The Chosen One, Part II
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!
This much was clear to Wilson: while he’d gone to many funerals during his life, this was one funeral he could not sit through on his own. He needed support, and there was only one person he really could trust to get him through: House. There was one problem with this, however: House detested basically any setting where large groups of people were to attend…and funerals were on the top so-called ‘shit list’ of things that House hated doing.
Wilson wondered if, perhaps, House would sacrifice his policy and forgo his opinion on funerals for the day…for him. It was a lot to ask of his friend, who sometimes went out of his way in order to avoid such functions (though, ironically, House didn’t mind at all attending a bachelor party, solely because of the benefits and perks that went with it).
He found himself asking House about the prospects of this scenario over lunch that same day. “I need to ask you, um, a…favor,” Wilson had begun haltingly, which had only made House immediately suspicious.
“If it doesn’t involve a lap dancing stripper,” was House’s stern response, “then the answer is probably going to be no.”
“House, wait a sec---just, please, just---just---listen,” Wilson stammered, persisting and at the same time wincing at his own eagerness, as he was practically begging for House’s approval. (It was sad and pathetic, and he wouldn’t blame House for saying so.) Hating to say the words, wishing he didn’t have to but knowing it would probably be the only thing that got House’s full attention, Wilson forced himself to go on: “I haven’t gone to a funeral since Amber’s,” he confessed, hating the vulnerability as he tried to keep his voice from trembling, but still it trembled however slightly, nonetheless. “I…don’t think I can do this, without…someone there, to, well…help me, get through it.”
He kept his eyes purposefully on House’s the entire time he spoke, so that by the end of it, he knew House knew exactly what he was asking. When he finished, House’s eyes shifted through so many different emotions that Wilson couldn’t identify just one, and he had no idea what the answer would be. Finally, House’s eyes averted their gaze and, without returning them back to Wilson’s face, House said, “I hate funerals, Wilson…you know that,” and Wilson was almost sure he could hear a slight crack in House’s voice, indicating guilt, or perhaps sorrow.
A long silence followed in which House seemed far more interested in his leftover plate of fries, and Wilson couldn’t stop marveling over the obvious remorse that was etched so clearly in House’s half-cast eyes…
“You wouldn’t have to do anything…just…be there,” Wilson insisted, feeling an onslaught of the same sudden sinking sensation he’d felt when Adam had called to tell him the news that memorable morning. “Only family are obligated to do things.” He winced with regret at the word ‘family’; House was, at times, more like family than his own brothers were to him...as, even when they were in the same room together, they were so far away.
“I never met your Uncle,” House added indifferently, as though he hadn’t said anything---which hurt, but for some reason Wilson couldn’t admit it. “It’s not like your family even knows who I am…I’d be like the elephant in the room, and everyone would want to know who the guy with the limp was, and if they did know who I was, they’d want to know what I was doing there---”
“You’d tell them you were there as a support to your best friend,” Wilson blurted out without thinking, and then blushed, because he’d never actually said the words ‘best friend’ in proximity to House before, even though House had called him so several times that he could count.
The period that elapsed after his statement was said seemed to last longer than all the others, and during the duration neither man could seem to look away.
“You know…at one time,” House began reluctantly, “you wondered if we weren’t friends at all…”
“That was then,” Wilson said dismissively. “This is now.” He felt a lump in his throat, as he placed a gentle hand on top of House’s wrist, and House looked down at it with an oddly unfamiliar expression that Wilson couldn’t pinpoint the explanation of; it seemed as though House believed his hand had come forth from another dimension; as though Wilson’s hand was a foreign object that did not belong.
“You came to my father’s funeral…I know you said it was because my mother called you, but…it’s not like you had to just because she asked you…it’s not like anyone made you,” House acknowledged after a time, finally lifting his eyes back up to Wilson’s, lingering for a moment before once again glancing away.
“Right,” Wilson agreed, nodding contemplatively. “That’s true…I didn’t have to.”
