house fic: hourglass [house/wilson, pg]
hourglass
house; house, wilson; pg; 1,010 words
house is a man without preamble: "i've never made anything in your life easier, you know," he says. "you're acting like i should have been your personal hero or something, but i've never fixed anything for you." spoilers for "wilson's heart."
Hourglass
He’s woken up in a hospital bed so many times before.
It’s comfortable, in a kind of sick way. He’s always so sure that he’s alive, with the steady beep of his heart broadcast just feet away and people walking in and out in a way they never do when he wakes up at home. That way he’s sure the rest of the world is alive too. It’s not that nightmare where he’s the only person breathing in a world too still and too safe for life.
And Wilson’s always there when he wakes up in the hospital. Except this time he blinks his eyes and Wilson’s gone. His head hurts; his brain is pounding in his skull; he closes his eyes.
The next time House wakes up there’s no one else in the room.
-
Cuddy signs his release forms.
“Well gosh I feel special,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Dean of Medicine pays me a special visit and everything. Mommy, can I go back to work now?”
“No,” she says. “You can go home and you can go to sleep. You’ll come back to work on Monday.”
He stares at her. Usually when he stares at her long enough she backs down. Sometimes he wonders if she’s maybe a little scared of him, except she says no again, and shoos him out of the room. “And wear something nice Monday,” she adds. “We’ll all go to the funeral.”
He’s Tom Sawyer for a minute, in the back of the cab Cuddy’s called him, and he wonders what his funeral will be like.
-
Later that night when House isn’t asleep Wilson knocks on the door and soon he’s sitting on House’s kitchen floor drinking a beer. This is probably an example of how Wilson knows how to take care of other people instead of himself, but fuck all, it’s not like House is a mother cat or anything. He leans against the cabinets and asks, “want to catch a movie?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
It’s petulant, it’s stupid, it’s House all over, isn’t it, Wilson thinks, as he rises to the bait. “Because.”
“You have to get out sometime.”
“Why?”
“Because,” House starts, walking over to the couch slowly but not decisively, as if he isn’t really aiming for it, “it’s been almost a week. Movies come out on Fridays. Life goes on.”
Wilson stands up in one fluid motion and pushes House down onto the couch with a sort of strangled cry that vibrates in the room long after he’s slammed the door behind him.
-
They look at time differently. House remembers the lectures from his first year neuroscience class. In one of those slides with birds (was it birds? It was something stupid; he only cared about people and he thinks he just proved he still does) one of those slides with birds, where the female uses a circadian clock and the male uses an hourglass clock and they end up fighting and pecking each other’s eyes out because they tell time differently.
Time’s pretty important, House thinks, before he falls asleep on the couch in the same uncomfortable position Wilson pushed him into.
-
Cuddy changes out of the black suit that she wears to Amber’s funeral right when they get back to the hospital. When she comes into his office later that afternoon she’s wearing something pinkish red, it reminds House of the color of skin under a freshly peeled scab. “I’m going to bring Wilson dinner,” she says. “Do you want to come?”
“No,” he says, and when he shakes his head the stiff, ironed neck of his white shirt rustles under his suit jacket.
“Okay,” she says. “I was just asking.”
She’s crossed back into the tiling that lines the hallways; House can hear the difference in the clack of her heels. “How long until I can say something inappropriate about your breasts?” he calls out.
She doubles back, raising her eyebrows.
“I mean, is there some kind of moratorium on the way I usually am, because I’m sorry if I’m not up-to-date on the appropriate cocktail party behavior, my genius has been particularly crippling lately.”
Cuddy nods in that way she has when she’s being thoughtful. House is wondering if he has such an obviously thoughtful look when she says “you’re fine, House.”
He nods.
“But you should see him soon. It’d be good for both of you.”
-
House is a man without preamble: “I’ve never made anything in your life easier, you know,” he says. “You’re acting like I should have been your personal hero or something but I’ve never fixed anything for you.”
Wilson stares at him and opens the door wider, gesturing him in. The apartment is clean. Isn’t Wilson supposed to go into a tailspin of rage and wreck everything around him, snap chairs in half with the force only a grief-stricken man has? But then again this isn’t the fall of Troy and Wilson’s always been neat.
Amber was neat too. That’s it.
They sit on the Wilson’s couch and House puts his feet up on the coffee table and then he takes them down and then he kicks off his sneakers and then he puts his feet back up. He crosses his ankles deliberately. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her,” he says.
Wilson nods.
“I know I’m supposed to save people.”
“Don’t give yourself a fucking God complex or anything.”
“Too late for that, don’t you think?” House bites his lip the second the words leave his mouth. That was callous. That was the wrong thing to say. He does care what the right thing to say is, he actually does. His vocal chords lock like a censor as he stretches his chin up to the ceiling.
