Chapter 58

"Exodus"

WILSON:

I WAS UP SUNDAY MORNING FAIRLY EARLY. IN AND OUT OF THE BATHROOM, SHAMPOOED, SHAVED AND BLOW DRIED. I DRESSED IN JEANS, RED FLANNEL SHIRT OVER A TAN TURTLE NECK, WOOL SOCKS, HARD-SOLE MOCCASINS. READY FOR A PIECE OF THE ACTION AND WHATEVER THAT ENTAILED. I DIDN'T BOTHER WITH ANYTHING ELSE. I NEEDED TO BE READY TO MOVE AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE. OR STAY GLUED TO THE SPOT ALL DAY LONG.

I wondered how House was after last night, and whether he was well enough to be up and about today. I sat at the table and leafed idly through one of the complimentary magazines that had been left on the dresser, but didn't pay much attention to anything on the pages. Couldn't keep my attention focused long enough to read more than a sentence or two.

The worst thing about spying on a person is doing it at their convenience and not mine. If Gregory House came out his front door to crutch somewhere, I had to be ready to follow, no matter what I'd been doing moments before. I was ten-plus kinds of impatient. I would make a lousy surveillance tech and I knew it. The only reason I kept looking for him for five long years is because he is the most intriguing person I have ever known. He makes me feel funny. Good. And I still don't want to let that feeling go.

I waited until 9:30 before taking a bathroom break. I hurried like crazy, but it still took two minutes and he could have already gone from my sight in half that time, even moving as slowly as he was.

When I got back to the table and peered out the window, I saw him standing on his porch with a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was wearing that old threadbare pea coat he'd worn back in Princeton. It still had the odd brown button haphazardly sewn beneath the right lapel. I laughed aloud; some things never change.

My timing was perfect. He leaned severely on those crutches, his bad foot resting lightly against the opposite ankle and moving in tandem … like the right leg was glued to the left one that actually worked. He was blowing smoke rings calmly into the air and scanning the street with shuttered eyes.

As I watched, trying to discern from his expression how he might be feeling healthwise, he tossed the cigar butt; his face lifted and his head tilted back. I tracked his eyes, and a shiver cascaded down the middle of my spine. He was blowing a smoke ring and staring a hole right through the middle of my forehead.

*How the hell does he always know this stuff? How!?*

The right side of his lip curled as he returned his attention to his position and stepped carefully off the porch, hitched around the back of his car, and into the street. He was heading here. To the hotel.

I grabbed my keys and cell phone and ran out the door, locking it behind me. I skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs just as he approached the front door of the hotel. To my surprise, he was suddenly no longer alone. On his right side, the man tending the registration desk walked over and helped him off with the coat. On his left, a short, rotund woman, wearing a yellow waitress uniform, closed in on his opposite side. I heard him laugh; that embarrassed, staccato growl he used when someone made him uncomfortable. And I next heard the gentle rumble of his deep voice that I had not heard in such a long time: "Morning Vern, morning Lily. You're babysitting me again, and it's not in your job descriptions …"

They ignored his protests and accompanied him through the bat-wing doors, into the dining room beyond. I could hear other greetings from morning diners and light conversation and laughter as he passed by. I was astounded and deliriously happy at the same time. Obviously he was among friends.

I walked quietly into the large dining room and waited in the back until the hubbub died down. I moved slowly inside, staying back until I could get my bearings; looking around to discover where he might be seated. Then I saw the top of his head above the back of a booth about halfway up the side, next to a large window facing the street.

At his side, the small woman was placing an upholstered stool beneath the table, and the man from the front desk was lifting House's crippled leg gently until it was resting upon it.

When the man left him to return to the lobby, I walked closer and stood off to the side for a moment, watching.

The small woman stood up and saw me. Her face changed fractionally, questioning. I placed my index finger against my lips, requesting silence. Her eyes softened as she complied.

House had changed. He was neatly dressed … in the same casual style, but his shirt was pressed and the jeans too. His hair was trimmed neatly in a slightly longer style than I had ever seen him wear. The hair was liberally sprinkled with gray now, and curled ever so slightly at his neckline. He wore a neatly trimmed beard with a mustache, which effectively filled in some of the deep pain creases that lined his timeless face. The eyes, the mirrors of his soul, had not changed. They were as deep and azure as a mountain lake.

As always, he was restless. Fingers constantly in motion; flipping the edge of the menu with a finger-nail. Opposite thumb scratching at an eyebrow, fidgeting with the beard, stroking the mustache. It drew our distant timelines closer and closer together until it felt as though I'd been watching this tiny parade of rituals every day, all the dismal years we'd been separated.

I approached him slowly from the back, just off his right side.

I saw him freeze in place and lower his hands to his lap.

His right elbow lifted a fraction, as though he was about to look across, directly at me. Then his chin went down.

I stepped out of shadow and came forward opposite his shoulder. At the same moment, the entire restaurant froze in time.

No one spoke. Nothing moved. Every waiter, waitress, cook, bus boy, dishwasher, breakfast customer, kitchen maid, blended into a poster for "Breakfast at Tiffiny's".

I stepped across and into his field of vision.

I spoke softly. "Is this seat taken?"

He looked up and smiled. Looked directly at me with bright, fathomless eyes.

"I guess it is now …"

I moved into the booth across from him and sat down.

- THE END –

I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoyed answering your reviews and getting to know some of you. Greg House and James Wilson have become very important in my imagination over the years, and I can't just let them die. I'll probably be writing HOUSE Stories until I sail away with the New Hampshire wind.

NOTE: You will find some mild discrepancies between this story and its sequel, "Darkened Wings". Some differences in detail. They would probably appear worse if I tried to correct them. "Reflections" includes much more minutiae than "DW". Please disregard the small things that don't agree exactly. Thanks.

Bets;)

Also:

Thank you, Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard, for your timeless portrayals.

I owe you. Big time!

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