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Relevance
by Topaz Eyes
(Written for Ignipes. Thank you to jazzypom for the beta!)
It was too late of a damp and cloudy February evening, after too long of a day, but James Wilson still had one final vigil to observe and that was what brought him here to this broken-down neighborhood off the downtown of Princeton. Sitting, ankles crossed, head bowed and chin buried in his scarf, he pretended to drink his coffee as he stared alternately at the frozen pavement and at the boarded rows of buildings across the street. While the cinder block in front of the boarded-up brick house was cold, the dented metal fencing behind his back was colder, so that the chill from both the concrete and the iron leached through his overcoat and his trousers straight to his bones.
Wilson didn't know how long he'd perched there on that block, just sitting in the frigid night air with the detritus of lost lives blowing at his feet: desiccated leaves from the gutters; scattered bits of paper skittering down the sidewalk hustled along by the slight breeze; and the acrid smells of exhaust and garbage and despair on the street; before House tracked him down. Hours perhaps, or lifetimes; measures of time that a watch couldn't keep.
"I've met your parents, and your brother -- "
"I have two brothers."
"Why wouldn't you tell me -- "
"It was irrelevant."
He couldn't begin to estimate how long they sat together in silence after their awkward conversation, letting his coffee cool as he tried not to dwell on his thoughts.
"Why not?"
"Because he's not in my life any more."
"Well, that's relevant."
He stared at the empty spaces where shadows should have been under the burnt-out street lamp. It hadn't been relevant, not really, not for a long time--until early this morning when Victoria Matson arrived at PPTH and ripped all the layers upon layers of scabs off his heart with one easy twitch.
He'd been called in to consult on some lesions on her arm.
He should have left it at that.
He should have let Foreman turf her out. He should not have overruled Foreman, he should not have tried to convince House to take her case. He knew House would ultimately ferret out the truths of Victoria Matson, and anyone else closely connected to her in the process, run over them with emotional steamrollers, and still Wilson did it. He'd tried his best to hide the real reason for his interest, but with House that was irrelevant; the man was a pit bull in human form when it came to chasing down and ripping out secrets. He knew all that, and it landed him here, on the street in this downtown slum, trying to re-staunch the old wounds and make amends for something that could never be fixed.
"This was the last place I saw him, nine years ago. I don't even know if he's alive."
Wilson crushed the empty paper cup in his hand without thinking and swallowed hard. Nine years of waiting, of wondering, of hoping and praying and denying, of neatly packaging the heartbreak that he called his brother, stowing it away in the deepest recesses of his heart and his mind. Nine years of choked silence, of watching his parents die a little at every family gathering with Matthew not there and saying nothing, because there was really nothing left to say. After that last shouting match beside this very cinder block, Matthew had vanished almost as if he had never existed.
Wilson had tried to track him down. He had exhausted all avenues of investigation over the years--until in the end, he had nothing left of his younger brother except this boarded house, this cinder block and this haunted memory of their last anguished confessionals to cling to.
Truth be told, Wilson was waiting to hear that Victoria Matson had died. He had tried to save her too, tried to get her the treatment she needed but dear God, what an ugly way to go -- rabies, bitten by a bat and too late for any treatment. The only saving grace was that Foreman was with her; she didn't have much longer and he hoped it would be mercifully quick.
He couldn't think of anywhere else to wait for the news though. Victoria, Matthew -- part and parcel, they blended into one in his mind, until Wilson could not figure out who was whom anymore.
God, he was just. So. Tired.
Well, this time around he did have House beside him; House, who had followed him from the hospital to this slum and who had wheedled the truth out of him with the determined eye of a human lie detector.
"Oh. You followed me?"
"No. You were wearing rain boots today, but you were parked in the underground garage, so the only reason you'd need boots was if you were hitting the streets ... I followed you."
"Didn't we have a conversation about friendship?"
"Yeah. I had some follow up questions."
