Housefic: Countdown
Title: Countdown
Authors: nightdog_barks, with significant contributions by blackmare
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: It's New Year's Eve in New York City, and Wilson ... well, he's having an existential crisis. 2,867 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is a sequel to All Who Wander, and, like that story, is set in that Indeterminate Timeline of the Riververse. No worries if you haven't read that one; all you really need to know is that while stuck in a prairie snowstorm, House and Wilson delivered a baby, which the parents named after Wilson. And that House bought some obnoxious Montana souvenirs. *g* The cut-text is a line snippet from Steely Dan's Katy Lied.
Beta: pwcorgigirl and blackmare, with especial thanks to deelaundry for her invaluable NYC footwork.
Countdown
"Tip the guy, Godfrey," Wilson says, and House looks around, partly because he's tired and he's momentarily forgotten that his name is Godfrey Powell here, and partly because what, it's always Wilson's job to do the tipping. The bellboy, for his part, is just standing there. He's done his duty of showing them where the lilliputian refrigerator is and how the TV operates, and now he wants his reward. One look at Wilson's face tells House he's not giving in on this.
"Fine," House mutters, and digs in his pocket for a few bills. Wilson's been this way ever since they got to New York, nervous and jumpy, with his jaw set in that stubborn way he gets. Nervous driving into the city. Nervous at Hertz, where they'd dropped off the blue Nissan. Nervous in the cab, where he'd studied the driver's name and photo like he suspected the guy might be a moonlighting axe murderer. Nervous in the hotel entryway, nervous in the hotel lobby eight floors up, where he'd scanned the crowds of New Year's Eve celebrants, ticking off faces and voices from the memory-list in his mind.
"It was your idea for this last-minute detour, so you can at least tip the bellboy," Wilson says. He's dropped his backpack at his feet and is standing there, arms crossed.
"Yeah, well, see what my last-minute got us?" House ignores the road-ache in his leg and raises both hands to encompass the room, no, the Executive Suite, with its partitioned spaces, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Times Square, sofa and armchairs, and its executive round table for all their executive meetings. He lowers his hands and gimps into the room.
"I didn't ask for it," he says. "I made the reservation in Rochester."
Wilson's eyes narrow. "In Rochester?" he says. "Rochester, Minnesota? What was I doing at the time?"
"You may have been ... asleep," House admits. "But look! It's a suite. And I didn't even ask for it!"
"Hotels do that," Wilson says. "You get in late, they give your reserved room away, give you whatever they've got left."
"Yeah," House says. "That's it." He hoists his own backpack a little higher on his shoulder. Somewhere in this dream room, he knows, there must be a gleaming expanse of a whirlpool bath calling his name.
"Whatever you pour for yourself," House says, "bring me one." He's limping very obviously toward the bathroom, and Wilson will know that means he'll be in the tub.
House needs the tub, and Wilson needs a drink, and if nobody points that out to him, Wilson will nervously sulk, and not drink, and an hour from now he might still be wearing his damn shoes.
He's run the water as hot as it will come and eased his way in; the porcelain tiles drip with condensation and the steam is warm in his lungs.
It's the kind of bathroom where there's a plush, cushioned stool beside the tub, and when Wilson arrives with two tumblers, House nods at that. Have a seat, which Wilson does, and See? House thinks. Still got his shoes on.
House can fix that. He waits for Wilson to set the glasses on the level outer rim of the tub, and then cups his hands together to scoop up water, as if he's about to splash it on his own face. Only he doesn't -- he dumps it on Wilson's feet.
Wilson stares at him, mouth half-open.
"Shoes off, booze in," House says. "Not necessarily in that order."
Wilson looks like he's going to say something, but he doesn't, and silently he toes off his shoes and peels off his socks.
All this time, House thinks, and he still has trouble taking off his armor.
He sinks a little deeper in the tub. "Maybe you should just bring the bottle in here," he says. When Wilson still doesn't say anything, he presses forward. "And the room service menu."
Wilson raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it a little late for dinner?"
"Breakfast," House says. "Get our orders in before midnight for breakfast." He cranes his neck, tries to peer through the steam. "Is there a phone in here?"
There is.
When House wakes the next morning, it's to the cheery call of "Room service!" and to the fact that his right hand is still asleep, trapped under Wilson's shoulder. Someone didn't fully close the blackout curtains last night, and sunlight streams into the room through the gap.
