Archive of Our Own ^beta

Houseficlet: Divergence
STATUS: Crossposted to sick_wilson in honor of that comm's first anniversary.
TITLE: Divergence
AUTHOR: nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House and Wilson, AU.
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: Yes. Some readers may find the subject matter upsetting.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: In the blink of an eye, everything changes.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is a small glimpse (845 words) into an AU that's been lurking in the back of my mind for a long time now. It decided to come together just in time for the first birthday of sick_wilson.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to deelaundry and pwcorgigirl.

Divergence

House picks up a couple of bottles of generic aspirin, tosses them in his basket. The bottles rattle against the plastic carafe of orange juice -- he ignores it and continues stumping down the aisle. He's tired, and his leg aches, and he doesn't even want to be here, and the more he thinks about it the more he wishes he'd just called an order in the way he usually does. He grabs a single-serving of Stouffer's lasagna, a frozen brick in a box that thumps into place alongside the pack of deli pastrami.

He makes his way to the front of the store, sets the handbasket down on the slick black conveyor belt. He knows it would be considered polite for him to take the individual items out of the basket, but isn't that what the checker's getting paid to do? He doesn't look up as the kid starts to scan each purchase, instead fishing his wallet out of his back pocket as the electronic eye reads each barcode with a satisfied little blat! of fulfillment.

"Dr. Houuuse," a soft voice says. "How're you tonight?"

House grunts in response, hoping to head this conversation off at the pass. Of course he'd get Jimmy as his bagger tonight -- Jimmy, the boy in a man's body, who always wants to talk about something, anything, nothing. What he had for lunch today, how he's going to the big camp again this summer, what his older brother might or might not be doing. Jimmy seems to think his brother has just gone out for a quart of milk, a pack of cigarettes, and while House has felt the urge to tell the "boy" his brother's skipped for good, he hasn't. Yet.

He knows about Jimmy's brother the same way he knows about how Jimmy got this way -- he asked. The checkers and other customers had all looked at him, their lips compressing in thin lines of disapproval, their thoughts clear as clouds on their pinched faces. "Why are you asking him about this? What kind of person are you, reminding a slow kid why he's so fucked up?"

What they don't realize is that House is drawn to the damaged, the brittle, the broken. It's why he chose the fellows he has -- Foreman, with the gigantic chip on his shoulder, Chase, spawn of an alcoholic mother and a distant father. Cameron ... well, he's not totally sure what Cameron's secret is, but he'll find out sooner or later. And besides, it wasn't like Jimmy hadn't wanted to talk. Hell, the words had spilled out of him as if he'd just been waiting for someone to ask, someone to listen. Once he'd started talking, the only way House had been able to shut him up was by walking out the door with his groceries.

As far as House has been able to determine, Jimmy's life had been pretty normal -- Saturday morning cartoons, soccer, piano lessons -- right up until the car that had knocked him off his bike and into a retaining wall. Jimmy had been eight, and he'd pretty much stayed eight ever since.

"Paper or plastic, Dr. Houuuse?" The question snaps House out of his reverie and he looks up.

Curious dark eyes gaze back at him from under a loose fringe of floppy brown hair.

Jimmy needs a haircut, House thinks involuntarily. "Whatever," he says.

The dark eyes flick uncertainly to the checker, who's sliding the lasagna brick past the scanner with practiced efficiency.

"Plastic," the checker says, and Jimmy nods, reaching eagerly for the steel rack that holds the compressed layers of thin plastic bags.

"Paper," House declares, and Jimmy freezes in mid-reach. The checker, a teenager with red cheeks and an obvious case of pseudofolliculitis barbae, shoots House an annoyed glare. House ignores it.

"Paper," he says again, and Jimmy obediently pulls a stack of brown paper grocery bags from their slot under the counter. He sticks his tongue out a little, concentrating as he deposits House's purchases into the sack.

The rest of the transaction is conducted in silence, the checker staring absently into space as House swipes his credit card through the reader.

"See you next time, Dr. Houuuse," Jimmy says as House folds over the top of his grocery bag so that he can grasp it and his cane more easily.

"Mghsnghf," House responds. He's already beyond this, out of here, back on the road and thinking about Cuddy, the hospital, patients and their puzzles. He looks up anyway.

Jimmy's brown eyes are friendly, without artifice or expectations, and for the first time House notices the traces of crows-feet in the corners.

"Yeah," House mutters.

Outside, the air is warm with the coming spring. Crickets attracted by the store lights leap around House's boots as he walks to his bike. As he bungee-cords the grocery bag to the saddle and pulls on his helmet, he thinks for a moment about Jimmy.

But only for a moment, before he kicks the bike into gear and is gone.

~ fin