(no subject)
"Black Dogs"
House; Wilson gen.
"The complex intersections between objects, the body and memory, delving into the common experience of things..."
+
Sometimes he thought about not doing this anymore. Staying home, sleeping in, turning off his alarm and his pager and his cell-phone, watching tv, living off his extensive savings.
"It's metastasized," he said.
She folded her hands in her lap. "Oh," she said. "I - "
"We'll do whatever we can," he started, and then continued, but at this point he didn't have to listen to himself talk anymore.
Later, he sat on the roof smoking cigarettes, holding a folder over his head to block the high-noon sun, thinking about cells dividing, dividing, dividing, dividing.
"What I do," he said as House step-thumped his way into Wilson's peripheral vision, "is usher people politely to their death. I'm - I'm that guy with the boat on the Styx."
"You're a doctor," House said quietly. "A very good doctor with a very poor grasp of Greek mythology."
"I make them comfortable, I give them drugs, maybe a few more years to live. I tell them how they'll die."
"Everyone dies." House grunted, slid slowly and painfully down to the ground next to Wilson. He laid his cane carefully between them.
"And everybody lies, but not everybody lies like we - "
He paused, flicked the still-lit butt of his Parliament in front of him. "It's a different sort of death. You know that."
House nodded.
+
He had dozens of stories to tell, but House wasn't very receptive these days - if he ever was - and Wilson tended to shut up, tended to orchestrate a speech in his head and then leave it there to rest.
He had this one story, about Julie - that Dear-John tone of voice, the apologetic hands - everything in the kitchen looked like something to throw. The muscles in his neck stiffened and she said "So what now?" And he said, trying not to swallow his tongue, he said you started this, you figure out how it ends and she gave him this look, this pitying look, that made him want to throw up, throw her out, throw a punch. He hated the green she made him paint the walls, he hated how there was nothing in the refrigerator but boxes of leftover take-out, he hated that she was leaving - his hand curled tight around itself, he stood stock-still and tense and she said "This is how", and she took her Gucci bag and left. And he stood there, stood there oh-so-quietly, thinking about all the things he almost did.
+
"It's spread to his liver," he said. They looked at each other, took each other's hand. "I'm sorry, there's nothing - "
+
Dividing, dividing -
+
He had this other story, about when he and his brother spent the summer at his uncle's house in Maine, about Adam whispering C'mon wake up in his ear and shaking him roughly awake, pulling the covers down and throwing his boots on the bed. And they crept as quietly as they could through the huge empty house, down the creaking stairs, out into the night that fell tar-black on both their shoulders. Adam tugged the rope mooring the rowboat out of its knot as he watched, slid the oars in place and the boat away from the slippery-wet rocks. He clung tight to the sides and Adam grinned, pushed the oars neatly into the water.
C'mon, lift up Adam said, and they yanked up the wooden trap into the boat, pulling out a lone scrabbling lobster and a good part of the ocean, which shone brightly, oddly, as it spilled through the rope mesh and over the side of the boat. They both sat and watched the lobster click and click and click its way back over the side into the water, and then they watched the last smudges of phosphorescence fade out, and then they rowed the boat quietly back and dove into bed, still wearing their wet boots.
And there's other stories, corollaries, about how strange it had been to come home to the city and sleep with the bright streetlights outside his window, the small busy house and the large busy roads, how neither of them talked about that summer much. How he woke up one morning and he was alone.
He didn't tell House any of that.
+
Wilson leaned against the windowsill, his forehead pressed to the condensation-soaked pane: it was raining, slickly, quietly. The cars on the street below looked like black dogs, splashing through the puddles left in the dip at each corner.
"My dad was the man," House said from the kitchen. "Such a fucking badass." He limped over to the cabinet over the stove, slid out a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass. "Like Dirty Harry."
Wilson sighed, and shifted to cross his arms across his chest.
"He taught me how to fire a gun," House said. He hooked his cane over the edge of the sink and leant back into an off-balance stance, holding his hands stretched out in front of him in the shape of a revolver. He spun the imaginary chamber, making clicking noises with his teeth. "Are you in the mood for a little Russian Roulette?" He laughed, then dropped his arms. "Bang bang, Jimmy-boy."
"Christ, House."
"No, no, you've got it all wrong. This isn't the house of Christ, oh no, far from it. This is the house of...House."
"What a spectacular pun. You're drunk, House."
"Of course I'm fucking drunk. The question here is why aren't you drunk too?" He lit a cigarette, then lit another one off the end of the first, handed it to Wilson.
"Smoke it yourself," he said, and he walked tiredly, quietly to the living room, slipped under the sheets still wearing his shoes.