"Ah," House says, and "nuh," as he sits up. Both he and Wilson are wearing hotel robes, white fluffy terrycloth with the hotel logo embroidered on the chest. The remnants of their drinks sit on the bedside tables, still giving off faint fumes of bourbon, and they're both in the same bed, something that House has long since ceased to care about.
The room service cart bears not only breakfast, but the morning papers -- the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and USA Today. All of the headlines are the same -- New Year's Eve, another successful circuit around the Sun. House concentrates instead on the food as the room service guy unloads the cart -- scrambled eggs, applewood-smoked bacon, toast, bagels, lox, cream cheese, blueberry pancakes, maple syrup, sausages, smoked whitefish, blintzes ... it's like a deli exploded inside a Williams-Sonoma catalog.
"Wilson," House says. "Hey, Wilson." Wilson just mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over.
"Wilson?" No answer but a soft snore. "You're going to regret this."
House locates his backpack beside the tub in the bathroom. He looks at the tub longingly, then turns away. He can always have another soak later, and there's work to be done.
The first blast from the Quaker Boy "Ruttin' Fever" Bull Elk Bugle call startles even House -- it begins with the sound of someone torturing a balloon animal and progresses from there to the trumpeting cries of an escaped circus elephant bellowing in a rabies-fueled rage. The effect on Wilson is gratifying.
"Aaaaahahhhhh House what the hell -- " He stops screaming long enough to sit straight up in bed and point an accusing finger at House. "And what is that on your head?"
"If this isn't getting you hot, I want my money back."
"What?"
House waggles the hunting call and shakes his head to make the bells on his bobcat-mascot hat jingle.
"Mating call!" he says. "A song of love for Cervus canadensis."
"Cervus whatsis?"
"Stag," House says. "Wapiti. Elk." He waggles the call again. "I may be the biggest brute in the forest, but remember, I'm already wounded by love."
"Mortally, by the sound of it," Wilson says. He runs both hands through his hair and sighs. "Hey, you know that time you died, and then it turned out you hadn't?"
"Which one?"
"Any of them. We could change the ending to that story."
"If you're gonna kill me, do it quick. The blintzes'll get cold." House scoots closer, snatches the antler-hat monstrosity off his own head and plunks it onto Wilson's. "Be not afraid," he says, and bugles another magnificent elk call. "Feeling frisky yet, Bambi?"
"If that's the hip new slang for 'hung over,' then yes." He sniffs at the air. "Please tell me there's some ... oatmeal in all this. Or, or ... granola. Or something."
"If there's not, it's your fault. As I recall, you placed the order. Want a drink?"
Wilson looks revolted.
"Of orange juice," House clarifies. "Come on, up and at 'em." He picks up the remote and aims it at the TV. "We've got an endless supply of food and drink, this hotel package gets every sports channel known to man -- what else do we need?"
Six hours later, it's apparent that what they need is a massage. Three hours after that, House has another long hot soak, and after that, the noise of yet another bowl game rising from the television, they both doze off, sitting next to each other on the sofa.
Wilson wakes up first, nodding himself to consciousness to the sound of House's snoring. He sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. House doesn't snore very often, but when he does, it's roughly the equivalent of a man methodically tearing large sheets of cardboard into smaller pieces.
He stands up slowly, moving carefully so as not to wake House. House's head is tilted back, his mouth open, throat exposed, larynx vibrating ever so slightly every time another sheet of cardboard rips. Wilson thinks about taking some photos, a series of photos -- Man in Repose, maybe, or Man at the End, something like that. The end of what? The year.
Instead of getting his good camera, he pulls the cuffs of his sweatshirt a little higher, paws at his hair in a half-hearted attempt to make it lie down, and heads for the window. Outside, it's full dark and the carnival is already going strong. Within the ocean of light that is always Times Square at night, bob a swarm of glittering hats, light-up plastic wands and noisemakers, glow-sticks, camera flashes, red-white-and-blue LEDs.
He stands there looking down on it for what must be several minutes before realizing that House's snoring has stopped. He turns to see if that means House is awake, only to find him standing not four feet away, watching. It should have startled him, Wilson thinks, but it didn't; few things do, these days.
