Random House/Wilson drabbles
Title: Random Drabbles
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: Fic G (mentions of m/m)
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even the prompts.
A/N: Took a break from writing fest/request fics and spending all my money on ebay to play around with the random word generator.
SPOILER WARNING: All sorts of spoilers, up to and including Finding Judas. Not big spoilers, but I'm not getting beat up today.
Other warnings: Also, two of these are in first person POV. I can't remember every writing first person before. Beware.
i. Age
With age comes wisdom, isn't that the line? Doesn't really work that way, though.
Getting older, sure, as every joint, every muscle, every single cell of my body loudly announces.
Getting smarter, too. Can't help but to, when all that interests me anymore are books, journals, medical studies, languages, puzzles, patients.
Getting wiser? Not so much. Not when I let things go this far. It was fun for a while, playing cat and mouse with Tritter. Not as much fun now, with Chase playing the part of House, and Wilson playing Florence Nightingale to all my wounded.
ii. Achievement
I should be proud, honored. I should, in the very least, be happy.
I'm not.
Prestigious awards, respect from people who hate me most, Dad in the front row with tears in his eyes.
Doesn't mean a thing.
Wilson isn't here. Hasn't been, not since he took on the role of Judas. No snarky comments, no rolling eyes, no making fun of Dad when he's out of earshot.
No fun.
Couldn't have done it without him. Got the idea for the study while cooling my heels in rehab. Can't thank him, though. Won't.
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.
I always identified with Hamlet.
iii. Desire
For Wilson, it was the graceful line of House's neck, nape left naked and vulnerable.The way House tilted his head made him want to lick his way from collarbone to earlobe.
For House, it was the backlight from the windows, shining red through Wilson's ears. The ridiculousness of those ears filled him with unaccustomed tenderness.
Strange thing, desire. No accounting for it, no preparing for it. Like a fist in the gut, side-impact collisions, decent Yankee pitching. Comes out of nowhere, destroys everything, leaves you broken and bloody.
Nothing to do but accept it, embrace it.
Embrace him.
iv. Outstanding
The recording announced balefully, "Outstanding balance, $857.87."
He'd just ask Wilson for a loan...or not. He was persona non grata with Wilson, still pissed over the whole Tritter thing. Whiner.
He could call Dad, but he could also commit seppuku. Neither one likely to happen.
He could ask Cuddy, or one of the kids. As options went, seppuku was a hell of a lot less vile.
He'd just have to live without a phone. That's why God created cell phones, anyway.
He dialed the number for the light company. "House, Gregory. Balance, $657. 45."
"Outstanding."
v. Somebody
"Somebody moved my..."
"The only two people here are you and me."
"Fine. YOU moved my..."
"No, I didn't."
"You don't even know..."
"Don't have to know. If it's yours, I didn't touch it."
"Dishes are mine."
"I'll be happy to leave them alone. No more pancakes, though."
"Not what I meant."
"Yes it was. If it's something important..."
"It's not. It's just..."
"Private, I get it. I promise not to paw through your underwear drawer."
"There goes that fantasy."
"Or read your diary."
"Funny."
vi. Reliability
There are few things in life that haven't failed him.
Pain, for one thing. Even before the leg, the pain had always been there, waiting for a reason to come into being.
Genius, his own. He doubted himself, at times, but he could always count on his mind, his brilliance, even when he couldn't count on anything else.
Wilson, most of all. When it seemed like all else had failed, when he was too numb to even feel the pain, his mind too dull to connect the dots.
Wilson to the rescue. Even when he didn't know he needed rescuing.
vii. Friendship
What name could they put to the connection that wasn't too trite, too banal?
Love was a foreign concept. Mutual respect was too distant. Acquaintance, companion, partner, brother, nothing seemed right.
Friendship was how they termed it, although that didn't account for the attraction, the chemistry, the sheer headiness of conversing with someone who got you on a molecular level.
Sometimes it felt like there was little separation between them, their minds connected, bodies the only obstacle.
Sex wasn't so much the act of making love, as it was the act of making room.
In the dark, they were one.
viii. Concentrated
Sometimes, it felt to House that if he concentrated hard enough, he and Wilson would merge into a single entity.
Messy for the government, though, a spontaneous merging. How to prepare the world for so much concentrated sarcasm?
"You're daydreaming."
"Thinking about mergers again."
"Legal in New Jersey now."
"You proposing?"
"Contemplating the wisdom of concentrating our resources."
"I'll propose then."
"Do I have to wear the white dress?"
"Won't matter. Combining our families will set off a chain reaction of evil, leading directly to apocalypse."
"Evil Incarnate?"
"Evil Concentrate."
ix. Increment
Love couldn't be meted out in increments. It simply was or wasn't. Emotions couldn't be measured, couldn't be quantified.
House liked measurable quantities. He liked experiments, controls, trials.
Still, when it happened, love could be tested, just like anything else.
So far, Wilson's love had held. He had experimented (increasing amounts of money borrowed, and fifteen grand was no small sum), he had controls (his parents, Stacy, even Cameron, all conditional, all disappointing), he had trials (Vogler, and Stacy, and Tritter, oh my).
He didn't like abstracts.
Wilson's love was a constant.
x. Beds
Twin beds. Like Lucy and Ricky.
"You've got some 'splainin' to do," House mutters.
Wilson's grin is blinding, fifteen feet away. House no longer wonders how he does that. Apparently it's Wilson's turn to be in possession of their shared brain cells.
"Sorry. That's all they've got. Have to push the beds together."
"You aren't the least bit sorry."
"I'm married."
"Civil-unioned."
"Same difference."
"God, I hope not. Your marriages don't end well."
Eye-rolling can be sexy. Who knew.
"Partnered. How's that?"
"Perfect. Take me to bed, dear."
