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Remembrance
by _dum
Wilson remembers waking up at five in the morning to go running with House. He remembers sweating and panting, smiling and chatting.
Wilson remembers dinners with his second wife, Stacy and House. He remembers the awkwardness, the way both relationships were slowly fizzling out. He remembers forced smiles and laughs, House's sarcasm and Stacy's scathing looks towards him. Wilson remembers laughing about everything with House afterwards, chuckling over Stacy's stupid comments and his current wife's hair.
Wilson remembers greasy Chinese take-out and bad movies, drunken and horribly out of tune piano sing-a-longs and sometimes he remembers those nights when they'd stumble into each other's arms. Sometimes he remembers the best nights of his life.
But they were sporadic and random and Wilson did his best to forget them.
Because if he keeps recalling the nights where he felt warm and whole within House's arms, where House's touch was the only thing that mattered in the world, Wilson knows he'd never be able to let go.
Wilson does what he can to let go. He dates when he can, fucks when he can, flirts when he can. He tries, with all of his might, to not compare his current lovers to House. But comparisons are made within the complex Venn diagram of his mind: no one compares.
Sometimes he wonders (when he's trying not to think of House) what would have happened if they had remained friends. What if Wilson had never given up on House, what if their relationship never came to an abrupt end. What if, what if, what if.
If Wilson added up all of the what ifs in his life, he'd probably be even less of the shell of a man he is now. He's hollow and empty; his life revolves around forced smiles and laughs and he tries to remember a time when he was truly, deeply happy. A time where he didn't have to smile just to uphold his perfect image or to get laid.
Wilson remembers the last time he saw House.
Wilson was in his favorite bookshop near the hospital, skimming titles on shelves, when he saw House down the aisle from him, skimming the same titles. He stared at House until House looked away from the shelf. They grinned sheepishly at each other.
Wilson ended up paying for a book House wanted (Wilson doesn't remember the title) and they went out for coffee. Conversation was forced, House's keen wit was consistantly biting, but they shared a nice Sunday afternoon together. There were no clouds in the sky, the sun was gleaming; Wilson remembered feeling so hopeful.
Wilson doesn't remember seeing House at the hospital the next day. Or the next.
He is the one who is asked to go to House's apartment to look for him. He still had a key, after all.
Wilson finds House, snuggled amongst sheets in his bed, a glass of water on his bedside table. Wilson thinks he is only sleeping, yes, he's just sleeping. But he looks too peaceful to be asleep (Wilson remembers the nights he spent with House and his fretful sleep patterns).
There is no pulse.
There is only a folded note inside House's bedside table drawer labeled James in loopy handwriting.
James
Everything goes to you. Everything.
I'll miss you.
Greg
Wilson doesn't remember calling Cuddy, he doesn't remember returning to his office, he doesn't even remember leaving House's apartment.
He does remember finding himself standing up at a podium in a funeral home, reading off words of a eulogy he forced himself to write.
"Gregory House was a brilliant diagnostician, doctor, musician, teacher. He excelled at everything he ever tried to do. He was a great man. He was my best friend. I remember the first time I met him. It was before everything was so complicated by wives and tenure and dying patients. We thought we owned the world.
To say I'm going to miss him is a bit of an understatement. I'm going to miss his very presence in the hospital, in a room, anywhere. I'm going to miss his bitterness, his sarcasm, his wit, his caring that always went unseen. I'm going to miss the way he made me feel. I'm going to miss my best friend, who meant more to me than anyone can ever know. I wish he knew how much he meant to me, to everyone around him. Maybe someday he will know..."
Wilson remembers Cuddy and Cameron pulling him down from the podium. He remembers hot tears trickling down his face. He remembers lukewarm tea in the funeral director's office. He remembers going home to his empty apartment, his empty life.
Wilson remembers fights that led to silences and he remembers the final silence that led to the demise of their relationship. He tries to remember the laughter over the yelling, the smiles over the scowls.
Wilson remembers going through House's apartment. He remembers finding a box filled with pictures underneath House's bed. At the top of the box, photos of House and Stacy prevailed. But then at the bottom, almost every single picture was of him. Pictures he didn't even know were taken. Pictures of them together, pictures of wedding after wedding, pictures of him with a smile that was so genuinely happy that he forgot he even possessed it.
Wilson remembers stowing the box under his own bed.
He remembers uncovering the box on the days when he felt the most maudlin and going through picture after picture. He can't recall the time he took out the box and burned its contents because the next time he opened it, only ashes remained.
Wilson has only one picture left of he and House. Neither of them are smiling, but there is a glint in their eyes as if to say, we're hiding something. Wilson remembers the mischievous side House brought out in him. Wilson remembers taking the picture frame off of his desk and throwing it at the wall. He took pleasure in listening to it shatter.
The next time Wilson enters his office, the same picture is on his desk within a fresh mahogany frame, as if to say, I will never leave you.
"Never leave me," Wilson remembers saying before his feet slipped off of his dining room chair, as paint chipped from the molding hanging the crackling chandelier, as the rope tightened itself around his neck. Speckles of paint floated in a glass of water on his dining room table. There was no note because there was no one to leave it to.
Only then was Wilson able to forget.
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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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