"Penny for your thoughts," House says. "But for you, I'll go as high as a nickel." He comes to stand beside Wilson at the window. "I could have gone a buck a pop, if you hadn't made me tip everyone."
Wilson ignores the jab. "Look down there," he says. "Can you imagine being in the middle of that many people?"
"I have been in the middle of that many people," House says. "It was called prison. And that wasn't what you were thinking about."
"I wasn't thinking about anything," Wilson says, but even as he's saying it he doesn't know why he's saying it, because he'll end up telling House anyway. "Okay," he says. "I was thinking about something." He focuses on the lights below; Broadway is ablaze with color from end to end. "I was thinking about Jamie Copeland."
House blinks. "What Jamie Copeland? The baby Jamie Copeland? The baby we delivered in East Jesus, North Dakota?" House shakes his head. "Don't worry about her. She'll be fine. She had a high Apgar."
"That's not what I was thinking about," Wilson says. "Well, I was, but that wasn't the main thing I was thinking about. I was thinking about ... her name."
"Is your blood sugar low?" House says. "Do we need to order dinner now?"
"No, House. Her name. She's named after me."
"And?"
"And ... well." Wilson feels his shoulders sag, deflating. Now he's not sure why this seemed so important just a moment ago. "What if she turns out to be the only mark of me left in the world?"
"The only ... "
"Who's going to remember, House? I'll just be gone."
"Little late for this," House says, and his voice has gone rough. "We should've had this talk before you hit menopause."
"I've never had kids," Wilson begins, but this time House cuts him off.
"You've helped a lot of kids stay alive," House says. "If you think that means nothing, I can't help you." He stops and looks around, finally hitches over to the rolling hockey bag he's been using as luggage for the last few thousand miles. He unzips the main compartment, rummages around and comes up with a gleaming bottle, a blue and gold label slanting across the front.
"I was going to open this at midnight," House says, "but I think it's time now." He sets the bottle on the coffee table while he fetches new tumblers from the counter. "If it's a monument you want," he says, settling himself on the sofa and cracking the seal on the bottle, "then yeah. You're screwed. But if you think, just because there's no statue of you in some courtyard somewhere, some memorial wing named after you in some hospital, that you haven't left a mark, then you're ignoring reality."
The golden liquid traces a smoky trail down Wilson's throat. House sips at his own drink, then eyes it thoughtfully.
"But," he says. "If spawning, spreading your genetic material as far as possible, would make you feel better, there's always sperm donation. Look at you. You're tall, smart, educated. Your spunk would be in high demand."
"Is that ... supposed to be a compliment?"
"If you can't tell, I'll have to take back the 'smart' part of it. Improve humanity's future, Wilson. Spank the monkey for the greater good. And they'd pay you for it!"
Wilson puts his drink down and covers his face with both hands.
"We can't be having this conversation," he says.
"What?" House says. "I can't hear you with your hands over your face."
Wilson doesn't say anything. He wants a different drink. He wants a cigarette. He wants to be in Lubec, Maine, freezing his ass off, looking at a lighthouse. Most of all, he wants to not be having this conversation. He takes his hands away.
"I don't want to have this conversation," he says.
House drains his own drink and places it on the table.
"Fine," he says. "We don't have this conversation. It's pointless and boring."
"Good," Wilson says. "I'm glad you see it my way."
"The only thing that matters," House says, continuing on as if Wilson hasn't spoken, "is that you're wrong."
"Oh, well, good."
Oddly enough, House doesn't say anything else and seems content to leave it there.
"So you're ... just going to leave it there?" Wilson says.
House inspects his drink. He's wearing one of his black t-shirts and the hotel robe; the white on black effect makes Wilson think of a reverse tuxedo. Other times, other places, other conversations that led down rabbit holes.
"Who's dropping the ball tonight?" House says, and it's not until he adds, "Is it another Supreme?" that Wilson realizes he's talking about Times Square.
"Uh," Wilson says, caught a little off-guard. "Uh. No. I think it's ... I think they only did it that one year."
House takes another drink, a big one this time, and when he sets down the glass, it's empty.
"Wilson," he says.
"What?"
"Either go down there and find some genetically-compatible person to carry on your noble legacy, or else decide to carpe this diem, have some damn fun, and order dinner. I'll be less annoyed either way."
"All right," Wilson says, and stops, momentarily surprised at himself. Things, he supposes, are as all right as they're ever going to be. And he can live with that.
