047. Death
Title: Postcards From Italy
Characters/Pairing: Wilson/Grace
Prompt: 047. Death
Word Count: 1,016
Rating: PG
Spoilers: House vs. God, Euphoria, and No Reason.
Author's Notes: This is for bironic, who wants more Wilson/Grace fic. The title comes from Beirut's song, "Postcards From Italy." I have way too much fun writing Wilson. :)
The shattered soul
Following close but nearly twice as slow:
In my good times
There were always golden rocks to throw
At those who admit defeat too late.
(Those were our times, those were our times.)
A few days after Wilson moves into his new apartment, a letter arrives for him at the hospital.
Grace is too naive to realize that this could cost him his job. He hides the letter in his lab coat and locks the office door before he reads it.
It's a postcard in a spidery script. A little shaky.
(Dear James,
I'm in Florence! It's gorgeous.)
But it's so full of hope that he smiles the rest of the day.
He writes back, care of her hotel. He sends her the address to his apartment.
(Dear Grace,
I'm happy to hear it. What have you seen so far?)
Foreman gets sick. Wilson thinks about Grace in Florence while House patrols the morgue.
House isn't used to feeling powerless, but Wilson is.
Foreman gets better and there's a letter from Grace. A stranger took pictures of her in a sundress and a straw hat. She's pale. The dress is olive green and makes her milky skin look like it's glowing -- chiaroscuro.
She almost looks happier than he's ever seen her.
(Dear James,
The only problem with traveling alone is that it was hard to get a picture of myself to show you. I went to the Piazzale Michelangelo today. New Jersey cannot compare; it was so beautiful. I'm not in pain, don't worry.)
He's sure she's lying. When they were living together, he would ask her constantly, "Are you feeling all right?"
And she would kiss him and say she'd never felt better. Even as he saw her wince. He'd still kiss her back. It distracted her a little.
Sometimes Wilson is sure she's the bravest person he's ever known, and that illuminates her in his head.
Sometimes, alone in his new apartment, Wilson convinces himself that she was the most beautiful. In that picture, it's not quite a lie.
Maybe Boyd did heal her and she'll live for years and years in Florence and he'll visit her and they'll laugh because she was right, sometimes there are miracles.
But she's just a little too pale for him to really believe it.
(Dear Grace,
I miss you here in New Jersey. Enjoy Florence enough for both of us.
Make a wish in a fountain?)
Wilson remembers something House said about triteness a year ago, when he drops the letter in the mail. But when Grace reads the letter, separated by a week and an ocean, he doubts she'll realize.
However.
There are days when Wilson doesn't think about Grace. He doesn't know whether it's because she's going to die or whether...
He doesn't want to admit it, but maybe it's because she wasn't as important as he wishes she'd been to him.
A man walks into House's office and shoots him. While he's pacing around in his office, suddenly vulnerable and so very alone, Wilson gets another postcard.
He should be angry that she sent it to the hospital. But it's as though she's reaching her frail hands to him, all the way from Italy, and he has to cherish that.
(Dear James,
Do you believe in miracles?)
The script is shakier, the words large on the postcard. On the front there's one of the adorable fountains she'd mentioned when she told him about Florence.
Perhaps.
House recovers and he's just as he always was.
(Dear Grace,
I like my miracles to come with explanations. Is there enough time to question the universe?)
It's only after he sends the postcard that he realizes he probably shouldn't have asked her about time.
When he's trying to fall asleep in his new apartment, he's certain he has far too much time, himself. She could use some of it so well.
(Dear James,
In Florence it feels like the universe is exactly what I always wanted it to be. Sometimes I wish that you were here, though. I'm sorry.)
Part of him wants to take the first plane to Florence and hold her. She can't be doing well. But there are cases that need to be dealt with, and he can already hear House reminding him that everyone dies, eventually.
But, he wonders, does everyone die alone?
(Dear Grace,
Don't be sorry. Enjoy your beautiful universe -- I do wish I could see it with you.)
It's summer and he goes golfing. He works with patients; there are a few deaths. He's no closer to a cure for cancer than he ever was, but people still somehow thank him when he tells them they're going to die.
He never really understands why. They always start crying the moment he leaves the room.
Just after the Fourth of July, there's an airmail letter for him, to the hospital. The address is typed in. It's so formal and business-like, nothing like Grace's shaky script.
Part of him hopes she somehow found a typewriter in some Florentine flea market. Even though he knows it's not something she would do.
(Dear Dr. James Wilson,
We regret to inform you that Grace Polmurin passed away in Florence on July 5.)
That night he takes out all of her postcards and lays them out in front of him on the floor. He doesn't notice the tears until his soggy collar flaps against his neck.
The apartment is empty and it feels like a shrine. To a woman who did believe in miracles, even though she never got one of her own.
But Grace died in Florence. Perhaps she found her miracles? He hopes she found at least one, maybe tucked away in one of those little fountains, or in the corner of a painting. Hidden for hundreds of years until she sought it out.
Wilson falls asleep, finally, murmuring her name until it becomes one large word: Gracegracegracegrace....
He wakes up and the pillow is wet. He puts the letters at the bottom of his underwear drawer. He tells himself that later he'll be able to look at those postcards from Italy.
Eventually.
The next night, there's a woman breathing warmly next to him in bed, arms wrapped around his waist.
Life, Wilson tells himself, goes on. It's not quite a miracle for him.
We put our feet just where they had to go --
Never to go.
