Title: An Ordinary Evening in Princeton
Author: sy dedalus
Pairing: House/Wilson established
Rating: T, could become M
Warnings: Drunkeness, general absurdity, approaches crack!fic, may contain male/male sexual content in future chapters
Summary: House and Wilson have an evening so ordinary that they must do something, anything to end it.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, etc. Title borrowed from Wallace Stevens' poem "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven." No real relation to the poem's content.
Note: I've discovered that during the long days of studying for an exam I'll take in a few months, I need something other than studying to do, which is this. So here is a currently plotless fic that I'm writing for the need of something to do. It may end up jumping to the M rating in some chapters. Special thanks to the people who reviewed House's voice in "The Inside" favorably—you've gotten me writing his voice again. Cheers.
That Great Monster, Boredom
Seven o'clock in the evening is the worst hour of the day. Seven o'clock on a Friday is the worst hour of the week.
He's in his chair. I'm sprawled on the couch. He's read the same paragraph in his book five times. The TiVo is full of shows but I don't want to watch any of them.
We're two relatively healthy people in the prime of our lives, and at seven o'clock on a Friday we have nothing to do.
Nothing we want to do, that is.
Nothing I want to do, to be absolutely specific. I haven't polled him yet.
If I don't say something in the next ten minutes, he'll go to the kitchen and start dinner (after he asks me what I want and I give him some sarcastic answer to cover the fact that I don't want anything). He gives in more easily to boredom.
My leg's been quiet today. I have almost the same world of options he does.
Most people our age have spent the past ten or twenty years raising their spawn. Neither of us bothered. We haven't even bothered to replace Steve. Unless he gets it into his head that we need a pet—and I don't think he will—we won't be bothering.
We could have sex. Wild, outrageous, fantastic sex. Except we rarely have that kind of sex. Very rarely. And I don't feel wild or outrageous at the moment. I'm not even in the mood.
We could go to a movie. But then we have to argue about what to see and which show to attend and whether to get a medium popcorn or a large for a dime more. Popcorn'll give me or him or both of us indigestion and then we definitely won't have wild or outrageous sex when we get home.
We could go out to dinner. But I like his cooking better than most restaurants and he's gotten naggish about the way I irritate wait staff. Recipe for a disaster.
If I were alone right now, if he weren't here—staying late at work or out of town—I'd get high. That's the only thing I could stand to do right now. But he's here and I can't do that with him here.
We could get drunk. Really, really wasted. Near blackout-drunk. Then we'd almost certainly have wild, outrageous sex—which in reality would be sloppy and unfinished, but we would remember it as wild and outrageous. We could go to a bar or be reasonable middle-aged men who deplore bar prices and hit a liquor store. We haven't gotten really drunk together in a long time. A few months at least.
His head snaps up. I've startled him. He blinks twice at me before he shakes off the spell of boredom.
"Wanna get drunk?"
I watch him consider the proposal.
His day was ordinary. No one died, no one made a substantial recovery.
My day was ordinary. I saw several idiots with colds waiting in the clinic while I was reading the new People. Cuddy yelled about something. The people who work for me failed to find an interesting case.
He closes the book and shrugs.