The hideous blatttt! of the elk bugle startles him out of his reverie.
"House!"
"Shabbat shalom, Wilson," House says.
"That's not a shofar," Wilson feels compelled to point out.
"It's Friday night," House says. "You take the shofar life gives you."
Wilson groans and lets his head fall back, only to jerk forward with a wince as something sharp pokes him in the nape of his neck. Of course -- it's House's ridiculous antler cap, caught between the cushions.
Wilson plucks it out by one antler, and before he knows what he's doing, he's adjusting the damn thing on top of his head. It ... sort of fits.
"See?" House says. He sticks the bugle in his mouth and waggles it like a loaded cigar. "This is getting you hot."
"I've always been hot." Wilson gets up, holding out his hand. "Gimme that."
When he blows the elk bugle, its vibrations make his lips tingle and his arm hair prick up. It is weirdly fun. The last time he'd used a hunter's call, he'd been half-frozen in the woods with leaky boots and Tucker, who could have taught House a thing or two about general assholery and the sowing of guilt trips. He'd never gotten any more anniversary reminders from good old Tucker, and he'd never cared. Wilson smiles and sounds the call again, while House pours them both another drink they don't technically need.
"Shabbat shalom," Wilson says, and trades the bugle for the whisky glass.
House's reply is cut short by a surge of noise from the Square: The entire crowd calling out, "TEN!"
Ten seconds. Wilson hurries to the window. NINE! EIGHT --
House is beside him by SIX!
What's outside is a glittering, pulsing sea with a crystal disco ball for a moon. It's appalling. It's perfect. His own window-reflection, drunken and antlered, looks back at him for a moment -- as if from his past, in a bad student movie in a park in Montreal.
"Three," says Wilson. "Two. One."
The dropping of the ball is really not that spectacular, but the way the crowd cheers, you'd think their team just won the World Series.
"People are idiots," House says.
Wilson raises his glass. "Happy New Year, House."
House is smiling at him, finally, and the hard lines of his face are softened by that, and the dim light, and the alcohol. He answers Wilson's toast with a clink.
"Happy Everything, Wilson."
~ fin
Authors: nightdog_barks, with significant contributions by blackmare
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: It's New Year's Eve in New York City, and Wilson ... well, he's having an existential crisis. 2,867 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is a sequel to All Who Wander, and, like that story, is set in that Indeterminate Timeline of the Riververse. No worries if you haven't read that one; all you really need to know is that while stuck in a prairie snowstorm, House and Wilson delivered a baby, which the parents named after Wilson. And that House bought some obnoxious Montana souvenirs. *g* The cut-text is a line snippet from Steely Dan's Katy Lied.
Beta: pwcorgigirl and blackmare, with especial thanks to deelaundry for her invaluable NYC footwork.
Countdown
"Tip the guy, Godfrey," Wilson says, and House looks around, partly because he's tired and he's momentarily forgotten that his name is Godfrey Powell here, and partly because what, it's always Wilson's job to do the tipping. The bellboy, for his part, is just standing there. He's done his duty of showing them where the lilliputian refrigerator is and how the TV operates, and now he wants his reward. One look at Wilson's face tells House he's not giving in on this.
"Fine," House mutters, and digs in his pocket for a few bills. Wilson's been this way ever since they got to New York, nervous and jumpy, with his jaw set in that stubborn way he gets. Nervous driving into the city. Nervous at Hertz, where they'd dropped off the blue Nissan. Nervous in the cab, where he'd studied the driver's name and photo like he suspected the guy might be a moonlighting axe murderer. Nervous in the hotel entryway, nervous in the hotel lobby eight floors up, where he'd scanned the crowds of New Year's Eve celebrants, ticking off faces and voices from the memory-list in his mind.
"It was your idea for this last-minute detour, so you can at least tip the bellboy," Wilson says. He's dropped his backpack at his feet and is standing there, arms crossed.
"Yeah, well, see what my last-minute got us?" House ignores the road-ache in his leg and raises both hands to encompass the room, no, the Executive Suite, with its partitioned spaces, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Times Square, sofa and armchairs, and its executive round table for all their executive meetings. He lowers his hands and gimps into the room.
"I didn't ask for it," he says. "I made the reservation in Rochester."
