Random ficlets
A couple random ficlets not really substantial enough to deserve their own posts. All House, with House/Wilson undertones or overtones. Yay? Not yay? I'm tired, shut up.
One Thing Wilson Doesn't Know About House
G
Notes: This was meant to be part of a Five Things set, but the other four never quite seemed to be good enough. It's more of an experiment in style than anything else.
1.
That when he was seven, he had another best friend named James, who lived two houses down, loved to climb trees, and owned the best marble collection in the world, greens and yellows and blues, glass that caught the light, painting colors on the ground as they played. They knew each other for three months, summer fading into autumn, and House can remember the scrape of pavement under his bare knees, the feel of summer sweat forming on his skin, the roar of airplane engines in the background, distant yet close. They got their hands impossibly sticky with ice cream and candy in the afternoons, their mothers smiling indulgently with shakes of their heads. James was the sort of sharp and quick that House could admire. The same age, and yet older, because he had a brother who was ten and who passed on the hard won wisdom of those three years difference. He had bright, blue eyes, dirty blond hair and an easy smile that charmed all the parents, and House can remember that summer as one of the best, a time filled with things to do, people to be, the world still an odd, magical place. When House thinks of him, he thinks of those things, the smell of barbecue in the air, the taste of summer on his tongue, the streaks of green grass stains on his legs, and not the last time they saw each other, when James' father had been reassigned early, late afternoon, late fall, when the light was beginning to dip below the houses, the leaves crunching under their sneakers as they hugged, tightly, their parents watching on, squeezing the breath out of each other because neither wanted to let go.
That sometimes he still thinks of James, when he and Wilson are on the balcony, sunlight on their faces, dreaming up pranks of play, people to terrorize, feeling seven again and loving every moment of it. There are times when he wonders what happened to that James, in the end, whether or not he found another Greg, somewhere else. Someone else who understood, who would be willing to play marbles with him on cement sidewalks, flicking the glass with sure fingers.
brush the cobwebs out of the sky
PG
Notes: For savemoony, who needed some cheering up. More of the House/BSG-verse. House and Wilson and the map to Earth.
Wilson has not seen much of House since Galactica released what they know of the Map to Earth (as the papers call it, important enough to warrant the capitalization). His own schedule hasn't changed at all since then, so he knows that it's not him, not a shift in his own patterns.
Part of him isn't surprised, because he knows that House is a doctor by coincidence, a random happenstance of chance, that in the end, House isn't really in it for the medicine itself.
Late at night, after a long shift, he finds House at the table, bent over star maps, the constellations printed in the papers, tracing lines with his fingers, connecting dots in his mind.
"Should come to bed," Wilson says. "You do have a day job, after all."
House snorts without even looking up from his work. "Yes, the scintillating and challenging task of treating sprained ankles and runny noses. I don't know how I get by every day." It's not that Wilson doesn't know how dissatisfied House is with their current situation. It's just that there's nothing either of them can do about it now, and they both know it. The Fleet needs doctors, and they're some of the few left.
"Fine. But don't complain to me if you're tired tomorrow." Wilson doesn't push any more than that, knowing that House needs this, needs the challenge of it. He presses a soft kiss to House's scratchy cheek before heading into the bedroom, liking the way the stubble scratches his lips, reminding him that they're both alive. He curls up in the bed by himself, falling asleep without waiting for House to join him.
One Thing Wilson Doesn't Know About House
G
Notes: This was meant to be part of a Five Things set, but the other four never quite seemed to be good enough. It's more of an experiment in style than anything else.
1.
That when he was seven, he had another best friend named James, who lived two houses down, loved to climb trees, and owned the best marble collection in the world, greens and yellows and blues, glass that caught the light, painting colors on the ground as they played. They knew each other for three months, summer fading into autumn, and House can remember the scrape of pavement under his bare knees, the feel of summer sweat forming on his skin, the roar of airplane engines in the background, distant yet close. They got their hands impossibly sticky with ice cream and candy in the afternoons, their mothers smiling indulgently with shakes of their heads. James was the sort of sharp and quick that House could admire. The same age, and yet older, because he had a brother who was ten and who passed on the hard won wisdom of those three years difference. He had bright, blue eyes, dirty blond hair and an easy smile that charmed all the parents, and House can remember that summer as one of the best, a time filled with things to do, people to be, the world still an odd, magical place. When House thinks of him, he thinks of those things, the smell of barbecue in the air, the taste of summer on his tongue, the streaks of green grass stains on his legs, and not the last time they saw each other, when James' father had been reassigned early, late afternoon, late fall, when the light was beginning to dip below the houses, the leaves crunching under their sneakers as they hugged, tightly, their parents watching on, squeezing the breath out of each other because neither wanted to let go.
That sometimes he still thinks of James, when he and Wilson are on the balcony, sunlight on their faces, dreaming up pranks of play, people to terrorize, feeling seven again and loving every moment of it. There are times when he wonders what happened to that James, in the end, whether or not he found another Greg, somewhere else. Someone else who understood, who would be willing to play marbles with him on cement sidewalks, flicking the glass with sure fingers.
brush the cobwebs out of the sky
PG
Notes: For savemoony, who needed some cheering up. More of the House/BSG-verse. House and Wilson and the map to Earth.
Wilson has not seen much of House since Galactica released what they know of the Map to Earth (as the papers call it, important enough to warrant the capitalization). His own schedule hasn't changed at all since then, so he knows that it's not him, not a shift in his own patterns.
Part of him isn't surprised, because he knows that House is a doctor by coincidence, a random happenstance of chance, that in the end, House isn't really in it for the medicine itself.
Late at night, after a long shift, he finds House at the table, bent over star maps, the constellations printed in the papers, tracing lines with his fingers, connecting dots in his mind.
"Should come to bed," Wilson says. "You do have a day job, after all."
House snorts without even looking up from his work. "Yes, the scintillating and challenging task of treating sprained ankles and runny noses. I don't know how I get by every day." It's not that Wilson doesn't know how dissatisfied House is with their current situation. It's just that there's nothing either of them can do about it now, and they both know it. The Fleet needs doctors, and they're some of the few left.
"Fine. But don't complain to me if you're tired tomorrow." Wilson doesn't push any more than that, knowing that House needs this, needs the challenge of it. He presses a soft kiss to House's scratchy cheek before heading into the bedroom, liking the way the stubble scratches his lips, reminding him that they're both alive. He curls up in the bed by himself, falling asleep without waiting for House to join him.