House, who never gave up until he'd solved the puzzle, who knew everything and was now quietly (for House anyway) freezing beside him, waiting with him; and who surprisingly wasn't complaining about the cold or the growing stiffness in his limbs (because if Wilson was chilled through, House was ten times worse off, and House wasn't even wearing a proper overcoat). It was the quiet that stunned Wilson, really; he knew House was not exactly a patient man, unless he was busy ferreting out the truth.
Wilson's cell phone rang, stirring him out of his pained reverie. He fished it from his coat pocket, opened it and placed it to his ear, cold metal and plastic burning against even colder skin, and felt House's piercing gaze. "Wilson," he answered dully. He stared up at the burnt out street lamp and blinked rapidly as he listened to the voice at the other end.
"Yeah. Thanks." He snapped the phone closed and sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He'd been expecting this phone call, but still... "That was Foreman."
House nodded slowly, not breaking his gaze. "So Batgirl died, huh?"
Despite the flippant words House's tone was sombre. Still, Wilson looked away, soured by the light wording. "She had a name, House," he replied wearily, too tired to care. "Her name was Victoria."
House stared at the handle of his cane. "And if I remember correctly I was the one who found it for her."
Wilson scowled at that, but he didn't refute it because he knew that it was true.
"You know, in some cultures, it's considered almost rude for one friend to spy on another. Of course, in Swedish, the word friend can also be translated as 'limping twerp'."
"You're an ass," he replied hollowly.
"I know." House thumped his cane on the frozen pavement and watched Wilson's face in profile. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."
Wilson sounded skeptical. "About the ass part? Somehow I doubt--"
"About Victoria." A beat. "And your brother."
Stunned, Wilson turned to stare at him, startled by the sincerity in House's words. House stared straight ahead, his cane still tapping in syncopated rhythm on the ground.
Wilson's lips moved but, shocked into silence, no further words came out. Maybe that was a good thing: Wilson really didn't have an idea what to say.
They continued sitting together on the freezing stone for what felt like hours, neither of them talking, just watching the street people haunting the neighborhood: the shabby and tattered homeless rooting through trash cans, the hooded drug dealers passing dope under the cover of darkness, and the street prostitutes cruising for tricks on the corner. Wilson found himself searching every worn face, every glassy doped-out stare, every hunched body that passed by, for any sign of his brother, though he knew at some level he would not find what he was looking for.
Wilson felt himself growing more chilled as the night wore on and he started to grit his teeth together to keep them from chattering. House began to fidget with growing discomfort beside him. Finally House rose from the block, grimacing with cold and stiffness and pain, and leaned heavily on his cane. "This symbolic vigil may be fun for you but my ass is freezing and I've had enough. Time to go home now, Jimmy."
Wilson refused to meet House's gaze. "I'm not leaving--" he began defiantly.
"Look around you, it's so late there's no one about anymore. The homeless are smarter than you are right now, they're tucked away in shelters for the night or huddling over a heating grate somewhere."
"Rot in hell," Wilson muttered, his voice catching at the end, and he bit his lip.
House remained unruffled. "You won't be finding anyone else to try to save tonight. So if you're going to continue your pity party, at least continue it somewhere that's warm."
Wilson met his gaze with a challenging stare. "At least I can, right?"
House flinched at the anger in Wilson's voice then bowed his head, as if acknowledging the rebuke.
Wilson looked away again. "I -- I can't go home right now," he continued weakly. "Julie -- Julie doesn't know about Matthew. I never told her."
House raised his eyebrows. "You're that ashamed of having a bum for a brother you won't even tell your wife about him?"
Wilson did not try to dignify that with a response; he simply shot him a filthy look that also somehow managed to appear embarrassed.
"Then come back to mine. You'll have to drive yourself back though. As touching as it is to observe your great concern for the downtrodden, I don't think even you are willing to leave your car to the cause." House peered at Wilson more intently. "Are you able to drive?"
"I'm not drunk, House," Wilson protested, eyes narrowed. "I can drive--"
"That's not what I meant," House replied with surprising gentleness. He tilted his head with a considering look. "I'll just have to take your word for it. But you go first, I'll follow."