Wilson's eyes narrow. "In Rochester?" he says. "Rochester, Minnesota? What was I doing at the time?"
"You may have been ... asleep," House admits. "But look! It's a suite. And I didn't even ask for it!"
"Hotels do that," Wilson says. "You get in late, they give your reserved room away, give you whatever they've got left."
"Yeah," House says. "That's it." He hoists his own backpack a little higher on his shoulder. Somewhere in this dream room, he knows, there must be a gleaming expanse of a whirlpool bath calling his name.
"Whatever you pour for yourself," House says, "bring me one." He's limping very obviously toward the bathroom, and Wilson will know that means he'll be in the tub.
House needs the tub, and Wilson needs a drink, and if nobody points that out to him, Wilson will nervously sulk, and not drink, and an hour from now he might still be wearing his damn shoes.
He's run the water as hot as it will come and eased his way in; the porcelain tiles drip with condensation and the steam is warm in his lungs.
It's the kind of bathroom where there's a plush, cushioned stool beside the tub, and when Wilson arrives with two tumblers, House nods at that. Have a seat, which Wilson does, and See? House thinks. Still got his shoes on.
House can fix that. He waits for Wilson to set the glasses on the level outer rim of the tub, and then cups his hands together to scoop up water, as if he's about to splash it on his own face. Only he doesn't -- he dumps it on Wilson's feet.
Wilson stares at him, mouth half-open.
"Shoes off, booze in," House says. "Not necessarily in that order."
Wilson looks like he's going to say something, but he doesn't, and silently he toes off his shoes and peels off his socks.
All this time, House thinks, and he still has trouble taking off his armor.
He sinks a little deeper in the tub. "Maybe you should just bring the bottle in here," he says. When Wilson still doesn't say anything, he presses forward. "And the room service menu."
Wilson raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it a little late for dinner?"
"Breakfast," House says. "Get our orders in before midnight for breakfast." He cranes his neck, tries to peer through the steam. "Is there a phone in here?"
There is.
When House wakes the next morning, it's to the cheery call of "Room service!" and to the fact that his right hand is still asleep, trapped under Wilson's shoulder. Someone didn't fully close the blackout curtains last night, and sunlight streams into the room through the gap.
"Ah," House says, and "nuh," as he sits up. Both he and Wilson are wearing hotel robes, white fluffy terrycloth with the hotel logo embroidered on the chest. The remnants of their drinks sit on the bedside tables, still giving off faint fumes of bourbon, and they're both in the same bed, something that House has long since ceased to care about.
The room service cart bears not only breakfast, but the morning papers -- the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and USA Today. All of the headlines are the same -- New Year's Eve, another successful circuit around the Sun. House concentrates instead on the food as the room service guy unloads the cart -- scrambled eggs, applewood-smoked bacon, toast, bagels, lox, cream cheese, blueberry pancakes, maple syrup, sausages, smoked whitefish, blintzes ... it's like a deli exploded inside a Williams-Sonoma catalog.
"Wilson," House says. "Hey, Wilson." Wilson just mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over.
"Wilson?" No answer but a soft snore. "You're going to regret this."
House locates his backpack beside the tub in the bathroom. He looks at the tub longingly, then turns away. He can always have another soak later, and there's work to be done.
The first blast from the Quaker Boy "Ruttin' Fever" Bull Elk Bugle call startles even House -- it begins with the sound of someone torturing a balloon animal and progresses from there to the trumpeting cries of an escaped circus elephant bellowing in a rabies-fueled rage. The effect on Wilson is gratifying.
"Aaaaahahhhhh House what the hell -- " He stops screaming long enough to sit straight up in bed and point an accusing finger at House. "And what is that on your head?"
"If this isn't getting you hot, I want my money back."
"What?"
House waggles the hunting call and shakes his head to make the bells on his bobcat-mascot hat jingle.
"Mating call!" he says. "A song of love for Cervus canadensis."
"Cervus whatsis?"
"Stag," House says. "Wapiti. Elk." He waggles the call again. "I may be the biggest brute in the forest, but remember, I'm already wounded by love."
"Mortally, by the sound of it," Wilson says. He runs both hands through his hair and sighs. "Hey, you know that time you died, and then it turned out you hadn't?"
"Which one?"
"Any of them. We could change the ending to that story."
