Genuine
Genuine
Rating: PG-13 for harsh language and mild violence.
Disclaimer: I disclaim any right to anything.
Pairing: House/Wilson, friendship or slash… who can tell with these two?
A/N: For the purposes of this story, House and Wilson live together. Feel free to imagine this in whatever timeframe you’d like.
Summary: Feelings boil over.
“Seriously, House, what’s wrong with you?” Wilson knew the answer, but had to say something, anything to express his frustration with House’s prying. He slammed the car door harder than necessary, and they stumped up the front steps of House’s building. Both sets of footsteps resounded harder than usual. Early April sunshine played over the scene, belying the anger boiling within the hearts of the two mortal men.
“You passworded your schedule and booked a week off of work. What the hell is wrong with you?” House ground out, unlocking his door and thumping it open with the side of his fist.
Wilson tugged his hair in exasperation. If House kept this up, he thought wildly, he was going to be bald before his time off ever came. “You broke into my schedule anyway. So what’s the problem? You know my life story, now go away.”
“Life story, my ass, Wilson. What’s the big secret? What’s happening for a whole fucking week?”
House’s shoulderbag was thrown to the floor with no regard for its contents, which spilled across the entrance with a clatter. Wilson stepped around the items with more care and headed for the kitchen. He tossed his briefcase onto the island and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge for supper.
He was startled by the large hand that gripped his shoulder. A moment later he was whirled around and pushed into the fridge door. It closed with a whumph of frosty air and the handle dug into Wilson’s spine painfully.
House glared at Wilson from a few inches away. His cane pressed between them tightly, across Wilson’s upper torso, keeping him from moving away.
“Fine! Check the fucking mail, House. Go!” Wilson broke first, feeling the wood dig against his collarbone uncomfortably. He shook his arm out, massaging his shoulder, and followed the older man into the living room. He stood by the couch as House sorted through the pile left on the desk by their cleaning lady, sifting through the junk and finally coming to an envelope posted from a Louisiana address. It was marked Dr. James Wilson, and House wasted no time in ripping it open with his teeth. A pair of tickets for the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival fell out. There was a long moment of silence, and House’s fists fell onto the desk, framing the white scraps of paper. He leaned on them hard with his head dropped low between his shoulders. The cane dropped to the floor unnoticed. He inhaled and exhaled sharply once, twice, then hobbled over to the couch.
Wilson sat down on the opposite, all anger washed away by the sight of House. He was slumped, one hand pressed into his eyes. For a moment, Wilson didn’t recognize his friend, seeing in his place a crumpled, drained man. They sat until House looked over at Wilson, still resting his head on his hand.
“Tickets.” His voice was hoarse, quiet and raw. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I was…”
Afraid, Wilson filled in silently, that I had found someone else; that I was going to attend a clinical trial somewhere; that I was burning out and you didn’t notice.
With a sigh, Wilson decided that he didn’t care what it was that House had thought. The expression in the haunted-looking eyes was enough to tell him what House genuinely felt.
Rating: PG-13 for harsh language and mild violence.
Disclaimer: I disclaim any right to anything.
Pairing: House/Wilson, friendship or slash… who can tell with these two?
A/N: For the purposes of this story, House and Wilson live together. Feel free to imagine this in whatever timeframe you’d like.
Summary: Feelings boil over.
“Seriously, House, what’s wrong with you?” Wilson knew the answer, but had to say something, anything to express his frustration with House’s prying. He slammed the car door harder than necessary, and they stumped up the front steps of House’s building. Both sets of footsteps resounded harder than usual. Early April sunshine played over the scene, belying the anger boiling within the hearts of the two mortal men.
“You passworded your schedule and booked a week off of work. What the hell is wrong with you?” House ground out, unlocking his door and thumping it open with the side of his fist.
Wilson tugged his hair in exasperation. If House kept this up, he thought wildly, he was going to be bald before his time off ever came. “You broke into my schedule anyway. So what’s the problem? You know my life story, now go away.”
“Life story, my ass, Wilson. What’s the big secret? What’s happening for a whole fucking week?”
House’s shoulderbag was thrown to the floor with no regard for its contents, which spilled across the entrance with a clatter. Wilson stepped around the items with more care and headed for the kitchen. He tossed his briefcase onto the island and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge for supper.
He was startled by the large hand that gripped his shoulder. A moment later he was whirled around and pushed into the fridge door. It closed with a whumph of frosty air and the handle dug into Wilson’s spine painfully.
House glared at Wilson from a few inches away. His cane pressed between them tightly, across Wilson’s upper torso, keeping him from moving away.
“Fine! Check the fucking mail, House. Go!” Wilson broke first, feeling the wood dig against his collarbone uncomfortably. He shook his arm out, massaging his shoulder, and followed the older man into the living room. He stood by the couch as House sorted through the pile left on the desk by their cleaning lady, sifting through the junk and finally coming to an envelope posted from a Louisiana address. It was marked Dr. James Wilson, and House wasted no time in ripping it open with his teeth. A pair of tickets for the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival fell out. There was a long moment of silence, and House’s fists fell onto the desk, framing the white scraps of paper. He leaned on them hard with his head dropped low between his shoulders. The cane dropped to the floor unnoticed. He inhaled and exhaled sharply once, twice, then hobbled over to the couch.
Wilson sat down on the opposite, all anger washed away by the sight of House. He was slumped, one hand pressed into his eyes. For a moment, Wilson didn’t recognize his friend, seeing in his place a crumpled, drained man. They sat until House looked over at Wilson, still resting his head on his hand.
“Tickets.” His voice was hoarse, quiet and raw. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I was…”
Afraid, Wilson filled in silently, that I had found someone else; that I was going to attend a clinical trial somewhere; that I was burning out and you didn’t notice.
With a sigh, Wilson decided that he didn’t care what it was that House had thought. The expression in the haunted-looking eyes was enough to tell him what House genuinely felt.