Bloodlines, Chapter Six - Two Steps Back
Chapter One is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/918594.html#cutid1
Chapter Two is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/932770.html#cutid1
Chapter Three is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/956734.html#cutid1
Chapter Four is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/969650.html#cutid1
Chapter Five is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/983352.html#cutid1
TITLE: Bloodlines
AUTHOR: maddoggirl
PAIRING: H/W gen
RATING: PG-13 for House's ever more extreme attempts to kill the pain.
SUMMARY: Civil War AU. Even on opposite sides of a war, Fate has a way of bringing them together...
A/N: Sorry about the delay, school is back with a vengeance and seems to sap all trace of creativity from me. A thousand humble thanks to maineac, my beta, who must get incredibly bored of correcting the same mistakes over and over. I’m a slow learner. Enjoy.
Wilson breathed in the quiet night air, made sharp by the tang of smoke rising from the fire before him. His eyes glinted in the flames’ reflection, making him look like a demon in the dark, squatted on his haunches. House lay outstretched and with his eyes shut, shifting uncomfortably on the hard ground. It was nine o’clock and dinner was almost ready. Wilson was now established cook when in the field, his first offering, a sublime concoction of beef and peppers, sealing his fate.
“Isn’t that ready yet?” House complained, opening an eye and squinting up at him.
Wilson stirred the contents of the pot and frowned at them. “I’m...not sure. Want to try it?”
“Well - no, not really,” House replied, propping himself up on an elbow. “When you’re certain that it won’t kill me, then we’ll talk.”
There was a beautiful quiet; the cold night air warmed by the spicy wood smoke, and the soft sound of House’s breathing at his side. There was a filmy calm in House’s eyes that Wilson had learned to associate with the little brown bottle which was always at his side. One dose in the morning to quell the waking moans which often called Wilson from his sleep, and one in the evening to briefly smooth the hard lines of pain from the man’s forehead before he lay down to sleep.
“How’s your leg?”
“Partly missing. How’s yours?” House snapped; then sighed. “I’m used to it.”
“Agonies are one of my changes of garments,” Wilson quoted, brooding over the flames, “I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.”
“My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe,” House finished. “Whitman. Very apt.”
“Right,” Wilson agreed, smiling gently. He spooned up some of the stew from the pot, blew on it and swilled it around his mouth. “I think this is fit for human consumption.”
“Should be,” House grumbled. “I’ve spent enough money buying ingredients for you.”
He sat up and handed Wilson the plates. The stew, yellow-ish and steaming, was ladled into them and set upon ravenously by its recipients.
“Oh God,” House murmured, his eyes closing. “That is...”
Wilson grinned. “What would you eat if I escaped?”
“Where would you go?” House asked, so sharply that Wilson frowned. House went on, “Feller in town yesterday, a wounded grayback. Told me that our beloved General Grant just issued an order. No Jews permitted to travel southwards on any railroad in his district.”
A look of disbelief formed itself on Wilson’s face and he shifted awkwardly. “But...well, that wouldn’t make a bit of difference to me. I’m a soldier.”
“No, you’re not,” House said, sternly. “You were a soldier. Now you’re a Jew.” His voice softened as he saw Wilson raise his hands to his head and grind his palms into his brow. “And you forget those escaping notions. You’re here for the long run.”
“God knows that...oh boy,” Wilson slowly raised his head and returned to consuming his soup. “I nearly died,” he said, suddenly.
“Maybe you added too much pepper.”
“Not now,” Wilson said, waving a hand impatiently. “At Pittsburg Landing.”
“Oh God, here comes the story... ‘Wal, I wus comin’ up by the crik when a Union feller sprung out on me. Why, he musta oughta coulda bin eight feet tall and twice the breadth of yonder oak-’”
“I don’t talk like that,” Wilson muttered, edgily. “No, wasn’t like that at all. I was advancing with my company and there were shells coming down all about us. A feller appeared at my side, asking me to come see a wounded man, some kin of his. I said no, I had to advance with the rest and his kin would have to wait with the rest. He grabbed me and gave me a shove onto the ground. When I got my senses back, he was lying on the ground with a piece of metal through his face. If he hadn’t pushed me down, it would’ve been me.”
“And if he’d been born with the docile Wilson temperament, he’d be sitting here making me miserable instead of you. What’s your point?”
“Makes me feel rotten, that’s all.”
“It should. Eat your soup.”
