Daily Drabble #17
Daily Drabble #17
Rating: G
Warning: kid!fic (part of the Church-verse)
Word Count: 773
The first time Stacy calls Wilson, she can't even make herself dial the number.
The second time Stacy calls Wilson, she hangs up before the phone even rings.
The third time Stacy calls Wilson, a woman answers the phone, and curtly informs her that she has the wrong number. Belatedly, she remembers that Wilson had given her his home phone number. His old phone number, when he had a wife, and a home.
Now he has a husband. She wonders if they have a home, or if they're holed up in Greg's apartment.
She finds his cell phone number scrawled in the back of an old check register, buried in the deepest part of her desk. She has torn apart her home to find it. She feels ashamed, but not remorseful.
The fourth and fifth times Stacy calls Wilson, she gets his voicemail. She doesn't leave a message.
She rehearses messages in front of her mirror as she takes off her makeup. "Are you insane?"; "Have you lost your everlasting mind?; "Were you screwing each other all along?"; "A baby? You actually think House is capable of helping you raise a baby? He's a baby himself. He's a child, he's emotionally stunted."; and finally, a whispered, "Why are you doing this?"
Mark walks in on her, but pretends not to notice. She knows that scowl, though. She leads him to bed, and makes him forget all about her temporary lapse of sanity.
The sixth time Stacy calls Wilson, he answers. She can hear House's voice booming in the background. She hangs up. Wilson doesn't call her back.
For months, she doesn't call. She doesn't think about Wilson, or House, or even Cuddy. She certainly doesn't think about their baby.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed boy. Curls, like Greg and Lisa. A bow mouth, that they will joke about and swear that Wilson had some part in. Long, thin fingers, Greg's elegant hands; short, boxy toes, Lisa's small feet. Round and roly-poly, squirming and wriggling under Wilson's tender hands, giggling at Lisa's silly faces, sleeping soundly on House's strong chest.
She doesn't think about the little bastard at all.
The seventh time Stacy calls Wilson, House answers.
"We're just feeding the little nuisance now," he explains into the phone, conversationally. "He hates bananas and peaches and he likes carrots and peas. What he really loves is when you mix rice cereal with breast milk, and then stir the peas into that. Disgusting, yes, but what can we do?"
She can't speak. She can't move. She wants so desperately to hang up the phone, and go back to whatever passes for her life now, but she can't. She's captivated by this person on the phone, a Greg House that she never realized existed, that she never realized could exist.
House's monologue continues on as the baby gurgles happily, "He's got food in just about every place you can imagine a baby might have, and a few that you might not. He's trying to put his foot in his mouth, despite the fact that he is physically incapable of doing so. The high chair tray keeps getting in the way. Does this stop him, I ask you? No, it does not."
Mark is home, she can see his headlights turning into the drive, but there's no chance of hanging up now. She's spellbound, mesmerized by the idea of having something she never knew she wanted.
"Personally, I'm all for hosing him off outside, but Jimmy will never go for it. Says we have to teach him to be civilized. Can you imagine? I'm in charge of civilizing another human being."
She's smiling, laughing silently, but there are tears beginning in the corners of her eyes.
"Don't call him again," House says, and he is suddenly cold, dangerous. "If you have something to say, write it in a letter, seal it up, and throw it in the nearest garbage disposal. If you have a question, ask me or don't ask at all. If you're curious, call Cuddy and maybe she'll send you a picture. If there's anything else you want, I'm afraid you'll just have to suffer."
She hears Wilson calling from the bathroom, "Are you finished? Hurry up, his water's getting cold. Good lord, he's got more in his hair than he does in his belly. Who are you talking to?"
When the line finally goes dead, Stacy puts a hand to her cheek and is surprised to find that her face is wet. When Mark asks her why she's crying, she can't answer him.
She isn't really sure herself.
(to be continued)
Rating: G
Warning: kid!fic (part of the Church-verse)
Word Count: 773
The first time Stacy calls Wilson, she can't even make herself dial the number.
The second time Stacy calls Wilson, she hangs up before the phone even rings.
The third time Stacy calls Wilson, a woman answers the phone, and curtly informs her that she has the wrong number. Belatedly, she remembers that Wilson had given her his home phone number. His old phone number, when he had a wife, and a home.
Now he has a husband. She wonders if they have a home, or if they're holed up in Greg's apartment.
She finds his cell phone number scrawled in the back of an old check register, buried in the deepest part of her desk. She has torn apart her home to find it. She feels ashamed, but not remorseful.
The fourth and fifth times Stacy calls Wilson, she gets his voicemail. She doesn't leave a message.
She rehearses messages in front of her mirror as she takes off her makeup. "Are you insane?"; "Have you lost your everlasting mind?; "Were you screwing each other all along?"; "A baby? You actually think House is capable of helping you raise a baby? He's a baby himself. He's a child, he's emotionally stunted."; and finally, a whispered, "Why are you doing this?"
Mark walks in on her, but pretends not to notice. She knows that scowl, though. She leads him to bed, and makes him forget all about her temporary lapse of sanity.
The sixth time Stacy calls Wilson, he answers. She can hear House's voice booming in the background. She hangs up. Wilson doesn't call her back.
For months, she doesn't call. She doesn't think about Wilson, or House, or even Cuddy. She certainly doesn't think about their baby.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed boy. Curls, like Greg and Lisa. A bow mouth, that they will joke about and swear that Wilson had some part in. Long, thin fingers, Greg's elegant hands; short, boxy toes, Lisa's small feet. Round and roly-poly, squirming and wriggling under Wilson's tender hands, giggling at Lisa's silly faces, sleeping soundly on House's strong chest.
She doesn't think about the little bastard at all.
The seventh time Stacy calls Wilson, House answers.
"We're just feeding the little nuisance now," he explains into the phone, conversationally. "He hates bananas and peaches and he likes carrots and peas. What he really loves is when you mix rice cereal with breast milk, and then stir the peas into that. Disgusting, yes, but what can we do?"
She can't speak. She can't move. She wants so desperately to hang up the phone, and go back to whatever passes for her life now, but she can't. She's captivated by this person on the phone, a Greg House that she never realized existed, that she never realized could exist.
House's monologue continues on as the baby gurgles happily, "He's got food in just about every place you can imagine a baby might have, and a few that you might not. He's trying to put his foot in his mouth, despite the fact that he is physically incapable of doing so. The high chair tray keeps getting in the way. Does this stop him, I ask you? No, it does not."
Mark is home, she can see his headlights turning into the drive, but there's no chance of hanging up now. She's spellbound, mesmerized by the idea of having something she never knew she wanted.
"Personally, I'm all for hosing him off outside, but Jimmy will never go for it. Says we have to teach him to be civilized. Can you imagine? I'm in charge of civilizing another human being."
She's smiling, laughing silently, but there are tears beginning in the corners of her eyes.
"Don't call him again," House says, and he is suddenly cold, dangerous. "If you have something to say, write it in a letter, seal it up, and throw it in the nearest garbage disposal. If you have a question, ask me or don't ask at all. If you're curious, call Cuddy and maybe she'll send you a picture. If there's anything else you want, I'm afraid you'll just have to suffer."
She hears Wilson calling from the bathroom, "Are you finished? Hurry up, his water's getting cold. Good lord, he's got more in his hair than he does in his belly. Who are you talking to?"
When the line finally goes dead, Stacy puts a hand to her cheek and is surprised to find that her face is wet. When Mark asks her why she's crying, she can't answer him.
She isn't really sure herself.
(to be continued)