"Gladly."
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: Fic G (mentions of m/m)
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even the prompts.
A/N: Took a break from writing fest/request fics and spending all my money on ebay to play around with the random word generator.
SPOILER WARNING: All sorts of spoilers, up to and including Finding Judas. Not big spoilers, but I'm not getting beat up today.
Other warnings: Also, two of these are in first person POV. I can't remember every writing first person before. Beware.
i. Age
With age comes wisdom, isn't that the line? Doesn't really work that way, though.
Getting older, sure, as every joint, every muscle, every single cell of my body loudly announces.
Getting smarter, too. Can't help but to, when all that interests me anymore are books, journals, medical studies, languages, puzzles, patients.
Getting wiser? Not so much. Not when I let things go this far. It was fun for a while, playing cat and mouse with Tritter. Not as much fun now, with Chase playing the part of House, and Wilson playing Florence Nightingale to all my wounded.
ii. Achievement
I should be proud, honored. I should, in the very least, be happy.
I'm not.
Prestigious awards, respect from people who hate me most, Dad in the front row with tears in his eyes.
Doesn't mean a thing.
Wilson isn't here. Hasn't been, not since he took on the role of Judas. No snarky comments, no rolling eyes, no making fun of Dad when he's out of earshot.
No fun.
Couldn't have done it without him. Got the idea for the study while cooling my heels in rehab. Can't thank him, though. Won't.
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.
I always identified with Hamlet.
iii. Desire
For Wilson, it was the graceful line of House's neck, nape left naked and vulnerable.The way House tilted his head made him want to lick his way from collarbone to earlobe.
For House, it was the backlight from the windows, shining red through Wilson's ears. The ridiculousness of those ears filled him with unaccustomed tenderness.
Strange thing, desire. No accounting for it, no preparing for it. Like a fist in the gut, side-impact collisions, decent Yankee pitching. Comes out of nowhere, destroys everything, leaves you broken and bloody.
Nothing to do but accept it, embrace it.
Embrace him.
iv. Outstanding
The recording announced balefully, "Outstanding balance, $857.87."
He'd just ask Wilson for a loan...or not. He was persona non grata with Wilson, still pissed over the whole Tritter thing. Whiner.
He could call Dad, but he could also commit seppuku. Neither one likely to happen.
He could ask Cuddy, or one of the kids. As options went, seppuku was a hell of a lot less vile.
He'd just have to live without a phone. That's why God created cell phones, anyway.
He dialed the number for the light company. "House, Gregory. Balance, $657. 45."
"Outstanding."
v. Somebody
"Somebody moved my..."
"The only two people here are you and me."
"Fine. YOU moved my..."
"No, I didn't."
"You don't even know..."
"Don't have to know. If it's yours, I didn't touch it."
"Dishes are mine."
"I'll be happy to leave them alone. No more pancakes, though."
"Not what I meant."
"Yes it was. If it's something important..."
"It's not. It's just..."
"Private, I get it. I promise not to paw through your underwear drawer."
"There goes that fantasy."
"Or read your diary."
"Funny."
vi. Reliability
There are few things in life that haven't failed him.
Pain, for one thing. Even before the leg, the pain had always been there, waiting for a reason to come into being.
Genius, his own. He doubted himself, at times, but he could always count on his mind, his brilliance, even when he couldn't count on anything else.
Wilson, most of all. When it seemed like all else had failed, when he was too numb to even feel the pain, his mind too dull to connect the dots.
Wilson to the rescue. Even when he didn't know he needed rescuing.
vii. Friendship
What name could they put to the connection that wasn't too trite, too banal?
Love was a foreign concept. Mutual respect was too distant. Acquaintance, companion, partner, brother, nothing seemed right.
Friendship was how they termed it, although that didn't account for the attraction, the chemistry, the sheer headiness of conversing with someone who got you on a molecular level.
Sometimes it felt like there was little separation between them, their minds connected, bodies the only obstacle.
Sex wasn't so much the act of making love, as it was the act of making room.
In the dark, they were one.
viii. Concentrated
Sometimes, it felt to House that if he concentrated hard enough, he and Wilson would merge into a single entity.
Messy for the government, though, a spontaneous merging. How to prepare the world for so much concentrated sarcasm?
"You're daydreaming."
"Thinking about mergers again."
"Legal in New Jersey now."
"You proposing?"
"Contemplating the wisdom of concentrating our resources."
"I'll propose then."
"Do I have to wear the white dress?"
"Won't matter. Combining our families will set off a chain reaction of evil, leading directly to apocalypse."
"Evil Incarnate?"
"Evil Concentrate."
ix. Increment
Love couldn't be meted out in increments. It simply was or wasn't. Emotions couldn't be measured, couldn't be quantified.
House liked measurable quantities. He liked experiments, controls, trials.
Still, when it happened, love could be tested, just like anything else.
So far, Wilson's love had held. He had experimented (increasing amounts of money borrowed, and fifteen grand was no small sum), he had controls (his parents, Stacy, even Cameron, all conditional, all disappointing), he had trials (Vogler, and Stacy, and Tritter, oh my).
He didn't like abstracts.
Wilson's love was a constant.
x. Beds
Twin beds. Like Lucy and Ricky.
"You've got some 'splainin' to do," House mutters.
Wilson's grin is blinding, fifteen feet away. House no longer wonders how he does that. Apparently it's Wilson's turn to be in possession of their shared brain cells.
"Sorry. That's all they've got. Have to push the beds together."
"You aren't the least bit sorry."
"I'm married."
"Civil-unioned."
"Same difference."
"God, I hope not. Your marriages don't end well."
Eye-rolling can be sexy. Who knew.
"Partnered. How's that?"
"Perfect. Take me to bed, dear."
"Gladly."