Home for Christmas, Part Two
Title: Home for Christmas, Part Two. Part One is here, written by menolly_au
Characters: House/Wilson, Blythe
Rating: PG
Words Approx 1,160
Warnings: Fluff, Christmas sentiment, strangely absent Thomas
Spoilers: For Final arc
Summary: nightdog_barks and I wanted more of menolly_au's story. So, with her kind permission, we wrote it.
Three hours later, Blythe is still crying. It's quiet, unobtrusive; she turns her head if Wilson looks her way, quickly wipes the tears, and then turns back.
Wilson has been busying himself everywhere he can. Cooking, dishes, lighting and tending the fireplace, anything. He'd swiftly fled the scene after the Grand Reunion, leaving House and his mom in their embrace on the sidewalk and driving into town for reasons he could figure out later.
The only thing open was something called a Liquor Barn, with a bright yellow sign and a gaudy rainbow awning, so Wilson went in and dawdled in the glaringly-lit aisles, dodging other last-minute shoppers and not even minding the cheesy holiday playlist. Basically the same awful stuff he had put on House's iPod.
By the time he was done, he had enough bottles to stock a cabinet for a year. He'd bought the high-end stuff -- single malt from some island in the Hebrides with an unpronounceable name, good Kentucky bourbon, gin in a crystal-blue bottle that actually looked a lot like antifreeze and probably would've served the same purpose. He loaded up with red and white wines from France and Australia, California and Chile. He pulled a bottle of Bordeaux from a shelf, some small part of his mind identifying it as one he'd shared with Amber, and added it to the cart.
One of the stock boys had hoisted the carton to his shoulder, carried it out the car.
"Party?" the kid asked.
Wilson had looked up from opening the trunk. "I'm sorry?"
"You having a party?" The kid nestled the carton into the trunk and stepped back. "I mean, you got everything you need right there."
Wilson shut the trunk lid. "Yes," he said. "A family reunion."
Then he'd sat -- just sat -- in the parking lot another half an hour, watching other shoppers come and go, because whatever was going on at Blythe's, it was not for him to see. When he did come back, he had damn near tiptoed in, because this was House's only remaining family, and families were volatile at the best of times. But it had been all right, and if House's eyes looked almost as red as his mom's, Wilson wasn't going to bring it up.
They're going to be here a while, Wilson knows. Overnight, for certain, and probably a few days, because House is unemployed now and there's no place they have to be, no reason for them to leave.
Blythe stands so close to her son, finds every opportunity to be near, puts her arm around him, reaches up to put her hand on his cheek. Wilson pretends not to notice that raw joy, or the bitterness that jostles it sometimes.
As soon as he can reasonably fake it, Wilson says he's tired, needs a shower, and needs to sleep.
"Wuss," House says, but his body language sends out unmistakable signals of relief.
He can't sleep, and he doesn't know if it's because he's in a guest room, away from House, or if it's because he's away from House. He tosses and turns enough that his bladder finally informs him he needs to get up, but when he does there's a light on in the den, and he follows it to find Blythe curled up in a chair, feet tucked under her, with a book she isn't reading and the TV on, tuned to a show she isn't watching. A bottle and tumbler are on the side table by the lamp, and as Wilson draws near, she looks up and smiles.
"Oh, James," she says, and gets up and gets a second glass.
"It's selfish of me," she says, "but I'm happy you're here. Instead of ... wherever else you probably should have been tonight." Her gaze drifts downward, to the gold ring on his left hand.
It's been obvious since he returned from the liquor store that she doesn't know, and really, if he thinks about it, he can't blame House for not telling her yet. Maybe he figured one shock of a lifetime was enough for today.
He touches the ring, twists it on his finger, smiles. "My family understands," he says softly.
She handles the bottle and tumbler like it's very old hat, and pours him a drink -- the bourbon he bought -- without asking if he wants one. It's been the kind of day that makes drinking a foregone conclusion, at least for Wilson, and he's surprised to see Blythe make that same assumption.
Wilson takes a sip, and another, and thinks about his family. They're at his brother's now, celebrating his brother's birthday with the grandkids and cousins, and in its own way it's good.
