Cheating 4/12
Title: Cheating (4/12)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Warning: kid!-fic (part of the Church-verse)
Summary: Everybody lies, er, cheats.
A/N: Thanks to everyone on my flist who gave me a word for this project! ^^
4 years old; ginger
"Get back here, you little rat!" House is yelling, and that means trouble for someone.
The spawn takes this opportunity to exit stage left, running as fast as his chubby little legs will carry him. Unfortunately, he runs directly into Jimmy's knees.
"I didn't!" he cries, slipping free of Jimmy's grasp by virtue of being wet and soap-slick.
Wilson heaves a long-suffering sigh, wondering what exactly it is that Church didn't do. He makes his way towards the bathroom, wet carpet squelching beneath his bare toes. "'Little rat'?" he queries, frowning, as he cuts around the corner.
"Not him, that damned redhead cat," House gripes, jaw clenched, from his prone position on the floor.
Before he can stop himself, Wilson is overcome with laughter as House's wry pronouncement wars with his embarrassed look and chaotic limbs.
"What in the world happened to you?" Wilson chokes out, holding out a hand to his naked, dripping husband. It ends up taking both pairs of hands and all three working legs to get him off the floor.
By the time House is sitting on the toilet, Wilson has sobered. He wants to ask about the leg, desperately, but it's obvious that House is in pain. His eyes are dark with it, and he motions agitatedly for his pills. When he speaks, his words are hasty, clipped.
"I gave the kid a bath, and then set him free. I told him to go take his naked self out to you."
"Your first mistake." Wilson obediently hands over the pill bottle, then vanishes into the hallway. He putters around in the linen closet, ostensibly for a towel and the first aid kit, but he is determined not to see or hear exactly how many Vicodin House has downed.
When he returns, House replies as if the conversation had not paused, "Tell me about it." He accepts the offered towel, working at drying his face and body. Both men pretend not to notice his trembling limbs. "Somehow, he got his little paws on the kitten, and decided that it would be fun to shake it up and throw it on Dad."
"I told you not to joke with him about that. He takes everything you say quite literally."
"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." House snatches the first aid kit away from Wilson's hands, hands shaking as he pulls out the rubbing alcohol and Neosporin. "Well, here's another news flash, Captain Obvious. Cats hate water."
"So, House in shower, cat in water, cat on House, House on floor?"
"You left out the part where No-Name-Cat claws House from stem to stern."
Wilson pats House's face affectionately. "I heard your banshee-wailing in the basement, but I figured your firstborn had head-butted you in the balls again." He peers at the welling scratches on House's back. "Cuddy will never believe that I didn't do this to you."
House winces as the alcohol is poured over his wounds, grateful for the momentary flash of another sort of pain. "Much more pleasant than the truth. If this gets out, remember that I know where you live."
Wilson's innocent smile falls rather short of convincing. "Our son is hiding out, fearing your awesome retribution."
"He's safe for now. The only thing that's saving him is that his father is old and crippled." There is a strange note in House's voice, the one that Wilson doesn't care for at all. It speaks of old, never-forgotten hurts, and reminds him that House's reluctance to discipline Church is not so much laziness as it is fear.
"I'll take care of it, if you like," he offers. House frowns, but doesn't reply. That's enough answer for Wilson. "I'll get your back, then I'll see if I can't flush him out."
"Flush him down the toilet," House mutters, draping the towel over his lap. Apparently his leg is much worse than he's letting on, and is waiting for Wilson to get lost so he can struggle through it. They've come a long way in this marriage, but there are limits to how much help he'll accept, how much weakness he'll show.
"I'll take it under advisement," Wilson says, kissing the top of House's head. On his way from the bathroom, he lays down a towel to soak up the water on the carpet. Not that it will do much good. The brat is as hard on carpet as he is on his parents.
The first pass through the house yields no results, but on the second round he remembers that Church had expressed some delight at figuring out how to get into the attic, via a hatch in his closet.
He had, of course, been threatened with seven kinds of death if he even attempted such a thing, but sure enough, when the closet door is opened, there is a purloined desk chair. Climbing onto the shelf and into the attic wouldn't have been too hard for the little monkey, as he'd probably been planning to do it anyway.
Sticking his head up through the hatch, he finds a noticeably drier, but still very naked child sitting on a wood beam, clutching the ginger cat to his chest. He's full of kitten scratches, there's even a few on his neck and chin, but otherwise he seems fine. Except for the wide, scared eyes that go right to Wilson's heart.
"House isn't mad at you, baby," Wilson says gently, holding out his hand. He only grasps the kitten tighter.
"You aren't in trouble, although I think that an apology might be in order." He keeps his voice low and soothing. As high-strung as House can be, his son, at times, is even more so. Wilson, however, has spent a lifetime comforting high-strung children, and knows exactly how to go about it.
Church still refuses to budge, though, and the kitten is only getting more and more agitated. "You're hurting him," Wilson says matter-of-factly, and the boy is suddenly back from whatever place his mind sometimes escapes to, his eyes focusing on Wilson's face.
