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Another House snippet - I started this one at work with the others, but didn't finish it until just now. Still unbetaed, in the spirit of the thing, and unrelated to the other snippets. G for gen, major spoilers for episode 1x10, Histories.
James Wilson walked quickly toward a diner nine blocks from the hospital, his steps quickened by hope and the oddly illicit thrill of his scheduled meeting. It wasn't wrong, exactly--surely few things could be further from wrong than this--but it was secret, in different ways from different people.
He was watching for a huddled shape outside the door, hunched and shivering in a too-thin coat, and his heart sank when he didn't see it. He hesitated near the windows, and then a tap from the other side of the glass caught his attention, and there was Joey, smiling and saying, "Jimmy," though it was muffled by the glass.
James smiled back--only his mom and Joey called him Jimmy anymore, and come to that he was probably the only person who still called his brother Joey. He turned back to the door and stepped into the warmth of the diner, sizing up Joey as he walked to the table. He looked good--still skinny, always skinny, but at least clean enough to get into the diner on his own, and that was something. He had a coat stuffed down into the seat next to him; probably not quite enough for winter, but he was looking all right.
Joey half stood as James reached the table, and they hugged briefly. Joey looked cleaner than he smelled, but that was understandable. James settled into his seat, and a moment later the waitress came over and poured him a coffee, and refilled Joey's. Joey ordered a burger with cheese and bacon, and James didn't bat an eyelash, but ordered his own burger plain.
Joey grinned as the waitress walked away. "Not gonna lecture me, Jimmy?"
James smiled. "You need the calories more than you need the mitzvah. In fact, you should have ice cream, too."
Joey wound up having pie; they both did. The only ice cream on offer was orange sherbet, and neither of them could eat it ever since the summer when they were seven and five, when they'd eaten an entire gallon of the stuff in a series of dares and double-dog-dares and then spent the whole night being violently and colorfully sick.
Afterward, they walked down the street together, back toward the hospital, where James had left his car. "You want a ride anywhere?" he asked, not bothering to try to sound casual. "You could come crash for the night if you want, we've got the spare room."
Joey snorted. "Yeah, your wife would love having me over."
James grimaced. This was a secret from her more than anyone, but he'd blow it in a heartbeat to have Joey sleeping safe tonight. "I can find a new wife if I have to," he said, forcing a smile. "Brothers are harder to come by."
Joey smiled, but he didn't meet James's eyes, widening the space between them with a slow sideways step. "You've got Andy."
"Andy, oddly enough, doesn't find stories about tormenting Baby Andy nearly as funny as you do." Joey's smile was just a tight curl of the mouth this time, and he shoved his hands into his too-shallow pockets, shoulders hunching. "Hey," James said, stepping closer, digging his own gloves out of his pockets. Their hands had been the same size ever since Joey finished growing. "Here, take these. It's cold."
Joey glanced at them--leather, fleece lined, warm and expensive--and shook his head. "Too rich for my blood, big brother."
James sighed. "So wear them tonight and pawn them in the morning, I don't care. Humor me, I like to think of you having all your fingers."
"Yeah, well, this isn't about you," Joey muttered. He was about to bolt, James could see it all over him.
"Okay," he said quietly, "Okay, just--come on, take the gloves or take some money, one or the other."
"I'm not asking you for anything," Joey muttered defensively, turning half away. "Thanks for dinner, good to see you, tell Andy I say hi--"
James closed the space between them with a few quick steps, catching Joey by one arm--the coat was even thinner than it looked, too big on him--and shoving the gloves into his hands. Joey pushed at him, scuffling, and James pushed back as the gloves fell to the sidewalk between their feet, his stomach already sinking--why did this always go wrong, every time, why could he never do this right?
He'd always been stronger than Joey--the advantage of being two years older--but Joey had always been more determined to win, heedless of the hurt he might cause, unhampered by a fear of hurting James. James had always known he mustn't hurt his little brother. First, do no harm. Joey writhed under his grip, and James's hand slipped on his wrist, sliding up his arm to the elbow, taking the baggy sleeves of Joey's too-big coat and sweater with it.
James froze, and Joey froze a heartbeat later, delivering a last shove that James felt as if from far away before he went still. James stared down at the marks on Joey's bared arm and wondered how many of those hits he'd paid for, thinking he was making sure Joey had food, a place to sleep, a chance for something better--how much poison had he pushed into his brother's veins, trying to help? "You're using," James said numbly. "You told me you were clean."
Joey jerked away, and James's hands were nerveless, powerless to stop him. "It's not--I didn't--Jimmy, it's just--"
"No," James said tightly, "No. I see. I have to go now. Keep the gloves."
"Jimmy," Joey said, and James stole one last glance at his face and had to look away. Maybe it was wrong, what he'd been doing. Maybe it had to stop.
James shoved his bare hands into his pockets and turned away. He hesitated for one teetering moment, meaning to say something--you know where to find me, or you'll always be my brother--but he choked on the words and had to move, walking fast toward the hospital.
"Jimmy!" his brother shouted behind him. "James! James!"
He kept walking, telling himself with every step that it was the right thing to do.
***
He'd never met her before; she didn't know his name. She probably didn't even know he was there. But her hand shook, and she screamed, "James! James!"
He couldn't turn her out onto the street. He couldn't even turn away from her, backing out of the room with her file under his arm as the nurses struggled to quiet her. He'd get House to pick up her case. It was the best he could for her, and he couldn't bear to do less than his best. Not this time.
