nightdog_barks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nightdog_barks) wrote2012-05-24 08:10 pm
nightdog_barks) wrote2012-05-24 08:10 pm
Houseficlet: Wish You Were Here
Title: Wish You Were Here
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: House
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Yes, for a major character death
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.22 ("Everybody Dies").
Summary: House finds something unexpected among Wilson's things. 708 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is the opposite of fluffy. All the places named here are real. The title and cut-text are from Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers.
Wish You Were Here
Wilson's dead, and that's what House had expected. What he hadn't expected was finding copies of all those damn postcards on Wilson's netbook.
Every town they'd stopped in on their way west, anywhere that had what the natives proudly considered a "local landmark," Wilson had found the nearest drug store, walked in, and bought a picture postcard to send to his brother. Danny, that is. The one who wasn't coping so well.
House has no idea how much Wilson had really told his brother about his condition. All he knows is standing behind Wilson as he picked cards from the rack -- the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, the World's Largest Baseball Bat in Louisville, Kentucky, the Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, Kansas, a cowboy riding a giant jackalope in Casper, Wyoming, a glowing green alien from the Area 51 Museum in Roswell, New Mexico (House had picked out that one). He'd watched over Wilson's shoulder, sometimes, as he'd scribbled a quick message on the backs of the cards -- "Dear Danny, hope you are feeling better," "Hey brother, take a look at this," "Dear butthead, take your meds, I love you." Wilson had carried around one of those foldable little cardboard tabs of "Forever" stamps, dropping a postcard in a public mailbox every time they'd headed out of town. He just hadn't expected to see them all again, carefully photographed with Wilson's phone, laid out in a neat grid format, front and back.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, picks up Wilson's saddlebag, hefts it, then turns it upside down and dumps its contents on the carpet. Sure enough, mixed in with detritus of Wilson's life -- the stray pens, a pair of clean underwear, various pill bottles, some still half-full, the last two vials of morphine, one half-empty, a pamphlet for the Answers in Genesis Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky, that House had managed to snag before they'd been thrown out -- there's a blank postcard.
House lies back on the bed, one forearm providing a makeshift pillow for his head. The card is from the giant drive-through donut hole in La Puente, the last place they visited, just a few weeks ago. House doesn't remember him buying it.
After that, Wilson had gotten sick. Well, he'd been sick, but he'd gotten worse. And then he'd died, with House holding his hand. House had leaned in close, there at the very end, looking deep into Wilson's eyes. He'd been hoping to see whatever Wilson saw with his dying patients, something to prove Wilson's contention that we all weren't just a bag of chemicals. But the light had shifted, a cloud outside, just at that moment, and then Wilson had been just another dead guy. House hadn't missed anything because there'd been nothing there to miss.
He turns the card over, tries to imagine what Wilson might have written. "Danny, here we are in sunny California." Would he have said "we"? He had before, telling his parents he was traveling with his old friend from med school, a certain "Kyle Bell." And right now, Kyle Bell is the only one who knows James Wilson is dead. Aside from the hospice staff, and since Kyle has power of attorney, who are they gonna tell?
House flips the card over again, looks at the blank back. He doesn't even know why Wilson was writing; he'd said before that he hardly knew his brother anymore. Damn Wilson, leaving him with this final mystery. He lays the card on his chest and stares at the ceiling for a while. When he gets up and crosses to the motel room's rickety little writing desk, it's not with any specific plan in mind. That's what he tells himself, anyway. He didn't make any promises to Wilson, not about anything, but this might be an interesting way to pass the time as he heads back east. Heads back east and decides what to do. About everything.
He sits at the desk and positions the postcard, blank side up. He picks up the complimentary ballpoint pen, crooks his wrist to replicate Wilson's left-handed scrawl, and begins to write:
Dear butthead ...
Who knows? Maybe he'll get an answer.
~ fin
Author:
nightdog_barksCharacters: House
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Yes, for a major character death
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.22 ("Everybody Dies").
Summary: House finds something unexpected among Wilson's things. 708 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is the opposite of fluffy. All the places named here are real. The title and cut-text are from Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers.
Wish You Were Here
Wilson's dead, and that's what House had expected. What he hadn't expected was finding copies of all those damn postcards on Wilson's netbook.
Every town they'd stopped in on their way west, anywhere that had what the natives proudly considered a "local landmark," Wilson had found the nearest drug store, walked in, and bought a picture postcard to send to his brother. Danny, that is. The one who wasn't coping so well.
House has no idea how much Wilson had really told his brother about his condition. All he knows is standing behind Wilson as he picked cards from the rack -- the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, the World's Largest Baseball Bat in Louisville, Kentucky, the Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, Kansas, a cowboy riding a giant jackalope in Casper, Wyoming, a glowing green alien from the Area 51 Museum in Roswell, New Mexico (House had picked out that one). He'd watched over Wilson's shoulder, sometimes, as he'd scribbled a quick message on the backs of the cards -- "Dear Danny, hope you are feeling better," "Hey brother, take a look at this," "Dear butthead, take your meds, I love you." Wilson had carried around one of those foldable little cardboard tabs of "Forever" stamps, dropping a postcard in a public mailbox every time they'd headed out of town. He just hadn't expected to see them all again, carefully photographed with Wilson's phone, laid out in a neat grid format, front and back.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, picks up Wilson's saddlebag, hefts it, then turns it upside down and dumps its contents on the carpet. Sure enough, mixed in with detritus of Wilson's life -- the stray pens, a pair of clean underwear, various pill bottles, some still half-full, the last two vials of morphine, one half-empty, a pamphlet for the Answers in Genesis Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky, that House had managed to snag before they'd been thrown out -- there's a blank postcard.
House lies back on the bed, one forearm providing a makeshift pillow for his head. The card is from the giant drive-through donut hole in La Puente, the last place they visited, just a few weeks ago. House doesn't remember him buying it.
After that, Wilson had gotten sick. Well, he'd been sick, but he'd gotten worse. And then he'd died, with House holding his hand. House had leaned in close, there at the very end, looking deep into Wilson's eyes. He'd been hoping to see whatever Wilson saw with his dying patients, something to prove Wilson's contention that we all weren't just a bag of chemicals. But the light had shifted, a cloud outside, just at that moment, and then Wilson had been just another dead guy. House hadn't missed anything because there'd been nothing there to miss.
He turns the card over, tries to imagine what Wilson might have written. "Danny, here we are in sunny California." Would he have said "we"? He had before, telling his parents he was traveling with his old friend from med school, a certain "Kyle Bell." And right now, Kyle Bell is the only one who knows James Wilson is dead. Aside from the hospice staff, and since Kyle has power of attorney, who are they gonna tell?
House flips the card over again, looks at the blank back. He doesn't even know why Wilson was writing; he'd said before that he hardly knew his brother anymore. Damn Wilson, leaving him with this final mystery. He lays the card on his chest and stares at the ceiling for a while. When he gets up and crosses to the motel room's rickety little writing desk, it's not with any specific plan in mind. That's what he tells himself, anyway. He didn't make any promises to Wilson, not about anything, but this might be an interesting way to pass the time as he heads back east. Heads back east and decides what to do. About everything.
He sits at the desk and positions the postcard, blank side up. He picks up the complimentary ballpoint pen, crooks his wrist to replicate Wilson's left-handed scrawl, and begins to write:
Dear butthead ...
Who knows? Maybe he'll get an answer.
~ fin