THIS IS FOR FAVYAN AND IHEARTWILSON. ~*I HOPE THEY LIKE IT*~

Title: 12, 6, 15, 3
Rating: R
Pairing: House/Wilson
Word Count: 1,040
Summary: James Wilson, James Wilson, James Wilson
Author's Notes: favyan and iheartwilson's ideas, I just put them to fic form. Also, those two are almighty Gods (true story).




James Wilson was born somewhere, at some point. He came from a mother and a father, and had a childhood, which leads to an adolescence. Certain things happened in his lifetime, other certain things did not. He had sordid misadventures, misadventures so sordid, in fact, to even attempt to translate them into the human language would be a barbaric injustice.

That's . . . no. That's bad, we're trying this again.



James Wilson lives in squares, rectangles, with right angles. He defines, defines, defines. He sharpens away, he doesn't hide behind blurs; his world is black and white because grays only appear when a person doesn't look close enough to see which bits are white and which are black; to figure out the absolute truth; there is always an absolute truth, even if no ones smart enough to figure it out.

Jesus Christ that's boring, boring, bad, boring.



James Wilson has married three women, he has memorized three separate sets of flesh and thoughts and fears and favorites, he has shared nights, shared secrets and shirts and books, and moments, three separate women in neat rotation as his highest priority, his soul mate, his commitment, his obligation, three separate women have




James Wilson is an addict. Highs and lows entirely of the mind, control and a loss of it. James Wilson holds a woman by her waist as they fuck against the wall, he tangles his hands in her hair, he makes pale skin red with teeth and rushed fingers. He grips her wrists tightly, he also brushes against cheeks softly, says her name gently, he also pulls her to him, because she is so small and Jesus, he's sure he almost snapped her that time, and they are both shaking. And he never, ever, ever lies on his back and gives himself up until he does.






James Wilson allows. He must tell himself this, it is a fundamental step in staying sane. James Wilson permits and steps aside. He does not surrender or



James Wilson was twelve when he fell from that treehouse in the backyard and cracked his leg in two perfectly, good, all right pieces (really. Just the bone, the rest of his leg was fine, a fully functioning mass. Nothing but the stick running down the near center had snapped); he told him, he told his dad that the floorboards were weak and splintering, and his dad said "huh" and did not look up from the paper, and maybe James Wilson did it himself, picked and picked and stomped at that space in the floor until it gave, but his father certainly wouldn't know that. But his father would certainly know that James Wilson wasn't a liar, didn't pester for no reason.



James Wilson comes hardest when it's those hands, you know the ones. They are two parts: one part busy gripping and clutching and flexing around the handle of a cane, all day, and the other part digging here, poking, poking (molesting?) forcing open a bottle of painkillers, (paindullers? Painmufflers? It's nothing if not alive by the time the pills have worn out, the fight dissolving them to nearly nothing [they get to shred the liver as a final goodbye, isn't that nice?]) Anyway, yes, when it's those hands, because they play everything, everyone, and there's that moment




That moment, it's always there



James Wilson woke up early for three weeks, crack of dawn early because

James Wilson's brother had a bike, and he had a paper route, and he promised twenty bucks a week (four comics, two bottles of Pepsi, five bags of gummies, and a push pop at the gas station -- it's only two blocks down, it feels longer cause of the hill) to James Wilson (the younger brother) if he were to complete this paper route, on this bike. The bike was a little big, but James Wilson woke up early for three weeks, on the crack (snap, pop? No, no, sliver, shaving of dawn, the thinnest stripe of purple against the dark, dark blue and stars) of dawn, and he went down to the curb (this was the easiest way to get on the bike, it gave James Wilson about a foot more of height, and he could kick his leg over, settle on the seat, and push off the curb. It was hard to balance, at first, with the huge stack of papers, but the longer he went, the fewer papers there were, and the longer he went, the stronger he got.






That moment, because those hands. He can't tell himself, not with those hands-- Anyway, James Wilson's brother didn't even give him the money. It took him three weeks (three pay days) to realize that he wasn't getting the twelve comics, six bottles of Pepsi, fifteen bags of gummies, three push pops at that gas station -- really, it's much faster on the way back, he doesn't even have to pedal, just sail right into their driveway.


It's just when the hands have had their fun, this isn't something he's allowing, it's not permitted and he hasn't stepped aside; those hands are frank and they don't care for excuses or whatever lies Wilson has fed himself. He can't


James Wilson is sure he was not the only second grader ever to forget his lines (it was an easy one, though, When Hubert was a young snail, he often got in trouble! It was the easiest to remember, he had wanted a tougher one, the one that went, Forgetting that he was a snail, he did things on the double! How could he have forgotten? but he did, and oh, they all stared, and they all waited, and the music kept going, his line was over, and, and they. Were all staring, and it was too late to do anything, and, he ruined it, he ruined the whole thing, and his classmates were staring too) and he's sure he could've gotten over it, laughed at it, but his mother likes to bring it up, how he ran off the stage in tears, because isn't that the cutest thing you've ever heard? So he just smiles and he can't even remember it anymore, but




But anyway. Anyway, James Wilson has no more stories or smiles or lies to tell when the hands are finished. It's here, and it's now and


James Wilson has

James Wilson





James Wilson might



There are issues with giving in, and they might belong to someone.