Bloodlines, Chapter Eight - Fresh Wounds
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
Chapter Six is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/1002717.html#cutid1
Chapter Seven is here: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/1030385.html#cutid1
TITLE: Bloodlines
AUTHOR: maddoggirl
PAIRING: H/W gen
RATING: PG-13 for…well, nothing really. I think Wilson says ‘goddamn’ a couple of times…
SUMMARY: Civil War AU. Even on opposite sides of a war, Fate has a way of bringing them together...
A/N: I am eternally sorry to anyone who finds this chapter boring. I rather like it, and it was one of the first sections I thought of when I was outlining the story, but then I have a high threshold for tolerating boring stuff (as does anyone else who has ever manually uploaded a Huddy mood theme). This is not a thrills-and-spills like escapade of yesterchapter, more a wind-down from the opium-smoking tooth-crunchery and a perilous leap into Character Exposition Gorge. Thanks again to maineac, my super-fast and gramatically sound beta.
Over the course of their journey, Wilson had gotten into a morning routine. He would wake, usually quite early, and pull himself onto his feet. He would mix House’s medicine carefully and set it down by the sleeping soldier’s head. If they were out in the open, he would build a small fire and set the coffee boiling. By the time it was done, House was usually by the fireside, having thrown the laudanum down his throat with the merest flicker of a grimace. Wilson silently poured their coffees and added one sugar to House's, stirred it gently and handed it over. Some days Wilson would get nothing in the way of recognition, some days just a flash of a grateful smile. He didn’t mind anyway, it was just his nature to do things for people, to keep the peace.
But this morning was different. This morning Wilson lay still in his warm bed, his eyes gently closed and ignored his established routine. No more words had passed between himself and House since he had lain the older man down upon the sofa after cleaning his wounds, thrown a blanket over him and retired to bed. This morning, Wilson thought, still seething with hurt and anger, House could fix his own damn medicine. He lay there, listening to the sounds of House’s heavy breathing until he snorted and Wilson heard the sound of the blanket falling to the floor. Then there was the sound of the couch creaking as House sat up and his low groans. Wilson half-opened an eye briefly, seeing House sitting on the edge of the sofa with his head in his hands, then closed it again. After a few minutes, he heard House’s bare feet thudding slowly around the room. He uttered hisses and moans as he stumbled around the room, bumping into furniture. He clumsily opened and closed drawers, and Wilson cringed as something shattered to the floor, followed by the low scrunch of something papery. He was looking for his medicine, Wilson realised. He must have found it, for there came the sound of a glass bottle neck hitting the rim of a glass repeatedly, as if the hand that held it trembled, then a gulp. The bottle clunked down on a hard surface and Wilson heard House limp over to the door and into the hall, presumably headed for the washroom a few doors up.
As soon as he was gone, Wilson got up and began readying himself. He washed and dressed, then began packing away all their effects into the saddlebags. He worked rhythmically, trying not to think about anything in particular, concentrating on picking up articles of clothing and stowing them away. His mental vacuum faltered for a moment when he saw a dried spatter of blood near the sofa, a relic of the previous night, but for the most part he succeeded admirably. He worked fast and was about to add a few last items to the baggage when House re-entered. House’s voice, somewhat rough from a night spent drinking spirits, called out, making Wilson freeze with his spare shirt still in his hand.
“And when you’re done with the housework, you can start the breakfast.”
The words were of his usual mocking variety, but when Wilson looked up at him he shifted his gaze to the floor as if ashamed.
House stood unsteadily in the doorway. His face was a swollen mass of purple and black bruising, darkest around the left eye and the right cheek. He held his mouth open awkwardly; obviously it was too sore to close, and so his jaw hung down, giving him a somewhat comatose appearance. He had washed most of the blood from his face, but some of the less bruised patches around his face still retained an unpleasant pale orange hue. When he walked he did so extremely heavily, his entire face creasing in suppressed pain with every small movement. His eyes were bleary and staring. He looked terrible, worse than Wilson had ever seen anyone look except the dead.