House; Wilson gen.
"The complex intersections between objects, the body and memory, delving into the common experience of things..."
+
Sometimes he thought about not doing this anymore. Staying home, sleeping in, turning off his alarm and his pager and his cell-phone, watching tv, living off his extensive savings.
"It's metastasized," he said.
She folded her hands in her lap. "Oh," she said. "I - "
"We'll do whatever we can," he started, and then continued, but at this point he didn't have to listen to himself talk anymore.
Later, he sat on the roof smoking cigarettes, holding a folder over his head to block the high-noon sun, thinking about cells dividing, dividing, dividing, dividing.
"What I do," he said as House step-thumped his way into Wilson's peripheral vision, "is usher people politely to their death. I'm - I'm that guy with the boat on the Styx."
"You're a doctor," House said quietly. "A very good doctor with a very poor grasp of Greek mythology."
"I make them comfortable, I give them drugs, maybe a few more years to live. I tell them how they'll die."
"Everyone dies." House grunted, slid slowly and painfully down to the ground next to Wilson. He laid his cane carefully between them.
"And everybody lies, but not everybody lies like we - "
He paused, flicked the still-lit butt of his Parliament in front of him. "It's a different sort of death. You know that."
House nodded.
+
He had dozens of stories to tell, but House wasn't very receptive these days - if he ever was - and Wilson tended to shut up, tended to orchestrate a speech in his head and then leave it there to rest.
He had this one story, about Julie - that Dear-John tone of voice, the apologetic hands - everything in the kitchen looked like something to throw. The muscles in his neck stiffened and she said "So what now?" And he said, trying not to swallow his tongue, he said you started this, you figure out how it ends and she gave him this look, this pitying look, that made him want to throw up, throw her out, throw a punch. He hated the green she made him paint the walls, he hated how there was nothing in the refrigerator but boxes of leftover take-out, he hated that she was leaving - his hand curled tight around itself, he stood stock-still and tense and she said "This is how", and she took her Gucci bag and left. And he stood there, stood there oh-so-quietly, thinking about all the things he almost did.
+
"It's spread to his liver," he said. They looked at each other, took each other's hand. "I'm sorry, there's nothing - "
+
Dividing, dividing -
+
He had this other story, about when he and his brother spent the summer at his uncle's house in Maine, about Adam whispering C'mon wake up in his ear and shaking him roughly awake, pulling the covers down and throwing his boots on the bed. And they crept as quietly as they could through the huge empty house, down the creaking stairs, out into the night that fell tar-black on both their shoulders. Adam tugged the rope mooring the rowboat out of its knot as he watched, slid the oars in place and the boat away from the slippery-wet rocks. He clung tight to the sides and Adam grinned, pushed the oars neatly into the water.
C'mon, lift up Adam said, and they yanked up the wooden trap into the boat, pulling out a lone scrabbling lobster and a good part of the ocean, which shone brightly, oddly, as it spilled through the rope mesh and over the side of the boat. They both sat and watched the lobster click and click and click its way back over the side into the water, and then they watched the last smudges of phosphorescence fade out, and then they rowed the boat quietly back and dove into bed, still wearing their wet boots.
And there's other stories, corollaries, about how strange it had been to come home to the city and sleep with the bright streetlights outside his window, the small busy house and the large busy roads, how neither of them talked about that summer much. How he woke up one morning and he was alone.
He didn't tell House any of that.
+
Wilson leaned against the windowsill, his forehead pressed to the condensation-soaked pane: it was raining, slickly, quietly. The cars on the street below looked like black dogs, splashing through the puddles left in the dip at each corner.
"My dad was the man," House said from the kitchen. "Such a fucking badass." He limped over to the cabinet over the stove, slid out a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass. "Like Dirty Harry."
Wilson sighed, and shifted to cross his arms across his chest.
"He taught me how to fire a gun," House said. He hooked his cane over the edge of the sink and leant back into an off-balance stance, holding his hands stretched out in front of him in the shape of a revolver. He spun the imaginary chamber, making clicking noises with his teeth. "Are you in the mood for a little Russian Roulette?" He laughed, then dropped his arms. "Bang bang, Jimmy-boy."
"Christ, House."
"No, no, you've got it all wrong. This isn't the house of Christ, oh no, far from it. This is the house of...House."
"What a spectacular pun. You're drunk, House."
"Of course I'm fucking drunk. The question here is why aren't you drunk too?" He lit a cigarette, then lit another one off the end of the first, handed it to Wilson.
"Smoke it yourself," he said, and he walked tiredly, quietly to the living room, slipped under the sheets still wearing his shoes.