"If you're gonna kill me, do it quick. The blintzes'll get cold." House scoots closer, snatches the antler-hat monstrosity off his own head and plunks it onto Wilson's. "Be not afraid," he says, and bugles another magnificent elk call. "Feeling frisky yet, Bambi?"
"If that's the hip new slang for 'hung over,' then yes." He sniffs at the air. "Please tell me there's some ... oatmeal in all this. Or, or ... granola. Or something."
"If there's not, it's your fault. As I recall, you placed the order. Want a drink?"
Wilson looks revolted.
"Of orange juice," House clarifies. "Come on, up and at 'em." He picks up the remote and aims it at the TV. "We've got an endless supply of food and drink, this hotel package gets every sports channel known to man -- what else do we need?"
Six hours later, it's apparent that what they need is a massage. Three hours after that, House has another long hot soak, and after that, the noise of yet another bowl game rising from the television, they both doze off, sitting next to each other on the sofa.
Wilson wakes up first, nodding himself to consciousness to the sound of House's snoring. He sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. House doesn't snore very often, but when he does, it's roughly the equivalent of a man methodically tearing large sheets of cardboard into smaller pieces.
He stands up slowly, moving carefully so as not to wake House. House's head is tilted back, his mouth open, throat exposed, larynx vibrating ever so slightly every time another sheet of cardboard rips. Wilson thinks about taking some photos, a series of photos -- Man in Repose, maybe, or Man at the End, something like that. The end of what? The year.
Instead of getting his good camera, he pulls the cuffs of his sweatshirt a little higher, paws at his hair in a half-hearted attempt to make it lie down, and heads for the window. Outside, it's full dark and the carnival is already going strong. Within the ocean of light that is always Times Square at night, bob a swarm of glittering hats, light-up plastic wands and noisemakers, glow-sticks, camera flashes, red-white-and-blue LEDs.
He stands there looking down on it for what must be several minutes before realizing that House's snoring has stopped. He turns to see if that means House is awake, only to find him standing not four feet away, watching. It should have startled him, Wilson thinks, but it didn't; few things do, these days.
"Penny for your thoughts," House says. "But for you, I'll go as high as a nickel." He comes to stand beside Wilson at the window. "I could have gone a buck a pop, if you hadn't made me tip everyone."
Wilson ignores the jab. "Look down there," he says. "Can you imagine being in the middle of that many people?"
"I have been in the middle of that many people," House says. "It was called prison. And that wasn't what you were thinking about."
"I wasn't thinking about anything," Wilson says, but even as he's saying it he doesn't know why he's saying it, because he'll end up telling House anyway. "Okay," he says. "I was thinking about something." He focuses on the lights below; Broadway is ablaze with color from end to end. "I was thinking about Jamie Copeland."
House blinks. "What Jamie Copeland? The baby Jamie Copeland? The baby we delivered in East Jesus, North Dakota?" House shakes his head. "Don't worry about her. She'll be fine. She had a high Apgar."
"That's not what I was thinking about," Wilson says. "Well, I was, but that wasn't the main thing I was thinking about. I was thinking about ... her name."
"Is your blood sugar low?" House says. "Do we need to order dinner now?"
"No, House. Her name. She's named after me."
"And?"
"And ... well." Wilson feels his shoulders sag, deflating. Now he's not sure why this seemed so important just a moment ago. "What if she turns out to be the only mark of me left in the world?"
"The only ... "
"Who's going to remember, House? I'll just be gone."
"Little late for this," House says, and his voice has gone rough. "We should've had this talk before you hit menopause."
"I've never had kids," Wilson begins, but this time House cuts him off.
"You've helped a lot of kids stay alive," House says. "If you think that means nothing, I can't help you." He stops and looks around, finally hitches over to the rolling hockey bag he's been using as luggage for the last few thousand miles. He unzips the main compartment, rummages around and comes up with a gleaming bottle, a blue and gold label slanting across the front.
"I was going to open this at midnight," House says, "but I think it's time now." He sets the bottle on the coffee table while he fetches new tumblers from the counter. "If it's a monument you want," he says, settling himself on the sofa and cracking the seal on the bottle, "then yeah. You're screwed. But if you think, just because there's no statue of you in some courtyard somewhere, some memorial wing named after you in some hospital, that you haven't left a mark, then you're ignoring reality."
