outofluckandoutoftime - Tumblr blog

outofluckandoutoftime · 3 months ago

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i started typing and i couldn't stop

tldr: this is long as hell

i'm not a writer but I was thinking about how Wilson / House's post-canon interaction would go outside of what we get to see on screen. Where do they go after House shows up for Wilson? How do they process what's going on? Anywho I threw this thing up on the floor after thinking about it too hard:

I believe that they wouldn’t necessarily directly speak on it at first.

It’s the same day of House’s funeral. Wilson finished off his eulogy with a “But to know him…enough to—sorry. Everything in his life was about chasing the absence of pain. Maybe one way or the other, he got what he wanted. I don’t know if the whole ‘eternal peace’ thing was ever House’s style… but I hope he got what he wanted. Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

He stuck around for the rest of the service, some more speeches maybe, a quick obituary. His phone keeps going off. House’s. Wilson says that he needs to skip the dinner afterwards. That he needs to pick up some more stuff from his office. He sits in his car for a while, sat the phone on the dash, he’s staring it down, if he blinks, if he looks away it might disappear. It might stop ringing. Think 15 minutes. Think 20. By 25 he’s already on the road back to the hospital when he pulls over, picks up the phone and sees an address. Drives to it. Thinks to himself that this could be a stalker, could be a wrong number. It could be an old vengeful patient, one of the med students puling a prank. Wilson just doesn’t want to go home.

“Ok. I—ok.” Wilson nods at his friend sitting on the doorstep, 10 minutes later.

He smiles at him. “Ok.”

Wilson nods again, and again. And a few more times after it. He doesn’t even notice himself doing it, his eyes flicking around his surroundings, his hands digging at his hips, his feet antsy, all of him in motion. He nods, because yes, because sure, because why not. It’s all so loud and so very real. He can feel his cotton cufflinks rubbing against his skin, he can feel the south jersey wind whipping at his neck. He can feel his teeth against his lips and when he looks up again House is alive and breathing. Yes. Sure. Why not.

“What’re you thinking?”

“I’m…” but no words directly come out. It’s more like a deep release of air, the sound as full as opening a pressure chamber. He lifts his hands and drops them, shakes his head and he’s smiling, although he’s not quite sure that he’s happy. But House, House is happy. He has that squint in his right eye, that pull back of the corners of his lips, not upwards but straight horizontal, that’s joy. And he almost looks younger. Under all of the fine lines and scarring on his cheeks, his neck, his hands, he has the look of someone with a tomorrow, with expectations and plans and passions. The living being brushed Wilson’s shoulder with his hand and asked if he wanted a drink. And yes, sure, why not as they’re driving down 4th on their way to Barry’s, the nearest bar, a bar he hasn’t found himself in since he was 26, since his hands found themselves too easily up jean skirts, since his hair found itself too easily growing out instead of down. Of course it’s exactly how he remembers it, with its sickly yellow lighting and waxed artisan tile floors that made shards of stone into the shapes of birds and rounded fruits. TV screens littered with various US Sports, the kind that would be on at a time like this, tennis, golf, volleyball. House orders a reuben and Wilson nods when the bartender asks if he wants one too. He nods as House bumps his knee playfully when a 20 something walks past to get to the bathroom. He nods when House asks if he wants another and perhaps by the 17th or 18th nod Wilson realizes he hasn’t spoken a single word in 30 minutes.

“—but if Thompson knows anything about the final four its speed. You can just tell the kid’s from Socal and bitter next to Meister, he was on every corner of the fucking court by the time he hit anything,” House semi-shouted, lips kissing but not sipping from his bottle right before he snuck in a snide: “ He wins fast and loses quicker. It’s like he knows he’s hot, but by the time everyone moved inside the Bruins already had their toiletries in their underbus compartment.”

“He’s a Cali kid who goes to a California University which is how it’s supposed to be,“ began the bartender, ever the contemplatively pissed look adorned when the final points flashed on the above-bar tv screen for the last time, “SEMIFINAL SCORE — UCLA: SIX / USC: ONE”

“Meister and Thompson went into that match with a limp,” the bartender continued, volume unabashed, arms folded over his uniform when the numbers replaced themselves with a dealership commercial. Wilson watched the side House’s face as it grimaced towards the man. “The start was shaky because the umpire’s whistle was up his own ass. It was a good match when they actually got to play.”

