First Kisses (7/13) for phoenixangel13 "Risk"
vii. Risk
Prompt was: It's said you have to take big risks to get a lot of good luck, so on friday the 13th, house (or wilson, your choice) has to take the biggest risk of all to keep away the bad luck.
Given me by: phoenixangel13
It's been a bad day. For House, this is saying something. He's the king of bad days, after all.
He refuses to put any stock in Cameron's superstitious wailings about it being Friday the thirteenth...at first.
Then his second patient of the day dies.
The first patient is still alive, but barely, and Cuddy is breathing down his neck about clinic duty. This, on top of the fact that his Ipod is a piece of shit, his leg is throbbing like a romance novel cock, and he's completely out of Vicodin, are enough to sell him on the idea of Friday the thirteenth.
He stumps down to the clinic on the off-chance that he can find Wilson and bully a Vicodin script out of him. He doubts it will work, but it's worth a try. Besides, it'll get Cuddy off his back for a moment, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Wilson, like a good dog, always comes when he's wanted, and is standing at the nurse's station, as if having been planted there by a loving god.
That's where the dog simile ends, because Wilson's tail is decidedly not wagging at the sight of his master.
"House!"
Uh-oh. Evasive maneuvers. House picks up a random file and makes as if to the appropriate exam room, but Wilson is having none of it.
"Why are you already out of Vicodin? What the hell do you think..."
Wilson is geared up for a really good lecture, but House breaks in before he can get a good head of steam, "Who talked?"
"Like I'll give up my sources that easily," Wilson says, arms crossed, the very image of pissed-off Jewish mommy.
"Cameron or Chase, Foreman couldn't give a shit," House says, but while he's talking, he's edging for the door. "And I dropped them, that's all."
"You dropped them? The three-second rule doesn't count for Vicodin?"
"In the toilet."
"Why were you...never mind. I don't want to know."
House ducks into the exam room just as Wilson raises his hands (and eyes) to the sky, only to turn and face something far, far worse.
A mommy. With fat little offspring. Joy.
"Hello," he says with obviously false cheer, but it goes right over Mommy and Fat Little Offspring's heads. They both smile, and Mommy gives a little wave, forcing Fat Little Offspring to wave its little fist. Oh, happy day.
"Well, what seems to be the problem?" He is then treated to a fifteen minute discourse on FLO's bowel movements and lack thereof for the past eighteen month of its fat little life.
He is saved only by the fire alarm. "GOD DAMN IT!" he yells, shocking Mommy and FLO, who are squealing in his ears with fright. He leads them out to the front desk, where Cuddy takes over, handing them over to a nurse, issuing orders left and right.
"You're having fun," he accuses, but his thigh is aching, so it comes out a bit pinched.
She rolls her eyes, pushing him towards Wilson, who walks with him toward the exit.
"False alarm, I think," Wilson says, "Teenagers playing around in the halls." He doesn't stop walking, though.
"Shouldn't you be helping?" House asks sarcastically.
"Don't you even read the fire safety bulletins?" Wilson answers, moving them to a patch of grass farthest from danger, while still being the perfect vantage for watching the action.
House levers himself to the ground, and Wilson follows, sitting Indian style at House's right side. He doesn't protest when House twists to prop his leg on Wilson's lap. He leans back on his elbows, and closes his eyes.
"This day had better get better soon, or the high point will be my messy and inconvenient suicide."
"Inconvenient for whom?"
"You, probably."
Wilson laughs agreeably, "I would find it terribly inconvenient for you to die. You'll have to come up with a better idea."
"I'm almost to the point of believing Cameron's Friday the thirteenth theory," House admits, shamefacedly. Or as shame-faced as House ever gets.
"Well, you know what they say..." Wilson begins, but he's distracted by the sight of Mommy and the FLO. "Hey, isn't that your patient?"
"Yeah, why?" House says, annoyed.
"He's eating grass."
House throws back his head and laughs, loudly, causing the FLO to spit out his mouth of grass in alarm. Mommy turns her head, and (finally) catches him at it. She looks around, embarrassed, but House refuses to meet her eyes.
"What do they say?" House asks, amid the clamor of arriving firetrucks.
"Huh?" Wilson asks, then, "Oh. You have to take big risks to get a lot of good luck."
"I take big risks all the time. Just ask Cuddy."
"For patients. Not for yourself. Not anymore."
There is silence, and House mulls over that one. He can't exactly deny that, and he finds the fact incredibly irksome.
"What kind of risks, then?" he asks.
"I don't know. I don't think it's an exact science. Not everything can be measured, House."
Unfortunate, that. Measurements he understands.