"I did it, not Cat."
Wilson considers this a moment. "You told me that you didn't." There is never a wrong time to try and instill some integrity in the kid. Not that he really expects it to stick.
"That was cheating. He didn't want to." He tries to shush the kitten, who is desperately trying to break free of his stranglehold.
"I appreciate your honesty. If anyone's in trouble, it's you, not the kitty."
"Will you give him away?" Suspicion in those blue eyes, familiar as breathing.
He holds out his hands once more. "Absolutely not. We may give you away, though."
At that, Church smiles, passing over the kitten. A scratched wrist and a near-fall later, the three of them are out of the attic. Cat escapes as soon as he's able, streaking out of the room in an orange blur.
His hair is even more riotous than usual, but Wilson lets it go in favor of getting the brat pajama'd and tucked in bed. He's learning to choose his battles.
"Is Dad hurt bad?" Church asks, denying Jimmy's offer of help with a shake of his head. He steps into his pajama bottoms, pulls a T-shirt over his head, and pulls on a pair of socks.
"He won't bite you," Wilson replies, turning down the sheets and turning on the nightlight. "Why don't you go check on him?"
That curly head tilts in thought, and suddenly he streaks from the room as quickly as his compatriot. "Don't run inside!" Wilson calls after him, but it's more for show than anything else. He gives them some time, putting away the stolen chair and various other items that have no business being in Church's room.
After a while, he decides it's time to sneak a peek at his boys, if only to make sure that they haven't murdered each other. Although the lack of noise doesn't make him feel good for the carpet. "I hope you haven't gotten blood..." he begins, trailing off as he stops at the door of their bedroom.
House has managed to get into the room, and get himself into some boxers. He is lying on the floor, his leg propped up on a chair. If he hasn't had a drink, it's surprising, but Wilson won't argue the point with him. The more he learns about dealing with Church, the more he learns about dealing with House.
Church is sitting beside House's head, a subdued stripey-cat in his lap. They are lost in conversation, apparently trying to come up with a name for the kitten. As they talk, House's hand moves from petting the kitten's ears to petting Church's curls, and back again. Wilson watches in silence. He is always floored by the tenderness in House, no matter when or where he sees it.
After a while, his words slurring, House tells his offspring to buzz off, and there are goodnight kisses. No hugs, as neither one of them cares for that, and Church is flying out into the hallway.
As usual, Jimmy's knees are in the way of wherever he's trying to get to, especially when he needs to hide.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Warning: kid!-fic (part of the Church-verse)
Summary: Everybody lies, er, cheats.
A/N: Thanks to everyone on my flist who gave me a word for this project! ^^
4 years old; ginger
"Get back here, you little rat!" House is yelling, and that means trouble for someone.
The spawn takes this opportunity to exit stage left, running as fast as his chubby little legs will carry him. Unfortunately, he runs directly into Jimmy's knees.
"I didn't!" he cries, slipping free of Jimmy's grasp by virtue of being wet and soap-slick.
Wilson heaves a long-suffering sigh, wondering what exactly it is that Church didn't do. He makes his way towards the bathroom, wet carpet squelching beneath his bare toes. "'Little rat'?" he queries, frowning, as he cuts around the corner.
"Not him, that damned redhead cat," House gripes, jaw clenched, from his prone position on the floor.
Before he can stop himself, Wilson is overcome with laughter as House's wry pronouncement wars with his embarrassed look and chaotic limbs.
"What in the world happened to you?" Wilson chokes out, holding out a hand to his naked, dripping husband. It ends up taking both pairs of hands and all three working legs to get him off the floor.
By the time House is sitting on the toilet, Wilson has sobered. He wants to ask about the leg, desperately, but it's obvious that House is in pain. His eyes are dark with it, and he motions agitatedly for his pills. When he speaks, his words are hasty, clipped.
"I gave the kid a bath, and then set him free. I told him to go take his naked self out to you."
"Your first mistake." Wilson obediently hands over the pill bottle, then vanishes into the hallway. He putters around in the linen closet, ostensibly for a towel and the first aid kit, but he is determined not to see or hear exactly how many Vicodin House has downed.
When he returns, House replies as if the conversation had not paused, "Tell me about it." He accepts the offered towel, working at drying his face and body. Both men pretend not to notice his trembling limbs. "Somehow, he got his little paws on the kitten, and decided that it would be fun to shake it up and throw it on Dad."
"I told you not to joke with him about that. He takes everything you say quite literally."
"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." House snatches the first aid kit away from Wilson's hands, hands shaking as he pulls out the rubbing alcohol and Neosporin. "Well, here's another news flash, Captain Obvious. Cats hate water."
"So, House in shower, cat in water, cat on House, House on floor?"
"You left out the part where No-Name-Cat claws House from stem to stern."
Wilson pats House's face affectionately. "I heard your banshee-wailing in the basement, but I figured your firstborn had head-butted you in the balls again." He peers at the welling scratches on House's back. "Cuddy will never believe that I didn't do this to you."