But here, nobody will ask why he's still traveling, when he's going back to work, when he's settling down. He raises his glass and clinks it to hers. "To selfishness," he says.
He gives Wilson no warning before climbing into bed beside him, startling him awake. House is not trying to be quiet about this. He pushes at Wilson's hip. "God, move over, willya?" House grumbles.
"What?" Wilson says, his voice still fuzzy with sleep. "House? What are you doing?"
"Real question is, what were you doing. Having a party without me, sounded like." House stops wriggling his way under the covers and leans in close, sniffing, just for dramatic effect. "You've been drinking," he accuses. "With my mother." He shakes his head. "Dude," he says. "That's messed up."
"House!" Wilson pulls his blankets tighter, tensed up the way he gets when he's chilly or defensive. "House, what are you doing here? What if your mom -- "
"Looks in my room and doesn't find me?" House says. "She won't. My mom hasn't opened the door to my bedroom since I was fourteen."
He leaves it to Wilson to guess what a fourteen-year-old boy might have been doing in the privacy of his bedroom. In the meantime, House has settled down against Wilson's side and the bed is beginning to warm, soothing him with the mixed scents of clean sheets, bourbon, and Wilson. This was definitely a good idea, even if it was a bad one.
Wilson, obviously still a little drunk, scoots closer.
"Don't think you can cuddle your way out of this, you little weasel," House says. "I'll want a full report in the morning."
"Hm?" Wilson's stretching, settling again, already slipping away. "Oh. Yeah. You bet." His voice fades. "G'night, House." House stills himself against Wilson's side. Outside, it's begun to rain, the drops pattering against the window, but the bed is warm now, almost toasty. Wilson's alcohol-drenched capillaries are all wide open, flushing his skin with heat. Wilson was drinking with House's mom, and she was laughing -- House could hear her -- and that's two surprises at once.
If House can arrange for it to happen again, he might.
"'night, Wilson," he says.
"Nn," says Wilson, and then he's soundly asleep. The window above his head is strung with Christmas lights that shine on his hair and make Wilson's face look soft, boyish, innocent rather than drunk.
Innocent and drunk, House corrects himself.
And still, still not boring.
~*~
Part Three, by menolly_au, is here!
Characters: House/Wilson, Blythe
Rating: PG
Words Approx 1,160
Warnings: Fluff, Christmas sentiment, strangely absent Thomas
Spoilers: For Final arc
Summary: nightdog_barks and I wanted more of menolly_au's story. So, with her kind permission, we wrote it.
Three hours later, Blythe is still crying. It's quiet, unobtrusive; she turns her head if Wilson looks her way, quickly wipes the tears, and then turns back.
Wilson has been busying himself everywhere he can. Cooking, dishes, lighting and tending the fireplace, anything. He'd swiftly fled the scene after the Grand Reunion, leaving House and his mom in their embrace on the sidewalk and driving into town for reasons he could figure out later.
The only thing open was something called a Liquor Barn, with a bright yellow sign and a gaudy rainbow awning, so Wilson went in and dawdled in the glaringly-lit aisles, dodging other last-minute shoppers and not even minding the cheesy holiday playlist. Basically the same awful stuff he had put on House's iPod.
By the time he was done, he had enough bottles to stock a cabinet for a year. He'd bought the high-end stuff -- single malt from some island in the Hebrides with an unpronounceable name, good Kentucky bourbon, gin in a crystal-blue bottle that actually looked a lot like antifreeze and probably would've served the same purpose. He loaded up with red and white wines from France and Australia, California and Chile. He pulled a bottle of Bordeaux from a shelf, some small part of his mind identifying it as one he'd shared with Amber, and added it to the cart.
One of the stock boys had hoisted the carton to his shoulder, carried it out the car.
"Party?" the kid asked.
Wilson had looked up from opening the trunk. "I'm sorry?"
"You having a party?" The kid nestled the carton into the trunk and stepped back. "I mean, you got everything you need right there."
Wilson shut the trunk lid. "Yes," he said. "A family reunion."
Then he'd sat -- just sat -- in the parking lot another half an hour, watching other shoppers come and go, because whatever was going on at Blythe's, it was not for him to see. When he did come back, he had damn near tiptoed in, because this was House's only remaining family, and families were volatile at the best of times. But it had been all right, and if House's eyes looked almost as red as his mom's, Wilson wasn't going to bring it up.
