Fic: "Home"
Title: Home
Author : M.E.W.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Word Count: 1614
Rating: PG
Beta: luridlurker
Disclaimer: not mine
For luridlurker, my own personal House.
Home
-----------------
I wished they wouldn’t come. I wished they’d finally stop bothering him. Of course, they probably even think they’re good for him, when they see him like this, all over the place in his excitement, scribbling on their portable whiteboard or the wall if I’m not fast enough to prevent it. Sometimes it hurts to see him like that. It hurts both of us. It just rouses too many memories, and these days everything comes with a price. A price I’m more and more reluctant to pay.
It’s so easy to be deceived by the light shining in his blue eyes, the thrill of solving a new puzzle visible in every movement, in his voice. They still look up to him in awe and admiration, knowing he’s larger than life and that none of them would ever master the art of diagnostics to even half of what he is still capable to do though he can barely remember more complex details of an article he’s recently read. They don’t know yet, but they’re smart and observant. They’ll figure it out soon enough.
Every now and then his eyes find mine, vivid and trusting. In my mind his voice echoes: I need you to sit in on my differentials, double-check everything I do. The only difference between then and now is his level of acceptance. And his lack of fear when it comes to facing me, once again terrified of losing his mind. We’re past that. We’re past a lot of things. It’s one of those times when being a doctor is both, blessing and curse.
I need you to be my memory, Wilson. And I will be. I can take care of him. Of both of us.
I can’t help but smile listening to him insulting Foreman and mocking Chase. They’d expect nothing less. Sometimes his voice falters and I just repeat what was said before, asking something or throwing in a suggestion. Smoothing over his lack of concentration.
His hands are getting tired. I can see it in the slight trembling; and his leg is most likely hurting, but he scribbles on and on, giving them the challenge of their lifetime, demanding everything, accepting nothing less, once again teaching them to look for zebras where other doctors merely see horses. No need to voice my medical opinion aside from stating it’s most likely not cancer, no need to interfere with anything he says and suggests as he digs into deeper knowledge acquired through experience decades ago.
Suddenly he seems so alive, so vivid and confident, and it hurts. I know one day this will be all that’s left to me, nothing but some photographs and countless memories I can no longer share. One day there won’t be any more gross experiments cluttering the refrigerator or the window sills, no more love songs in the early hours of the morning, no more bantering, no more shared secrets, no arguments and fights, no silly pranks and jokes and laughter-and at some point no more memories of both of us…One day I will lie in our bed alone. It’s too much, abruptly all of it is just too much, and I feel the unfairness of it all crushing down, drowning out the voices around me and taking my breath away…
“Wilson.” He’s beside me. When did he move? Wasn’t I supposed to be the one to keep an eye on him all the time?
“Are you okay, Dr. Wilson?”
“Yeah, fine. Sorry. Long day…” Two pairs of concerned, apprehensive eyes turn to me and one with knowing warmth and a sadness that I put there this time without meaning to.
At least they take it as a hint and I’m glad to see them leave. They’ve got all they needed. Probably they’ll call in later or tomorrow to let him know if he was right or if they need to drop in again for yet another differential. Sometimes they also do it on the phone or via Internet, lately with me nearby so that I can listen, too, either at home or the clinic. Something else that will be more and more difficult to do. At some point they will get suspicious why he always insists on my presence.
In most cases he can hardly resist the temptation to pick up the phone these days. Even when they ring in the middle of the night. And I’m not always there. I’ve come to dread their visits and their calls. I’m too helpless against the sadness that more and more gets to him whenever they leave or hang up again, reminding him of everything he once was and probably would be not much longer.
As soon as they’re out of the door, House comes up behind me, pressing close. His body is trembling slightly, speaking of exhaustion, but it feels too nice to say something just yet. I allow myself to rest against him, feeling his strength, his arms around me like a shield, and when I close my eyes for a few seconds, we’re both young again…
His hands are still so graceful. I touch his long fingers that are stroking my belly, putting mine over his, feeling the warmth of his body against my back and in his hands, the life flowing through him. I won’t let him go, I won’t let him forget everything we built up together, I won’t let him slip away from me. There are words threatening to come out, but then I feel his lips behind my ear, a last touch, and he slides away, reaching for his cane and moving over to the couch.
“What’s for dinner?”
Of course. Some things never change. “You look for something decent to watch, I’m on it.”
Not that I really mind what we’re watching tonight. Some vampire flick, soaps, the news…whatever. I couldn’t care less. Instead, I make sure he eats healthier though he keeps mocking me for it. I can live with that. I can live with symptoms scribbled on the walls if it makes him happy. I can live with everything as long as…No, don’t go that way, it has been a good day so far. A really good day.
I listen to him zapping through the channels, now and then sarcastically commenting on something which makes me smile while I’m cooking fresh vegetables and warming up leftovers. Almost normal. Almost.