House winces as the alcohol is poured over his wounds, grateful for the momentary flash of another sort of pain. "Much more pleasant than the truth. If this gets out, remember that I know where you live."
Wilson's innocent smile falls rather short of convincing. "Our son is hiding out, fearing your awesome retribution."
"He's safe for now. The only thing that's saving him is that his father is old and crippled." There is a strange note in House's voice, the one that Wilson doesn't care for at all. It speaks of old, never-forgotten hurts, and reminds him that House's reluctance to discipline Church is not so much laziness as it is fear.
"I'll take care of it, if you like," he offers. House frowns, but doesn't reply. That's enough answer for Wilson. "I'll get your back, then I'll see if I can't flush him out."
"Flush him down the toilet," House mutters, draping the towel over his lap. Apparently his leg is much worse than he's letting on, and is waiting for Wilson to get lost so he can struggle through it. They've come a long way in this marriage, but there are limits to how much help he'll accept, how much weakness he'll show.
"I'll take it under advisement," Wilson says, kissing the top of House's head. On his way from the bathroom, he lays down a towel to soak up the water on the carpet. Not that it will do much good. The brat is as hard on carpet as he is on his parents.
The first pass through the house yields no results, but on the second round he remembers that Church had expressed some delight at figuring out how to get into the attic, via a hatch in his closet.
He had, of course, been threatened with seven kinds of death if he even attempted such a thing, but sure enough, when the closet door is opened, there is a purloined desk chair. Climbing onto the shelf and into the attic wouldn't have been too hard for the little monkey, as he'd probably been planning to do it anyway.
Sticking his head up through the hatch, he finds a noticeably drier, but still very naked child sitting on a wood beam, clutching the ginger cat to his chest. He's full of kitten scratches, there's even a few on his neck and chin, but otherwise he seems fine. Except for the wide, scared eyes that go right to Wilson's heart.
"House isn't mad at you, baby," Wilson says gently, holding out his hand. He only grasps the kitten tighter.
"You aren't in trouble, although I think that an apology might be in order." He keeps his voice low and soothing. As high-strung as House can be, his son, at times, is even more so. Wilson, however, has spent a lifetime comforting high-strung children, and knows exactly how to go about it.
Church still refuses to budge, though, and the kitten is only getting more and more agitated. "You're hurting him," Wilson says matter-of-factly, and the boy is suddenly back from whatever place his mind sometimes escapes to, his eyes focusing on Wilson's face.
"I did it, not Cat."
Wilson considers this a moment. "You told me that you didn't." There is never a wrong time to try and instill some integrity in the kid. Not that he really expects it to stick.
"That was cheating. He didn't want to." He tries to shush the kitten, who is desperately trying to break free of his stranglehold.
"I appreciate your honesty. If anyone's in trouble, it's you, not the kitty."
"Will you give him away?" Suspicion in those blue eyes, familiar as breathing.
He holds out his hands once more. "Absolutely not. We may give you away, though."
At that, Church smiles, passing over the kitten. A scratched wrist and a near-fall later, the three of them are out of the attic. Cat escapes as soon as he's able, streaking out of the room in an orange blur.
His hair is even more riotous than usual, but Wilson lets it go in favor of getting the brat pajama'd and tucked in bed. He's learning to choose his battles.
"Is Dad hurt bad?" Church asks, denying Jimmy's offer of help with a shake of his head. He steps into his pajama bottoms, pulls a T-shirt over his head, and pulls on a pair of socks.
"He won't bite you," Wilson replies, turning down the sheets and turning on the nightlight. "Why don't you go check on him?"
That curly head tilts in thought, and suddenly he streaks from the room as quickly as his compatriot. "Don't run inside!" Wilson calls after him, but it's more for show than anything else. He gives them some time, putting away the stolen chair and various other items that have no business being in Church's room.
After a while, he decides it's time to sneak a peek at his boys, if only to make sure that they haven't murdered each other. Although the lack of noise doesn't make him feel good for the carpet. "I hope you haven't gotten blood..." he begins, trailing off as he stops at the door of their bedroom.
House has managed to get into the room, and get himself into some boxers. He is lying on the floor, his leg propped up on a chair. If he hasn't had a drink, it's surprising, but Wilson won't argue the point with him. The more he learns about dealing with Church, the more he learns about dealing with House.
Church is sitting beside House's head, a subdued stripey-cat in his lap. They are lost in conversation, apparently trying to come up with a name for the kitten. As they talk, House's hand moves from petting the kitten's ears to petting Church's curls, and back again. Wilson watches in silence. He is always floored by the tenderness in House, no matter when or where he sees it.
After a while, his words slurring, House tells his offspring to buzz off, and there are goodnight kisses. No hugs, as neither one of them cares for that, and Church is flying out into the hallway.
As usual, Jimmy's knees are in the way of wherever he's trying to get to, especially when he needs to hide.