“A boring match.” House called.

“A good—“

“Boring as hell. You know what Novikov looks like? Bored as hell. He never breaks a sweat. The stroke’s built into his fucking genetic makeup.”

The man gave a dry laugh and moved back towards the counter from the opposite side. House ignored him, continued to stare at the screen, and Wilson continued to stare at him staring at the screen. “Every Russian we put on our court looks like they’re on ket,” said the man, “ No regard for anything, they all look 35.”

“But the good kind of ket. European branding ,” Once House could feel the bartender’s annoyed grunt from behind him, he spun his chair gently and faced Wilson again, face settling into a satisfactory grin. “Fuck the Bruins, though, right?”

The bartender snorted at this, drifted away from the counter again towards the back without even refilling either of their glasses, because it was the least active hour of the day; 2:15 in a bar in south Jersey on a Tuesday wasn’t exactly anyone’s favorite third-space. Drunk Wilson, drinking Wilson considered himself a bleeding heart, sure. Maybe even more considerate than when he was sober. Wilson’s first sentence in 30 minutes, he made sure, was heard only by House. He didn’t make sure, however, that it didn’t slur out all at once: “What d’you wan’from’e?”

The second he said it he twisted his face inwards, blamed the half-swallowed gin in his glass and the completely swallowed gin squeezing his stomach for his embarrassing lack of tact. But who needs it? He’s coming back from a funeral, the Bruins were down 4-1, and House didn’t seem to care or hesitate or give any visible moral qualm to the fact that as of now his entire recorded life was in a Barry’s in downtown Jersey. That his friends and family were telling stories, making comments about him over a dinner table just miles from here. That where he’d once existed he now melts through. He’s talking about tennis. He’s died and he’s talking about college tennis. Wilson shook his head. Because no, never, absolutely not. “What do you want, House?” He asked, clearer this time, “What t’hell’s wrong with you?”

“You’re drunk, James.”

“You’ve fucked up this time house. You really really have.”

House lifted an eyebrow at this. Just one, however. Just enough expression to convey that there was still some thought process going on behind his apathetic eyes. “You…you are fucked…up. And I want you to leave… me alone. For good,” Wilson glared at him, made as harsh and sharp a face and voice as he could under his condition, “And I’ll never for’ive’ou.” The last part came out softer and messier than he’d hoped, but House would get the point. Because he was clearly, oh so clearly trying to hurt his feelings. Trying to bruise him, dig at him. Wilson didn’t do much else than just stare, because he knew that he didn’t have to. He felt so much malice, so much anger towards him. For anything, for everything. Screw dying, screw not dying— on this Tuesday, in this Barry’s, in his nicest black suit he hated Gregory House for existing in the first place. For ever taking up any kind of space. And fuck him— fuck him for insisting his presence in his life. Like it was some sort of gift that he wasn’t in that porcelain vase, wasting away. Like he should count himself lucky that he crawled out the back of that building. Wilson had hoped that he’d died quickly. That those flaming overhead beams crushed him straight on impact. The whole day, the whole week after the fire he’d slept on the floor of his kitchen, hoping he’d died quickly. No, he would never forgive him. Not because he couldn’t, because he absolutely refused to.

And Wilson would’ve loved to say all of this, from start to finish, if he could just stop crying.

It was his hand on his shoulder. That’s what provoked it. House’s expression didn’t even attempt to carry the weight of the situation, he simply drew his eyebrows down and kept silent as Wilson sat there crying. Neither one counted how long they sat there like that, it sure felt like enough time for Wilson to sober up. There were eight more things wrong with this. Nine more. Ten more as House slid a twenty across the counter with his free hand and helped Wilson stand up. Eleven more as Wilson let himself back into the driver’s seat and waited for House to get in the passenger before he turned on the ignition. Twelve as he pulled into a random parking lot in front of a laundromat and rested his forehead on his steering wheel once he switched to park. At least 15 more things wrong in the way that House lightheartedly rubbed his back for a few minutes, both silent. And in the way that Wilson didn’t even flinch. He felt warm to the touch.

