Fanfic: A Night Like Any Other
Title: A Night Like Any Other
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G
Word Count: 882
Author's Notes: Another experimental sort of piece. Second person narrative and a little strange.
Summary: It's a night like any other, except it's not. Sometimes a question isn't clearly a question until it gets an answer.
It's a night like any other, except it's not. House is never this drunk, and you're scared because he seems so out of control all of a sudden. He's always controlled, except now he's not. And you're trying to be supportive, trying to look after him, so when you get the page in the middle of the night, you go and find him in the less than salubrious bar he's chosen as the venue for the drowning of his sorrows.
He seems cheerful at first, but it's a mad and desperate cheer, and it worries you even more. It's the determined, despairing cheer of a man who expects the worst and is trying to get the most out of what time he has left before the worst arrives.
So you go along with his madness, just as you always do, but you refuse his suggestions of more alcohol, and bundle him into your car before he has time to realise what you're doing.
He's peering at you owlishly from the passenger seat, and you glance back over at him, waiting for the words that lie behind that expression, half expecting to be berated for being no fun and taking him home instead of staying out and drinking with him. But all he does is watch you.
It's unnerving, but that's normal by now. If House isn't being unnerving, there's usually something wrong with him. So you put up with his stare, and don't ask him what's going on in his head. He'll tell you in time, if it's important. Or, at least, he'll let you guess, if he thinks you deserve to know. And then he'll berate you for taking so long to work it out from the feeble snatches of hints he let slip.
You stopped asking yourself years ago why you still do this sort of thing. Why you dance to his discordant tune, why you keep coming back even if he pushes you away. You stopped asking because you knew the answer. Always had, always would. But you didn't want to hear it, not while there was still Mr and Mrs James Wilson to live up to. Now you don't ask because it doesn't matter anymore. You're there, he's there, that's all that matters.
You're taking him home, his home, and he still hasn't said anything, just watched you. Even for House, this is unusual. You cast him worried glances now and then, but he's not looking upset or closed off, he's looking like he's thinking, like he's having another of his lightning leaps of logic. You're never comfortable when he makes that face in your direction. It usually means he's worked out something about you that you'd rather he didn't know. But you can hardly blame him for picking up the pieces and working out the puzzle. It's his job, it's his nature, he could no more not do it than stop breathing. But you still don't like it when he works you out like a particularly interesting disease.
You want to say "what?", or "take a picture, why don't you?", but you settle for a quizzical look as you pull up outside his apartment. He understands, of course, and grins at you in that way that makes you feel sorry for the canary and its widow. He knows that you want to know, but he's not telling, not till it suits him.
With a mental shrug and a sigh, you get out of the car and come around to the other side to help him out. Even an able-bodied man would be struggling after the amount of alcohol he's had, so you know you're going to have to help him inside, put him to bed, ignore his attempts to brush you off, send you home, that crop up now that he really needs your help. He always calls you before he needs you, so he can still complain when you give him the assistance he knew he'd need.
You open the door and reach for his hand to pull him to his feet, and suddenly he's launched himself towards you, without warning or precision, but with plenty of force, and you're not expecting him so quickly, so you're off-balance, but that's such a familiar state for you now that you move quickly to catch him before you both go sprawling across the concrete. You'd tell him off, but he wouldn't listen, so you take his weight as he leans against you, and murmur quietly, "it's okay, I've got you."
He has this way of going still, like a hunting cat as it spots it's prey, that strikes him when an epiphany finally springs forth from his subconscious, and when it strikes him now, you're unprepared for it. One minute you're supporting his collapsing form and coaxing him towards the door, the next you might as well be trying to drag your car indoors for all the forward progress you're making. You look up into his face in confusion, meeting his eyes and seeing the light of comprehension and the strangest hint of, something - wonder/triumph/happiness/relief - that shines there. Then the moment is gone and he's boneless again, and you're almost through the door when he quietly answers the question even you barely knew you were asking.