Wilson looked up at him for a long despairing moment, then slowly rose from his seat. House was right, he couldn't do anything right now. Now that he was upright, he felt the cold and stiffness in his legs, his back and his arms, his knees almost buckling from being locked so long in one position. He knew House would be feeling it ten and twenty times worse, but he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty over House's discomfort right now either. "I suppose you parked right behind me too?"
"Safety in numbers," House affirmed.
They walked side-by-side to their respective cars in silence. House got in his car first, waiting for Wilson to climb into his own. As soon as Wilson slid into his seat he felt the exhaustion that he'd been unconsciously fighting all day, begin to overwhelm him. God he was so tired--All he wanted to do was sleep, just lock the doors, curl up inside and close his eyes against everything. The real prospect of being found frozen to death the next morning almost seemed superfluous in comparison. He sat numbly, head bowed, unable to insert his key in the ignition. House flashed his high beams at him to prod him along, the blinding intensity of the quartz halogen headlights burning in his rear view mirror, until Wilson grudgingly started his engine and pulled away from the sidewalk, House tailgating behind him.
Wilson did not remember the drive back to House's apartment; driving by rote, on automatic pilot, he didn't remember stopping at any red lights on the way, he didn't remember pulling up in front of House's apartment, he didn't remember climbing out of his car and stamping his feet with cold at the front step until House hobbled up beside him and unlocked the door. Inside, he didn't even take off his coat and boots; he just headed to the sofa and sat, elbows on knees, hands clasped and staring down at nothing. He heard House's habitual thump-tap of his cane as he hobbled around the apartment; felt, rather than saw the lights being turned on. He listened to the rattling and clinking in the kitchen, the tap running and the squeaks of kitchen cabinet doors opening and closing. A kettle whistled; something sizzled, and the smell of frying onions and cheese wafted through the room. Still numb, he nonetheless felt comforted somewhat by the background sounds and smells; despite himself they were thawing his bone-deep chill.
He didn't look up until several minutes later when House shoved a mug of something hot and fragrant and steaming into his hands. "Drink up," House said gruffly.
Wilson's eyebrows knitted together. "What is it?"
"Soup."
Wilson curled his cold-stiffened fingers around the mug, and brought it up to his lips to take a sip. Lipton's Cup-A-Soup. Chicken noodle. Wilson grinned despite himself. He inhaled the steam, fanning the hot liquid with his tongue as he sipped, and felt the warmth flooding through.
He heard the thud of two plates hitting the wood of the coffee table. "Eat before they get cold," House commanded. Wilson stared at the two grilled cheese sandwiches in front of him as House sank onto the sofa beside him, grunting slightly as he reached for his own plate.
They ate and drank in silence though Wilson wasn't hungry. He chewed around the crusts half-heartedly as House devoured his own sandwiches and inhaled his own soup. Part of him wondered what House was up to -- but there was no way that House could know, how chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were a little too close to the winter evenings with Daniel and Matthew in his youth, after long days spent outside in the crisp January air, tobogganing or building snow forts or skiing--
House rolled his eyes at the crusts Wilson left on his plate, nibbled with near-surgical precision. "How old are you, six?" he demanded as he grabbed a crust from Wilson's plate and popped it in his mouth. "Crusts are the best part of the sandwich, Jimmy, can't let them go to waste."
"Crusts contain the most carcinogens," Wilson countered absently. "All the by-products of dry heat on sugars and amino acids."
"Mmm, but that's what gives them their flavor." House feigned an expression of utter ecstasy and stole another nibbled crust. "Yummy. Can't beat that fresh-baked taste of acrylamide in the morning."
Wilson shook his head, falling into their light-hearted banter automatically. "What amazes me is how you willfully eat those after I've eaten around them. Besides being horribly unhygienic--"
"They all end up in the same place," House mumbled around a mouthful of crust. "Your spit, my stomach, doesn't matter, they all get recycled into the same atoms. Comforting really. Your sandwich crusts were probably animal dung once upon a time. That cheese curd may have been the biceps muscle of a long-dead farmer." House swallowed and shoved another crust between his teeth. "We're all a part of each other. The cycle of life."
