Umm... I swear I didn't write a House/Wilson ficlet...except I did
Do you know how characters nibble at you until you put them on the page? That's all. I'm not taking on yet another new fandom. I swear.
House stands behind him at his desk, just because it annoys him. He's blocking his sunlight.
James has to choose, every time there is a choice, and there always is with House: defend or ignore. They both get the same result, but the process matters. And it matters differently every day, every minute. This is what he has come to like about the man; this is why it's not a diagnosis.
Today, he ignores. Today, House noisily toggles his cane against the wheels of his chair. Today, he stretches his neck, side to side, hearing a crack, feeling a pull of muscles.
Without warning, he feels the cane sliding along the side of his neck, cool and fast. House never breaks his stream of words.
Before he can respond, House manages to make a jabbing remark sound musical and a lurching step look like sliding out the door, a white sun glow reflecting back at him again in the glass when it shuts.
*
Wilson is no fun, alternately playing the game too well or not at all. But even when he's not playing, that's somehow like playing anyway. That thought makes Greg feel a little smugger than he normally does.
Smugger enough, today, to use such a not-word.
Wilson stands beside him in the elevator as he talks, wearing himself out with weary sighs and the occasional (and entirely distracting) sardonic smirk. Wilson smells like antiseptic soap and too much cologne. He reflects that he's never wondered why the man can't seem to keep a woman.
When they come out into the lobby, Greg's shoe is untied. He stops and stoops carefully to re-tie it, still expounding on some topic that comes to its natural conclusion about the time he gets the loops firmly secured.
As he plucks his cane from the cold floor, Wilson lays his hand on the back of his neck, warm and slow. He says something he probably thinks sounds profound before he strides out the door into the night.
When he takes off his jacket at home, the inside of the collar still smells vaguely of cologne. He finds that it only annoys him just as much as he wants it to.
~
House stands behind him at his desk, just because it annoys him. He's blocking his sunlight.
James has to choose, every time there is a choice, and there always is with House: defend or ignore. They both get the same result, but the process matters. And it matters differently every day, every minute. This is what he has come to like about the man; this is why it's not a diagnosis.
Today, he ignores. Today, House noisily toggles his cane against the wheels of his chair. Today, he stretches his neck, side to side, hearing a crack, feeling a pull of muscles.
Without warning, he feels the cane sliding along the side of his neck, cool and fast. House never breaks his stream of words.
Before he can respond, House manages to make a jabbing remark sound musical and a lurching step look like sliding out the door, a white sun glow reflecting back at him again in the glass when it shuts.
*
Wilson is no fun, alternately playing the game too well or not at all. But even when he's not playing, that's somehow like playing anyway. That thought makes Greg feel a little smugger than he normally does.
Smugger enough, today, to use such a not-word.
Wilson stands beside him in the elevator as he talks, wearing himself out with weary sighs and the occasional (and entirely distracting) sardonic smirk. Wilson smells like antiseptic soap and too much cologne. He reflects that he's never wondered why the man can't seem to keep a woman.
When they come out into the lobby, Greg's shoe is untied. He stops and stoops carefully to re-tie it, still expounding on some topic that comes to its natural conclusion about the time he gets the loops firmly secured.
As he plucks his cane from the cold floor, Wilson lays his hand on the back of his neck, warm and slow. He says something he probably thinks sounds profound before he strides out the door into the night.
When he takes off his jacket at home, the inside of the collar still smells vaguely of cologne. He finds that it only annoys him just as much as he wants it to.
~