"Yes. You have."
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G
Word Count: 882
Author's Notes: Another experimental sort of piece. Second person narrative and a little strange.
Summary: It's a night like any other, except it's not. Sometimes a question isn't clearly a question until it gets an answer.
It's a night like any other, except it's not. House is never this drunk, and you're scared because he seems so out of control all of a sudden. He's always controlled, except now he's not. And you're trying to be supportive, trying to look after him, so when you get the page in the middle of the night, you go and find him in the less than salubrious bar he's chosen as the venue for the drowning of his sorrows.
He seems cheerful at first, but it's a mad and desperate cheer, and it worries you even more. It's the determined, despairing cheer of a man who expects the worst and is trying to get the most out of what time he has left before the worst arrives.
So you go along with his madness, just as you always do, but you refuse his suggestions of more alcohol, and bundle him into your car before he has time to realise what you're doing.
He's peering at you owlishly from the passenger seat, and you glance back over at him, waiting for the words that lie behind that expression, half expecting to be berated for being no fun and taking him home instead of staying out and drinking with him. But all he does is watch you.
It's unnerving, but that's normal by now. If House isn't being unnerving, there's usually something wrong with him. So you put up with his stare, and don't ask him what's going on in his head. He'll tell you in time, if it's important. Or, at least, he'll let you guess, if he thinks you deserve to know. And then he'll berate you for taking so long to work it out from the feeble snatches of hints he let slip.
You stopped asking yourself years ago why you still do this sort of thing. Why you dance to his discordant tune, why you keep coming back even if he pushes you away. You stopped asking because you knew the answer. Always had, always would. But you didn't want to hear it, not while there was still Mr and Mrs James Wilson to live up to. Now you don't ask because it doesn't matter anymore. You're there, he's there, that's all that matters.
You're taking him home, his home, and he still hasn't said anything, just watched you. Even for House, this is unusual. You cast him worried glances now and then, but he's not looking upset or closed off, he's looking like he's thinking, like he's having another of his lightning leaps of logic. You're never comfortable when he makes that face in your direction. It usually means he's worked out something about you that you'd rather he didn't know. But you can hardly blame him for picking up the pieces and working out the puzzle. It's his job, it's his nature, he could no more not do it than stop breathing. But you still don't like it when he works you out like a particularly interesting disease.
You want to say "what?", or "take a picture, why don't you?", but you settle for a quizzical look as you pull up outside his apartment. He understands, of course, and grins at you in that way that makes you feel sorry for the canary and its widow. He knows that you want to know, but he's not telling, not till it suits him.
With a mental shrug and a sigh, you get out of the car and come around to the other side to help him out. Even an able-bodied man would be struggling after the amount of alcohol he's had, so you know you're going to have to help him inside, put him to bed, ignore his attempts to brush you off, send you home, that crop up now that he really needs your help. He always calls you before he needs you, so he can still complain when you give him the assistance he knew he'd need.
You open the door and reach for his hand to pull him to his feet, and suddenly he's launched himself towards you, without warning or precision, but with plenty of force, and you're not expecting him so quickly, so you're off-balance, but that's such a familiar state for you now that you move quickly to catch him before you both go sprawling across the concrete. You'd tell him off, but he wouldn't listen, so you take his weight as he leans against you, and murmur quietly, "it's okay, I've got you."
He has this way of going still, like a hunting cat as it spots it's prey, that strikes him when an epiphany finally springs forth from his subconscious, and when it strikes him now, you're unprepared for it. One minute you're supporting his collapsing form and coaxing him towards the door, the next you might as well be trying to drag your car indoors for all the forward progress you're making. You look up into his face in confusion, meeting his eyes and seeing the light of comprehension and the strangest hint of, something - wonder/triumph/happiness/relief - that shines there. Then the moment is gone and he's boneless again, and you're almost through the door when he quietly answers the question even you barely knew you were asking.
"Yes. You have."