Mother Told Me I Wasn't Jesus Christ
Title: Mother Told Me I Wasn't Jesus Christ
Rating: PG-13 for some sex
Pairings: House/Wilson
Warnings: one mention of Amber, one mention of a kid, one vague AU considering colleges.
Story:
CHALLENGE: Pick a novel (or book), preferably one of more than 100 pages in length, and take the first (full) sentence off of the top of page; 10, 20, 30, 40 & ect. Until you have ten (or thereabouts) quotes. Take said ten (or so) quotes and write drabbles based on them. You can use the whole quote, or just a section, even a word - all that matters is that you stay faithful to the first sentence part of the challenge.
A/N: I’m using the anonymous manifesto I bought for five dollars at a hole-in-the-wall bookstore called “Monkeywrench Books” It has no title, author, or really even a cover. I bought it because it was a plain white book, and it made me curious. Turns out it’s really just the ramblings of somebody who never got around to having a life, but it amuses me, and I felt like it would have fitting sentences. (I was right, for the most part.)
10. “My mind buzzed with the alcohol; things seemed beautiful.”
“How drunk are you?” House asked coolly, eyes swiftly moving from Wilson’s hand on his cheek to Wilson’s face staring dazedly at him. A smile twitched on Wilson’s face, and he shrugged, trailing his fingers down House’s throat. House’s breath hitched quietly, and he felt uncharacteristic gratefulness when Wilson didn’t notice.
“Probably very,” Wilson admitted dimly. House smirked and tried to shove Wilson’s hand away, but Wilson took hold of House’s fingers, instead. “You’re beautiful, you know,” he slurred earnestly, and then he laughed. “I mean, you’re-you’re a complete jackass, but you’re a beautiful one. Somehow, you pull that off. I-I’m not sure how, but you do.”
House rolled his eyes and shook Wilson’s hand off of him. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he grunted, turning back to his TiVo.
20. “Girls confused me and scattered what I was sure of.”
Wilson spent his entire lunch hour remembering what House had said and trying to prove him wrong.
On the outside, he was listening raptly to Amber’s mild conversation, nodding and smiling, but his mind was so entirely focused on House’s supposed realization that he didn’t do very much of the actual talking. Amber wasn’t that similar to House, was she? He watched her movements and analyzed her attitude throughout the date.
She was talking quickly and deliberately, completely oblivious to Wilson’s disinterest. She was frustrated about something that had happened on her most recent interview, convinced the interviewer was the one at fault as she ranted about his stupidity.
Good God, the likeness was so glaringly obvious that Wilson asked himself how he didn't realize it earlier. How House didn't realize it earlier. Wilson forced himself not to frown as the realization hit him just as hard as it had hit House. The only difference he could see was the way they looked like on the outside. As Amber excused herself to the bathroom, Wilson stole a moment to put his face in his hands.
So what the hell did that mean?
30. “The mental patients run races and were never so happy as when the crowd cheered.”
“House! I've been looking all over for...what are you doing?” Wilson shouted, jogging up to see why a crowd several patients in gowns were standing idly outside the psych ward lobby.
“Racing.” House answered in a voice that seemed almost innocent for House, glancing up at Wilson from his seat on the wheelchair.
“Are you out of your mind?” Wilson asked furiously, his lab coat sweeping dramatically as he finally reached where House and another man were stationed in wheelchairs, facing the opposite end of the hallway.
“No,” House answered before adding in a stage whisper, “but he is.”
Wilson felt his eyes bug out of his head, jerking the wheelchair back and leaning forward to speak in House’s ear. “I can’t believe you. You’re racing mental patients?” Wilson snarled. House rolled his eyes and brushed him away.
“Don’t worry about it, Jimmy. There’s no way I can loose. 'Guy’s a moron. Half the time he goes backwards.”
Wilson’s jaw dropped. “How long have you been doing this?” Wilson asked, “Don’t you have a case or something?”
“GO!” House shouted in response, wrenching his wheelchair out of Wilson’s grip and zipping down the end of the hall. Wilson snapped his head back to see House’s nameless competitor speed after him, giggling madly. House had a good four feet on him, and reached the end of the hall in less than a minute, slamming his hand on the wall victoriously and raising his hands above his head like a crippled Rocky Balboa.
The patients all whooped and laughed. The man meant to be racing against House stopped where he was to howl excitedly and clap his hands. House spun around on his wheels and turned to Wilson, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Wilson rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, but he knew it was too late. House had already seen his smile.