Wilson made a face and pushed his plate over in front of House. "Yes, I suppose it's comforting to know that we are all cannibals in a sense by eating our ancestors." He leaned back, setting his feet on the table and steepling his fingers. "It gives new meaning to the term reincarnation."
"Shoes off." House waved his hand. Wilson frowned but toed them off and shrugged out of his coat, then returned to his former contemplating position. He was almost warm now, physically at least, though his heart still felt chilled.
House heaved himself off the couch and limped into the kitchen again. Wilson heard more rattling and clinking. Soup and grilled cheese; Wilson decided that all that was missing was the hot chocolate with marshmallows and cinnamon sticks. His mouth twisted wryly at that thought. Wilson wished he were indeed six years old again because he knew he would break now if House were to produce a mug of cocoa--
And God damn it, if House didn't have two more steaming mugs balanced in his free hand when he re-appeared in the living room. Wilson's eyes stung and he looked away. House set Wilson's mug on the table and perched on the armrest of the sofa, head bent over his own cup. The smell was wrong though--not chocolate, but coffee, with a generous dollop of whiskey.
"Sorry, no hot chocolate," House announced, and Wilson winced, wondering how that bastard always seemed to read his mind, though House didn't seem to notice his response. "Don't have whip cream. But I thought you needed a big-boy drink anyway." His voice wasn't sarcastic or mocking though; it sounded, again, almost gentle. Wilson leaned over to pick up his mug, curling his fingers around it as he had with his soup.
House leaned over, plucked the remote from between the sofa cushions and aimed it at the television, surfing through dozens of channels with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Crap, boring, crap, totally wrong, even I wouldn't watch that drivel, crap crap crappity crap crap," he muttered. He turned the TV off in disgust, throwing the remote onto the table, where it clattered and slid off to land on the hardwood floor. "Late night TV sucks, it's all talking heads."
Wilson looked at his watch and realized belatedly, it was past eleven and time for the late news. He wondered if Victoria Matson's death would make the eleven o'clock edition, if they would hold it over until the six o'clock evening news tomorrow, or if they would even mention it at all. A homeless woman dying of rabies deserved some sort of public tribute, even if it was a thirty-second news flash or a one-inch column in tomorrow's newspaper. Maybe a write-up in the next week's Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. A number in a column, a statistic. Something to show that she mattered.
"Yes, I forgot, I need a reason to give a crap."
Like Matthew. A different statistic.
"You're giving two craps."
He grinned sardonically at the House in his head.
"The metric system always confuses me."
Wilson briefly wondered how Foreman was handling Victoria's death. He would be sure to find out tomorrow, hunt him down and talk to him then. Now there was -- what, he didn't know. Trying to control the urge to break down completely and confess everything, he supposed. He sipped his coffee with whiskey, concentrating on the heat and the alcohol burning down his throat.
Meanwhile, House had finished his first drink and had hitched over to the piano bench, setting himself down heavily and swinging his legs over. Wilson caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and settled back further into the sofa as House tried out a few chords: a fourth, a fifth, a seventh, a minor third, warming up with minor and major scales, then slipping easily into the first bars of Pachelbel's Canon. Wilson closed his eyes, letting the familiar chords and counterpoint wash over him, wondering if he could drown in the music so he would never have to think again.
So the night plodded on, segueing into early morning. Outside it began raining, a low pounding on the ground to complement the music as the coffee and whiskey gave way to full strength rotgut. House continued to play soft classical pieces and instrumentals, barely pausing to dry-swallow two Vicodin once, sipping at the glass on top of the piano in between.
Wilson soon rose from the sofa and wandered around the small apartment aimlessly until sometime around one when he found himself standing uncertainly behind House at the piano, a tumbler of straight whiskey in his hand. Wilson watched mesmerized as House's fingers flew over the piano keys. He recognized the piece from Rachmaninov: his Prelude #2 in C sharp minor. He vaguely recalled enough music theory from his childhood piano lessons that the corresponding key was E major. Four sharps, stark black keys on white. God, how he'd loathed those lessons with a passion even though he'd continued them for years. He thought he'd forgotten details like that; strange to remember them now.
