Fic: Road Test
Title: Road Test
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For finale
Words: 700 (on the nose)
Summary: When did Wilson learn how to ride a motorcycle?
A/N: A (kind of silly) response to one of many questions I had in the final arc. WARNING: I've never written a fanfic in my life. Con crit is welcome and needed.
“No. There’s no reason we have to travel that way, Easy Rider.” Wilson crossed his arms and set his jaw.
House sighed loudly. “Wilson. We’re defying convention. Defying the law. Defying death itself. And you want to do it in a Ford Taurus?”
Wilson flapped a hand toward the bike perched ominously next to his friend’s. It was…black. And had two wheels. Wilson wasn’t sure of much else beyond that, other than the crushing sense of doom in his chest.
They were in the deserted parking lot of Safeway-for the irony, Wilson assumed.
He and House were supposed to take off for the open road tomorrow, and Wilson had spent the day trying to tie up loose ends-clearing the refrigerator of perishable items, paying ahead on the utility bills…just in case he or House came back to the loft.
Just in case.
Wilson shook his head and tried to focus on the insanity of the present.
“I-I don’t even have a license for that thing. What if we get pulled over?”
House blinked.
Hands flew to hips. “And oh, there’s also the fact that I can’t riiide a motorcycle.”
House rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware of your lameness, Wilson. Just, just trust me. I’ll have you riding hog before you can say ‘primary neuroectodermal tumor.’”
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. OK. The worst that could happen was that he’d die five months sooner than he’d thought. OK.
Wilson laughed, sounding slightly crazed to himself.
“OK. Show me what to do.”
He peered at House, who was gazing at him with that look. That look that made Wilson internally squirm, as if House could see every doubt, every dark thought that Wilson preferred to keep neatly tucked under a pricey suit.
“What, now you’re having second thoughts?” Wilson spat out, hating the high pitch of his voice. “I have a perfectly good car-”
“Oh gawd. Just get over here.”
Wilson approached the bike as if it might suddenly lunge at him. “Fantastic,” House said. “Now come around so I can explain what all these thingys are.”
Wilson frowned as House began to point out the clutch, gear shifter, brakes, accelerator. Left side is for shifting, right is for braking, he said.
It all seemed so…complicated, Wilson thought.
“House,” he said suddenly. “This-this seems a little beyond single-lesson material.”
“Wilson, some of the most profoundly dumb people in the world ride motorcycles. You’ll be fine, in other words.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, just to keep some control over his features. “You’re an inspiring teacher,” he said, going automatically to the familiar tone of their everyday conversations. “Really. This is like Stand and Deliver.”
House stopped his tutorial. He was silent for a couple beats as he looked at Wilson. “Here,” he said, grabbing a helmet from his own bike. “I got you a helmet and some gloves. And you can borrow one of my leather jackets…You’re welcome, by the way. You’re gonna look waaayyy cooler than you ever did pre-cancer.”
“House-Wait. How much did you spend on all of this? And when…How did you even get both bikes here?”
“No time for questions!” House barked cheerfully. “It’s time to begin the rest of our lives. Here in the Safeway parking lot.”
House quickly scanned Wilson up and down. “And the more I think about it, the more I think you’re gonna look like the Fonz. You better grow out that five o’clock shadow you’ve been nursing - for the nurses, presumably.”
Wilson looked House in the eyes. This was real, wasn’t it? House wasn’t dead. And he’d somehow escaped a fire, arranged a fake death, hid out until his own funeral was underway…all because, at some point, he’d decided that he wanted to be there for every minute of Wilson’s remaining time.
And Wilson hadn’t asked questions. He’d just accepted that this was House, and this was what their relationship was.
So…why start now?
OK.
There’d be plenty of time for questions later anyway, when they were on the road. At least five months of question time. Maybe more.
“OK,” Wilson said, and House smiled, just a little. “Show me what to do.”
--End
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For finale
Words: 700 (on the nose)
Summary: When did Wilson learn how to ride a motorcycle?
A/N: A (kind of silly) response to one of many questions I had in the final arc. WARNING: I've never written a fanfic in my life. Con crit is welcome and needed.
“No. There’s no reason we have to travel that way, Easy Rider.” Wilson crossed his arms and set his jaw.
House sighed loudly. “Wilson. We’re defying convention. Defying the law. Defying death itself. And you want to do it in a Ford Taurus?”
Wilson flapped a hand toward the bike perched ominously next to his friend’s. It was…black. And had two wheels. Wilson wasn’t sure of much else beyond that, other than the crushing sense of doom in his chest.
They were in the deserted parking lot of Safeway-for the irony, Wilson assumed.
He and House were supposed to take off for the open road tomorrow, and Wilson had spent the day trying to tie up loose ends-clearing the refrigerator of perishable items, paying ahead on the utility bills…just in case he or House came back to the loft.
Just in case.
Wilson shook his head and tried to focus on the insanity of the present.
“I-I don’t even have a license for that thing. What if we get pulled over?”
House blinked.
Hands flew to hips. “And oh, there’s also the fact that I can’t riiide a motorcycle.”
House rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware of your lameness, Wilson. Just, just trust me. I’ll have you riding hog before you can say ‘primary neuroectodermal tumor.’”
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. OK. The worst that could happen was that he’d die five months sooner than he’d thought. OK.
Wilson laughed, sounding slightly crazed to himself.
“OK. Show me what to do.”
He peered at House, who was gazing at him with that look. That look that made Wilson internally squirm, as if House could see every doubt, every dark thought that Wilson preferred to keep neatly tucked under a pricey suit.
“What, now you’re having second thoughts?” Wilson spat out, hating the high pitch of his voice. “I have a perfectly good car-”
“Oh gawd. Just get over here.”
Wilson approached the bike as if it might suddenly lunge at him. “Fantastic,” House said. “Now come around so I can explain what all these thingys are.”
Wilson frowned as House began to point out the clutch, gear shifter, brakes, accelerator. Left side is for shifting, right is for braking, he said.
It all seemed so…complicated, Wilson thought.
“House,” he said suddenly. “This-this seems a little beyond single-lesson material.”
“Wilson, some of the most profoundly dumb people in the world ride motorcycles. You’ll be fine, in other words.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, just to keep some control over his features. “You’re an inspiring teacher,” he said, going automatically to the familiar tone of their everyday conversations. “Really. This is like Stand and Deliver.”
House stopped his tutorial. He was silent for a couple beats as he looked at Wilson. “Here,” he said, grabbing a helmet from his own bike. “I got you a helmet and some gloves. And you can borrow one of my leather jackets…You’re welcome, by the way. You’re gonna look waaayyy cooler than you ever did pre-cancer.”
“House-Wait. How much did you spend on all of this? And when…How did you even get both bikes here?”
“No time for questions!” House barked cheerfully. “It’s time to begin the rest of our lives. Here in the Safeway parking lot.”
House quickly scanned Wilson up and down. “And the more I think about it, the more I think you’re gonna look like the Fonz. You better grow out that five o’clock shadow you’ve been nursing - for the nurses, presumably.”
Wilson looked House in the eyes. This was real, wasn’t it? House wasn’t dead. And he’d somehow escaped a fire, arranged a fake death, hid out until his own funeral was underway…all because, at some point, he’d decided that he wanted to be there for every minute of Wilson’s remaining time.
And Wilson hadn’t asked questions. He’d just accepted that this was House, and this was what their relationship was.
So…why start now?
OK.
There’d be plenty of time for questions later anyway, when they were on the road. At least five months of question time. Maybe more.
“OK,” Wilson said, and House smiled, just a little. “Show me what to do.”
--End