(no subject)
Two fics written for the claims taken over at the claim a Greg list. There are still claims open.
For rosewilliams, who claimed drunk!Greg.
Only The Lonely.
House/Wilson. PG.
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Only The Lonely
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“Jimmy,” was the first thing House slurred the moment he heard the front door open. The sound of him banging the near-empty bottle of scotch onto the coffee table filled the apartment; Wilson closing the door firmly behind him promptly followed in echo.
Such a hollow echo, too.
“House,” he heard Wilson say, though his mind was so foggy it sounded like Wilson was a million miles away. If he’d been able to actually pay any attention he would have noted the distinctly guarded tone of concern mixed with equal parts of irritability in Wilson’s voice.
“Jimmy,” House repeated again, mainly because it was too much of an effort to say anything else. Wilson was too hard to say; Jimmy easily rolled off the tongue whether he was drunk or not, and didn’t require pronunciation like a string of words would have.
Besides. With alcohol, words were usually foolish things.
There was a thick pause that was filled with drunken buzzing resonating in House’s head. Not that House was particularly aware of it; he was too busy trying to negotiate between the want to grab his cane and stand up, and actually being physically able to.
“Are you drunk?” Wilson demanded as House decided to give taking a swipe at his cane a go. God, it was amazing how far away Wilson sounded.
“Jus’abit,” was House’s jumbled response. It was also amazing how hard it was to get his hand to make contact with the cane. House couldn’t work out if there were actually three canes in front of him or if he was merely seeing triple.
“Just a bit,” Wilson echoed disbelievingly. In between attempts to snatch his cane, House managed a glance in Wilson’s direction and, one eye screwed shut so he could see one of Wilson and not two or three, he saw that his friend was doing the typical disapproving thing with his hands on his hips. “This is how you plan on making my last night in your apartment? By being drunk? Miserable? Annoying?”
House had managed to finally take a hold of his cane and, once his feet found purchase on the floor, he unsteadily stood up and began to stagger around the sofa to Wilson.
“What, is this punishment for the fact that I won’t be around anymore to wash your dishes?” Wilson continued, seemingly unfazed by how drunk House actually was. If House's mind was less clouded by alcohol, he'd have picked up the fact that the reason why Wilson was being tetchy was because he truly didn't want to move into his own place, on his own. And because of that, he just wanted to enjoy this one last night before he went back to living a lonely life.
Lonely. Just like House.
Screwing his face up, House held a finger up to his lips in shushing gesture. The whole room felt like it was tilting sharply to the left and it took every ounce of concentration for House not to stumble over his own feet or lose focus of the direction he was headed, which was towards Wilson.
Wilson opened his mouth to retort to House and then obviously decided it wasn’t worth it, given the state House was in. He sighed in irritation and closed his mouth, and then pulled his lips into a thin, wry smile as he glanced away from House towards nothing in particular.
“Jimmy,” House slurred again once he was standing in front of his friend.
“House,” Wilson impatiently returned, looking sharply back to him. There was another thick pause as Wilson watched House trying to focus on his face. “I was looking forward to having a relaxing evening before moving into my new place tomorrow; not putting up with you being drunk off your ass. Not--”
“I love you.”
Considering how drunk he was, he managed to get those three small words out with clarity.
Pity he didn't have the clarity to stop himself from saying those words in the first place.
Yes. A pity.
There was a brief moment where House’s words didn’t seem to register with Wilson, because of how abruptly they were spoken, but when he realised a beat later what House had said, the confounded look that flooded Wilson’s face was unmistakable. “Wh…” Wilson began, sounding suddenly as bewildered as he looked. “What? Wh… House, you’re… You’re drunk, you’re not-- you don't--”
House cut off his words with a hard, uncoordinated kiss, pressing his bitter, whisky-fumed mouth against Wilson’s as he stumbled in closer towards him. The kiss was desperate, almost pleading, as though House was trying to tell Wilson that he wanted him to stay because he was lonely. He didn’t even know if he really loved Wilson; perhaps he just loved the idea of loving him, because loving someone meant not being alone. Or maybe he was actually just in love with the idea of no longer being lonely.
