manhattan, and Wilson was the only one who visited him (at least three times a month, because that was the most times Wilson could handle emotionally). It was devastating, seeing how Daniel’s disease had progressed (which, to Wilson, seemed more like a regression; it was the wrong word to use). Equally devastating was how Wilson felt there was nothing he could do to help his brother, who he’d searched for over so many years.
Wilson wondered now how Daniel would react to Uncle Peter’s death. (His doctors would probably advise against telling him, considering how fragile his emotional state could be; Wilson wasn’t sure he agreed.) He could recall how much Daniel had taken pleasure in Uncle Peter’s company after their father had died…but this was not a happy memory for Wilson, who could remember how his Uncle picked favorites, and there was always a sinking sensation whenever his Uncle would pick up young Danny and position his small body atop strong shoulders.
“I love Uncle Peter so much,” a six-year-old Daniel would confess with painfully innocent admiration to his older brother James, who lay silently in the opposite bed---and his unnatural idolization of their only Uncle would leave Wilson feeling sickened to the point of mild nausea for hours afterwards, often finding it difficult in the end to sleep at all.
Uncle Peter was not someone to be idolized, Wilson knew…in fact, far from it, for their Uncle had a dangerous side, and that dangerous side had shown itself many times to young James whenever he and Uncle Peter were alone. This occurred often during the long hot days of summer when his mother and father had taken their annual trips to Europe alone, leaving the three sons behind in what his parents had considered to be their Uncle’s trusted care.
On these days, Uncle Peter would spend hours in the den, listening to old rock-and-roll records while the brothers played outside, only calling them in whenever a chore needed to be done, or a meal to be had, or if something wasn’t quite the way he wanted it. Other than that, the boys were left mainly to their own devices, and being the oldest, Wilson was usually the one left in charge. (This meant mainly that whenever Adam and Daniel roughhoused, James would be the one to have to pull them apart.) Adam and Daniel both trusted their older brother with their lives (Daniel in particular) and they had many adventures that summer in the woods and hills, playing follow the leader or creating their own games, and basically enjoying their childhood without any annoying adults around.
The second summer was the time that Wilson discovered his Uncle had a dark side, and this dark side must have stemmed from his Uncle’s past---for though his Uncle wasn’t, his grandfather was an alcoholic, and this must have been where Uncle Peter learned that hitting was an “accepted” form of discipline. It happened without warning and usually whenever James had forgotten something that needed to be done. The first time, it was an unexpected slap across the face, an act that had stunned James into speechlessness, and he hadn’t cried until his Uncle had departed him off to his room, where he had stayed in bed for the rest of the evening, claiming to be sick. He couldn’t remember now what he’d done wrong (if he’d done anything), but he recalled that his Uncle had said, “You’re the oldest; you know better” seconds before automatically stinging his nephew’s cheek with the back of his sturdy hand.
What was curious was that his Uncle didn’t seem to pick on the other sons; only James. One time, Daniel was late arriving for dinner and his Uncle was furious. They waited for several minutes at the dinner table, and when Daniel finally arrived (covered with mud) his Uncle very calmly ordered James into the den. (It was more the calmness in his Uncle’s voice, rather than the dread of knowing what was to come, that had frightened young James more than anything else.) There, in the den, his Uncle would take off his belt and whip James hard, twice, across his backside. The act would leave James in breathless agony, creating several angry red welt marks that remained wretchedly swollen for days, and often at night James would have to lie on his side instead of his back, because it was too painful.
The discipline was always mercifully swift, but it left an irrevocable mark on James’s psyche. He would watch his brothers with a hawk’s eye and if any one of them got into trouble, he would take the blame. (One time, Adam stole a neighborhood boy’s brand new bicycle, and James marched him to the front door and ordered him to give it back and tell the owner he was sorry---which, however reluctantly, he did.) Thankfully, his Uncle never found out.
James knew that his Uncle’s actions weren’t in the realm of acceptable adult behavior. Their father never hit, and in their parents’ eyes, James and his brothers were equal to their love, no matter how old or young. Even so, he didn’t say a word to either of his parents about it, for fear of being discovered as the undeserving child he was beginning to think he’d become. The hitting continued, until one summer when his Uncle gave his nephew something completely unexpected: a black eye.
It was a fight over something stupid, like curfew; Daniel had wanted to stay up to read, but his Uncle kept on telling him ‘no’, only getting madder and madder. Without thinking, James had opened his mouth and said, “He just wants to read…what’s wrong with that?” and his Uncle had responded by yelling, “Who told you to speak?” and before James knew what was happening a fist came plummeting towards him from out of nowhere, a sharp pain erupted inside his head, and suddenly everything went black.
When he didn’t revive immediately, his Uncle had wound up panicking and had rushed James to the emergency room. He woke immediately to seeing a doctor’s face hovering over him and many other concerned voices fading in and out, lost amongst the beeping and other weird noises everywhere, all coming at him at once. He screamed, crying out, and the nurse had quickly come to his side and instantly taken his hand, shushing him and telling him that it was okay; everything would be all right. His Uncle was getting arrested, getting taken to jail---but not before the cop had ordered his Uncle to call James’s parents (they were in London) and tell them, step by step, exactly everything that had happened.
