Daily Drabble #11
Daily Drabble #11
Rating: G
Warning: fluff; kid!fic
Word Count: 321 words
A/N: Part of the Church-verse.
House has washed his red T-shirts with the whites again.
Wilson knows he's doing it on purpose, he can feel it in his bones. Also, the grin on his face whenever he spies Wilson's newly-pinked boxers gives the game away.
"Just leave them, I'll do them," he exhorts, but House will not be swayed from his helpfulness. Wilson has no choice but to allow him to continue on in his siege of the laundry room.
He tries, at least, and that should count for something.
Even if all their black clothes are covered in fuzzballs, and all of their towels appear to be tie-dyed, and all of their blue jeans have bleach splotches (Wilson's blue jeans, rather; House's jeans always seem to survive the fray), it's worth it.
Priceless, finding Greg House downstairs in his shirtsleeves and bare feet, gleefully sorting laundry into combinations that are guaranteed to cause the most damage. Their infant son strapped in his car seat, colicky crying silenced, fat chin wobbling as the washer moves into the spin cycle.
"I'm begging you to let me do them." The baby's purple onesie (what the hell had Cuddy been thinking?) and House's purple T-shirt are tossed haphazardly toward the pile of pure, innocent white towels (what the hell had Blythe been thinking?). House and his young counterpart continue on in complete silence.
Wisely, Wilson turns on his heel, wandering away from the carnage. A nice cup of tea, he thinks, or perhaps a couple of shots. He boils water, decides on hot chocolate, and finds himself seated on the living room sofa, with nothing at all to do.
After a few peaceful minutes, he pads to the top of the basement stairs, and bellows, "I know what you're doing! It won't work, do you hear? If I go insane, I'm taking you with me!"
Downstairs, House smiles a small, secret smile, cheerfully uncapping the bleach.
Rating: G
Warning: fluff; kid!fic
Word Count: 321 words
A/N: Part of the Church-verse.
House has washed his red T-shirts with the whites again.
Wilson knows he's doing it on purpose, he can feel it in his bones. Also, the grin on his face whenever he spies Wilson's newly-pinked boxers gives the game away.
"Just leave them, I'll do them," he exhorts, but House will not be swayed from his helpfulness. Wilson has no choice but to allow him to continue on in his siege of the laundry room.
He tries, at least, and that should count for something.
Even if all their black clothes are covered in fuzzballs, and all of their towels appear to be tie-dyed, and all of their blue jeans have bleach splotches (Wilson's blue jeans, rather; House's jeans always seem to survive the fray), it's worth it.
Priceless, finding Greg House downstairs in his shirtsleeves and bare feet, gleefully sorting laundry into combinations that are guaranteed to cause the most damage. Their infant son strapped in his car seat, colicky crying silenced, fat chin wobbling as the washer moves into the spin cycle.
"I'm begging you to let me do them." The baby's purple onesie (what the hell had Cuddy been thinking?) and House's purple T-shirt are tossed haphazardly toward the pile of pure, innocent white towels (what the hell had Blythe been thinking?). House and his young counterpart continue on in complete silence.
Wisely, Wilson turns on his heel, wandering away from the carnage. A nice cup of tea, he thinks, or perhaps a couple of shots. He boils water, decides on hot chocolate, and finds himself seated on the living room sofa, with nothing at all to do.
After a few peaceful minutes, he pads to the top of the basement stairs, and bellows, "I know what you're doing! It won't work, do you hear? If I go insane, I'm taking you with me!"
Downstairs, House smiles a small, secret smile, cheerfully uncapping the bleach.