They spent the next day following a broad river, trotting along at the foot of the long hills which edged the water. Mosquitoes rose up in droves and swarmed over their heads, their vicious bites provoking frequent yelps of pain from both riders. The sun was high and hot, the hillsides brown and dry, the river still and silver.
“This is the Harpeth, ain’t it?” Wilson said, nodding at the shining water.
“Yeah. Tonight we sleep in Villiers, about ten miles from here. Tomorrow, we cross into Cheatham County and make for Pleasant View. Three more days and we should be into Kentucky.”
Wilson lifted his kepi from his head and ran a hand through his sticky hair. “Can we stop and wash?”
“Right,” House muttered, swinging his mule from the grassy trail and down the gentle slope to the river banks. Wilson followed, turning his own mount from the path.
The water was beautiful, cool and gentle against Wilson’s skin. Sand lodged between his toes, soft and shifting. He was up to his waist, about twenty feet from the shore. House was sitting, shirtless, by the water’s edge, leaning down and splashing his upper body and face with a cupped hand. Wilson considered calling back to him, asking if he was going to come in, then decided against it and slowly advanced deeper. The sun was heavy on his back and he dived smoothly into the water with relief. When he came up for air, wiping his eyes, House had got to his feet and was rummaging in the saddlebags. Wilson ducked down into the river again, the words of a thousand baptisms he had never had ringing through his ears.
When he resurfaced for the second time, House was back by the shore, this time with a stick, a length of string and a hook. His face was heavy with concentration, his hands working busily on his project. Wilson smiled and began rubbing away stubborn crusts of mud from himself.
After a few more moments enjoying the cool waters, Wilson waded back to the shore and spread himself on the ground to dry like a wet cloth. House raised his eyebrows.
“That how they do things in Alabama? In the North, we wear clothes.”
“Oh hell, I didn’t realise...” Wilson’s face flushed and he scrambled to his feet and retrieved his under-shorts from the pile of his clothing he had abandoned by the mules. Clad in them, he sat down next to House. The older man raised his eyebrows again.
“Guess it’s a start...”
Wilson grinned. “You fixin’ to fish?”
“Mmm,” House affirmed, focussed on his work once more.
The fishing pole, when finished, was tied across House’s mule. House said that Wilson would have disturbed the fish for a mile around, so there was no point in using it till later.
They continued along the foothills, then arched slowly up onto plains. They arrived at Villiers at four o’clock in the afternoon. It was, Wilson saw, his heart sinking, a small town identical to the dozens they had already passed through. This one was slightly bigger, with several broad streets instead of the usual single main road. As they entered the town, a young Negro sprang out from a wooden shed by the roadside.
“Can I take yo’ mules, gentlemen? One dollar for the night.”
“Yeah,” House answered. Wilson swung down from his mount and waited for House to stretch slowly down and reach the dusty earth and then pull a dollar from his coat. The stable hand took both sets of reins in his hand and led them away towards the shed, House’s dollar tucked into his suspenders. House and Wilson proceeded along the wooden boardwalk, past a few drifting residents. They gave House hard stares from below tattered bonnets or stained slouch hats. Every man looked as though he were spoiling for a fight and a few even hovered a hand over their hips warningly. House ignored them, urging Wilson onwards when he hesitated.
A boarding house was situated about halfway up the street. The interior was fairly grand for such a small town. The floor of the lobby was carpeted in red, with a golden hanging lamp in the thickly plastered ceiling. A large oak desk stood opposite the front door through which House and Wilson entered. A woman in a dark blue frock with a pinched face and iron-grey hair sat in a high chair behind it. House dragged his kepi forwards off his head and held it at his side upon seeing Wilson do so.
“Ma’am,” he said, gruffly, “How much for two rooms for the night?”
“Two dollars,” she said, looking him up and down.
House laughed under his breath. “There a Union office in this town?”
“Yes sir, there is,” she said, smiling pleasantly, but looked none too happy about this fact. “Next street.”
“Well then, we’ll take it. Two bucks.”
Wilson had drifted off for a moment, looking beyond the desk, where a staircase curved upwards onto a narrow landing containing several doors. The rooms, he fancied, would be comfortable, and sleeping in a good bed again would be fine. He was brought back down to Earth by the voice of the woman speaking once more.
“That’s fine, two rooms. Eight and nine, just up them stairs. I keep a reputable house”--she inspected House’s epaulettes pointedly--“Captain. I lock up at ten, and my husband Virgil sees to any trouble. Will you be eating breakfast here?”