For a moment House looked contemplatively off into the distance, before adding hesitantly, “Guess...going to some random funeral of someone I don’t even know, won’t kill me…besides, Death and I have already kissed and made up plenty of times,” House half-joked, winking, but much to his dismay, Wilson wasn’t laughing.
“Thank you,” Wilson managed to utter, simply staring at House, as he was nearly speechless with amazement that House would betray his own principals in order to help him keep his wits about him.
“No biggie,” House returned, his eyes shining, having transformed into someone jovial for some reason. “What day is it?”
“This weekend,” said Wilson dismally, trying desperately to ignore the sense of dread that was beginning to take permanent residence in the pit of his stomach. “You're going to have to wear a suit.”
“Already have the one I stole,” House announced proudly, sending Wilson his most mischievous grin, “but…that’s a story for another day.”
* * *
Havertown, Pennsylvania was a two hour drive from Princeton, NJ. Soon, the view from the highway was no longer consisting of swamp marshes and high rises, but of rolling hills and forests, and farmland stretching as far as the eye could see.
The first part of the funeral was a wake that was taking place at the local funeral home. His Uncle having converted to Catholicism shortly after he was estranged from the rest of the family (no one in his family therefore knowing what had inspired the change from Judaism so quickly), his Uncle had, in his will, requested an “open casket”.
Wilson had been dreading this moment from the first time Adam had told him there’d be a wake; he’d known there was always a chance that he’d have to see his Uncle in the throes of death. Attending this strange gathering of unfamiliar visitors who were nevertheless blood in relation, was something he knew he was expected to do. However, at the same time, he knew it was something that, for his own sake, he had to do---and he needed House there to goad him along. He needed House there to force himself to keep his head level; he needed House there to help him realize the sobering reality of what he was doing here…so that he wouldn’t pretend that this was merely some random social event.
“Oh, God,” Wilson mumbled as he finally maneuvered the car into a space, reluctantly setting it in park, “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this…”
“What’s so hard to believe?” House remarked with wonder, in thick amusement. “Guy’s dead, that’s all…he’s kicked the bucket. Bit the dust. Found an eternal love in Death…so to speak. Me, I'd much rather have a fling.”
“You made that last one up,” Wilson muttered, struggling to breath through hoarse breath, “and I already know that he’s dead.”
“So…what’s stopping you from getting out of this car, getting your butt in there and getting this allover with?” Wilson could feel House’s eyes hovering, and when he opened his own eyes, he was startled to find House’s face inches away from his own. House appeared to be oddly mesmerized by his reluctance to move, and it was begging to fry Wilson’s already frayed nerves.
“It’s…a body,” Wilson allowed, knowing this answer wouldn’t satisfy House in the least, “I…really don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Suddenly he was trembling, but he wasn’t cold. “Will…um…” Licking his lips with nervousness, Wilson turned to his friend whose curious eyes were not leaving his side. “will you promise not to go anywhere, once we're...in there?” He hated how young he sounded just then; hated how unlike himself he was being. He knew that House noticed; why House wasn’t saying anything regarding it was a mystery.
Even more of a mystery was when House replied, “Sure…why not? Like you said, it's just a body...and besides, it's not the dead people that bother me…it’s the live ones that do.”
For the second time in one week, Wilson had to resist the urge to throw his arms around House and squeeze, but he knew that if he did, it would only put space between them . (As far as Wilson knew, House was not the type of person who liked to be hugged, and if he alienated House from him, he wasn’t sure how he would get through this in one piece.)
Instead of hugging House, Wilson settled for a small, painfully dry chuckle. (To his relief, this act seemed to be enough to satisfy them both, for the time being).