40. “I wished there was only one girl.”
Wilson stared intently at the key bowl by his door, scowling. He didn’t get it. For Aimee it had been eight years. For Bonnie it had been five. For Julie, two. Why did he still have their wedding rings in the key bowl by his door? Like he thought that any minute they’d be coming back into his life and taking him back. Wilson made a face as the thought crossed his mind. He didn’t even want them back.
“Monogamy is overrated.” He heard an oddly reassuring voice behind him say. Wilson smirked and looked over his shoulder, seeing House leaning heavily on his cane.
“Think I’m too young to be a 3rd degree divorcee?” Wilson asked somewhat sadly. House scoffed.
“Please. You’re not too young to be anything.”
Wilson rolled his eyes resignedly and stepped away from the doorway. “Guess you’re right,” he said flatly, collapsing onto the sofa. On his way to join him, House ruffled Wilson’s hair.
“I’m always right,” House said snidely when Wilson looked up curiously.
50. “Sitting on the bus, with the smell of thirty rotting Americans, was like suffocating in a skin tight lead suit.”
“We’re going two miles an hour. Why are we taking the bus, anyway?”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Because Cuddy called us in for an early meeting, my car’s in the shop and you said, and I quote, ‘I’m not taking you anywhere on my bike with me, that would look too gay.’” House grunted.
“I shouldn’t have to take the bus with you. That looks gay, too.” House paused and scrunched his nose, a look of contempt on his face. “God, it smells awful in here.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You’d have to have anosmia to think I’m wrong.”
“No, I mean about the riding with me on the bus, House.” Wilson snapped, “You didn’t have to. You chose to. You said if I wasn’t going to pay for gas for the next week, you didn’t want have to, either,” Wilson smirked before adding, “But perhaps there’s a deeper Freudian meaning to all of these accusations?”
House matched his smirk and raised an eyebrow. “You wish, pretty boy.”
60. “I couldn’t remember the dates of events, it didn’t seem crucial or possible that one event caused another, that things flowed in logical progression.”
Wilson’s dreams were always surreal when they included House. They’d often start out like normal dreams-they’d be in his office, discussing a case, and then suddenly, House would be shoving Wilson into a tile wall or over his piano bench, driving into him repeatedly as Wilson whimpered below him.
For some reason, the actual sex with House never seemed as abnormal as after the sex was done. No matter where they had been having sex in the dream, the afterglow was always present in the bed. Perhaps it was the tragically hopeless romantic in Wilson’s subconscious. It was there where things got too strange-too obviously a dream. House would always reach over and pull Wilson close to him, nuzzling his neck until his lips were against his ear and mutter, “I love you, James.”
Wilson would always wake after that, not even his subconscious blind enough to believe such things.
70. “The youths I hung out with were violent.”
If you had told Gregory House at age nineteen that his best friend by the end of his years at med school would be a mild-mannered, gentle and loving oncology student named James Evan Wilson, he would have laughed in your face.
Gregory House was not the type of man to find interest in the mild-mannered. He never had been. He never would be-but then, Wilson would always be the exception. The friends Gregory House made at nineteen were not the type of people one would find in a teaching hospital at all-at least, not on the teaching side. They were rough and angry musicians, the kind that smashed their guitars at the end of their gig at the local bar, because they were spoiled enough that daddy would buy them a new one, anyway.
Greg was never quite happy with these friends, but he always figured he should get used to it, because his callous, sarcastic personality kept people any different from these types at a good distance. Not like he really liked people to begin with, he just chose them over the alternative. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid to be alone, but he liked the feeling of sparse company, and he’d rather mediocre friends than sitting at home by himself all day.
Six years later, he would meet an insistent, too-young freshman at Johns Hopkins during his senior year as an undergrad, and suddenly, the idea of his best friend being a mild-mannered, gentle and loving oncology student named James Even Wilson wouldn’t seem as funny.
80. “I went shopping with Grandmother in malls.”
For the first time in nearly thirty years, Wilson feels the need to delve deep into his dusty Jewish roots and exclaim, Oy, vey. When he agreed to let his grandmother take him shopping, he hadn’t known House would be coming, as well. How did House even know his grandmother? And why would such a sweet, soft-spoken woman nearing the age of ninety want to spend time with him?
“I think she thinks we’re lovers,” House murmurs to him while he watches Wilson’s grandmother looking strangely at them over a selection of purses she’s pretending to be interested in.
