ineffablefandom: Fall
“You haven’t got any food in the house,” Wilson remarked as he stood in front of the fridge, door open, leaning over to peer inside. A near-empty container of butter, three slices of bread, half a shrivelled tomato on a saucer, a carton of eggs with only one egg left in it, four bottles of beer.
“Can’t shop,” House lazily replied from within the living room, the sound of the television almost drowning him out.
Wilson was eyeing the beer with an annoyed look on his face. “You have no food, but you have four bottles of unopened beer.”
He heard House grunt. That wasn’t an answer. Not that he’d asked him a question, but that wasn’t the point. The open-endedness of his statement was more or less a prompt for House to explain himself, regardless.
Wilson swiped one of the beers off the shelf it was propped in and stepped back, slamming the fridge door. He moved to the doorway that led out into the living room, peering at Greg slouched on the sofa. “I leave you for a week because you tell me you can look after yourself, and all you buy is beer?”
House just shrugged, without looking away from the television. Like he didn’t care, which he obviously didn’t. That annoyed Wilson, instantly. How many months had he spent doing everything for House, getting his shopping, helping him around the house, helping him walk again, only for House to completely let himself go the moment Wilson stepped back to let House have his space?
“House,” Wilson demanded. That was met with silence, so Wilson tried again, in a louder voice. “House.”
“Shut up, I heard you the first time,” House snapped back at him, still not looking away from the telelvision.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“I just did.”
Wilson took a deep breath, gripping the beer bottle a little firmer. “My question,” he stated, keeping his tone even and controlled. “Are you going to answer it?”
“What was the question? I’ve forgotten,” House carelessly replied.
Wilson didn’t come around here to look for a fight. And he wasn’t trying to pick a fight, but he was worried about seeing the way in which House had left himself over the past week. There wasn’t just hardly any food to be found in the fridge; the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, there was dirty laundry piled in the bathroom, House’s bedroom and the sheets appeared to be unchanged since the last time here was here. The place was a mess. House was a mess.
“Why do you have nothing but beer in the fridge?”
House just shifted on the sofa as casually as a cat stretching in mid-sleep. “Didn’t go shopping.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t.”
Wilson scoffed incredulously. “What do you mean, you couldn’t go shopping?”
“My leg hurt,” House replied, and the tone of his voice was starting to show a hint of annoyance at Wilson’s nagging. “Do you mind shutting up? I’m trying to watch this?”
‘Your leg hurt,” Wilson echoed in a deadpan voice.
“Yeah,” House replied, glancing at Wilson briefly, but long enough for him to catch a strong glimmer of resentment in his eyes. “My leg hurt. Now, are you going to shut the hell up? Because if not, you can get the hell out.”
Wilson didn’t mean to slam the beer as loudly as he did onto the bench. But he was getting frustrated. “When you told me a week ago that you wanted me to leave, you said it was because you could look after yourself.”
“I can look after myself,” House shot back at him.
Wilson gave an exasperated gesture with his hands around the apartment. “You… You call this looking after yourself?”
“Maybe not for someone as anally retentive as you.”
He deliberately tried to let House’s remark go like water off a duck’s back. “This isn’t looking after yourself. This is… this is living like an invalid.”
“No,” House replied, and there was a sudden darkness in his voice. “This is me living the way I want to live.”
Wilson scoffed. “What -- no food in the house, dishes piled in the sink with food rotting on them, no clean clothes, a bathroom that stinks of piss.”
“My bathroom doesn’t stink of piss.”
“It stinks of piss, House,” Wilson fired back at him. “This is you, letting yourself go. You can’t live like this.”
Wilson could see House was eying him with a venomous glimmer in his eyes now. “I’ll live however I want to.”
“What, like a self-pitying cripple?”
That seemed to make House snap. Wilson watched House grab up his cane, and after a series of pained expressions on his face as he heaved himself up from the chair, House replied heatedly, “Get out.”
