Daily Drabble #7
Daily Drabble #7
Rating: G
Warning: None
Word Count: 647
The wormy-looking kid in the picture bears a haunting resemblance to the present-day House. Same scowl, same piercing glance. Even in black and white, those familiar eyes catch at Wilson's heart.
"You can't have been more than five or six," he muses, holding the picture out for House to see. He has appropriated the living room floor for his walk down House's memory lane.
House peers lazily from his supine position on the couch, where he is valiantly pretending not to care that Wilson is pawing through his old photographs. He recognizes the ratty blue jean cut-offs and the crabbing net immediately.
"Eight," he grumbles, switching channels angrily.
"There's no way. Look at how short you were!"
House grimaces, throwing down the remote and rolling off the couch. He limps over to Wilson, cane forgotten, and snatches the picture out of his hand.
"Hey!" Wilson protests, struggling to keep House from taking the box.
"Give them up. They're mine."
Wilson throws both legs over the box childishly, leaning back to reach for the phone. "Don't even think about it! Blythe gave me these. They're mine now."
"You're telling my mother on me?"
"You'd better believe it." He waves the phone threateningly under House's nose, and House finds himself grinning at Wilson's foolishness.
"Fine. You can keep them, but you're not making fun of me."
"Who was making fun of you? Wait...are you sensitive about being short as a kid?"
House's warning glance would have quailed a lesser man, but Wilson has built up an immunity over time. "I think you were adorable. Besides, Mother sent you my baby book. You've got plenty of ammunition against me, should I even attempt to give you a hard time."
House considers this, folding himself into a somewhat-comfortable position beside the box. "You were a round little puppy, weren't you?"
"Don't even start. I'm less concerned about your being a shortie, and more concerned about the life-span of your tapeworm."
"Never fear, Jimmy dear. He's gone, gone away. Besides, there's a much simpler answer."
"You were being starved for information?"
"Mom can't cook. At the time, Dad and I were subsisting on a diet of TV dinners and filched MREs, hence the crabbing. There should be some pictures with the two of us fishing, around the same time. It was Quest for Fire for a while there."
Wilson considers this, fishing around in the box for said pictures. Finding them, he looks them over adoringly, noting the surprising lack of acrimony between the two.
Before Wilson can comment, House explains, "It didn't really get bad between us until a few years later. At the time, he was happy to teach, and I was happy to learn."
They don't speak any more on the subject. Wilson pushes different pictures towards House, laughing at the amusing stories that may or may not be entirely made up. Some pictures are not received very well, and those Wilson puts aside, although he tries not to make it looks as if he's making a pile. He will question Blythe, of course, and they both know it.
"I'm going to bed," House announces, feigning a yawn. He winces as Wilson slaps the phone in his hand. "What's this for?"
"Call your parents," Wilson says. "I want to thank John for feeding you up." He pulls himself to standing, holding out his hand for House to grab.
Standing, House folds himself around Wilson, pitching the phone towards the couch, well out of Wilson's reach. "Take me to bed. You can voice your appreciation for my fine, manly form much better there."
Laughing, Wilson does as he's told, recognizing the lean, hungry look in House's eyes. Like the boy in the pictures, wanting to be loved, petted, and having no idea how to ask for it.
Wilson makes sure he doesn't have to ask.
Rating: G
Warning: None
Word Count: 647
The wormy-looking kid in the picture bears a haunting resemblance to the present-day House. Same scowl, same piercing glance. Even in black and white, those familiar eyes catch at Wilson's heart.
"You can't have been more than five or six," he muses, holding the picture out for House to see. He has appropriated the living room floor for his walk down House's memory lane.
House peers lazily from his supine position on the couch, where he is valiantly pretending not to care that Wilson is pawing through his old photographs. He recognizes the ratty blue jean cut-offs and the crabbing net immediately.
"Eight," he grumbles, switching channels angrily.
"There's no way. Look at how short you were!"
House grimaces, throwing down the remote and rolling off the couch. He limps over to Wilson, cane forgotten, and snatches the picture out of his hand.
"Hey!" Wilson protests, struggling to keep House from taking the box.
"Give them up. They're mine."
Wilson throws both legs over the box childishly, leaning back to reach for the phone. "Don't even think about it! Blythe gave me these. They're mine now."
"You're telling my mother on me?"
"You'd better believe it." He waves the phone threateningly under House's nose, and House finds himself grinning at Wilson's foolishness.
"Fine. You can keep them, but you're not making fun of me."
"Who was making fun of you? Wait...are you sensitive about being short as a kid?"
House's warning glance would have quailed a lesser man, but Wilson has built up an immunity over time. "I think you were adorable. Besides, Mother sent you my baby book. You've got plenty of ammunition against me, should I even attempt to give you a hard time."
House considers this, folding himself into a somewhat-comfortable position beside the box. "You were a round little puppy, weren't you?"
"Don't even start. I'm less concerned about your being a shortie, and more concerned about the life-span of your tapeworm."
"Never fear, Jimmy dear. He's gone, gone away. Besides, there's a much simpler answer."
"You were being starved for information?"
"Mom can't cook. At the time, Dad and I were subsisting on a diet of TV dinners and filched MREs, hence the crabbing. There should be some pictures with the two of us fishing, around the same time. It was Quest for Fire for a while there."
Wilson considers this, fishing around in the box for said pictures. Finding them, he looks them over adoringly, noting the surprising lack of acrimony between the two.
Before Wilson can comment, House explains, "It didn't really get bad between us until a few years later. At the time, he was happy to teach, and I was happy to learn."
They don't speak any more on the subject. Wilson pushes different pictures towards House, laughing at the amusing stories that may or may not be entirely made up. Some pictures are not received very well, and those Wilson puts aside, although he tries not to make it looks as if he's making a pile. He will question Blythe, of course, and they both know it.
"I'm going to bed," House announces, feigning a yawn. He winces as Wilson slaps the phone in his hand. "What's this for?"
"Call your parents," Wilson says. "I want to thank John for feeding you up." He pulls himself to standing, holding out his hand for House to grab.
Standing, House folds himself around Wilson, pitching the phone towards the couch, well out of Wilson's reach. "Take me to bed. You can voice your appreciation for my fine, manly form much better there."
Laughing, Wilson does as he's told, recognizing the lean, hungry look in House's eyes. Like the boy in the pictures, wanting to be loved, petted, and having no idea how to ask for it.
Wilson makes sure he doesn't have to ask.