The funeral parlor was full of people, mingling together in groups, migrating from room to room. The first person Wilson recognized was Adam, and he was amazed by how the young man, now thirty, had grown….he was shockingly handsome, with short brown hair and hazel eyes that reminded him of his own, but while his was the color of espresso, Adam’s was the shade of a very young acorn. The smile that Wilson received from his brother took Wilson by surprise, but even more surprising was the embrace they shared upon meeting each other in the hallway.
“James…you made it,” Adam exclaimed, and Wilson could feel the lump returning to his throat, but he managed to swallow it down. “And---you brought a friend, I see?” Adam noted, quizzically eyeing House’s direction, though he was still smiling, and seemed strangely pleased to see someone unknown.
“Adam, this is my good friend, Dr. Gregory House,” Wilson announced, placing a supportive hand on House’s shoulder; House glanced across at him with an unidentifiable, somewhat ambiguous expression, as though to ask, who asked you to introduce me? while at the same time appearing clearly grateful.
“Dr. House,” greeted Adam, shaking House’s hand with a sheer delight that took both House and Wilson by surprise. “It’s a pleasure to meet you….Wilson has spoken of you before, I believe…I’m amazed by the stories he’s told me.” Before Wilson could stop him, Adam gushed, “you’re truly an inspiration, Dr. House, truly---”
“Thanks,” House mumbled flatly, evidently trying to keep a straight face; Wilson could see that he was struggling internally to keep himself from saying something that he might later regret. “You really don’t have to say that.”
What inspired Wilson was how quickly House retracted his hand from Adam’s own, before sticking it protectively inside his pocket and waxing his face back to its once reserved and clerical expression.
Wilson barely had time to collect himself before Adam tugged suddenly at his arm, motioning him into the large viewing room. Walking slowly behind his brother, Wilson tried to quell the sudden nervousness that was gradually building steed within him, trying to prevent him from doing what he knew what had to inevitably be done.
The room was full of flowers---flowers of all kinds, everywhere---and the perfume was so strong as to be overpowering. An overwhelming urge to gag momentarily left Wilson wobbling unsteadily on his feet. However, he quickly steadied himself under the curious watchful eye of his brother, who was standing off to the side as to give him a wide berth of room, in order to pay his respects. Where was House? Wilson wondered, trying to ignore the panic that was rising eternally and would eventually do him in.
It was no use; House had simply disappeared, leaving him alone in the most crucial moment….the moment in which he must do what one does at a wake, except this wasn’t just any wake. This was Uncle Peter’s wake.
He’s dead….he can’t hurt you; he’s dead. Wilson knew he was shaking even as he put one foot squarely in front of the other and headed for the front of the room, where the open casket was waiting to reveal his Uncle’s remains. A million images ricocheted through his mind with the force of electricity, along with the images, his Uncle’s words of steel: You’re such a disappointment, James…I…why don’t you ever learn?....Hate…I would have thought you knew better than that….You…Some people never learn…You…you can’t possibly be your father’s blood; you’re helpless…Slimy…what the hell is wrong with you?...Bastard.
By the time Wilson was on the platform that the casket sat on, he could feel beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks….or were those tears?...he couldn’t tell any more. This is it, James, he told himself…you’ve been waiting for this your whole life….
It was strange; he’d rehearsed the words so many times…yet, looking into that casket, and seeing that pale, withered face, with the eyes that would never open again…Wilson couldn’t say the vile things that he’d vowed he would say once his Uncle’s power was taken.
Instead, all he could do was stare, down into the depths of what had used to be a soul, but was now nothing more than a carcass; a vessel that had once contained such pure evil and hatred for the world.
A curious thing happened to Wilson as he stood there: instead of hate, he just felt sorry…but it wasn’t because he felt guilty---he just felt….sad. He felt sad that his Uncle had never taken the time to get to know the real James Wilson; the one who wasn’t afraid of what other people thought of him; the one that didn’t fear losing people; the one that saw the world as something fresh and inviting and open to so many different possibilities.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was bending towards the casket, and his Uncle’s face was coming closer and closer, and eventually so close that they were inches apart; and Wilson laid the most gentlest kiss on his Uncle’s temple…and oddly the skin wasn’t cold; it was just a little clammy, and surprisingly warm.
