|On the Other Side
Author: Radioheaded PM
House finds himself at Wilson's funeral....but is he really gone? And what's waiting for House on the other side? Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. If I did, I wouldn't be on this computer.Rated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Romance - G. House & J. Wilson - Chapters: 12 - Words: 17,402 - Reviews: 22 - Favs: 15 - Follows: 11 - Updated: 06-14-07 - Published: 05-20-07 - Status: Complete - id: 3548866
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: On the Other Side
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own words and characters; nothing recognizable from the show House is mine.
It wasn't like him to cry, so he didn't. Instead he leaned even further into the wall, letting it hold his weight. Equal and opposite reaction, his mind whispered unconsciously; the wall is pushing me. He observed the black-clad crowd, going through the motions of mourning. Some sat deflated in their chairs with blank stares, unable (or unwilling) to accept the death in front of them.
Others cried, letting their emotion pour out for the world to see; they sought comfort—and an explanation. Why take someone so young, and so good?
Hours passed, and still House kept his back against the wall, ignoring the increasing pain of his leg. He absentmindedly rubbed it, trying to massage the stiffness away, but his actions were futile. As the last of the mourners left, House made his way to the casket that held the shell of a once-great man. The box—That's all it is, House mused; a fancy box for Wilson to rot in—was a dark, cherry stained monstrosity. Its cushions were a bright white; it almost hurt to look at them. Wilson looked positively tan in comparison.
House hadn't expected this. He'd seen bodies before; He'd watched as people drew their last breaths. He'd felt live hearts slow and stop in his hand. He knew death. But Wilson didn't look dead. He looked like he was sleeping, as if at any moment, he'd sit up and chastise House for falling for this elaborate prank.
But this awakening wasn't to be. House's fingertips traced Wilson's face, as light as butterflies. He ran them over the shallow lines of Wilson's forehead, remembering how they defined his expressions; they deepened to express incredulity—and ecstasy. House's fingers moves down to Wilson's eyes. That brown, that exact opposite of his own cerulean gaze had the power to communicate vulnerability, love, and passion. Then, the lips. Perfectly shaped, and pale pink against his creamy skin. Those lips couldn't keep a secret; they flushed to the color of raspberries after House stole kisses from them.
A drop of water splashed on Wilson's cheek. It remained static for a moment before trailing down toward his ear. House put his hand to his face, and with the same fingers that had caressed Wilson's face felt the wetness that had made its way down his cheeks. House stared at the liquid on his hands. The fingertips returned to Wilson's cheek, and left the salty mark of House's grief. He took one last look at Wilson's shell, then turned his back and made his way home.