Chapter Text
The first time House remembered seeing eyes like that was the 16th century, which he thought back to as he and the stranger across the tavern locked eyes. That he could remember the 16th century at all was somewhat of a miracle, considering he had been buried alive for most of it following his diagnosis of the king’s daughter (syphillis). But something about that specific brown…tugged at him. He looked away as the stranger(?) started to stand up. No trouble here, random man! The footsteps sounded nearer. Too little, too late, House decided.
“Do I know you?” the man asked, haggard and weary. Unthreatening, to be sure. House could take him. So he decides to push things.
“Your eyes have red rings around the irises. You might want to see a doctor.” The man scoffed.
“Do you see my lack of funds in my eyes, since you’re so observant?” House began to consider that this stranger might be fun.
“I see your ‘lack of funds’ in your hands. Coal dust in the cracks. It’s more obvious up close. Curiously, you seemed to have no trouble putting back that whiskey, despite the cost.” The man’s familiar eyes widened slightly in shock before he fired back.
“Not my cost,” he nodded his chin in the direction of another man who looked… out of place. His bright blonde hair was gently touseled in a way that looked precise and his hands looked as though they’d never seen a day of work in their lives.
“Didn’t peg you as a catamite. How did you two meet?” What House would’ve liked to ask was ‘how do you know I’m safe to talk to in 19th century London’, but he resigned himself to gathering more information. It would be more fun to figure it out on his own.
A long blink from the man. “He’s my boss.”
Oh. He didn’t know House was safe. House should-
As House stood to leave, the stranger didn’t back down to let him through. Not a good sign, but being immortal had its positives. There were no real concerns however this went, although having to explain not burning up in the rug he’d inevitably be thrust into would be difficult. And then there was the business of relocating, right after he’d set up his medical storefront… it would be better if House got out of this one.
Pushing past the man turned out to be easier than he expected. Too easy, almost. Their chests brushed as he skirted by and he could’ve sworn he felt a sharp inhale. But the moment passed quickly as House scurried for the bar, threw down more than enough money, and left.
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The next time he saw brown eyes like that was in the back of an American operating theater in 1867. Being a recent immigrant from London, at the time, House had yet to shake the accent and therefore had yet to gain the trust of the community long enough to get a client. He had figured attending some local medical spectacle like the appendectomy being performed today.
The Philadelphia operating theater was filled to the brim with people struggling to take a peek at the inside of a man. House vaguely connected ‘vivisection’ to ‘vicarious’ in his mind before shaking the thought and attempting to leave. Clearly, the crowd was not medical.
That was when the brown eyes to his right caught his attention. Familiarly kind, warm like a summer’s evening, with gold firefly flecks dancing within. House murmured a quick pardon and shuffled past, doing his best to avoid another brush with those eyes. The man from 1618 was long dead. The queer stranger from the pub was probably old by now, if not dead. Certainly would be too old to make the trip to America.
If House honestly stopped to think about the endless birth and death occurring in tandem with his every immortal breath, he thought he might start screaming. And that wouldn’t land him any sort of job. So naturally, he headed straight down to the nearest dispensary of alcohol and got a drink.
It turned out showing up after the operation drunk and snarkily insinuating the hospital needed you if that performance was anything to go by also does not land one any sort of job.
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Imagine, for a moment, the feeling of walking into a medical conference in the early 90s. 1990s, to be clear, the 1890s, 1790s, and 1690s were much less exciting. The lanyards and the ugly hotel carpet and the endless panels on topics House could not care less about. He was surprised Cuddy had agreed to let him go, knowing full well he was there for drinks and casual sex.
House had been through a long day of not going to panels and ordering enough room service on Cuddy that she had been called by her credit card company. What he needed to relax was a nice drink (also on Cuddy) from the shitty conference bar.
About four drinks in, he noticed a commotion. It would’ve been hard to miss the man standing up and throwing his glass directly into the large mirror behind the bar. It would’ve been harder still to miss the tinkling of glass on glasses and the screech of bystanders. No, what would’ve been hard to miss was the eyes of the man at the center of all this.
House bailed him out of jail.
What else was he supposed to do? They were both drunk and, hopefully, House could get the other man drunker so they could have a little discussion regarding certain facial features and certain time bending anomalies.
James Wilson. A good name, House thought, a suitable name for a man with those pretty eyes and magnetic face. He had some sort of miasma about him, which House quickly apprehended was the miasma of recent divorce. They bitched about women together in House’s hotel room for a couple of hours before House popped the question.
“Where’ve you been the last couple of centuries? Could’ve used a voice of reason like yours back in the day.” Subtle.
“I’m not immortal.” And there it was. No mortal would ever jump to that conclusion from an innocuous statement like House’s. It would’ve just been a lame, drunk exaggeration.
“Well, that’s a shame. I am.” A sobering glance froze both men in place as House gleefully watched Wilson process.
“You… what?” He finally managed.
“I’m immortal. And so are you. You worked as a coal miner in London in 1809.” Wilson looked shocked. Stunned. House drank it in from across the room, reveling in the emotions those eyes betrayed.
“I have to go. I-” Wilson stumbled from the room. House was evidently drunker than he thought, being thoroughly unable to find him after he escaped via elevator. He woke up with a pounding headache and a question sounding in him like a gong: what now?