“Let’s get out of here while it’s early,” House said, thickly through a swollen mouth. “What’s the time?”
“Five thirty,” Wilson replied with a brief glance at his pocket watch. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a rabbit in a fox den. Let’s go.”
It was a cool, clear morning. The sky was still paling, an undecided grey, and Wilson couldn’t predict what the weather would be like as the day drew on. They rode around the enormous expanses of water all morning in near silence. Wilson nibbled on hardtack and didn’t offer House any. He knew it was far too painful for him to eat.
The sun didn’t rise blazing and bright as it had for the past few days. The sky became darker and eventually the heavens opened and drenched them with hard, heavy raindrops. The water splattered on the greenery on either side of them and plopped into the lake-water. House turned his face upward and let the rain run in rivulets over the lumps and swellings. His eyes were closed and he looked almost peaceful. Wilson, whose mule had been leading for the first time, pulled back to keep even with House. He cleared his throat softly.
“About last night...”
“You’re not getting an apology,” House said quickly, without opening his eyes. His voice was still distorted, but Wilson thought he could detect a hint of remorse in it.
“I know.” Wilson smiled to himself. “I just...I don’t understand, House. I want to understand why you’re doing this to yourself, but I just can’t.”
House slowly opened his eyes and looked across at Wilson. “I’m in pain. And now,” he grinned somewhat ghoulishly, “I’m ugly and in pain.”
Wilson shrugged awkwardly and tried again. “I don’t want an apology. I just want to know.”
“Know what?”
“Anything. Something that will help me out. Can I ask you a question?”
House rolled his eyes. Seeing that Wilson still regarded him expectantly, he sighed. “One question, that’s it.”
Wilson looked ahead at the path they were on and kept looking for several minutes, feeling the droplets patter down on the top of his kepi. The quiet whooshing of the rainwater filled the otherwise empty silence. Wilson thought intensely, trying to work out which question would help him the most. Then he nodded resolutely and looked over at House.
“I want to know about the divorce.”
House’s eyes widened and his bloodied mouth grimaced. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, now why d’you want to know about that?”
Wilson shrugged. “I get to ask the question, remember?”
There was another long silence. House tenderly traced his fingers down his battered face, flinching under even that light touch. Wilson didn’t prompt him, knowing that an answer would come in good time. The surgeon gently hooked his forefinger inside his mouth and touched his raw bleeding gums and the torn tooth sockets. The contact caused him to start violently, his eyes watering, and expel a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the wet grass. Wilson winced to see his pain and tried to keep his eyes fixed ahead. House’s voice seemed to begin out of nowhere.
“We were married seven years ago. We divorced two years ago. Is that enough?”
“No,” Wilson said firmly. “I picked your goddamned teeth off the floor and put you to bed.”
“Right,” House chuckled humourlessly. “You’ve earned this. I forgot. She went back to her parents in Alabama. I heard she remarried last year, a Confederate sergeant.”
Wilson nodded, turned the information over in his mind. There was one last thing he wanted to know. “Why? Why did you divorce?”
“I didn’t like the way she cooked steak.”
Wilson looked expectantly at House, but the captain seemed to have closed the conversation. Wilson gave a small shrug and concentrated on the way ahead once more. The rain grew harder and he shuddered under its incessant drumming. Wilson began to think of other things, to mentally dictate a letter home, to consider what he would prepare for them to eat that evening. His shoulders, previously stiff and tight, reflecting the tension that made him so uneasy, relaxed and he slumped forward comfortably in his saddle. It was almost half an hour of thoughtful silence later that House’s voice spoke suddenly once more, cutting softly through the dull patter of rain.
“There was a baby. Samuel. It died.”
Wilson looked over quickly. House spoke with simple composure, stating the fact as though he were talking about the weather or a baseball game.
