Restraint
Title: Restraint
Author: rslworks
Prompt: Hundred Years of Greatness Challenge -
Quote : “It is the failing of youth not to be able to restrain its own violence.” Seneca
Characters: House/Wilson-close friendship
Rating/Warnings: G
Words: 1026
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, only borrow…
(Beta:) none
Wilson had a witty side. Wit is often borne of irony. Wilson appreciated irony. His life was predicated on it. To be Wilson was ultimately about doing what was expected of you. After working hard for years to paint a certain picture, why wouldn’t people have expectations, after all?
The child Wilson was completely adorable. Polite, doe-eyed and sincere, he was doomed from the start. Doomed to the anonymity of the middle child, burgeoning emotions and realizations of individuality were gently squashed in the face of a difficult older brother to be dealt with and a baby brother so young as to be oblivious to everything except what he was entitled to. So Wilson became the mediator, the pacifier, the reliable one; the son a parent could pin their hopes and dreams upon.
The teenager Wilson knew angst like all teens and at the same time like no other. Bright, quick and passionate he dared aspire to the dramatic arts. But Danny brought enough drama into the family for everyone and it was only the steadying desire to see a middle son make something of his life that glued them all together.
Young Wilson had his moments of passion however. They just happened out of sight of his parents. His imaginative and oh, so sensible excuses never once aroused suspicion when he failed to come home. Of course, James had a flat tire Friday night. And leave it to James to be so considerate as to crash at a schoolmate’s house rather than drag his father out in the middle of the night. After all, how else to spare one’s deluded parents the knowledge of fumbling virginity lost at the hands of that very first girl to show a hint of interest in him.
In the same spirit he would neglect to mention the drunken brawl not only participated in, but also actually instigated by an angry, underage model of respectability. Silver-tongued even then, the local constables were soon assured by this middle son that it would do more harm than good for his beleaguered parents to have to bail another son out of jail, and naturally he would promptly raise the money to replace the mirror behind the bar. It was admittedly reckless to have given in to anger and flung his beer bottle at the head of the goon who taunted him over his loser brother. Had he been less inebriated, the bottle may not have missed its mark and told a much different story that night. Let it suffice to say it would be the first in a series of shattered mirrors that would provide a momentary glimpse behind the persona that became James Wilson.
Soon, Gregory House would appear on the scene and bear witness to subsequent events. He was a man obsessed with puzzles. The young doctor he met in Louisiana that year would prove to be his greatest puzzle yet. Bored almost to tears with another medical convention, House had ambled into the bar early that evening to get a head start on his drinking. He’d watched a fresh-faced, impossibly high cheek boned resident with thick, chestnut hair walk into the bar soon after him and so began his guessing game. It wasn’t as easy as usual. This young man seemed constrained in some quiet way. Outwardly he displayed an affable, if somewhat careful propriety, but Greg was soon more intent on the tightness of his smile and the depth of trouble behind his chocolate brown eyes.
And after one too many vodka martinis were consumed he watched in fascination as a restrained plea for quiet escalated into a hotel brawl as this young doctor growled in frustration and hurled a nearby bottle into an antique mirror over the bar.
Fourteen years later an almost middle aged Wilson would find himself once again doing something he’d rather not. Yet no matter how much it pained him to deal with House right now, there was no possible way he could deny Blythe’s request. Simply getting House to the funeral had been a protracted nightmare and now he stood, peering down at the body of John House, patting Greg’s shoulder not out of sympathy but with the intent of dragging him the hell out of the service before he made a scene. The scene that actually followed however was not entirely of Greg House’s making.
House pressed closer and closer into Wilson’s personal space, escalating the tension between them.
“Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!” House’s face was an inch from Wilson’s and he had already backed himself into the refreshment table. His accusations stung like a slap in the face and James felt himself flushing with rage and even fear. He spun away.
“Arrrggh!!!” The bottle was in his hand for a millisecond and then sailed away. Once released, Wilson could only watch in amazement as it sailed, end over end, on perfect course for, not a mirror this time, but a gorgeous stained glass window. Stunned and frozen to his spot, he realized House was pulling on his arm so they could flee the scene of the crime together.
Later, in the diner, Wilson could think of nothing else.
“Did you know I was going to do that? I didn’t know I was going to do that.”
“You could say I had a pretty strong suspicion. I’m somewhat familiar with your track record,” House answered, slurping cola noisily through his straw. “It’s like the real you never got a chance to grow up the way he was meant to, and every once in a while the gloves come off and this young ne’er do well takes a swing at the world.”
He didn’t look at Wilson then, but like most of the things House said, the words hit their mark.
“You might be the only person on the planet who ever cared enough to figure that out, House.”