After dinner, he is unusually quiet and I fear the depression that sometimes follows the rush of working on a puzzle for his old team will settle in. But then he turns off the TV and slowly limps to the piano, playing softly and beautifully, an unknown piece I’ve never heard him play before, while looking directly at me. And I get lost in the tune, in the melody, in his low humming I can only hear from time to time and in the unmasked love in his eyes. I’d never thought my life would have so much music.
It’s supposed to slow the progression, just like solving medical puzzles or doing Sudoku or being fluent in a variety of the most complex languages existing. I’ve seen him beat the odds more than once, and this time I want him to fight as hard and dirty as he can. For himself and for me.
“You don’t remember, do you?” He suddenly asks, interrupting my thoughts while searching my face as if expecting something to click.
“Huh?”
“Thought so. It’s our anniversary. Sort of.”
“Which one?” My mind is racing. It’s not the day we met, not the day we first kissed, not his birthday and certainly not our wedding day. I don’t forget such things. I just don’t. For a moment something freezes inside of me. Is he mixing something up? What if his long-term memories already begin to decline? Is the stress of the day finally catching up with him?
His eyes bore into mine. “Yeah, you should feel guilty. Ten years ago you forgot it, too.”
Ten years ago? I laugh shakily as everything falls into place. He’s right! How could I have forgotten this anniversary of all things? Obviously even I have some senior moments now and then.
“You brought me home to the loft twenty years ago.”
Twenty years ago…Under the pretence of getting back at Cuddy for hurting him when all I truly wanted was to have a real life with him, knowing I wouldn’t ever want to leave him, that he’s the only person I need around me as long as I live. In living and dying. For a moment I can see myself sitting on the counter again, telling Bonnie I’d take it with him standing at the other end of the room, practically glowing with happiness and pride. There never has been anyone else, not really. His smile tells me he remembers all of it. And that he knows.
When I cross the distance between us to sit down next to him on the bench, he stops playing. I can’t help it I'm dangerously close to crying and I know later I’ll probably never hear the end of it, but gazing into his aged face, at all the wrinkles, his short gray hair, and the deep, much-too-knowing eyes I see all of our history looking back at me, the life we’ve built together, and I put my forehead against his for a moment before claiming his lips in a kiss that speaks of love and fear and the desperate promise to fight for him all along the way.
Maybe I bought the house but he has given me a home and I will not allow these memories to disappear.
Author : M.E.W.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Word Count: 1614
Rating: PG
Beta: luridlurker
Disclaimer: not mine
For luridlurker, my own personal House.
Home
-----------------
I wished they wouldn’t come. I wished they’d finally stop bothering him. Of course, they probably even think they’re good for him, when they see him like this, all over the place in his excitement, scribbling on their portable whiteboard or the wall if I’m not fast enough to prevent it. Sometimes it hurts to see him like that. It hurts both of us. It just rouses too many memories, and these days everything comes with a price. A price I’m more and more reluctant to pay.
It’s so easy to be deceived by the light shining in his blue eyes, the thrill of solving a new puzzle visible in every movement, in his voice. They still look up to him in awe and admiration, knowing he’s larger than life and that none of them would ever master the art of diagnostics to even half of what he is still capable to do though he can barely remember more complex details of an article he’s recently read. They don’t know yet, but they’re smart and observant. They’ll figure it out soon enough.
Every now and then his eyes find mine, vivid and trusting. In my mind his voice echoes: I need you to sit in on my differentials, double-check everything I do. The only difference between then and now is his level of acceptance. And his lack of fear when it comes to facing me, once again terrified of losing his mind. We’re past that. We’re past a lot of things. It’s one of those times when being a doctor is both, blessing and curse.
I need you to be my memory, Wilson. And I will be. I can take care of him. Of both of us.
I can’t help but smile listening to him insulting Foreman and mocking Chase. They’d expect nothing less. Sometimes his voice falters and I just repeat what was said before, asking something or throwing in a suggestion. Smoothing over his lack of concentration.
His hands are getting tired. I can see it in the slight trembling; and his leg is most likely hurting, but he scribbles on and on, giving them the challenge of their lifetime, demanding everything, accepting nothing less, once again teaching them to look for zebras where other doctors merely see horses. No need to voice my medical opinion aside from stating it’s most likely not cancer, no need to interfere with anything he says and suggests as he digs into deeper knowledge acquired through experience decades ago.
Suddenly he seems so alive, so vivid and confident, and it hurts. I know one day this will be all that’s left to me, nothing but some photographs and countless memories I can no longer share. One day there won’t be any more gross experiments cluttering the refrigerator or the window sills, no more love songs in the early hours of the morning, no more bantering, no more shared secrets, no arguments and fights, no silly pranks and jokes and laughter-and at some point no more memories of both of us…One day I will lie in our bed alone. It’s too much, abruptly all of it is just too much, and I feel the unfairness of it all crushing down, drowning out the voices around me and taking my breath away…
“Wilson.” He’s beside me. When did he move? Wasn’t I supposed to be the one to keep an eye on him all the time?