Matthew had loved piano lessons though, had gone further than either he or Daniel had; he'd managed a full scholarship to Juilliard before he began the long slow decline to full-blown schizophrenia and homelessness. Matthew had always been the "sensitive one" of the family; it was only during med school that Wilson had learned how to recognize the earliest signs of mental illness in his baby brother. But he wasn't home then, he only saw Matthew in passing, missing most of Matthew's slide down the spiral until that final night...
Standing behind House, he swayed slightly, tumbler in hand and lost in thought. God, how he missed--
Perhaps it was the lulling effect of the piano on his frayed nerves; the clinging weariness of Victoria's death mixed with his own maudlin memories of Matthew; the half-darkness of the room; the pleasant numbness from the whiskey; or the rhythm of the late February rain outside drumming in contrast to the prelude.
Or perhaps it was the one sudden overwhelming memory of watching Matthew play Rachmaninov like this, just like this, in another living room in another time the night before Matthew disappeared for good; standing behind him and enthralled by his baby brother's fingers gliding over the keys like water.
Whatever it was though, the effect was the same, completely eroding what remained of Wilson's defenses.
And all Wilson knew that he was so lost in thought that he didn't notice himself reaching out to brush his fingertips against the greying strands above House's ear.
House's fingers slipped on the piano keys, hitting A instead of A sharp in the arpeggio. He recovered quickly though and kept playing. "What are you doing?" he asked in an even, conversational voice, not breaking the rhythm of the sixteenth notes; but he glared down at his hands and his mouth twitched thoughtfully.
House's voice shocked Wilson out of his reverie and he yanked his hand away guiltily. Damn it--he had just broached an unspoken, but cardinal, rule of their friendship: touching House without permission was forbidden. Wilson's common sense returned with a sickening rush that filled his ears, and he started to stammer an embarrassed apology.
"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"It's OK, Jimmy," House interrupted, again in that light, airy tone. "I didn't say stop." He continued playing as if it had never even happened.
Wilson nodded dumbly, his own brain reeling at the utter show of weakness he'd just displayed. He'd just handed House another puzzle to solve, and he could see it reflected in the motions of House's mobile face. Suddenly he was standing on crumbling sand at the edge of an abyss. He'd already revealed much more about Matthew than he'd ever intended to anyone; he would shatter if he revealed anything else.
"I -- just -- want her to get some medical attention."
"That's not even close to being true. Something else. Something personal... Give me the file. Looks like this will be fun."
Hardly.
In the end though the need for any solace was too much. Gregory House was not a physically affectionate man, more likely to recoil from any friendly touch than to accept one, let alone offer one; for all they joked of crying on each other's shoulders, they didn't really discuss anything remotely connected to their feelings. But any guise of comfort offered by this merciless, mocking bastard of a best friend was better than nothing at all. So, not caring anymore about what it might continue to reveal, Wilson reached out again, consciously this time, to smooth the errant strands of greying hair back from House's temple.
A small and distant part of his mind noted rather wistfully that for someone as flinty and acerbic as House was, his hair felt as soft against his fingers as it looked. But it was Wilson's turn to blink rapidly with shock when House actually leaned into his hand, so that Wilson ended up laying his palm flush against his hair to steady the weight of House's head. He watched House close his eyes and nod slightly, rubbing his head against his palm, and watched his craggy face relax somewhat.
Feeling oddly encouraged, Wilson set his tumbler of whiskey down beside House's on top of the piano, then let his other hand drop, of its own accord, onto House's shoulder. House's fingers trailed off, losing the melody completely; the last note of the truncated arpeggio faded into the surrounding air as his fingers rested on the ivory keys. House sighed, seeming resigned to Wilson's ministration, but thankfully he kept his mouth shut; Wilson wasn't sure if he could bear any of House's scathing remarks at this moment.