His parents were furious and had taken the first flight home the next day. James and his brothers had spent the night at the hospital, sleeping in the ER’s waiting room. That was the last time they had ever seen Uncle Peter, because his parents cut off all personal contact. The next summer, they went with their parents to England and had a wonderful time, and James had tried to forget everything that had happened between him and Uncle Peter, and he did, for the most part…
…up until now, that was.
James Wilson, 41, looked back on those years and felt the same cold sweat break out on his forehead that he’d always felt when his Uncle had called his name. He didn’t know why he’d even asked his brother when the funeral was; he didn’t care for going to the funeral at all. His Uncle had never acknowledged his presence with affection; why should he care that his Uncle was dead? It was nothing to be sad over, as far as Wilson was concerned; in fact, quite the opposite---it was something to celebrate.
His best friend Gregory House’s father had died the past year, and Wilson could recall the same night after they’d gone to the funeral: he had found House sitting at his desk, drinking his favorite drink (bourbon). When Wilson had asked what was going on, House had confessed back with a small smirk of amusement, “I’m celebrating”. Wilson hadn’t understood that up until now: House had just found out that his father wasn’t his biological father, but he wasn’t upset about this, he was glad. Wilson hadn’t known too much about House Senior other than that he was an incredibly strict military man, and that he and his son’s relationship was a rocky one at best. Now, Wilson could only imagine what kind of a man House’s father must have been, for his son to celebrate the fact that their DNA didn’t match. He chuckled now in spite of himself, recalling the odd image of House lifting a glass in his dead father’s memory, seeming strangely confused as to whether be happy or sad.
It was a Friday when he received the call, and that night, Wilson waited for House to get home (they shared a condo in Wilson’s name), as House was having a late night. When House finally arrived, he found Wilson sitting in the kitchen, in almost complete darkness.
At the sight of Wilson, House nearly jumped out of his skin and then, once he’d collected himself (somewhat), groaned loudly with irritation. “Jesus, Wilson---what the hell is the matter with you?! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” House yelled, without stopping to say hello.
Before Wilson could respond, the room was flooded with light as House lumbered painstakingly over to the kitchen table (it must have been a bad pain day) before finally plopping himself down with relief into the nearest chair. “Seriously,” House grumbled bitterly, glaring hotly across the table at his grim-faced roommate, “you scared the living daylights out of me, Wilson---you know that?”
“Sorry,” Wilson said quietly. He knew House could tell something was wrong, probably from the look on his face, or the sound of his voice.
“Oh boy,” House huffed with irritation, scowling, “you didn’t kill a cancer kid today, did you? Because they really have enough bad luck as it is.”
“Cut it out,” Wilson snapped, glaring back in House’s direction, and surprisingly, House fell silent. “No,” Wilson said after an awkward minute of silence, “it has nothing to do with a patient…and I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“No point in asking…you look like crap,” House replied with conviction, causing Wilson to visibly squirm. “You’re obviously lying, which I find extremely interesting…for one thing, it means whatever this is, you’re feeling shameful about it because clearly it’s eating away at you, and two, I find it interesting because you’re keeping it from me, your best friend, which means you care what I think---so, are you going to tell me what’s going on,” House added with unrestrained exasperation when Wilson failed to respond, “or am I going to have to keep guessing? Because I’ve had one hell of a day, and I’m really not in the mood to be playing twenty questions with you---”
“I got a call from my brother Adam today,” Wilson wearily confessed before House could finish the sentence.
Another long period of silence followed, as Wilson tried to not look House directly in the eyes, though he could feel House’s eyes curiously searching his face for answers that couldn’t readily be given. “Danny okay?” House asked suddenly, his voice quiet and with what sounded to be a genuine concern.
The question caught Wilson completely by surprise, because House rarely expressed any sort of concern regarding Wilson’s personal life, unless it affected him directly---which had always been ironic, because they’d been friends for over ten years.
“Daniel’s fine,” Wilson answered at last, when he could finally find his voice.
“Your other brother called, he’s clearly okay…and both of your parents are dead…so, that only leaves…you, right?” House asked, though he seemed to not want an answer. The question irked Wilson, because House always presumed he knew everything, and he knew nothing at all about his Uncle Peter whatsoever.
“I have other family members, you know,” Wilson pointed out crossly.
“Okay, okay, now, no need to get snippy.” House was looking at him with intense curiosity, with his bright blue eyes that had seen so much over the years; eyes that now seemed to be boring straight into James Wilson’s soul. “So…seriously…what’s this about? As your best friend and roommate,” House added with a smug grin, “I demand to know.”
“Well, in that case,” Wilson replied, finding much to his surprise a small smile beginning to pull at his lips, but it quickly faded when the reality of the moment caught up to him. “my Uncle Peter’s…well…he’s dead,” Wilson announced simply, feeling ill as he spoke; the words themselves sounding strange to his ears.
“Oh,” was all House said in a strangely accepting response, then: “What was his cause of death?”
Boy, some people have a one-track mind, thought Wilson to himself with dismay before quietly answering, “Heart failure.”