The golden liquid traces a smoky trail down Wilson's throat. House sips at his own drink, then eyes it thoughtfully.
"But," he says. "If spawning, spreading your genetic material as far as possible, would make you feel better, there's always sperm donation. Look at you. You're tall, smart, educated. Your spunk would be in high demand."
"Is that ... supposed to be a compliment?"
"If you can't tell, I'll have to take back the 'smart' part of it. Improve humanity's future, Wilson. Spank the monkey for the greater good. And they'd pay you for it!"
Wilson puts his drink down and covers his face with both hands.
"We can't be having this conversation," he says.
"What?" House says. "I can't hear you with your hands over your face."
Wilson doesn't say anything. He wants a different drink. He wants a cigarette. He wants to be in Lubec, Maine, freezing his ass off, looking at a lighthouse. Most of all, he wants to not be having this conversation. He takes his hands away.
"I don't want to have this conversation," he says.
House drains his own drink and places it on the table.
"Fine," he says. "We don't have this conversation. It's pointless and boring."
"Good," Wilson says. "I'm glad you see it my way."
"The only thing that matters," House says, continuing on as if Wilson hasn't spoken, "is that you're wrong."
"Oh, well, good."
Oddly enough, House doesn't say anything else and seems content to leave it there.
"So you're ... just going to leave it there?" Wilson says.
House inspects his drink. He's wearing one of his black t-shirts and the hotel robe; the white on black effect makes Wilson think of a reverse tuxedo. Other times, other places, other conversations that led down rabbit holes.
"Who's dropping the ball tonight?" House says, and it's not until he adds, "Is it another Supreme?" that Wilson realizes he's talking about Times Square.
"Uh," Wilson says, caught a little off-guard. "Uh. No. I think it's ... I think they only did it that one year."
House takes another drink, a big one this time, and when he sets down the glass, it's empty.
"Wilson," he says.
"What?"
"Either go down there and find some genetically-compatible person to carry on your noble legacy, or else decide to carpe this diem, have some damn fun, and order dinner. I'll be less annoyed either way."
"All right," Wilson says, and stops, momentarily surprised at himself. Things, he supposes, are as all right as they're ever going to be. And he can live with that.
The hideous blatttt! of the elk bugle startles him out of his reverie.
"House!"
"Shabbat shalom, Wilson," House says.
"That's not a shofar," Wilson feels compelled to point out.
"It's Friday night," House says. "You take the shofar life gives you."
Wilson groans and lets his head fall back, only to jerk forward with a wince as something sharp pokes him in the nape of his neck. Of course -- it's House's ridiculous antler cap, caught between the cushions.
Wilson plucks it out by one antler, and before he knows what he's doing, he's adjusting the damn thing on top of his head. It ... sort of fits.
"See?" House says. He sticks the bugle in his mouth and waggles it like a loaded cigar. "This is getting you hot."
"I've always been hot." Wilson gets up, holding out his hand. "Gimme that."
When he blows the elk bugle, its vibrations make his lips tingle and his arm hair prick up. It is weirdly fun. The last time he'd used a hunter's call, he'd been half-frozen in the woods with leaky boots and Tucker, who could have taught House a thing or two about general assholery and the sowing of guilt trips. He'd never gotten any more anniversary reminders from good old Tucker, and he'd never cared. Wilson smiles and sounds the call again, while House pours them both another drink they don't technically need.
"Shabbat shalom," Wilson says, and trades the bugle for the whisky glass.
House's reply is cut short by a surge of noise from the Square: The entire crowd calling out, "TEN!"
Ten seconds. Wilson hurries to the window. NINE! EIGHT --
House is beside him by SIX!
What's outside is a glittering, pulsing sea with a crystal disco ball for a moon. It's appalling. It's perfect. His own window-reflection, drunken and antlered, looks back at him for a moment -- as if from his past, in a bad student movie in a park in Montreal.
"Three," says Wilson. "Two. One."
The dropping of the ball is really not that spectacular, but the way the crowd cheers, you'd think their team just won the World Series.
"People are idiots," House says.
Wilson raises his glass. "Happy New Year, House."
House is smiling at him, finally, and the hard lines of his face are softened by that, and the dim light, and the alcohol. He answers Wilson's toast with a clink.
"Happy Everything, Wilson."
~ fin