Wilson braced his hands on his hips. “No.”
“Get. Out.” Wilson defiantly shook his head, which prompted House to suddenly start limping towards him, right into his personal space. “Get. The Fuck. Out.”
Setting his jaw and keeping his hands planted firmly on his hips, Wilson held House’s icy glare evenly. “Why?”
House leaned in, and Wilson could smell the tell-tale stench of hunger and stomach acid on House’s breath. “I don’t need you, that’s why,” he replied in a low, cold voice.
Wilson watched House’s face and he wanted nothing more than to look away so that House couldn’t see the hurt in his eyes. He’d lost his marriage over how much he’d helped House. He’d thrown himself full-force into House’s disability, wanting nothing more than to help and losing everything in the process save for his job, and here was House throwing it all back in his face.
The hurt won over and Wilson found himself looking away, taking in a deep breath. “You don’t want to admit that you need me,” Wilson began, and he hated the way his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look back to House again. “You don’t want to admit that you need any help because you’re too damn wrapped up in your own self-pity.”
“I’m not wrapped up in anything,” House mockingly countered. “I just don’t want your help and I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.”
Being told he wasn’t needed, that caused his stomach to knot up. Wilson swallowed and clenched his jaw, staring back at House as icily as House was staring at him, before he nodded and took a step back. “Okay, fine,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “You be as ungrateful as you want to be. I don’t care. I’ll just go back home and forget all about you and let you rot in your little pit of misery, like you obviously want to.”
Wilson went to move off to go and collect his jacket and keys, though he was followed by House and the uneven thump-thump of his cane on the floor. “I’m not rotting in self-pity,” he heard House churlishly remark, and Wilson was adamant to ignore him. “I’m rotting in pain. You try that for a day and I’ll guarantee you, you won’t be a happy face.”
Snatching his keys up off the table, Wilson pocketed them before he grabbed up his coat. He refused to answer House; to give him a taste of his own medicine. If House wanted to be like that, then Wilson could be just as cold and closed off. He went to shrug on his coat.
“Hey!” House snapped at him, sounding angry now. “I’m talking to you.”
“I’m leaving,” Wilson replied, and he faced away from House to the door, looking down to zip up his coat.
He felt a hand slap hard on his shoulder, grip it and he was forced to turn around. “I’m talking to you,” House repeated viciously.
He got the zip up. “And I’m leaving.” Wilson then went to turn away, to reach for the door handle.
Thud. House slammed the end of his cane against the door, and pinned it there. “I’m not finished.”
Heaving another deep breath, Wilson half-faced back to House. “You told me to get out. So, I’m leaving. You told me you didn’t need me any more, so I’ll be out of your hair like you want me to.”
“Shut up, I didn’t ask you to speak,” House nastily replied. “Much as I appreciated your help while it lasted, I’m not going to sit around here and let you treat me like I can’t do a thing for myself.”
“Right,” Wilson said, sarcastically. “Which you’ve totally managed to prove to me that you can. Your apartment’s not rotting in your own filth; it’s aesthetically relaxed. I get it.”
House sneered at him. “Shut up, Wilson.”
“Let me out of your apartment, and your wish will be granted.” He watched House watching him for a long moment before House finally took his cane away from the door, and without hesitation, Wilson opened the door.
Just before he shut the door behind him, he heard House say, “And don’t come back. Ever.”
Those last words were punctuated with the door slamming behind him, and Wilson didn’t stop moving until he was out of the apartment and down by his car. Then he stopped, and braced his hand against it, and tried to catch his breath as though he’d been running a marathon. That was how it felt, that entire whirlwind exchange.
He reached his hand up to the back of his neck and rubbed it, rubbed his face and then quickly let himself into his car, and sat there for what felt like ages. Trying to calm himself down, trying to talk himself into thinking that House was just being unreasonable because he was in pain, that was all. But having it thrown back in his face like that… It made him feel like he was falling, falling hard and fast, without knowing where the bottom was.
