Standard Disclaimer
wanderingwidget has, is, and does not plan in the future to make any money on any of the fics here archived. They were written and are provided for pure entertainment purposes.
Prompt: 104. House has a teddy bear. Why?
Rating: PG16 (language and dark theme)
Pairing: H/W established relationship
Author's Note: written for the 2006 HW_fest challenge. Thanks to selskia and topaz_eyes for the emergency beta!
Summary: Wilson's a snoop, House talks about his childhood, and Mr. Bear doesn't smell like mothballs.
He found Mr. Bear, wrapped in an old knit sweater that smelled of Old Spice, inside a simple wooden chest at the back of Greg’s closet. He’d refused to sign a lease for an apartment without at least two closets in the bedroom. As it was his closet had already overflowed into the guest room’s closet and there were still his winter clothes in storage to think about. There had been no legitimate reason for him to be going through Greg’s closet but that hadn’t stopped him. Just because curiosity was one of Greg’s vices didn’t mean that it couldn’t be one of his as well. Besides, he’d been intrigued by the chest when he’d caught sight of it in the mover’s arms.
At the time he’d been even more intrigued by the way the mover’s jeans had fit his perfect ass, much to Greg’s annoyance, but he’d filed the chest away as something to investigate later, when Greg wasn't around. It wasn’t like he expected knowing what was inside to reveal any great secrets but maybe he’d hoped to find something that would provide a clue, however obscure or oblique, to the most annoying man in the world.
Mr. Bear had been something of a surprise. Intellectually he knew that Greg had to have been a child at some point (probably) near the beginning of his life. He knew that most children had some sort of stuffed toy to which they would grow accustomed or attached to. Intellect had nothing to do with the eyebrow he arched or the cascade of questions the thing sparked off as soon as he removed it’s woolen shroud. He would have been less surprised if there’d been a stash of heroin or the bones of a human fetus enshrined at the back of the closet.
The sweater was moth-eaten, a kind of dull gray-blue that must have been deeper and sharper at some point long ago, and sized for an adult. Hand knit, no tag, with simple stitches and no discernible pattern. The only thing that stood out about it was the distinct smell of Old Spice aftershave. He brought the chest out into the living room, set Mr. Bear and the sweater aside, and explored the rest of the chest’s contents.
There were a few scattered photos, round edged and faded, only two of them had Greg in them. He was young, still a baby by James’ mother’s standards, no older than six or seven. In both pictures he was clutching the bear to his chest and smiling broadly. The other pictures had, obviously, been taken by Greg himself. Many were motion blurred, most were cocked at odd angles. There were several pictures of various pieces of what he suspected to be the same man. Different angles of shoes, a surprisingly clear shot of a pair of hands as they worked a fishing reel, a pile of slight curls over a lined forehead, a sharp chin, Adam’s Apple, and shoulders in a white tee-shirt.
Then there were the clumsy panoramas. An attempt to capture a shoreline which had resulted in mostly captured sky. The corner of a wooden cabin. An out of focus portrait of three bare toes and the gap between two slats on a dock. Each picture had been taken with all the care such a young Greg could put into them.
He examined each before setting them carefully aside.
There were a handful of postcards, all from Smith Mountain Lake, Virginia, dated over a span of almost ten years. Each held a simple, almost careless, message. Each was signed with ‘love, your Uncle Jake.’ He stacked them next to the photos and pulled out the last piece of paper, a folded newspaper cut-out that announced the estate sale of one Jacob Ingersol, to include his lake shore home and vintage Chevrolet.
All that was left in the chest were a small collection of smooth pebbles, and a pressed four-leaf clover. He had one of the pebbles in his hand and was rubbing his thumb over it in small circles, when Greg cleared his throat behind him. He jumped and opened his mouth to apologize.
“Jake was Mom’s younger brother,” Greg said before he could. “Back then there weren’t any gay men. They were all pedophiles and perverts and you never talked about things like that in mixed or polite company.” He dropped onto the couch next to him and picked up the stack of photos. A small smile flitted across his face as he flipped through them.
“Mom sent me to spend the summer with him, back in sixty-five, right after the second miscarriage I think.” He shrugged. “Dad had disappeared on one of his missions and she was. She had… It was hard enough for her to take care of herself. So she sent me to Jake.”
James didn’t know what to say, but he felt like he had to say something, had to acknowledge this piece of self-revelation for what it was. He just didn’t know how. “What happened?”
He sighed and leaned back, closed his eyes as he rested his head against the cushion. “Summer ended,” he said. “Dad came home, Mom sobered up, they came and got me.” He slanted a look at James. “I didn’t see Jake again until his funeral. Didn’t find out until I was twenty what happened, why they never invited him for Christmas or my birthday or anything else.”
“He killed himself?”
“Maybe he did it on purpose, I don’t know, maybe he just got careless." James shifted uncomfortably at the soft wistful tone of his voice. "Maybe he just got drunk or stupid or tired of hiding and being a pariah. Nobody noticed he was missing until he didn’t show up to get his groceries in town. By the time they found him he’d already started decaying. Back then you didn’t have gay people.”
James very carefully did not turn to look at him for fear that he’d find tears in his eyes. Neither one of them would know how to deal with that kind of situation. Instead he took the photos from Greg’s limp grip and straightened them out.
“What happened to the cabin?”
“Some lawyer bought it as a summer house. They sold it to a contractor about five years ago. It’s a parking lot now.”
James sighed and leaned back, cautiously checked his peripheral vision for any sign of tears, then turned and pressed a kiss to the corner of Greg's mouth. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.” Greg pulled him back for another kiss then lightly pushed him away. “Tell anyone about Mr. Bear and I’ll shave your balls.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” James smirked and started to tidy the various mementos back into the chest. Mr. Bear was carefully re-wrapped in his sweater and placed on top. He had to force himself not to jump again when Greg reached out to catch his wrist and tug his hand away.
“Try me.”
THE END
