Fic: Purgatory
Two fics in one month. Say it ain't so!
Title: Purgatory
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Just for fun. Please don’t sue
Warning: Implied major character death
Characters/Pairings: House/Wilson
Summary: What was he going to do when he ran out of mindless, menial household tasks to occupy his time?
Author’s Note: Written in response to 100_situations’s prompt #85: Sink. This fic was also inspired by the song “Hate It Here” by Wilco.
The sound of rushing water was the only indication House had that he’d started the thing properly. You’d have thought that a man of his intelligence could sort out a simple appliance such as a washing machine, you would be right in thinking so but never should the power of laziness be underestimated. The old ones, the ones they’d had since House had moved into to the place over a decade ago, had been the ones House could work with. The landlord had recently had them all replaced and House hadn’t bothered with the new ones. He wasn’t the one who did the laundry around here anyway.
Then what was he doing here? This was clearly a laundry room. A place he hadn’t set foot in since Wilson had moved in. Necessity was the mother of invention though. Or at least the mother of motivation. No one to do the laundry meant he had to do it himself, eventually. A simple cause and effect relationship, nothing more and nothing less. Certainly nothing less.
House turned his back on the machines and headed back to his apartment down the hall. The place was damn near spotless. Not a piece of furniture, or a DVD, out of place. House knew there was a reason he didn’t do this often but, again, necessity was the mother of motivation.
He ducked into the kitchen. A week’s worth of dishes clean dishes were in the sink; he’d washed them this morning and only now set to the task of putting them away. Another thing he usually never did. Wilson had reorganized everything from cookware to cutlery when he’d moved in and House hadn’t bothered to learn that new system either. There was no real need to. It was much easier to just let Wilson putter around in there and do what he wanted. Wilson was the official Bringer and Maker of Food and Beverage anyway. Again the necessity and motivation deal. Otherwise he’d never do this.
When everything was put away he headed back to the couch and checked the messages. He didn’t care who was on the machine but Wilson did and that was the only reason he checked it. The first one was from Cuddy, asking the same old questions which she probably knew the answer to anyway, or at least should know the answers to by this point. The second one was Wilson’s mother thanking him so very much for the call and the things he’d sent over and telling him that he really should stop by for a cup of tea or something. They only lived in Trenton. House vaguely remembers that he hates Trenton but he’s punching in the number anyway and ends up leaving another message saying he’ll consider it. It was the best he could offer and it was what Wilson would want.
The phone was hung up and the next destination was the bedroom. That was more or less untouched save for the bed was bare; the sheets were in the wash. The sight of clothes scattered around the room was not an uncommon sight but, instead of House’s clothes dominating the floor space it was Wilson’s that were overrepresented. A tie there. A dress shirt there. Upon closer examination House noted there were buttons missing from that particular shirt and for a moment he could hear the soft moan the person wearing the shirt would have made and the sound of those buttons hitting the floor and rolling away. He draped the shirt over his arm and picked up whatever else came across his way: A sock. A towel. A pair of boxers. All of it ended up in the laundry basket by the door.
He took a seat on the bare mattress and surveyed the room. The same walls that had been there when he’d moved in. The same walls that he’d stared at during long nights awake from the pain, the insomnia or both. The same walls that Wilson had often mentioned could do with a bit of a paint job. That would be for another day.
What was he going to do when he ran out of mindless, menial household tasks to occupy his time, he found himself wondering. A new coat of paint, clean sheets on the bed, even newly washed dishes wouldn’t do a thing to bring Wilson back. Wilson was beyond caring now.
Hey, you doing dishes for any reason is a reason to celebrate. The remark had been made months ago, maybe even years, but House heard it clearer than anything else that had been said to him recently. Wilson had gone to visit his parents for a weekend and he’d returned to find all the dishes washed and no new ones awaiting him. When Wilson had asked for a reason House had defended that necessity had dictated his actions and nothing else. Part of him laughed at that juicy bit of irony now. Wilson, on the other hand, had pointed out that nothing had stopped House from reusing dirty plates before. House had thrown out some remark about germs or not wanting flavours to mix or God knows what and then Wilson had made that remark. The celebration had been good, House remembered fondly. He smirked slightly; the celebration had been very good indeed.
The phone rang again and House made no move to answer it. Cuddy’s voice eventually filtered through the walls. Same old, same old. He told himself next time he’d pick up the phone. Didn’t want her sending anyone over or, God forbid, coming over herself.
A glance at a discarded oncology journal lying on the floor reminded him that the recycling needed to be taken out tonight. The trash as well. He didn’t think he’d checked the mail today either. Maybe he’d go pick up a few groceries, the essentials, the ones that were easy to carry or stuff in a backpack.
A home always had things to work on, things to replenish, and chores to do. A whole multitude of tasks stretched before him and he knew he’d be able to keep his mind occupied for quite some time. That was what he needed to do: anything and everything to fill the space between the last time he saw Wilson and the end of time.
