deelaundry | Never Was (PG)

Posted to housefic

Title: Never Was
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: Wilson/Amber, mention of House
Rating: PG
Words: 658
Summary: In which Wilson dreams of Jesus, fleas, and a flowering dogwood.
Notes: Spoilers for episode 4-16, "Wilson's Heart." Thanks to

perspi and

topaz_eyes for catching incorrect words.

Wilson is dreaming. He can tell he’s dreaming because he’s happy.

Amber being alive is also a hint.

They’re arguing about their baby. It’s a real argument, different sides taken, voices raised, the whole shebang, but still he’s happy. Which is strange, but nice, so he’s going to go with it.

As they argue, the baby is sitting quite contentedly in one of those reclining baby chair things that bounce. Wilson doesn’t know what they’re called, in spite of having seen dozens of babies lounge around in them. But the baby’s happy, and he’s happy, and Amber, in spite of looking quite determined and fierce, is happy – Wilson can tell – so he’s not going to worry about not being able to name the cute little baby device.

He knows the baby’s name, though: Jesus. Not gee-zuhs, like the historical figure and purported Son of God, but hay-Zeus, the name a few of his Hispanic patients have had. And yes, he knows that hay-Zeus is generally a tribute to gee-zuhs but this time it’s not.

It’s –

He can’t remember why they named their baby Jesus (hay-Zeus). He could ask Amber, she’d know, but the argument is just about at its apex and he doesn’t want to break the flow.

They’re arguing, of course, about how much the baby drinks. It’s more than is typical, Wilson admits, but not so much that they need to be worried. It’s under control. And it’s only vodka, for Pete’s sake, it’s not like it’s the hard stuff.

Amber has not been swayed by his sane, reasonable points, and is sticking to the assertion that Jesus should keep to the FDA-recommended limit of two milliliters per day or less. “Milliliters?” Wilson breaks in. “What are we, Canadian?”

Jesus snorts at that, and Wilson is proud of having amused his son. They share high fives – well, high-ish fives, the kid’s only three months old; his reach isn’t that long. He’s three months old, with blue eyes like Amber’s and curly hair with ginger highlights that came from somewhere. Not the Wilson lineage nor Volakis, but somewhere.

Somewhere.

House is dead in this dream. They trussed him up in dress blues, citations marching in straight lines across his chest, and shoved him in a plain pine box, and dumped him under six feet of soil. He’s buried in the Wilson-Volakis backyard (Wilson had wanted to change his surname when the baby was born, but JCO and JOP wouldn’t let him, too hard to change their archives) under a flowering dogwood. One that immediately quit flowering when House was buried there three months ago, three days before Amber went into labor.

There are fleas in this dream, too, that keep biting Wilson’s ankles – he’s wearing shorts and so is the baby – but they’re not important.

Amber’s sucking in a huge lungful of air for her final screed (she’s got the debate won, everyone knows it, but it’s a well-loved routine and they’ll follow it to the end) when the baby makes an odd gurgling sound. They rush to his side, concerned, argument forgotten. Amber’s hand is in Wilson’s, Wilson’s other arm around her shoulders, when Jesus looks up at them with his precious blue eyes and says his very first word.

Amber beams, and her eyes shine with happy tears. Wilson’s hugging her, pleased and so proud, and she picks up Jesus, holds him high in the air. So much love, so much promise, and Wilson’s filled to the brim with joy, because even in dreams he’s a master of denial and is able to thoroughly block from his mind the certainty that it’s very unlikely that a baby’s first word would ever, under any circumstances, be:

“Sorry.”

Wilson wakes and blinks into the darkness. He doesn’t try to remember the dream, or forget it; he simply rolls over and goes back to sleep, and by morning his mind is exactly as if the dream never was.