Wilson finally slipped his key into the ignition and fired up the engine, and drove away into the night from House’s apartment.
Muse: James Wilson
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 1,700
“Can’t shop,” House lazily replied from within the living room, the sound of the television almost drowning him out.
Wilson was eyeing the beer with an annoyed look on his face. “You have no food, but you have four bottles of unopened beer.”
He heard House grunt. That wasn’t an answer. Not that he’d asked him a question, but that wasn’t the point. The open-endedness of his statement was more or less a prompt for House to explain himself, regardless.
Wilson swiped one of the beers off the shelf it was propped in and stepped back, slamming the fridge door. He moved to the doorway that led out into the living room, peering at Greg slouched on the sofa. “I leave you for a week because you tell me you can look after yourself, and all you buy is beer?”
House just shrugged, without looking away from the television. Like he didn’t care, which he obviously didn’t. That annoyed Wilson, instantly. How many months had he spent doing everything for House, getting his shopping, helping him around the house, helping him walk again, only for House to completely let himself go the moment Wilson stepped back to let House have his space?
“House,” Wilson demanded. That was met with silence, so Wilson tried again, in a louder voice. “House.”
“Shut up, I heard you the first time,” House snapped back at him, still not looking away from the telelvision.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“I just did.”
Wilson took a deep breath, gripping the beer bottle a little firmer. “My question,” he stated, keeping his tone even and controlled. “Are you going to answer it?”
“What was the question? I’ve forgotten,” House carelessly replied.
Wilson didn’t come around here to look for a fight. And he wasn’t trying to pick a fight, but he was worried about seeing the way in which House had left himself over the past week. There wasn’t just hardly any food to be found in the fridge; the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, there was dirty laundry piled in the bathroom, House’s bedroom and the sheets appeared to be unchanged since the last time here was here. The place was a mess. House was a mess.
“Why do you have nothing but beer in the fridge?”
House just shifted on the sofa as casually as a cat stretching in mid-sleep. “Didn’t go shopping.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t.”
Wilson scoffed incredulously. “What do you mean, you couldn’t go shopping?”
“My leg hurt,” House replied, and the tone of his voice was starting to show a hint of annoyance at Wilson’s nagging. “Do you mind shutting up? I’m trying to watch this?”
‘Your leg hurt,” Wilson echoed in a deadpan voice.
“Yeah,” House replied, glancing at Wilson briefly, but long enough for him to catch a strong glimmer of resentment in his eyes. “My leg hurt. Now, are you going to shut the hell up? Because if not, you can get the hell out.”
Wilson didn’t mean to slam the beer as loudly as he did onto the bench. But he was getting frustrated. “When you told me a week ago that you wanted me to leave, you said it was because you could look after yourself.”
“I can look after myself,” House shot back at him.
Wilson gave an exasperated gesture with his hands around the apartment. “You… You call this looking after yourself?”
“Maybe not for someone as anally retentive as you.”
He deliberately tried to let House’s remark go like water off a duck’s back. “This isn’t looking after yourself. This is… this is living like an invalid.”
“No,” House replied, and there was a sudden darkness in his voice. “This is me living the way I want to live.”
Wilson scoffed. “What -- no food in the house, dishes piled in the sink with food rotting on them, no clean clothes, a bathroom that stinks of piss.”
“My bathroom doesn’t stink of piss.”
“It stinks of piss, House,” Wilson fired back at him. “This is you, letting yourself go. You can’t live like this.”
Wilson could see House was eying him with a venomous glimmer in his eyes now. “I’ll live however I want to.”
“What, like a self-pitying cripple?”
That seemed to make House snap. Wilson watched House grab up his cane, and after a series of pained expressions on his face as he heaved himself up from the chair, House replied heatedly, “Get out.”
Wilson braced his hands on his hips. “No.”
“Get. Out.” Wilson defiantly shook his head, which prompted House to suddenly start limping towards him, right into his personal space. “Get. The Fuck. Out.”