Wilson feels the back of his neck turn red, and when he tries to meet his grandmother’s gaze, he notices she looks away quickly. He’s suddenly curious at how open-minded she’s trying to act. “Why would she think that?” Wilson asks, turning to see House beaming demonically at him.
“I told her.”
90. “We read fairytales and looked at colourful pictures.”
“Don’t see why you get such a kick out of lying to him like that.”
“I’m not-he’s seven, House.” Wilson said exasperatedly, and despite his tone, House couldn’t help but smile. He found it amusing that even after so many years they rarely called each other by their given names. Misinterpreting the look on House’s face, Wilson continued, “Do you really want him to be as miserable as you are when he grows up?”
“I wanted his first words to be everybody lies,” House replied, “but apparently I hadn’t been saying it around him enough.” Wilson rolled his eyes and set the book of fairytales down on the bedside table, pulling the blanket over the sleeping boy before walking out of the room and swinging the door to where it was open just wide enough for a sliver of light to shine over his bed.
“Maybe you stopped believing it quite so much,” was Wilson’s clever retort, a twinge of hopefulness in his playful tone.
House smirked, as if to say you wish, but Wilson shook his head, disbelieving. “I don’t know why you’ve never wanted to believe in fairytales, House,” he said with a mischievous look on his face, “You fit the role of the wicked stepmother so well.”
“Oh, ha.” House called after him, but Wilson had already left the hallway.
100. “… it seemed like we were different, that we wouldn’t become like the rest of the stupid people; it seemed like there was an unspoken pact.”
Maybe I don’t want to push this ‘til it breaks, House had told him seriously that night in the hotel room as they contemplated pulling a Kevorkian. If he was truly being honest, Wilson couldn’t be sure, but there were times in their friendship, after that confession, where he could feel House holding back a snide comment that would be one too many, or where House would take a step forward rather than back, and pay for their lunch at the cafeteria or apologize for when he thought he might have pushed too far.
Wilson wasn’t stupid. He knew their relationship was anything but healthy, but Wilson had known early on that his chances at ever having a normal relationship were dangerously low. His desperate desire to be needed always seemed to fill with everyone else he tried to develop a connection with-eventually they would stop needing him quite so much, and Wilson, feeling useless, would sabotage himself.
But with House it was different. House wasn’t like the three ex-wives or countless girlfriends he’d had in his lifetime. House needed him continuously, however often he denied it, and it didn’t seem like that would ever change.
After all, House refused to change.
Rating: PG-13 for some sex
Pairings: House/Wilson
Warnings: one mention of Amber, one mention of a kid, one vague AU considering colleges.
Story:
CHALLENGE: Pick a novel (or book), preferably one of more than 100 pages in length, and take the first (full) sentence off of the top of page; 10, 20, 30, 40 & ect. Until you have ten (or thereabouts) quotes. Take said ten (or so) quotes and write drabbles based on them. You can use the whole quote, or just a section, even a word - all that matters is that you stay faithful to the first sentence part of the challenge.
A/N: I’m using the anonymous manifesto I bought for five dollars at a hole-in-the-wall bookstore called “Monkeywrench Books” It has no title, author, or really even a cover. I bought it because it was a plain white book, and it made me curious. Turns out it’s really just the ramblings of somebody who never got around to having a life, but it amuses me, and I felt like it would have fitting sentences. (I was right, for the most part.)
10. “My mind buzzed with the alcohol; things seemed beautiful.”
“How drunk are you?” House asked coolly, eyes swiftly moving from Wilson’s hand on his cheek to Wilson’s face staring dazedly at him. A smile twitched on Wilson’s face, and he shrugged, trailing his fingers down House’s throat. House’s breath hitched quietly, and he felt uncharacteristic gratefulness when Wilson didn’t notice.
“Probably very,” Wilson admitted dimly. House smirked and tried to shove Wilson’s hand away, but Wilson took hold of House’s fingers, instead. “You’re beautiful, you know,” he slurred earnestly, and then he laughed. “I mean, you’re-you’re a complete jackass, but you’re a beautiful one. Somehow, you pull that off. I-I’m not sure how, but you do.”
House rolled his eyes and shook Wilson’s hand off of him. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he grunted, turning back to his TiVo.
20. “Girls confused me and scattered what I was sure of.”
Wilson spent his entire lunch hour remembering what House had said and trying to prove him wrong.