"Emotional risks?"
"Depends on the person, I guess. For you, emotional risks would be the big ones."
"What about you?" The fire people aren't doing too much, just milling around. Can't be too much of an emergency. He's fine with the idea of hanging out all afternoon with Wilson.
"I take emotional risks all the time." Wilson is being cagey, trying to camouflage it as being intensely interested in the doings of the fire brigade.
"No, you don't. Not really. It's not like you ever have a relationship with someone you actually give a damn about."
Their eyes meet, and there is another conversation going on behind the scenes. A moment passes, one that approaches a lifetime, and it is Wilson that broaches the question, "Maybe we're talking about the same thing."
House is hesitant, but he refuses to be outdone by James Wilson. "Maybe. It'd be a hell of a risk."
"You're a gambler."
"So I am. But do you give a damn about me?" The question is asked almost half-heartedly, but it's a front and they both know it.
"Two damns. Maybe three." Wilson's voice is soft, and his eyes look hazel in the sunlight. House sits up, and Wilson's hand tightens slightly on his ankle.
The kiss is fleeting, the merest brush of lips, but that simple touch is electrifying. House is very nearly in Wilson's lap before he thinks about it, and Wilson is leaning into him, hands insistent on the nape of his neck.
They probably would have gone on indefinitely if Cuddy had not chosen that moment to appear, amusement warring with aggravation in her eyes. "Do you two mind?"
"Yes," House answers truthfully, and Wilson licks his tongue out, swiping at his bottom lip. It is not nearly kiss-swollen enough for House's taste.
"Go home. Do whatever you want to each other. Get it out of your systems before you come back to work tomorrow morning, understand?" She is tapping her foot, but her voice is light.
"Absolutely, we've got it, no problem here, boss lady," House says, as Wilson pulls him to his feet. He grabs his cane, and is on the move toward Wilson's car before she can say another word.
Wilson hurries to catch up, then stops and puts his hand on House's arm, "Think we should tell her about your little patient's grass problem?"
"Nah. Let her feel like she's done something."
"Sounds like a plan."
They race to Wilson's car. House wins. Only because he's cracked Wilson in the shins with his cane.
"Big risks, Jimmy!" he says, laughing, when Wilson gives him that hurt-puppy look, "Big risks!"
If he had to bet on it, though, he'd say the odds were in their favor.
Prompt was: It's said you have to take big risks to get a lot of good luck, so on friday the 13th, house (or wilson, your choice) has to take the biggest risk of all to keep away the bad luck.
Given me by: phoenixangel13
It's been a bad day. For House, this is saying something. He's the king of bad days, after all.
He refuses to put any stock in Cameron's superstitious wailings about it being Friday the thirteenth...at first.
Then his second patient of the day dies.
The first patient is still alive, but barely, and Cuddy is breathing down his neck about clinic duty. This, on top of the fact that his Ipod is a piece of shit, his leg is throbbing like a romance novel cock, and he's completely out of Vicodin, are enough to sell him on the idea of Friday the thirteenth.
He stumps down to the clinic on the off-chance that he can find Wilson and bully a Vicodin script out of him. He doubts it will work, but it's worth a try. Besides, it'll get Cuddy off his back for a moment, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Wilson, like a good dog, always comes when he's wanted, and is standing at the nurse's station, as if having been planted there by a loving god.
That's where the dog simile ends, because Wilson's tail is decidedly not wagging at the sight of his master.
"House!"
Uh-oh. Evasive maneuvers. House picks up a random file and makes as if to the appropriate exam room, but Wilson is having none of it.
"Why are you already out of Vicodin? What the hell do you think..."
Wilson is geared up for a really good lecture, but House breaks in before he can get a good head of steam, "Who talked?"
"Like I'll give up my sources that easily," Wilson says, arms crossed, the very image of pissed-off Jewish mommy.
"Cameron or Chase, Foreman couldn't give a shit," House says, but while he's talking, he's edging for the door. "And I dropped them, that's all."
"You dropped them? The three-second rule doesn't count for Vicodin?"
"In the toilet."
"Why were you...never mind. I don't want to know."
House ducks into the exam room just as Wilson raises his hands (and eyes) to the sky, only to turn and face something far, far worse.
A mommy. With fat little offspring. Joy.
"Hello," he says with obviously false cheer, but it goes right over Mommy and Fat Little Offspring's heads. They both smile, and Mommy gives a little wave, forcing Fat Little Offspring to wave its little fist. Oh, happy day.
"Well, what seems to be the problem?" He is then treated to a fifteen minute discourse on FLO's bowel movements and lack thereof for the past eighteen month of its fat little life.