The shock of warmth was so strong that bile began to rise in Wilson’s throat. Immediately aware of what was about to happen, he whipped himself around and began sprinting for the door. Bursting out onto the porch of the parlor, Wilson made it to the railing just in time to dry heave heavily into the brush. He’d had nothing for breakfast, and by the time he was done, his throat was so sore, he’d certainly have nothing for lunch.
He remained hunched over the rail for quite some time, watching the stars dancing before his eyes as his head, clouded with agony, began to slowly dissipate back into something like clarity. Finally, he became aware of other things instead of his unsettled stomach: the singing of a blackbird somewhere not too far off in the yard, and the sound of someone approaching slowly from behind him. Wilson knew the shadow immediately as that belonging to House’s; he’d recognize that gated walk anywhere.
“Hey,” House greeted him casually, as though nothing were wrong; as though they weren’t at a funeral parlor, but at some bread-and-breakfast and he was simply nursing a hangover from last night’s party. “Got you some water…thought it might help.” Before Wilson could say anything, a cup was hovering within several inches of his face; Wilson smiled weakly and cradled the cup gratefully with both hands, drinking it all down immediately.
“Thanks,” Wilson muttered, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
“What can I say?” House said with a hapless shrug, “I’m a doctor…doctors do that kind of stuff...I've been told it's second nature.” But Wilson could see the pure affection and equal amounts concern in his eyes, and he was eternally grateful for it.
A long moment passed as both men listened to the soft wind chime hanging from the roof, and the birds happily chirping away in the distance. (If Wilson closed his eyes, he could easily pretend that they were anywhere other than there…and he was glad that someone was there who could pretend along with him.)
“So,” House spoke suddenly, startling him out of his reverie, “you told the ghost to take a hike this time, didn’t you.” (It was a statement, not a question.)
Startled, Wilson shook himself back to the present and stared at House with confusion. “House…what are you talking about?”
House was watching him carefully, smiling a strange, knowing smile that made Wilson’s heart do a series of wild back flips. “You looked him square in the eye,” House announced plaintively, all the while staring past Wilson with a strangely wistful gaze, looking hard at something Wilson couldn’t identify. “The monster’s eye….you stared him down…and you’ve got to admit, that it feels good….Doesn’t it?” House added, this time in a curiously soft voice that made Wilson pause and stare.
“I…have no idea what you mean,” Wilson admitted, feeling foolish and exasperated. He just wanted this day to be finally over; to get themselves back home.
“I think you do,” House persisted, eyes never leaving him, and his friend suddenly appeared to be years older than his time. Suddenly it struck Wilson at once that House…knew. In fact, House had known about Uncle Peter all along; there had never been any reason to say anything. The monster was his Uncle. His Uncle’s eyes were no longer open…the passage of torture had come and gone…the ghosts of yesterday were no longer, and would only return if he let them.
Wilson was truly stunned…until he remembered House kissing his father’s forehead at the wake.
“Did…” Wilson swallowed hard. “Did it…help you? I mean...to look your monster, in the eye?” Wilson whispered, voice barely audible; he could hardly stop shaking, nor his voice from trembling as he spoke.
“When he was alive…to me, he was always a monster,” House said, smiling the same smile that only sparked more questions than answers. “in the end, Wilson….he was just…human.”
He wasn't sure if it was the fresh air or what House had just said; probably both---but at that very instant that the soft-spoken words left House's mouth, Wilson felt an enormous weight lifting off of his shoulders. Out in the open driveway, the parked limosine's engine sounded, grumbling loudly like an angry bear. "Come on," Wilson smiled, slapping House's back encouragingly with a soft but sturdy hand. "Let's get this party over with."
Together, the two friends left the safety of the shadows, choosing instead to follow the direction of sunshine.
~END~