House figured he probably should go check on that load of laundry.
Title: Purgatory
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Just for fun. Please don’t sue
Warning: Implied major character death
Characters/Pairings: House/Wilson
Summary: What was he going to do when he ran out of mindless, menial household tasks to occupy his time?
Author’s Note: Written in response to 100_situations’s prompt #85: Sink. This fic was also inspired by the song “Hate It Here” by Wilco.
The sound of rushing water was the only indication House had that he’d started the thing properly. You’d have thought that a man of his intelligence could sort out a simple appliance such as a washing machine, you would be right in thinking so but never should the power of laziness be underestimated. The old ones, the ones they’d had since House had moved into to the place over a decade ago, had been the ones House could work with. The landlord had recently had them all replaced and House hadn’t bothered with the new ones. He wasn’t the one who did the laundry around here anyway.
Then what was he doing here? This was clearly a laundry room. A place he hadn’t set foot in since Wilson had moved in. Necessity was the mother of invention though. Or at least the mother of motivation. No one to do the laundry meant he had to do it himself, eventually. A simple cause and effect relationship, nothing more and nothing less. Certainly nothing less.
House turned his back on the machines and headed back to his apartment down the hall. The place was damn near spotless. Not a piece of furniture, or a DVD, out of place. House knew there was a reason he didn’t do this often but, again, necessity was the mother of motivation.
He ducked into the kitchen. A week’s worth of dishes clean dishes were in the sink; he’d washed them this morning and only now set to the task of putting them away. Another thing he usually never did. Wilson had reorganized everything from cookware to cutlery when he’d moved in and House hadn’t bothered to learn that new system either. There was no real need to. It was much easier to just let Wilson putter around in there and do what he wanted. Wilson was the official Bringer and Maker of Food and Beverage anyway. Again the necessity and motivation deal. Otherwise he’d never do this.
When everything was put away he headed back to the couch and checked the messages. He didn’t care who was on the machine but Wilson did and that was the only reason he checked it. The first one was from Cuddy, asking the same old questions which she probably knew the answer to anyway, or at least should know the answers to by this point. The second one was Wilson’s mother thanking him so very much for the call and the things he’d sent over and telling him that he really should stop by for a cup of tea or something. They only lived in Trenton. House vaguely remembers that he hates Trenton but he’s punching in the number anyway and ends up leaving another message saying he’ll consider it. It was the best he could offer and it was what Wilson would want.
The phone was hung up and the next destination was the bedroom. That was more or less untouched save for the bed was bare; the sheets were in the wash. The sight of clothes scattered around the room was not an uncommon sight but, instead of House’s clothes dominating the floor space it was Wilson’s that were overrepresented. A tie there. A dress shirt there. Upon closer examination House noted there were buttons missing from that particular shirt and for a moment he could hear the soft moan the person wearing the shirt would have made and the sound of those buttons hitting the floor and rolling away. He draped the shirt over his arm and picked up whatever else came across his way: A sock. A towel. A pair of boxers. All of it ended up in the laundry basket by the door.
He took a seat on the bare mattress and surveyed the room. The same walls that had been there when he’d moved in. The same walls that he’d stared at during long nights awake from the pain, the insomnia or both. The same walls that Wilson had often mentioned could do with a bit of a paint job. That would be for another day.
What was he going to do when he ran out of mindless, menial household tasks to occupy his time, he found himself wondering. A new coat of paint, clean sheets on the bed, even newly washed dishes wouldn’t do a thing to bring Wilson back. Wilson was beyond caring now.
Hey, you doing dishes for any reason is a reason to celebrate. The remark had been made months ago, maybe even years, but House heard it clearer than anything else that had been said to him recently. Wilson had gone to visit his parents for a weekend and he’d returned to find all the dishes washed and no new ones awaiting him. When Wilson had asked for a reason House had defended that necessity had dictated his actions and nothing else. Part of him laughed at that juicy bit of irony now. Wilson, on the other hand, had pointed out that nothing had stopped House from reusing dirty plates before. House had thrown out some remark about germs or not wanting flavours to mix or God knows what and then Wilson had made that remark. The celebration had been good, House remembered fondly. He smirked slightly; the celebration had been very good indeed.
The phone rang again and House made no move to answer it. Cuddy’s voice eventually filtered through the walls. Same old, same old. He told himself next time he’d pick up the phone. Didn’t want her sending anyone over or, God forbid, coming over herself.
A glance at a discarded oncology journal lying on the floor reminded him that the recycling needed to be taken out tonight. The trash as well. He didn’t think he’d checked the mail today either. Maybe he’d go pick up a few groceries, the essentials, the ones that were easy to carry or stuff in a backpack.
A home always had things to work on, things to replenish, and chores to do. A whole multitude of tasks stretched before him and he knew he’d be able to keep his mind occupied for quite some time. That was what he needed to do: anything and everything to fill the space between the last time he saw Wilson and the end of time.
House figured he probably should go check on that load of laundry.