Beirut, Postcards From Italy
Characters/Pairing: Wilson/Grace
Prompt: 047. Death
Word Count: 1,016
Rating: PG
Spoilers: House vs. God, Euphoria, and No Reason.
Author's Notes: This is for bironic, who wants more Wilson/Grace fic. The title comes from Beirut's song, "Postcards From Italy." I have way too much fun writing Wilson. :)
The shattered soul
Following close but nearly twice as slow:
In my good times
There were always golden rocks to throw
At those who admit defeat too late.
(Those were our times, those were our times.)
A few days after Wilson moves into his new apartment, a letter arrives for him at the hospital.
Grace is too naive to realize that this could cost him his job. He hides the letter in his lab coat and locks the office door before he reads it.
It's a postcard in a spidery script. A little shaky.
(Dear James,
I'm in Florence! It's gorgeous.)
But it's so full of hope that he smiles the rest of the day.
He writes back, care of her hotel. He sends her the address to his apartment.
(Dear Grace,
I'm happy to hear it. What have you seen so far?)
Foreman gets sick. Wilson thinks about Grace in Florence while House patrols the morgue.
House isn't used to feeling powerless, but Wilson is.
Foreman gets better and there's a letter from Grace. A stranger took pictures of her in a sundress and a straw hat. She's pale. The dress is olive green and makes her milky skin look like it's glowing -- chiaroscuro.
She almost looks happier than he's ever seen her.
(Dear James,
The only problem with traveling alone is that it was hard to get a picture of myself to show you. I went to the Piazzale Michelangelo today. New Jersey cannot compare; it was so beautiful. I'm not in pain, don't worry.)
He's sure she's lying. When they were living together, he would ask her constantly, "Are you feeling all right?"
And she would kiss him and say she'd never felt better. Even as he saw her wince. He'd still kiss her back. It distracted her a little.
Sometimes Wilson is sure she's the bravest person he's ever known, and that illuminates her in his head.
Sometimes, alone in his new apartment, Wilson convinces himself that she was the most beautiful. In that picture, it's not quite a lie.
Maybe Boyd did heal her and she'll live for years and years in Florence and he'll visit her and they'll laugh because she was right, sometimes there are miracles.
But she's just a little too pale for him to really believe it.
(Dear Grace,
I miss you here in New Jersey. Enjoy Florence enough for both of us.
Make a wish in a fountain?)
Wilson remembers something House said about triteness a year ago, when he drops the letter in the mail. But when Grace reads the letter, separated by a week and an ocean, he doubts she'll realize.
However.
There are days when Wilson doesn't think about Grace. He doesn't know whether it's because she's going to die or whether...
He doesn't want to admit it, but maybe it's because she wasn't as important as he wishes she'd been to him.
A man walks into House's office and shoots him. While he's pacing around in his office, suddenly vulnerable and so very alone, Wilson gets another postcard.
He should be angry that she sent it to the hospital. But it's as though she's reaching her frail hands to him, all the way from Italy, and he has to cherish that.
(Dear James,
Do you believe in miracles?)
The script is shakier, the words large on the postcard. On the front there's one of the adorable fountains she'd mentioned when she told him about Florence.
Perhaps.
House recovers and he's just as he always was.
(Dear Grace,
I like my miracles to come with explanations. Is there enough time to question the universe?)
It's only after he sends the postcard that he realizes he probably shouldn't have asked her about time.
When he's trying to fall asleep in his new apartment, he's certain he has far too much time, himself. She could use some of it so well.
(Dear James,
In Florence it feels like the universe is exactly what I always wanted it to be. Sometimes I wish that you were here, though. I'm sorry.)
Part of him wants to take the first plane to Florence and hold her. She can't be doing well. But there are cases that need to be dealt with, and he can already hear House reminding him that everyone dies, eventually.
But, he wonders, does everyone die alone?
(Dear Grace,
Don't be sorry. Enjoy your beautiful universe -- I do wish I could see it with you.)
It's summer and he goes golfing. He works with patients; there are a few deaths. He's no closer to a cure for cancer than he ever was, but people still somehow thank him when he tells them they're going to die.
He never really understands why. They always start crying the moment he leaves the room.
Just after the Fourth of July, there's an airmail letter for him, to the hospital. The address is typed in. It's so formal and business-like, nothing like Grace's shaky script.
Part of him hopes she somehow found a typewriter in some Florentine flea market. Even though he knows it's not something she would do.
(Dear Dr. James Wilson,
We regret to inform you that Grace Polmurin passed away in Florence on July 5.)
That night he takes out all of her postcards and lays them out in front of him on the floor. He doesn't notice the tears until his soggy collar flaps against his neck.
The apartment is empty and it feels like a shrine. To a woman who did believe in miracles, even though she never got one of her own.
But Grace died in Florence. Perhaps she found her miracles? He hopes she found at least one, maybe tucked away in one of those little fountains, or in the corner of a painting. Hidden for hundreds of years until she sought it out.
Wilson falls asleep, finally, murmuring her name until it becomes one large word: Gracegracegracegrace....
He wakes up and the pillow is wet. He puts the letters at the bottom of his underwear drawer. He tells himself that later he'll be able to look at those postcards from Italy.
Eventually.
The next night, there's a woman breathing warmly next to him in bed, arms wrapped around his waist.
Life, Wilson tells himself, goes on. It's not quite a miracle for him.
We put our feet just where they had to go --
Never to go.
Beirut, Postcards From Italy