“Well, your hospitality makes it mighty hard to refuse,” House said, forcing Wilson to suppress a snort of laughter. “What is it?”
“Eggs and ham.”
“Right, put us down for them.” House paused here and looked at Wilson, who was shaking his head and widening his eyes expressively. “Oh, yeah. No ham for him.”
The woman narrowed her eyes and looked at Wilson in a way that made his face tingle.
“Don’t he like ham?”
“I guess he doesn’t know, being that he’s never had it.”
“A Hebrew?” she said after a moment’s pause, during which her inspection of Wilson intensified. He took a step forward.
“Is there a problem?” he asked apprehensively. She drew in a breath and turned a little more towards House.
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to put you up after all, gentlemen,” she said, in a pleasant but firm voice. Wilson felt his cheeks burning and wondered why he felt ashamed more than angry. He took another step forward, putting himself closer to the desk than House, who was watching him with a careful eye.
“Ma’am,” he said, quietly, “I’d be mighty glad to know what exactly your objection is to my being here.”
“I’m afraid we just can’t accept you. It’s our policy.”
“Policy?” Wilson took another step forward, placing his trembling hands flat on the desk and trying to keep his voice low and steady. “You got a policy against soldiers of the Confederacy?” His legs were shaking now, too; and he was aware that his voice was shaking with anger. The woman’s cold expression melted not at all under his hot gaze.
“Policy of the establishment. No Jews, Negroes or animals.”
“Good job I left Sambo and the dog outside,” muttered House, and Wilson became aware of a firm pressure being exercised on his left shoulder. In his distress, Wilson had not noticed House’s hand there. “Come on,” he urged softly. Wilson allowed himself to be steered to the doorway and out into the bright sunshine.
“Come on.” House’s voice shook him from a kind of trance. “We’re going downtown. This time, stick with the war hero thing and let the son of Abraham truck go unsaid, okay?”
“Okay,” Wilson repeated, falling into step with House, a precise pace that he had adapted to over the past ten days. They made their way through a small alleyway and emerged into a scrubby town square with a dry fountain in the centre. Over on one side of the square, a Union sergeant sat on a stool in front of a porch covered with recruitment posters. On another side, a pale green house exhibited a card in the window advertising rooms for rent. Wilson waited, kicking up dust thoughtfully, while House stumped across its porch and disappeared within.
“Come on,” the captain hailed him from the doorway a moment later and Wilson slowly entered, dragging their luggage once again.
The room House had managed to secure they had to share. Wilson volunteered to sleep on the hard, low sofa before House could command him to. It was a fairly large room, with a clean wooden floor and very little furniture. Wilson splashed his face in the washstand, looking through a small window onto the square below. When he turned around, House was stretched out on the bed, his eyes tightly closed and his cane balanced across his chest.
“You want me to get some food?” Wilson asked.
“Mmm. Money’s in my coat. Try the woman downstairs; she said she’d fix us something if we wanted it.”
Wilson departed, and returned ten minutes later bearing two thick ham sandwiches.
“She said we could have appleade if we wanted it,” he said, handing House his sandwich as he sat up on the mattress.
“Coffee’d be better.”
“Told her that. She’s gonna send a pot up with the coloured help.”
A small Negro boy brought the copper pot to the door a few moments later, his thin arms straining to hold the cloth-wrapped handle. Wilson slipped him a nickel and poured the steaming liquid into their tin cups. A couple of hours passed in comparative peace. House napped, then left Wilson letter writing while he walked down to the Union headquarters and picked up another ten dollars. Wilson was sealing the envelope when House came in.
“What’s the time?”
“A quarter past eight,” Wilson answered, after consulting his pocket watch. “Why?”
“Here’s a dollar and fifty cents. Go get drunk. I’m going to sleep.”
House’s tone as he held out the money suggested that the conversation was over. Wilson surveyed his guard thoughtfully, but finding no trace of any particular emotion he accepted the money with a curt “Thanks” and quietly changed into his new shirt, bought the previous day. House was already stretched out under the blankets, breathing softly and evenly.
“See you later,” Wilson muttered as he slipped out the door, getting no reply.
He passed more time than he intended to in a pleasant saloon he found on one of the larger streets the little town boasted. The company was amiable, everyone glad to buy a drink for a Southern fighter. Wilson didn’t even touch the money House had given him for two and a half hours. When the subject of House had first come up, there were curses, oaths and even a muttered mention of lynching that made Wilson’s blood run cold, that thankfully was never built upon.