“Too late,” Wilson says. House catches his face out of the corner of his eye. It’s smooth and crumpled at the same time. It isn’t familiar. House tilts his head back all the way so he doesn’t have to look at him.
house; house, wilson; pg; 1,010 words
house is a man without preamble: "i've never made anything in your life easier, you know," he says. "you're acting like i should have been your personal hero or something, but i've never fixed anything for you." spoilers for "wilson's heart."
Hourglass
He’s woken up in a hospital bed so many times before.
It’s comfortable, in a kind of sick way. He’s always so sure that he’s alive, with the steady beep of his heart broadcast just feet away and people walking in and out in a way they never do when he wakes up at home. That way he’s sure the rest of the world is alive too. It’s not that nightmare where he’s the only person breathing in a world too still and too safe for life.
And Wilson’s always there when he wakes up in the hospital. Except this time he blinks his eyes and Wilson’s gone. His head hurts; his brain is pounding in his skull; he closes his eyes.
The next time House wakes up there’s no one else in the room.
-
Cuddy signs his release forms.
“Well gosh I feel special,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Dean of Medicine pays me a special visit and everything. Mommy, can I go back to work now?”
“No,” she says. “You can go home and you can go to sleep. You’ll come back to work on Monday.”
He stares at her. Usually when he stares at her long enough she backs down. Sometimes he wonders if she’s maybe a little scared of him, except she says no again, and shoos him out of the room. “And wear something nice Monday,” she adds. “We’ll all go to the funeral.”
He’s Tom Sawyer for a minute, in the back of the cab Cuddy’s called him, and he wonders what his funeral will be like.
-
Later that night when House isn’t asleep Wilson knocks on the door and soon he’s sitting on House’s kitchen floor drinking a beer. This is probably an example of how Wilson knows how to take care of other people instead of himself, but fuck all, it’s not like House is a mother cat or anything. He leans against the cabinets and asks, “want to catch a movie?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
It’s petulant, it’s stupid, it’s House all over, isn’t it, Wilson thinks, as he rises to the bait. “Because.”
“You have to get out sometime.”
“Why?”
“Because,” House starts, walking over to the couch slowly but not decisively, as if he isn’t really aiming for it, “it’s been almost a week. Movies come out on Fridays. Life goes on.”
Wilson stands up in one fluid motion and pushes House down onto the couch with a sort of strangled cry that vibrates in the room long after he’s slammed the door behind him.
-
They look at time differently. House remembers the lectures from his first year neuroscience class. In one of those slides with birds (was it birds? It was something stupid; he only cared about people and he thinks he just proved he still does) one of those slides with birds, where the female uses a circadian clock and the male uses an hourglass clock and they end up fighting and pecking each other’s eyes out because they tell time differently.
Time’s pretty important, House thinks, before he falls asleep on the couch in the same uncomfortable position Wilson pushed him into.
-
Cuddy changes out of the black suit that she wears to Amber’s funeral right when they get back to the hospital. When she comes into his office later that afternoon she’s wearing something pinkish red, it reminds House of the color of skin under a freshly peeled scab. “I’m going to bring Wilson dinner,” she says. “Do you want to come?”
“No,” he says, and when he shakes his head the stiff, ironed neck of his white shirt rustles under his suit jacket.
“Okay,” she says. “I was just asking.”
She’s crossed back into the tiling that lines the hallways; House can hear the difference in the clack of her heels. “How long until I can say something inappropriate about your breasts?” he calls out.
She doubles back, raising her eyebrows.
“I mean, is there some kind of moratorium on the way I usually am, because I’m sorry if I’m not up-to-date on the appropriate cocktail party behavior, my genius has been particularly crippling lately.”
Cuddy nods in that way she has when she’s being thoughtful. House is wondering if he has such an obviously thoughtful look when she says “you’re fine, House.”
He nods.
“But you should see him soon. It’d be good for both of you.”
-
House is a man without preamble: “I’ve never made anything in your life easier, you know,” he says. “You’re acting like I should have been your personal hero or something but I’ve never fixed anything for you.”
Wilson stares at him and opens the door wider, gesturing him in. The apartment is clean. Isn’t Wilson supposed to go into a tailspin of rage and wreck everything around him, snap chairs in half with the force only a grief-stricken man has? But then again this isn’t the fall of Troy and Wilson’s always been neat.
Amber was neat too. That’s it.
They sit on the Wilson’s couch and House puts his feet up on the coffee table and then he takes them down and then he kicks off his sneakers and then he puts his feet back up. He crosses his ankles deliberately. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her,” he says.
Wilson nods.
“I know I’m supposed to save people.”
“Don’t give yourself a fucking God complex or anything.”
“Too late for that, don’t you think?” House bites his lip the second the words leave his mouth. That was callous. That was the wrong thing to say. He does care what the right thing to say is, he actually does. His vocal chords lock like a censor as he stretches his chin up to the ceiling.
“Too late,” Wilson says. House catches his face out of the corner of his eye. It’s smooth and crumpled at the same time. It isn’t familiar. House tilts his head back all the way so he doesn’t have to look at him.