They're going to be here a while, Wilson knows. Overnight, for certain, and probably a few days, because House is unemployed now and there's no place they have to be, no reason for them to leave.
Blythe stands so close to her son, finds every opportunity to be near, puts her arm around him, reaches up to put her hand on his cheek. Wilson pretends not to notice that raw joy, or the bitterness that jostles it sometimes.
As soon as he can reasonably fake it, Wilson says he's tired, needs a shower, and needs to sleep.
"Wuss," House says, but his body language sends out unmistakable signals of relief.
He can't sleep, and he doesn't know if it's because he's in a guest room, away from House, or if it's because he's away from House. He tosses and turns enough that his bladder finally informs him he needs to get up, but when he does there's a light on in the den, and he follows it to find Blythe curled up in a chair, feet tucked under her, with a book she isn't reading and the TV on, tuned to a show she isn't watching. A bottle and tumbler are on the side table by the lamp, and as Wilson draws near, she looks up and smiles.
"Oh, James," she says, and gets up and gets a second glass.
"It's selfish of me," she says, "but I'm happy you're here. Instead of ... wherever else you probably should have been tonight." Her gaze drifts downward, to the gold ring on his left hand.
It's been obvious since he returned from the liquor store that she doesn't know, and really, if he thinks about it, he can't blame House for not telling her yet. Maybe he figured one shock of a lifetime was enough for today.
He touches the ring, twists it on his finger, smiles. "My family understands," he says softly.
She handles the bottle and tumbler like it's very old hat, and pours him a drink -- the bourbon he bought -- without asking if he wants one. It's been the kind of day that makes drinking a foregone conclusion, at least for Wilson, and he's surprised to see Blythe make that same assumption.
Wilson takes a sip, and another, and thinks about his family. They're at his brother's now, celebrating his brother's birthday with the grandkids and cousins, and in its own way it's good.
But here, nobody will ask why he's still traveling, when he's going back to work, when he's settling down. He raises his glass and clinks it to hers. "To selfishness," he says.
He gives Wilson no warning before climbing into bed beside him, startling him awake. House is not trying to be quiet about this. He pushes at Wilson's hip. "God, move over, willya?" House grumbles.
"What?" Wilson says, his voice still fuzzy with sleep. "House? What are you doing?"
"Real question is, what were you doing. Having a party without me, sounded like." House stops wriggling his way under the covers and leans in close, sniffing, just for dramatic effect. "You've been drinking," he accuses. "With my mother." He shakes his head. "Dude," he says. "That's messed up."
"House!" Wilson pulls his blankets tighter, tensed up the way he gets when he's chilly or defensive. "House, what are you doing here? What if your mom -- "
"Looks in my room and doesn't find me?" House says. "She won't. My mom hasn't opened the door to my bedroom since I was fourteen."
He leaves it to Wilson to guess what a fourteen-year-old boy might have been doing in the privacy of his bedroom. In the meantime, House has settled down against Wilson's side and the bed is beginning to warm, soothing him with the mixed scents of clean sheets, bourbon, and Wilson. This was definitely a good idea, even if it was a bad one.
Wilson, obviously still a little drunk, scoots closer.
"Don't think you can cuddle your way out of this, you little weasel," House says. "I'll want a full report in the morning."
"Hm?" Wilson's stretching, settling again, already slipping away. "Oh. Yeah. You bet." His voice fades. "G'night, House." House stills himself against Wilson's side. Outside, it's begun to rain, the drops pattering against the window, but the bed is warm now, almost toasty. Wilson's alcohol-drenched capillaries are all wide open, flushing his skin with heat. Wilson was drinking with House's mom, and she was laughing -- House could hear her -- and that's two surprises at once.
If House can arrange for it to happen again, he might.
"'night, Wilson," he says.
"Nn," says Wilson, and then he's soundly asleep. The window above his head is strung with Christmas lights that shine on his hair and make Wilson's face look soft, boyish, innocent rather than drunk.
Innocent and drunk, House corrects himself.
And still, still not boring.
~*~
Part Three, by menolly_au, is here!