At a quarter to eleven, Wilson was steadying himself upon the stairs leading to their room and trying not to wake anyone. When he had shuffled slowly, drawing rasping drunken breaths, along the hall, he stopped in front of their door and frowned. Attached to the wood was a tacked-on paper sign. ‘À la maison close. Je serai (très) occupé. Vous amuse.’
“‘At the brothel...I will be very busy. Amuse yourself.’ What the hell?” Wilson asked himself, tearing down the paper with a clumsy strike. Wilson looked hopelessly around him. House had the only key. He couldn’t wake the landlady and he couldn’t sleep in the hallway. He would have to go down and wait for House. He knew where the brothel was, he had heard the men in the saloon mention it several times. He sighed heavily and turned back towards the stairs.
The brothel was a large wooden structure on a dark backstreet, with a large wooden porch out front. Wilson, his teeth chattering as the warmth of the alcohol began to fade, sat down on the grass next to the porch and leaned his back against the wall. In the building behind, he could hear low voices and see the flicker or lights being lit and extinguished. Every now and then, a man would enter or leave the house, his boots resounding over the porch boards and rousing Wilson a little. His head lolled forward and he began to feel sleep overwhelming him. The damp ground had soaked through his trousers and he was shaking all over. A little nap, he thought, would let him forget the cold. Then there was a pleasant flood of sunlight and the smell of cut grass and he was home. It took him a moment to realise that he was asleep and dreaming, but by then it was too late. He drifted pleasantly away.
House observed, not from the brothel doorway, but from the head of a narrow alley opposite the building. His head moved in a decidedly shifty manner, and he regarded Wilson closely, checking that he was fully asleep. He bent his arms around his cane behind his neck and watched Wilson doze with his back against the building and his arms still shivering. House walked slowly across the road, wobbling a little, and came to a halt in front of the sleeper. He could smell the reek of spirits rising from Wilson’s clothes and make out faint spills on his new shirt. He prodded him with his cane.
“Mmmm…gah, whatthethe...House,” Wilson mumbled drowsily, rubbing his sore and bloodshot eyes and blinking at the new arrival.
“You look terrible,” House said reproachfully.
“S’your fault if I do...son of a gun done took the on’y key in the place...” Wilson slurred, trying to sit up fully and failing, “So’s he could go off with his girls and let me die of chill out in the road...”
He was really far gone, House thought. He wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary about House when he himself couldn’t stand. This thought cheered House so much that his ensuing treatment of Wilson was almost fond. He leant down and wrapped Wilson’s arm over his shoulders and supported him as he got to his feet. Wilson frowned suddenly as he breathily pulled himself up House’s chest and into a standing position.
“S’that smell? Smells stronger than laudanum...you okay?” he slurred once more, studying House’s rheumy, glistening eyes with suspicion.
“Sure, I’m fine. You want to try and walk? Hotel’s only a couple of streets away,” he said quietly, stretching out an arm and grabbing Wilson’s elbow before he keeled over. He steered Wilson in the right direction and began to advance slowly. Suddenly a subdued, night-time call came from the alley he had left a few minutes before.
“Captain!”
House spun around, letting go of Wilson’s elbow. A small Chinese man with a long wooden pipe in one hand and a dark blue jacket in the other was edging out from the alley.
“What? What?” House hissed urgently. If Wilson spotted this guy, the game would be up. House looked anxiously back towards his charge. Wilson was on his knees with his back to them, throwing up into the dust of the roadway. Looked like his secret was safe.
“You forget your coat, Captain.”
“Thanks,” House muttered absently, taking the proffered garment. The Chinese man seemed to melt back into the shadows, and House turned swiftly back to Wilson.
“C’mon,” he said, draping the jacket around Wilson’s shoulders and hitching him to his feet. Wilson wiped a shaky hand over his mouth and shuddered, stumbling forward with House’s assistance.
Back at the hotel, House stripped Wilson’s vomit-and-drink stained shirt and threw some water over his face, then manoeuvred him to the sofa and threw a blanket over him.
When Wilson’s sleeping breaths filled the air, House stood for a long time in front of the mirror, looking at his vacant eyes with their lids drooping heavily over them. A warm, sedate weariness was sapping away the strength of his legs and eventually he gave up studying himself and climbed into bed.
He had crazy dreams, just like he knew he would.