Whatever the reason, it was only through being blind drunk that House would ever allow himself to be that vulnerable, to be that exposed. It was foolish of him, really, to even consider getting drunk in the first place.
Yes. Very foolish.
The only reaction all of this seemed to elicit from Wilson was the sudden slap of his hands on House’s shoulders, fingers grasping at shirt as he tried to push House away, but House was so drunk he was like a deadweight, the way he leaned in towards him. He felt like a deadweight, the way the room began to spin. He was so inebriated he couldn’t seem to coordinate kissing and breathing at the same time.
And perhaps he couldn’t kiss and breathe at the same time; perhaps he passed out, because the next thing House knew, he was lying in his bed, face pressed into the pillow with his chin embedded in a wet patch of drool. He didn’t remember how he got to the bed -- the fact that his shoes were off meant that Wilson had obviously put him there. Probably right before he hastily decided to leave the next morning, before House awoke. Not that House blamed him -- he would have done the exact same thing if it had been the other way around. It’s one thing to be lonely; it’s quite another to have to deal with the lonely.
But, still.
When House finally decided to get up, the apartment looked and felt eerily empty.
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FIN
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For mad_march_hare, who claimed crying!Greg.
Broken Only Once
House/Wilson. PG.
***
There was only one time that House had ever let Wilson see him cry.
*
There was that time --
*
-- he almost cried when Wilson stood by his bed just after he awoke from the coma Cuddy put him under. He was in so much pain, so much pain and he remembered how Wilson had watched him, helplessly. Almost like he wanted to reach out and comfort him, but not knowing how to. But no, House didn’t cry. Instead he grimaced and gripped the sheets until his knuckles turned white, and managed to crack a bitter joke about how he didn’t think he’d be going for the usual morning jog with Wilson for a little while.
Wilson had merely smiled tightly and joked weakly back to him that he’d be there to get his ass out of bed once he’d got over this, even though they both knew, deep down, they were never going to go for a simple morning jog together ever again.
*
-- not long after the infarction when he was going through rehabilitation, that he felt tears of frustration welling in his eyes as he tried to walk for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Wilson was standing opposite him in his apartment, saying nothing, just standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching closely in case he fell. House was using crutches and he tried, he tried so damn hard to just take that one damn step forward, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He was so exhausted, bathed in sweat from the pain and concentration of trying to do something he once took for granted. Trying to, trying, but he just couldn't.
No matter how much he’d wanted to cry in frustration, he hadn’t. He didn’t let himself. Instead, he’d thrown the crutches down on the floor in anger and cursed loudly, and when his good leg started to buckle under the exhaustion of holding his weight for all that time, Wilson was there to catch him.
Wilson was there to catch him every time.
*
-- when he'd randomly said to Wilson one night as they shared a beer together, six months after the infarction, that he hated Stacy for what she did to him. His eyes had burned with angry tears but instead of letting them fall he turned his head away and stared fixedly at something until the anger had dissipated to bitterness again.
Wilson hadn’t said anything to that, and House appreciated it. Instead, Wilson had offered to get him another beer and, after a while, House was laughing at something Wilson said, his mind completely taken off the anger and bitterness he was feeling inside.
*
But the only time he’d let Wilson see him cry was the day Stacy left him.
He hated her for what she did to him, hated her. Yet he loved her, loved her so deeply.
“She’s gone,” was all he said as though he was trying to let the meaning of those words sink in, and one single tear rolled down his cheek, plain for Wilson to see, before House covered his face with his hand. He didn’t sob, he didn’t make a sound. He merely wept in silence, his grief and anguish hidden behind his hand as Wilson sat next to him on the sofa in his apartment. He wept like a man who'd lost everything but was still trying to hold onto a shred of dignity.
This was House falling hardest of all, and Wilson was not only there to catch him, he was there to pick up the pieces, too.