He is saved only by the fire alarm. "GOD DAMN IT!" he yells, shocking Mommy and FLO, who are squealing in his ears with fright. He leads them out to the front desk, where Cuddy takes over, handing them over to a nurse, issuing orders left and right.
"You're having fun," he accuses, but his thigh is aching, so it comes out a bit pinched.
She rolls her eyes, pushing him towards Wilson, who walks with him toward the exit.
"False alarm, I think," Wilson says, "Teenagers playing around in the halls." He doesn't stop walking, though.
"Shouldn't you be helping?" House asks sarcastically.
"Don't you even read the fire safety bulletins?" Wilson answers, moving them to a patch of grass farthest from danger, while still being the perfect vantage for watching the action.
House levers himself to the ground, and Wilson follows, sitting Indian style at House's right side. He doesn't protest when House twists to prop his leg on Wilson's lap. He leans back on his elbows, and closes his eyes.
"This day had better get better soon, or the high point will be my messy and inconvenient suicide."
"Inconvenient for whom?"
"You, probably."
Wilson laughs agreeably, "I would find it terribly inconvenient for you to die. You'll have to come up with a better idea."
"I'm almost to the point of believing Cameron's Friday the thirteenth theory," House admits, shamefacedly. Or as shame-faced as House ever gets.
"Well, you know what they say..." Wilson begins, but he's distracted by the sight of Mommy and the FLO. "Hey, isn't that your patient?"
"Yeah, why?" House says, annoyed.
"He's eating grass."
House throws back his head and laughs, loudly, causing the FLO to spit out his mouth of grass in alarm. Mommy turns her head, and (finally) catches him at it. She looks around, embarrassed, but House refuses to meet her eyes.
"What do they say?" House asks, amid the clamor of arriving firetrucks.
"Huh?" Wilson asks, then, "Oh. You have to take big risks to get a lot of good luck."
"I take big risks all the time. Just ask Cuddy."
"For patients. Not for yourself. Not anymore."
There is silence, and House mulls over that one. He can't exactly deny that, and he finds the fact incredibly irksome.
"What kind of risks, then?" he asks.
"I don't know. I don't think it's an exact science. Not everything can be measured, House."
Unfortunate, that. Measurements he understands.
"Emotional risks?"
"Depends on the person, I guess. For you, emotional risks would be the big ones."
"What about you?" The fire people aren't doing too much, just milling around. Can't be too much of an emergency. He's fine with the idea of hanging out all afternoon with Wilson.
"I take emotional risks all the time." Wilson is being cagey, trying to camouflage it as being intensely interested in the doings of the fire brigade.
"No, you don't. Not really. It's not like you ever have a relationship with someone you actually give a damn about."
Their eyes meet, and there is another conversation going on behind the scenes. A moment passes, one that approaches a lifetime, and it is Wilson that broaches the question, "Maybe we're talking about the same thing."
House is hesitant, but he refuses to be outdone by James Wilson. "Maybe. It'd be a hell of a risk."
"You're a gambler."
"So I am. But do you give a damn about me?" The question is asked almost half-heartedly, but it's a front and they both know it.
"Two damns. Maybe three." Wilson's voice is soft, and his eyes look hazel in the sunlight. House sits up, and Wilson's hand tightens slightly on his ankle.
The kiss is fleeting, the merest brush of lips, but that simple touch is electrifying. House is very nearly in Wilson's lap before he thinks about it, and Wilson is leaning into him, hands insistent on the nape of his neck.
They probably would have gone on indefinitely if Cuddy had not chosen that moment to appear, amusement warring with aggravation in her eyes. "Do you two mind?"
"Yes," House answers truthfully, and Wilson licks his tongue out, swiping at his bottom lip. It is not nearly kiss-swollen enough for House's taste.
"Go home. Do whatever you want to each other. Get it out of your systems before you come back to work tomorrow morning, understand?" She is tapping her foot, but her voice is light.
"Absolutely, we've got it, no problem here, boss lady," House says, as Wilson pulls him to his feet. He grabs his cane, and is on the move toward Wilson's car before she can say another word.
Wilson hurries to catch up, then stops and puts his hand on House's arm, "Think we should tell her about your little patient's grass problem?"
"Nah. Let her feel like she's done something."
"Sounds like a plan."
They race to Wilson's car. House wins. Only because he's cracked Wilson in the shins with his cane.
"Big risks, Jimmy!" he says, laughing, when Wilson gives him that hurt-puppy look, "Big risks!"
If he had to bet on it, though, he'd say the odds were in their favor.