After the sky turned dark and dull, and threatened to leave Wilson having to drive home tipsy at night, he tried to say it as slowly and as clearly as possible, head still down:

“I’m not going to spend…the last few months of my life… helping you get away with ruining your life, when I have spent… twenty years trying to fix it.”

“Ok,” said House.

“ And I’m not…going to feel guilty during the last few months of my life… because you finally did something no one’s gonna patch up.”

House’s hand slowed its circular movement, but stayed firm pressing between his shoulders. “Ok.”

“I don’t care…” Wilson took a breath. A deep one. God, it felt like he’d been holding his breath for months. Until here. “I don’t care… what happens to you. I don’t care what you do, or where you go. You call, I’m not answering. You leave, I’m not chasing after you. If you fuck up…I want you to disappear on me. I don’t even want to know about it. Just go.” He finally got enough strength to lift his head, to make eye contact with his friend. No, friends are alive. With his someone. With his anyone, he begun to stare again. To try and communicate how honest he was being, even though he wasn’t even sure himself. House did nothing but stare back. He always had to challenge him. “House, can you do that?”

“James,” he gave his back two solid pats, and they weren’t enough. Just beneath the socially acceptable response to the situation, that’s where House lived. Wilson thought, and didn’t say this observation, for the first time in their relationship: maybe he couldn’t live any other way. He flattened his lips and closed his eyes.

“James. I said ok.”

“I heard you.”

“But you don’t believe me.”

“Did you expect me to?” Surprisingly, this back and forth felt like a more lighthearted dialogue than the other ones they’d been having. The air wasn’t as thick. Wilson sat himself up with a sigh, shook House’s hand off his back in one smooth motion, “You don’t come back from the dead asking people to trust you.”

“I’m not asking people, I’m asking you,” he chirped, left hand now floating above the console in between them, “Plus, dead men tell no tales.”

“You took that phrase completely out of context,” Wilson twisted the keys in his car with a sigh. It jumped, then started its low hum. The rumble of it felt good, finally there was some movement, it felt very alive. He wrapped his hands tight around the wheel, and he felt itching to go somewhere, to go anywhere. Maybe they’d take to the road for a couple of days, go sightseeing. Just ride the freeway as far as it could take them. Run away, no phones, no bags. Just this rumble of the engine and rolled down windows. He tried hard to picture the breeze in his hair. The soft sunset glow bouncing off his rear view. 6 months didn’t have to be a short amount of time. Not if he kept moving.

There was a tap on the console. “For your next trick you should change gears.”

“Hold on, I need a minute,” Wilson said, eyes still closed.

“You barely have minutes. That’s just generous,” the other man replied, and Wilson cringed when he heard the thud of what he could only assume was two feet propped on his freshly detailed dashboard, “What you really need is me as a life coach. Death coach. Someone to make sure you’re not wasting time as you’re wasting away. I’ll book trips, tennis lessons, brothel appointments, confessionals, last rites. I get paid hourly, you get paid…paradisiacally. I’m actually doing you a favor, considering you have heures démarcatif, you won’t even have to slide me checks for that long.”

Wilson leaned his head back. And, God, did House talk this much before? He felt the low vibrations of the car rush through his fingertips in time with his pulse. Wilson knew he wanted to drive, he just didn’t know where. Anywhere. Just drive. Just go.

“What, is it a headache?”

“House.”

“If it’s a headache you have to tell me.” He felt his eyes on him now. “James, it could be—“

“Shut up.”

“Christ, Is this how you’ve been spending the past week since I’ve been gone? Meditating and bitchy?” Wilson couldn’t help but snort at this. “I’ll never die again. For your sake.”

“Actually when someone says to ‘shut up’ its a social cue to stop talking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wilson heard the sound of the other man say, and the sound of an unbuckled seatbelt, an opened door.

He winked one eye open to watch House swing his bad leg down onto the asphalt outside. “Where are you going?”