Wilson sat silently with him until House had no more tears.
***
For rosewilliams, who claimed drunk!Greg.
Only The Lonely.
House/Wilson. PG.
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Only The Lonely
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“Jimmy,” was the first thing House slurred the moment he heard the front door open. The sound of him banging the near-empty bottle of scotch onto the coffee table filled the apartment; Wilson closing the door firmly behind him promptly followed in echo.
Such a hollow echo, too.
“House,” he heard Wilson say, though his mind was so foggy it sounded like Wilson was a million miles away. If he’d been able to actually pay any attention he would have noted the distinctly guarded tone of concern mixed with equal parts of irritability in Wilson’s voice.
“Jimmy,” House repeated again, mainly because it was too much of an effort to say anything else. Wilson was too hard to say; Jimmy easily rolled off the tongue whether he was drunk or not, and didn’t require pronunciation like a string of words would have.
Besides. With alcohol, words were usually foolish things.
There was a thick pause that was filled with drunken buzzing resonating in House’s head. Not that House was particularly aware of it; he was too busy trying to negotiate between the want to grab his cane and stand up, and actually being physically able to.
“Are you drunk?” Wilson demanded as House decided to give taking a swipe at his cane a go. God, it was amazing how far away Wilson sounded.
“Jus’abit,” was House’s jumbled response. It was also amazing how hard it was to get his hand to make contact with the cane. House couldn’t work out if there were actually three canes in front of him or if he was merely seeing triple.
“Just a bit,” Wilson echoed disbelievingly. In between attempts to snatch his cane, House managed a glance in Wilson’s direction and, one eye screwed shut so he could see one of Wilson and not two or three, he saw that his friend was doing the typical disapproving thing with his hands on his hips. “This is how you plan on making my last night in your apartment? By being drunk? Miserable? Annoying?”
House had managed to finally take a hold of his cane and, once his feet found purchase on the floor, he unsteadily stood up and began to stagger around the sofa to Wilson.
“What, is this punishment for the fact that I won’t be around anymore to wash your dishes?” Wilson continued, seemingly unfazed by how drunk House actually was. If House's mind was less clouded by alcohol, he'd have picked up the fact that the reason why Wilson was being tetchy was because he truly didn't want to move into his own place, on his own. And because of that, he just wanted to enjoy this one last night before he went back to living a lonely life.
Lonely. Just like House.
Screwing his face up, House held a finger up to his lips in shushing gesture. The whole room felt like it was tilting sharply to the left and it took every ounce of concentration for House not to stumble over his own feet or lose focus of the direction he was headed, which was towards Wilson.
Wilson opened his mouth to retort to House and then obviously decided it wasn’t worth it, given the state House was in. He sighed in irritation and closed his mouth, and then pulled his lips into a thin, wry smile as he glanced away from House towards nothing in particular.
“Jimmy,” House slurred again once he was standing in front of his friend.
“House,” Wilson impatiently returned, looking sharply back to him. There was another thick pause as Wilson watched House trying to focus on his face. “I was looking forward to having a relaxing evening before moving into my new place tomorrow; not putting up with you being drunk off your ass. Not--”
“I love you.”
Considering how drunk he was, he managed to get those three small words out with clarity.
Pity he didn't have the clarity to stop himself from saying those words in the first place.
Yes. A pity.
There was a brief moment where House’s words didn’t seem to register with Wilson, because of how abruptly they were spoken, but when he realised a beat later what House had said, the confounded look that flooded Wilson’s face was unmistakable. “Wh…” Wilson began, sounding suddenly as bewildered as he looked. “What? Wh… House, you’re… You’re drunk, you’re not-- you don't--”
House cut off his words with a hard, uncoordinated kiss, pressing his bitter, whisky-fumed mouth against Wilson’s as he stumbled in closer towards him. The kiss was desperate, almost pleading, as though House was trying to tell Wilson that he wanted him to stay because he was lonely. He didn’t even know if he really loved Wilson; perhaps he just loved the idea of loving him, because loving someone meant not being alone. Or maybe he was actually just in love with the idea of no longer being lonely.
