Author: HifaLootin PM
It's been a long time since House was shot. Long enough that Wilson has stopped trying to scare him. HouseWilson slash, rated for some sexual content.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - G. House & J. Wilson - Words: 1,302 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 17 - Follows: 2 - Published: 12-07-06 - Status: Complete - id: 3278446
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
a/n: This is a series of ten drabbles ten snapshots that are loosely interconnected. Each is based on a song title, per a challenge by the livejournal community housefic pens. See the end note for song credits.
With the exception of Vivid Cheek Love Song, all the ficlets are rated G. That one bumps the rating up to R.
disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with House or FOX in any way. I write for fun, not profit.
It's been a long time since House was shot. Long enough that Wilson has stopped trying to scare him. Wilson has stopped on slamming books against House's desk, dropping the magic 8 ball with a clatter, throwing House's own yo-yo against the windows of his office, hard enough to chip the glass.
After House had turned and demanded, "Do you mind?" Wilson had given up. Maybe House was that tough, that unflappable. Maybe there really wasn't a trace of PTSD in his body. Maybe he wasn't afraid.
The last time they talk about the shooting, House says, "You want me to have learned something, don't you?" Then slams his cane down on Wilson's desk so hard that Wilson jumps, and cringes.
girls, girls, girls
"There have always been girls," Wilson says, then corrects himself. "Women."
"Well, it's different now." House drummed his fingers against the handle of his cane. "You're keeping secrets, canceling lunches—even Cuddy asked about it, and you know how she tries not to meddle. So who is she? Miss Mystery?"
"'She' is a figment of your imagination." Wilson says, "'She' is not going to come between us."
House smirks, but he ducks his chin like he's not so sure.
"You want us both to be lonely and miserable," Wilson suggests.
When House thinks he wants to know something, he pulls out all the stops. The only reason that's a problem is because sometimes, House does not actually want to know.
He would rather not be standing in the street, looking into the warm café glow of Hampshire's Coffee House watching Wilson smile and laugh and stare across the table at a woman with brown curls who House has never seen before.
So he ignores Wilson and instead looks at his reflection in the glass, an aging cripple with no humor in his face, graying hair. At least he has good taste in sneakers.
Wilson wishes that he'd been there when House woke up, after the surgery, the shooting, the ketamine. But it was Cameron who'd stayed by his bedside and saw him first open his eyes.
She asked the typical question, she said.
And when House responded, "And how are you, Jackie O?" she knew he was going to be okay.
Wilson also wishes he'd been there when Moriaty pulled the trigger because then he would understand why he jumped whenever a car backfired, why it made him think Oh God, where's House?
House could have been making those stupid jokes about him.
House doesn't see how a hotel room bears much resemblance to a home. There is no indication that anyone lives here. Wilson's suitcase sits at the foot of the bed, barely unpacked
"You gave up your spot on my couch for this?"
Wilson is avoiding his eyes, but he says something like, it's just temporary. House is only sort of listening.
"Come crash at my place tonight. It'll be like old times."
"I can't," Wilson says sharply, "There are reasons that's a bad idea."
The same reasons, House figures, running his tongue along his lips, that he wishes Wilson would.
the fix is in
Instead of simply telling his team, House finds it's more dramatic to draw a large X across the symptoms on the whiteboard then add in blocky letters, STEROIDS.
"Everybody lies," he quips.
It isn't the effect he's looking for—Chase and Foreman look bored and Cameron looks only slightly disillusioned about the honesty of female athletes. He was counting on more than that. Maybe he's off his game.
"Early lunch?" he asks Foreman on his way out.
"I thought you were going with Wilson."
House shakes his head. "Not today I'm not."
running out of time
Wilson's got one arm in his coat already, a scarf wrapped around his neck.
"I can't. I'm going to be late."
"For what?" House pokes him with a blue folder. "Something more important than say...lymphoma that's not lymphoma?"
"I have an appointment."
"You," House says, "Have a date."
Wilson's face twists for a second, and House hopes he will get angry, and maybe yell because anything's better than this weird silence between them. But instead he just sighs.
"I'm seeing a therapist, all right? You get shot and I'm the one who needs help. Ironic, isn't it?"
House says nothing, so Wilson pushes past him and leaves.
Wilson feels like he should hesitate before knocking on House's door at this hour, but he's beyond that, and he knows House is still awake.
"Come in," House calls, because of course, he knows the knock.
"Hi," Wilson says.
He realizes he must be an idiot, because he'd do anything for House. He won't leave House hanging on those words, you got shot, so I need help because...well, he can't. And he'll apologize, so House doesn't have to. Even though he had nothing to apologize for.
"I'm staying over." Wilson says.
"Welcome home," says House.
vivid cheek love song
Maybe this is how House apologizes, the only way he knows how: with his mouth, but not with words, prostrate across Wilson's legs, as if in penance.
Wilson tries to tell himself that this is a bad idea, but nothing seems like a bad idea while House is sucking and licking and making him moan. The heat of House's mouth creeps up his body, through his groin, to his stomach, chest, neck and face. And all Wilson can really think about now is filling that mouth with his release, seizing House's shoulder, bucking his hips...
Watching House lick him clean and say, "How's that for therapy?"
hate every beautiful day
House wakes up while it's still dark, cursing his leg, then remembering Wilson.
They're sleeping side by side now in House's bed which is just big enough that they don't have to touch. But when House swings his legs onto the floor and the bed shifts, Wilson stirs.
"I hear rain," Wilson murmurs, "Is it raining?"
Wilson makes an unhappy sound and rolls over.
But House smiles, because he's always liked the rain. Maybe Wilson was right about him, loving to be miserable. Wanting him to be miserable too.
Well, House thinks, we can be miserable together.
a/n: the song titles came from the following artists:
gunshy – liz phair
girls, girls, girls – liz phair
outsider – the ramones
jackie – the new pornographers
a home – dixie chicks
the fix is in – ok go
running out of time – hot hot heat
homeward bound – simon and garfunkel
vivid cheek love song – deerhoof
hate every beautiful day – sugarcult