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”
Author: rslworks
Prompt: Hundred Years of Greatness Challenge -
Quote : “It is the failing of youth not to be able to restrain its own violence.” Seneca
Characters: House/Wilson-close friendship
Rating/Warnings: G
Words: 1026
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, only borrow…
(Beta:) none
Wilson had a witty side. Wit is often borne of irony. Wilson appreciated irony. His life was predicated on it. To be Wilson was ultimately about doing what was expected of you. After working hard for years to paint a certain picture, why wouldn’t people have expectations, after all?
The child Wilson was completely adorable. Polite, doe-eyed and sincere, he was doomed from the start. Doomed to the anonymity of the middle child, burgeoning emotions and realizations of individuality were gently squashed in the face of a difficult older brother to be dealt with and a baby brother so young as to be oblivious to everything except what he was entitled to. So Wilson became the mediator, the pacifier, the reliable one; the son a parent could pin their hopes and dreams upon.
The teenager Wilson knew angst like all teens and at the same time like no other. Bright, quick and passionate he dared aspire to the dramatic arts. But Danny brought enough drama into the family for everyone and it was only the steadying desire to see a middle son make something of his life that glued them all together.
Young Wilson had his moments of passion however. They just happened out of sight of his parents. His imaginative and oh, so sensible excuses never once aroused suspicion when he failed to come home. Of course, James had a flat tire Friday night. And leave it to James to be so considerate as to crash at a schoolmate’s house rather than drag his father out in the middle of the night. After all, how else to spare one’s deluded parents the knowledge of fumbling virginity lost at the hands of that very first girl to show a hint of interest in him.
In the same spirit he would neglect to mention the drunken brawl not only participated in, but also actually instigated by an angry, underage model of respectability. Silver-tongued even then, the local constables were soon assured by this middle son that it would do more harm than good for his beleaguered parents to have to bail another son out of jail, and naturally he would promptly raise the money to replace the mirror behind the bar. It was admittedly reckless to have given in to anger and flung his beer bottle at the head of the goon who taunted him over his loser brother. Had he been less inebriated, the bottle may not have missed its mark and told a much different story that night. Let it suffice to say it would be the first in a series of shattered mirrors that would provide a momentary glimpse behind the persona that became James Wilson.
Soon, Gregory House would appear on the scene and bear witness to subsequent events. He was a man obsessed with puzzles. The young doctor he met in Louisiana that year would prove to be his greatest puzzle yet. Bored almost to tears with another medical convention, House had ambled into the bar early that evening to get a head start on his drinking. He’d watched a fresh-faced, impossibly high cheek boned resident with thick, chestnut hair walk into the bar soon after him and so began his guessing game. It wasn’t as easy as usual. This young man seemed constrained in some quiet way. Outwardly he displayed an affable, if somewhat careful propriety, but Greg was soon more intent on the tightness of his smile and the depth of trouble behind his chocolate brown eyes.
And after one too many vodka martinis were consumed he watched in fascination as a restrained plea for quiet escalated into a hotel brawl as this young doctor growled in frustration and hurled a nearby bottle into an antique mirror over the bar.
Fourteen years later an almost middle aged Wilson would find himself once again doing something he’d rather not. Yet no matter how much it pained him to deal with House right now, there was no possible way he could deny Blythe’s request. Simply getting House to the funeral had been a protracted nightmare and now he stood, peering down at the body of John House, patting Greg’s shoulder not out of sympathy but with the intent of dragging him the hell out of the service before he made a scene. The scene that actually followed however was not entirely of Greg House’s making.
House pressed closer and closer into Wilson’s personal space, escalating the tension between them.
“Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!” House’s face was an inch from Wilson’s and he had already backed himself into the refreshment table. His accusations stung like a slap in the face and James felt himself flushing with rage and even fear. He spun away.
“Arrrggh!!!” The bottle was in his hand for a millisecond and then sailed away. Once released, Wilson could only watch in amazement as it sailed, end over end, on perfect course for, not a mirror this time, but a gorgeous stained glass window. Stunned and frozen to his spot, he realized House was pulling on his arm so they could flee the scene of the crime together.
Later, in the diner, Wilson could think of nothing else.
“Did you know I was going to do that? I didn’t know I was going to do that.”
“You could say I had a pretty strong suspicion. I’m somewhat familiar with your track record,” House answered, slurping cola noisily through his straw. “It’s like the real you never got a chance to grow up the way he was meant to, and every once in a while the gloves come off and this young ne’er do well takes a swing at the world.”
He didn’t look at Wilson then, but like most of the things House said, the words hit their mark.
“You might be the only person on the planet who ever cared enough to figure that out, House.”
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”