Only the rain and the sound of their breathing filled the silence. Wilson threaded his fingers through the softness of House's hair, letting the repetitive motion soothe him; House seemed content to let him, sitting quietly with his eyes closed, but alert as if he were waiting for Wilson to explain himself further.
Though Wilson felt grateful for House's gesture, nonetheless the silence grew until it became too loud and empty to bear. "Victoria didn't die alone," Wilson offered finally, just to fill the overwhelming stillness. "Foreman stayed with her to the end."
House nodded, staring down at his hands on the keys. "I'm sure that was a touching scene."
"He forgave her."
Wilson felt House's forehead furrow as if he'd just raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. Foreman hates street people. So why would Foreman forgive a homeless woman--?"
"Foreman pretended he was her dead husband and forgave her for killing him and their son."
House nodded. "Ah. Pretending to be a dead man and lying to a dying woman. Nice. Didn't think Foreman had it in him."
"It let her die in peace, House," Wilson said, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice, though his hand tightened on House's shoulder. "She was delirious. What harm was there if it gave her some comfort in dying knowing she was forgiven for what she'd done?"
"None for her if it gave her what she needed. If it helped ease her last moments, there's nothing wrong with that." House turned around in the half-embrace to look up at Wilson; Wilson felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights under that piercing blue gaze, but he couldn't look away. "But you however, you can't find forgiveness from your brother. So you try to find it elsewhere by transferring to anyone who can fulfill your need at the moment."
His face was perfectly still and sincere, nothing merciless or mocking about it. "You helped Victoria Matson secure the care she needed to allay your guilt at not being able to help your brother when he needed it. And you use me as some sort of brother substitute because it hurts too much to think he may be dead and therefore beyond being able to forgive you."
Wilson tore his gaze away and swallowed. "You hate lying yet you're willingly letting me lie to myself," he whispered, his eyes and cheeks burning.
"Now that is truly irrelevant," House said. "What is relevant, is that you think that by trying to save me, you can save him. Maybe that is lying to yourself. You have to decide that one on your own."
"And it's all about you in the end?" Wilson murmured bitterly. "Because it always does seem to come back to you, doesn't it?"
"It's all about every one of us," House replied amiably. "You just chose to include me as the subject of your ongoing crusade."
"So what's your motivation in letting me perpetuate my so-called self delusion?"
House's voice grew serious. "Despite what you may think, I don't like to see you in pain, Jimmy. I don't like to see you lie to yourself and think that what you can do for me will mean a rat's ass in the grand scheme of things. But I don't like to see you hurting like this either." He fell silent then, head bowed and jaw twitching, and his shoulder slumped under Wilson's hand.
Wilson blinked several times, stunned yet oddly comforted by House's own unexpected admission. He always knew House did care; he just never knew how deeply that went, and knowing it now seemed to lift the fog and clear his vision a bit. He squeezed House's shoulder in acknowledgment and thanks, then let go, and stood by the window to watch the rain fall through the beam of the streetlight. House still sat, slumped at the piano, pulling his hands into his lap, and silence resumed, this time feeling easier, lighter.
After a while -- seconds or hours, Wilson wasn't sure -- House turned around to look at Wilson again, hitched by the window. "Feeling better?" he asked quietly into the air. His face was only half-lit by the lamp by the sofa but his eyes were clear and steady, as if appraising Wilson's state of being.
Wilson swallowed and nodded, glad that House could only see his face in shadowed profile. "Yeah." He did feel better in an odd way; he just felt tired now, not tired and defeated and lost. "Yeah."
"OK." House nodded as if satisfied with what he saw, then turned back toward the keyboard to pick up the arpeggio almost exactly where he'd stopped it.
Wilson let his exhaustion lead him back to the sofa, where he stretched out and covered himself with the afghan, pulling it up to his chin. It was so late that he knew House wouldn't mind him crashing here, he'd done that often enough before and he was too tired to think of driving home now. He closed his eyes and soon drifted off to sleep, listening to House coax out the subtlety of Rachmaninov under his fingers, and thinking of losing, of finding and of forgiveness in the space between.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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