Whatever the reason, it was only through being blind drunk that House would ever allow himself to be that vulnerable, to be that exposed. It was foolish of him, really, to even consider getting drunk in the first place.
Yes. Very foolish.
The only reaction all of this seemed to elicit from Wilson was the sudden slap of his hands on House’s shoulders, fingers grasping at shirt as he tried to push House away, but House was so drunk he was like a deadweight, the way he leaned in towards him. He felt like a deadweight, the way the room began to spin. He was so inebriated he couldn’t seem to coordinate kissing and breathing at the same time.
And perhaps he couldn’t kiss and breathe at the same time; perhaps he passed out, because the next thing House knew, he was lying in his bed, face pressed into the pillow with his chin embedded in a wet patch of drool. He didn’t remember how he got to the bed -- the fact that his shoes were off meant that Wilson had obviously put him there. Probably right before he hastily decided to leave the next morning, before House awoke. Not that House blamed him -- he would have done the exact same thing if it had been the other way around. It’s one thing to be lonely; it’s quite another to have to deal with the lonely.
But, still.
When House finally decided to get up, the apartment looked and felt eerily empty.
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FIN
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For mad_march_hare, who claimed crying!Greg.
Broken Only Once
House/Wilson. PG.
***
There was only one time that House had ever let Wilson see him cry.
*
There was that time --
*
-- he almost cried when Wilson stood by his bed just after he awoke from the coma Cuddy put him under. He was in so much pain, so much pain and he remembered how Wilson had watched him, helplessly. Almost like he wanted to reach out and comfort him, but not knowing how to. But no, House didn’t cry. Instead he grimaced and gripped the sheets until his knuckles turned white, and managed to crack a bitter joke about how he didn’t think he’d be going for the usual morning jog with Wilson for a little while.
Wilson had merely smiled tightly and joked weakly back to him that he’d be there to get his ass out of bed once he’d got over this, even though they both knew, deep down, they were never going to go for a simple morning jog together ever again.
*
-- not long after the infarction when he was going through rehabilitation, that he felt tears of frustration welling in his eyes as he tried to walk for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Wilson was standing opposite him in his apartment, saying nothing, just standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching closely in case he fell. House was using crutches and he tried, he tried so damn hard to just take that one damn step forward, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He was so exhausted, bathed in sweat from the pain and concentration of trying to do something he once took for granted. Trying to, trying, but he just couldn't.
No matter how much he’d wanted to cry in frustration, he hadn’t. He didn’t let himself. Instead, he’d thrown the crutches down on the floor in anger and cursed loudly, and when his good leg started to buckle under the exhaustion of holding his weight for all that time, Wilson was there to catch him.
Wilson was there to catch him every time.
*
-- when he'd randomly said to Wilson one night as they shared a beer together, six months after the infarction, that he hated Stacy for what she did to him. His eyes had burned with angry tears but instead of letting them fall he turned his head away and stared fixedly at something until the anger had dissipated to bitterness again.
Wilson hadn’t said anything to that, and House appreciated it. Instead, Wilson had offered to get him another beer and, after a while, House was laughing at something Wilson said, his mind completely taken off the anger and bitterness he was feeling inside.
*
But the only time he’d let Wilson see him cry was the day Stacy left him.
He hated her for what she did to him, hated her. Yet he loved her, loved her so deeply.
“She’s gone,” was all he said as though he was trying to let the meaning of those words sink in, and one single tear rolled down his cheek, plain for Wilson to see, before House covered his face with his hand. He didn’t sob, he didn’t make a sound. He merely wept in silence, his grief and anguish hidden behind his hand as Wilson sat next to him on the sofa in his apartment. He wept like a man who'd lost everything but was still trying to hold onto a shred of dignity.
This was House falling hardest of all, and Wilson was not only there to catch him, he was there to pick up the pieces, too.
Wilson sat silently with him until House had no more tears.
***