James Wilson walked quickly toward a diner nine blocks from the hospital, his steps quickened by hope and the oddly illicit thrill of his scheduled meeting. It wasn't wrong, exactly--surely few things could be further from wrong than this--but it was secret, in different ways from different people.
He was watching for a huddled shape outside the door, hunched and shivering in a too-thin coat, and his heart sank when he didn't see it. He hesitated near the windows, and then a tap from the other side of the glass caught his attention, and there was Joey, smiling and saying, "Jimmy," though it was muffled by the glass.
James smiled back--only his mom and Joey called him Jimmy anymore, and come to that he was probably the only person who still called his brother Joey. He turned back to the door and stepped into the warmth of the diner, sizing up Joey as he walked to the table. He looked good--still skinny, always skinny, but at least clean enough to get into the diner on his own, and that was something. He had a coat stuffed down into the seat next to him; probably not quite enough for winter, but he was looking all right.
Joey half stood as James reached the table, and they hugged briefly. Joey looked cleaner than he smelled, but that was understandable. James settled into his seat, and a moment later the waitress came over and poured him a coffee, and refilled Joey's. Joey ordered a burger with cheese and bacon, and James didn't bat an eyelash, but ordered his own burger plain.
Joey grinned as the waitress walked away. "Not gonna lecture me, Jimmy?"
James smiled. "You need the calories more than you need the mitzvah. In fact, you should have ice cream, too."
Joey wound up having pie; they both did. The only ice cream on offer was orange sherbet, and neither of them could eat it ever since the summer when they were seven and five, when they'd eaten an entire gallon of the stuff in a series of dares and double-dog-dares and then spent the whole night being violently and colorfully sick.
Afterward, they walked down the street together, back toward the hospital, where James had left his car. "You want a ride anywhere?" he asked, not bothering to try to sound casual. "You could come crash for the night if you want, we've got the spare room."
Joey snorted. "Yeah, your wife would love having me over."
James grimaced. This was a secret from her more than anyone, but he'd blow it in a heartbeat to have Joey sleeping safe tonight. "I can find a new wife if I have to," he said, forcing a smile. "Brothers are harder to come by."
Joey smiled, but he didn't meet James's eyes, widening the space between them with a slow sideways step. "You've got Andy."
"Andy, oddly enough, doesn't find stories about tormenting Baby Andy nearly as funny as you do." Joey's smile was just a tight curl of the mouth this time, and he shoved his hands into his too-shallow pockets, shoulders hunching. "Hey," James said, stepping closer, digging his own gloves out of his pockets. Their hands had been the same size ever since Joey finished growing. "Here, take these. It's cold."
Joey glanced at them--leather, fleece lined, warm and expensive--and shook his head. "Too rich for my blood, big brother."
James sighed. "So wear them tonight and pawn them in the morning, I don't care. Humor me, I like to think of you having all your fingers."
"Yeah, well, this isn't about you," Joey muttered. He was about to bolt, James could see it all over him.
"Okay," he said quietly, "Okay, just--come on, take the gloves or take some money, one or the other."
"I'm not asking you for anything," Joey muttered defensively, turning half away. "Thanks for dinner, good to see you, tell Andy I say hi--"
James closed the space between them with a few quick steps, catching Joey by one arm--the coat was even thinner than it looked, too big on him--and shoving the gloves into his hands. Joey pushed at him, scuffling, and James pushed back as the gloves fell to the sidewalk between their feet, his stomach already sinking--why did this always go wrong, every time, why could he never do this right?
He'd always been stronger than Joey--the advantage of being two years older--but Joey had always been more determined to win, heedless of the hurt he might cause, unhampered by a fear of hurting James. James had always known he mustn't hurt his little brother. First, do no harm. Joey writhed under his grip, and James's hand slipped on his wrist, sliding up his arm to the elbow, taking the baggy sleeves of Joey's too-big coat and sweater with it.
James froze, and Joey froze a heartbeat later, delivering a last shove that James felt as if from far away before he went still. James stared down at the marks on Joey's bared arm and wondered how many of those hits he'd paid for, thinking he was making sure Joey had food, a place to sleep, a chance for something better--how much poison had he pushed into his brother's veins, trying to help? "You're using," James said numbly. "You told me you were clean."
Joey jerked away, and James's hands were nerveless, powerless to stop him. "It's not--I didn't--Jimmy, it's just--"
"No," James said tightly, "No. I see. I have to go now. Keep the gloves."
"Jimmy," Joey said, and James stole one last glance at his face and had to look away. Maybe it was wrong, what he'd been doing. Maybe it had to stop.
James shoved his bare hands into his pockets and turned away. He hesitated for one teetering moment, meaning to say something--you know where to find me, or you'll always be my brother--but he choked on the words and had to move, walking fast toward the hospital.
"Jimmy!" his brother shouted behind him. "James! James!"
He kept walking, telling himself with every step that it was the right thing to do.
***
He'd never met her before; she didn't know his name. She probably didn't even know he was there. But her hand shook, and she screamed, "James! James!"
He couldn't turn her out onto the street. He couldn't even turn away from her, backing out of the room with her file under his arm as the nurses struggled to quiet her. He'd get House to pick up her case. It was the best he could for her, and he couldn't bear to do less than his best. Not this time.