Setting his jaw and keeping his hands planted firmly on his hips, Wilson held House’s icy glare evenly. “Why?”
House leaned in, and Wilson could smell the tell-tale stench of hunger and stomach acid on House’s breath. “I don’t need you, that’s why,” he replied in a low, cold voice.
Wilson watched House’s face and he wanted nothing more than to look away so that House couldn’t see the hurt in his eyes. He’d lost his marriage over how much he’d helped House. He’d thrown himself full-force into House’s disability, wanting nothing more than to help and losing everything in the process save for his job, and here was House throwing it all back in his face.
The hurt won over and Wilson found himself looking away, taking in a deep breath. “You don’t want to admit that you need me,” Wilson began, and he hated the way his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look back to House again. “You don’t want to admit that you need any help because you’re too damn wrapped up in your own self-pity.”
“I’m not wrapped up in anything,” House mockingly countered. “I just don’t want your help and I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.”
Being told he wasn’t needed, that caused his stomach to knot up. Wilson swallowed and clenched his jaw, staring back at House as icily as House was staring at him, before he nodded and took a step back. “Okay, fine,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “You be as ungrateful as you want to be. I don’t care. I’ll just go back home and forget all about you and let you rot in your little pit of misery, like you obviously want to.”
Wilson went to move off to go and collect his jacket and keys, though he was followed by House and the uneven thump-thump of his cane on the floor. “I’m not rotting in self-pity,” he heard House churlishly remark, and Wilson was adamant to ignore him. “I’m rotting in pain. You try that for a day and I’ll guarantee you, you won’t be a happy face.”
Snatching his keys up off the table, Wilson pocketed them before he grabbed up his coat. He refused to answer House; to give him a taste of his own medicine. If House wanted to be like that, then Wilson could be just as cold and closed off. He went to shrug on his coat.
“Hey!” House snapped at him, sounding angry now. “I’m talking to you.”
“I’m leaving,” Wilson replied, and he faced away from House to the door, looking down to zip up his coat.
He felt a hand slap hard on his shoulder, grip it and he was forced to turn around. “I’m talking to you,” House repeated viciously.
He got the zip up. “And I’m leaving.” Wilson then went to turn away, to reach for the door handle.
Thud. House slammed the end of his cane against the door, and pinned it there. “I’m not finished.”
Heaving another deep breath, Wilson half-faced back to House. “You told me to get out. So, I’m leaving. You told me you didn’t need me any more, so I’ll be out of your hair like you want me to.”
“Shut up, I didn’t ask you to speak,” House nastily replied. “Much as I appreciated your help while it lasted, I’m not going to sit around here and let you treat me like I can’t do a thing for myself.”
“Right,” Wilson said, sarcastically. “Which you’ve totally managed to prove to me that you can. Your apartment’s not rotting in your own filth; it’s aesthetically relaxed. I get it.”
House sneered at him. “Shut up, Wilson.”
“Let me out of your apartment, and your wish will be granted.” He watched House watching him for a long moment before House finally took his cane away from the door, and without hesitation, Wilson opened the door.
Just before he shut the door behind him, he heard House say, “And don’t come back. Ever.”
Those last words were punctuated with the door slamming behind him, and Wilson didn’t stop moving until he was out of the apartment and down by his car. Then he stopped, and braced his hand against it, and tried to catch his breath as though he’d been running a marathon. That was how it felt, that entire whirlwind exchange.
He reached his hand up to the back of his neck and rubbed it, rubbed his face and then quickly let himself into his car, and sat there for what felt like ages. Trying to calm himself down, trying to talk himself into thinking that House was just being unreasonable because he was in pain, that was all. But having it thrown back in his face like that… It made him feel like he was falling, falling hard and fast, without knowing where the bottom was.
Wilson finally slipped his key into the ignition and fired up the engine, and drove away into the night from House’s apartment.
Muse: James Wilson
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 1,700