“Oh,” Wilson wasn’t sure what else to say. “I’m sorry. How old w-”
“Three days.”
“I’m-”
“Yeah, you’re sorry. I get it. Let’s have something to eat.”
They dismounted and ate, sitting in a dry patch under a large tree. Wilson buttered some cornbread and handed it to House, who looked at it, gently probed his mouth with it, wincing and clicking in frustration. Finally, with a slight smile of satisfaction, he poured water from his canteen over the bread and began feeding himself the pale mush in small lumps. Wilson watched him sympathetically.
“My turn for a question, right?” House demanded as he swallowed a small mouthful of soaked bread. Wilson shrugged.
“Sure, if you want.”
“Who’s Johnny?”
Wilson’s face tautened. “What?”
“Johnny. Your last letter to your mother - you told her not to worry about Johnny. You write to her about Michael all the time, but never this Johnny before.”
“You oughtn’t to read my letters,” Wilson muttered. House cocked an uncaring eyebrow. Wilson remembered what he had told him a few minutes earlier and decided to honour him with his trust. “He’s my other brother. He fought at Manassas - just didn’t come back. Haven’t found a body, haven’t had word from him. He’s just disappeared. My mother’s sick with worry. My father...” He chuckled bitterly. “Says he’d rather Johnny was dead than a deserter.”
“You didn’t mention him before.”
“There...” Wilson shifted on the ground. “There wasn’t any point. Can we talk about something else?”
House shrugged, rubbing his hand over his leg and shivering slightly. The rain was still cold and insistent, a constant backdrop like the hum of a trapped fly in a sticky summer room or the clinking hammers of a chain gang. Wilson watched House, who had obviously drifted off into his own mind. His eyes, made a less brilliant blue by the drab shrubbery behind him, were staring steadily at the sludgy path of pale, sickly mud that cut through the dripping woodland. He had not donned his kepi today, presumably to let the rain spatter his beaten face, and the rain had plastered his hair down flat to his skull. Wilson could see the patches of thinning hair, where the water-darkened brown gave way to the paler flesh tone beneath. A droplet hit Wilson square on the bridge of his nose and dripped off the end miserably. House’s expression was still dreamy and absent, and Wilson felt a stab of regret.
“I’m sorry I asked earlier...,” he began. House didn’t adjust his eyes or make any indication of having heard. Wilson wasn’t entirely sure if he was being ignored or whether House was really that distracted. “I’m afeard I might have harrowed up things that ought to’ve stayed where they was. Were,” he corrected his grammar awkwardly.
“The money they spend putting you crackers through college is wasted,” House said scornfully.
“It’s only you Yankees that reckon so,” Wilson retorted. “If I was back in my own diggings, I’d sound near on refined. My pa, he tells me I talk too fancy. Says I ought to remember where I come from.”
“And what do you say?”
“I say...hell with him. You can’t please ever’one. Everyone, I mean. Damn it,” Wilson cursed. House sniggered and Wilson’s head shot up to stare. He hadn’t heard House laugh for a week, not counting drunken cackles. The sound seemed to grip Wilson in his chest. He smiled, relieved.
“Mighty grist of rain,” Wilson stated, nodding towards the still-drizzling sky.
“Right,” said House distractedly. He craned his head up towards the sky as if searching for somewhere to focus his sight that wasn’t near Wilson. He took a long breath and Wilson saw his Adam’s apple swell then recede. “But about last night,” House said. “I’m...grateful.”
Wilson looked at him, a happy and satisfied smile beginning to form on his face. House shifted uncomfortably and continued in a low voice.
“Are we all right?”
“Sure.” Wilson’s grin now spread, lifting his entire face. “We’re all right. Just don’t do it again. I don’t want to have to spoon-feed you bread-mush for the rest of the journey.”
House did not smile, but the corner of his swollen lip twitched in a manner that could have been described as an indication of pleasure. It was enough for Wilson, who didn’t care if he was appreciated or not. He had to help people. It was his nature.