House sniffed over his shoulder. “Musical chairs. C’mon, we’re switching seats, get up.”

Wilson frowned. “Uhm… no. You’re not driving.”

With one leg out the door and one still on the dash, House dramatically sunk back into his seat like a toddler kicking its legs, “But mom.”

“No license, no ID, no dice,” Wilson started, shifting to fully face House and his stupid position, “Legally the only place you can be in a car is outside it. I could strap you to the top like quarry.”

“Or we can rent a hearse,” said House, arms folded. Wilson sat unmoving, staring him down. “Careful. Blank, soulless expressions turn me on.”

“I need you to take this seriously, House. Are you taking this seriously?”

House blinked,. “Yeah. Of course I am.”

Wilson hummed uncertainly. House gave him an exhausted look, fair seeing as he looked exhausted, Wilson guessed he didn’t really look at him until now. At his face— more sunken in some places, puffed up in others. His bright eyes lined with darkened shadow. His hair was sticking up in places that seemed aerodynamically impossible. Where did he stay, anyhow, for that week when he was dead? In a shitty motel? Paid with cash? Did he just wander the streets until he found a bench somewhere? The idea unsettled Wilson a bit, the idea that maybe House even thought to come to his door a couple of times, the idea that House had called from a payphone somewhere uptown, in some random city, cold and shivering, dirty and hungry, and Wilson had disregarded it as spam or slept through it. But, as he practiced before, Wilson didn’t say these thoughts out loud. Instead, he said:

“Why do you call me James, now?”

“It’s your name,” House replied simply. But then, he readjusted in his seat, expression slowly forming into the unreadable one he gets when there’s a puzzle to solve, “Why are you,” he asked, face brinking on a smile, “unable to drive this car?”

Wilson squinted at him back, “I… don’t know where to go. Wilson’s also my name,” he drawled, also leaning forward to face him, “But you’re calling me James now. Why?”

“James is more direct. What do you mean you don’t know where to go? The ever so arduous Dr. Wilson didn’t bother making death plans?”

“Since when do you care about being direct,” Wilson scoffed, shifting the focus back to his friend as soon as he could, “And yes. And no. I have plans. I just, don’t know how to execute them. The whole best-friend-funeral thing threw a few wrenches.” He made sure to add the last part with a slight bite to his tone, making sure they mattered.

House didn’t seem to notice. He simply kept the same unreadable expression, “ To answer your question, since I’ve died I’ve cared about being more direct. I called you Wilson because you were Dr. Wilson to me, my coworker. Now I’m not a co, or a worker, so you’re just James to me. James. And to respond to your statement,” House made a habit of forcing his space, and sooner than Wilson could even notice, he’d had positioned both his feet back onto the floor of the car, the top half of his body all the way across the console, and rested his head on his hands directly beside Wilson, elbows swaying. Sometimes he reminded Wilson of a stray.

“I don’t think you do have plans,” House said, throwing a sideward, knowing glance, “ I think that your ‘plans’ were to just quit your job, pack your things and live with your parents up in Greenwich till you croaked. Am I right?”

“First off,” Wilson took a breath, uncomfortable by how easily his counterpart saw through him, “does this mean that I have to call you Greg now? Since we’re neither co, nor workers, do I change your contact to Gregory?”

“Sure, Greg’s fine. You can even call me Greggy for short. Keep it light on the ‘Dr. House’ thing, though. It might freak people out, y’know, considering that Dr. House is dead and all. ”

“Not calling you Greggy.”

“And what are you calling your parents?” Wilson rolled his eyes. “Mama? Dada? You’re gonna use their credit cards at the liquor store, have them drop you off and pick you up for dates?”

“I was just planning on visiting not staying.”

“But after that it was all open schedule, wasn’t it? You’d probably end up staying because you’d have nowhere else to go.”

--- once again I'm not a writer and this isn't finished but why do anything at all que sera sera

#hilson #myshiii #house md #idkwhatthisis #is this fanfic?#oh god I'm writing fanfic?#writings #once again long as hell warning!!!!!!

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