Another silence, and then the unexpected question: “How well did you know him?”
“He was my father’s older brother,” Wilson muttered, his eyes falling quickly to the table.
“Doesn’t answer the question,” House pointed out promptly, with a strangely intensifying interest that was beginning to easily grate on Wilson’s nerves. “Were you and this man...close? Otherwise…I see no reason to be sitting here, by yourself, moping around in the dark---”
“When my parents went on vacation he watched over myself and my brothers---for two whole summers,” Wilson blurted out loudly, before he could stop himself and change his mind. Immediately he forced himself to stop going, because if he did, he knew he would start telling House things he’d later regret.
“Why only two?” House asked suspiciously (the dreaded question).
“Well….there was a…rift,” Wilson answered safely, “between himself and my father….but, that’s all in the past,” he added awkwardly. “It…doesn’t matter, now.” Pausing for a moment, Wilson found his own turn to be suspicious, and gazed hard at House quizzically before asking the one question that had been on his mind from the start of House’s pointless interrogation: “Why are you so interested, anyway?”
“Because you’re being elusive, and you never sit by yourself in the dark,” House replied smugly, a little too knowingly for Wilson’s taste.
Good answer, Wilson found himself thinking in spite of himself. “I’m going to have to go to the funeral,” he heard himself saying to no one in particular (maybe himself), at the same time relieved to announce it, surprising himself by his own acceptance.
“Curious that you use the words ‘have to’,” House murmured contemplatively, staring at Wilson so hard Wilson wanted to shrink into something invisible and never return to normal size.
“You know,” Wilson snapped without thinking, “just because we live together, it doesn’t mean we have to know everything about each other.” He was beginning to feel himself losing control, and the last thing he wanted was to get into a fight. Not this day.
“You’re not telling me something.” House’s eyes were twinkling; he wasn’t about to budge. “I’m not going to move from this spot until you tell me what it is.”
Wilson felt himself jerk away as though House had slapped him. “You’re testing my patience, House,” he warned, willing his anger to remain at bay as he dug his nails into both palms.
“Am I supposed to be scared?” House asked mockingly, looking more amused by Wilson’s actions than anything else---instead of the expected outcome Wilson had hoped he would be: offended. “Because it’s not like your being pissed off at me is anything new.”
“Well this time you’ll be sorry, okay?” Wilson snapped back, a bit too roughly, he realized: and he regretted the words the very moment he said them. Trying to avoid House’s surprisingly startled expression, Wilson pushed himself abruptly away from the table, heading for his own room without looking back.
* * *
The next morning, Wilson was startled to find that he was not the first one in the apartment to be awake so early (it was 7 am). Much to his amazement, House was already up and waiting for him patiently while he reclined lazily at the kitchen table, craftily eating pancakes with one hand and intently reading the newspaper with the other . He gave Wilson a curt nod of acknowledgement, before jerking his head in the direction of the empty chair and announcing calmly, “Your breakfast is ready.”
Well aware that House was a good cook and fully capable of making good pancakes, Wilson was pleasantly surprised to find that they were macadamia nut pancakes---his favorite, as well as his own specialty. “Thank you,” Wilson managed to weakly omit, before eventually taking his place across from House at the table. A cup of steaming hot coffee was already set out in front of him, filled almost to the brim with what he knew to be just the right mixture of half-n-half and sweetener, just the way House knew he liked it.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he told House, who was casually reading the paper as though nothing were amiss. “I’m not angry anymore.”
“Yes you are,” House replied starkly, shifting the paper abruptly aside, his eyes sparkling with the mysterious wisdom of a man who knew too much about something he shouldn’t. “Maybe not at me, per se, but somebody…and I’m guessing that somebody is your Uncle, for reasons that you currently are not specifying---”
“House---” Wilson groaned and pressed both palms over his eyes, trying to block out…well, he wasn’t sure what, but something. “Not this early---please! At least let me hold onto my appetite before you decide to shove this ridiculous petty stuff down my throat.”
“It’s not ‘petty’ at all,” House admonished, in spite of the other man’s blatant request. “It’s troubling you enough that you had to bring it up to me last night….at the same time avoiding my questions like the plague.”
“What are you talking about?” Wilson exclaimed, glaring at House darkly as he mechanically cut up his food, much like House believed a maniac would slice up someone’s skin. “I wasn’t doing anything like that at all!”
“Like right now,” House pointed out with exasperation, feeling like he was at his wit’s end. “You’re doing it right now, in pretending that you don’t know what I mean!”
“I didn’t want to be talking about this at all,” Wilson huffed, feeling bitter and not trusting himself to stay, lest he make more of a scene than before. “Thanks for the breakfast…I’ve got to get myself to work.” Without saying another word Wilson speared the pancake pieces with a fork and stuffed them into his mouth, nearly choking on them in the process as he whirled about and started heading brusquely for the door.
“Whatever it is, you’re going to have to face it sooner or later, you know,” he could hear House calling after him, and before he slammed the door, hard, the last words he heard House saying was something that would stick with him for the rest of that day, and many days after: “Ghosts never die, Wilson…because they’re already dead.”
TBC....
Part II