“Are you okay, Dr. Wilson?”
“Yeah, fine. Sorry. Long day…” Two pairs of concerned, apprehensive eyes turn to me and one with knowing warmth and a sadness that I put there this time without meaning to.
At least they take it as a hint and I’m glad to see them leave. They’ve got all they needed. Probably they’ll call in later or tomorrow to let him know if he was right or if they need to drop in again for yet another differential. Sometimes they also do it on the phone or via Internet, lately with me nearby so that I can listen, too, either at home or the clinic. Something else that will be more and more difficult to do. At some point they will get suspicious why he always insists on my presence.
In most cases he can hardly resist the temptation to pick up the phone these days. Even when they ring in the middle of the night. And I’m not always there. I’ve come to dread their visits and their calls. I’m too helpless against the sadness that more and more gets to him whenever they leave or hang up again, reminding him of everything he once was and probably would be not much longer.
As soon as they’re out of the door, House comes up behind me, pressing close. His body is trembling slightly, speaking of exhaustion, but it feels too nice to say something just yet. I allow myself to rest against him, feeling his strength, his arms around me like a shield, and when I close my eyes for a few seconds, we’re both young again…
His hands are still so graceful. I touch his long fingers that are stroking my belly, putting mine over his, feeling the warmth of his body against my back and in his hands, the life flowing through him. I won’t let him go, I won’t let him forget everything we built up together, I won’t let him slip away from me. There are words threatening to come out, but then I feel his lips behind my ear, a last touch, and he slides away, reaching for his cane and moving over to the couch.
“What’s for dinner?”
Of course. Some things never change. “You look for something decent to watch, I’m on it.”
Not that I really mind what we’re watching tonight. Some vampire flick, soaps, the news…whatever. I couldn’t care less. Instead, I make sure he eats healthier though he keeps mocking me for it. I can live with that. I can live with symptoms scribbled on the walls if it makes him happy. I can live with everything as long as…No, don’t go that way, it has been a good day so far. A really good day.
I listen to him zapping through the channels, now and then sarcastically commenting on something which makes me smile while I’m cooking fresh vegetables and warming up leftovers. Almost normal. Almost.
After dinner, he is unusually quiet and I fear the depression that sometimes follows the rush of working on a puzzle for his old team will settle in. But then he turns off the TV and slowly limps to the piano, playing softly and beautifully, an unknown piece I’ve never heard him play before, while looking directly at me. And I get lost in the tune, in the melody, in his low humming I can only hear from time to time and in the unmasked love in his eyes. I’d never thought my life would have so much music.
It’s supposed to slow the progression, just like solving medical puzzles or doing Sudoku or being fluent in a variety of the most complex languages existing. I’ve seen him beat the odds more than once, and this time I want him to fight as hard and dirty as he can. For himself and for me.
“You don’t remember, do you?” He suddenly asks, interrupting my thoughts while searching my face as if expecting something to click.
“Huh?”
“Thought so. It’s our anniversary. Sort of.”
“Which one?” My mind is racing. It’s not the day we met, not the day we first kissed, not his birthday and certainly not our wedding day. I don’t forget such things. I just don’t. For a moment something freezes inside of me. Is he mixing something up? What if his long-term memories already begin to decline? Is the stress of the day finally catching up with him?
His eyes bore into mine. “Yeah, you should feel guilty. Ten years ago you forgot it, too.”
Ten years ago? I laugh shakily as everything falls into place. He’s right! How could I have forgotten this anniversary of all things? Obviously even I have some senior moments now and then.
“You brought me home to the loft twenty years ago.”
Twenty years ago…Under the pretence of getting back at Cuddy for hurting him when all I truly wanted was to have a real life with him, knowing I wouldn’t ever want to leave him, that he’s the only person I need around me as long as I live. In living and dying. For a moment I can see myself sitting on the counter again, telling Bonnie I’d take it with him standing at the other end of the room, practically glowing with happiness and pride. There never has been anyone else, not really. His smile tells me he remembers all of it. And that he knows.
When I cross the distance between us to sit down next to him on the bench, he stops playing. I can’t help it I'm dangerously close to crying and I know later I’ll probably never hear the end of it, but gazing into his aged face, at all the wrinkles, his short gray hair, and the deep, much-too-knowing eyes I see all of our history looking back at me, the life we’ve built together, and I put my forehead against his for a moment before claiming his lips in a kiss that speaks of love and fear and the desperate promise to fight for him all along the way.
Maybe I bought the house but he has given me a home and I will not allow these memories to disappear.