On the outside, he was listening raptly to Amber’s mild conversation, nodding and smiling, but his mind was so entirely focused on House’s supposed realization that he didn’t do very much of the actual talking. Amber wasn’t that similar to House, was she? He watched her movements and analyzed her attitude throughout the date.
She was talking quickly and deliberately, completely oblivious to Wilson’s disinterest. She was frustrated about something that had happened on her most recent interview, convinced the interviewer was the one at fault as she ranted about his stupidity.
Good God, the likeness was so glaringly obvious that Wilson asked himself how he didn't realize it earlier. How House didn't realize it earlier. Wilson forced himself not to frown as the realization hit him just as hard as it had hit House. The only difference he could see was the way they looked like on the outside. As Amber excused herself to the bathroom, Wilson stole a moment to put his face in his hands.
So what the hell did that mean?
30. “The mental patients run races and were never so happy as when the crowd cheered.”
“House! I've been looking all over for...what are you doing?” Wilson shouted, jogging up to see why a crowd several patients in gowns were standing idly outside the psych ward lobby.
“Racing.” House answered in a voice that seemed almost innocent for House, glancing up at Wilson from his seat on the wheelchair.
“Are you out of your mind?” Wilson asked furiously, his lab coat sweeping dramatically as he finally reached where House and another man were stationed in wheelchairs, facing the opposite end of the hallway.
“No,” House answered before adding in a stage whisper, “but he is.”
Wilson felt his eyes bug out of his head, jerking the wheelchair back and leaning forward to speak in House’s ear. “I can’t believe you. You’re racing mental patients?” Wilson snarled. House rolled his eyes and brushed him away.
“Don’t worry about it, Jimmy. There’s no way I can loose. 'Guy’s a moron. Half the time he goes backwards.”
Wilson’s jaw dropped. “How long have you been doing this?” Wilson asked, “Don’t you have a case or something?”
“GO!” House shouted in response, wrenching his wheelchair out of Wilson’s grip and zipping down the end of the hall. Wilson snapped his head back to see House’s nameless competitor speed after him, giggling madly. House had a good four feet on him, and reached the end of the hall in less than a minute, slamming his hand on the wall victoriously and raising his hands above his head like a crippled Rocky Balboa.
The patients all whooped and laughed. The man meant to be racing against House stopped where he was to howl excitedly and clap his hands. House spun around on his wheels and turned to Wilson, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Wilson rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, but he knew it was too late. House had already seen his smile.
40. “I wished there was only one girl.”
Wilson stared intently at the key bowl by his door, scowling. He didn’t get it. For Aimee it had been eight years. For Bonnie it had been five. For Julie, two. Why did he still have their wedding rings in the key bowl by his door? Like he thought that any minute they’d be coming back into his life and taking him back. Wilson made a face as the thought crossed his mind. He didn’t even want them back.
“Monogamy is overrated.” He heard an oddly reassuring voice behind him say. Wilson smirked and looked over his shoulder, seeing House leaning heavily on his cane.
“Think I’m too young to be a 3rd degree divorcee?” Wilson asked somewhat sadly. House scoffed.
“Please. You’re not too young to be anything.”
Wilson rolled his eyes resignedly and stepped away from the doorway. “Guess you’re right,” he said flatly, collapsing onto the sofa. On his way to join him, House ruffled Wilson’s hair.
“I’m always right,” House said snidely when Wilson looked up curiously.
50. “Sitting on the bus, with the smell of thirty rotting Americans, was like suffocating in a skin tight lead suit.”
“We’re going two miles an hour. Why are we taking the bus, anyway?”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Because Cuddy called us in for an early meeting, my car’s in the shop and you said, and I quote, ‘I’m not taking you anywhere on my bike with me, that would look too gay.’” House grunted.
“I shouldn’t have to take the bus with you. That looks gay, too.” House paused and scrunched his nose, a look of contempt on his face. “God, it smells awful in here.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You’d have to have anosmia to think I’m wrong.”
“No, I mean about the riding with me on the bus, House.” Wilson snapped, “You didn’t have to. You chose to. You said if I wasn’t going to pay for gas for the next week, you didn’t want have to, either,” Wilson smirked before adding, “But perhaps there’s a deeper Freudian meaning to all of these accusations?”
House matched his smirk and raised an eyebrow. “You wish, pretty boy.”
60. “I couldn’t remember the dates of events, it didn’t seem crucial or possible that one event caused another, that things flowed in logical progression.”
Wilson’s dreams were always surreal when they included House. They’d often start out like normal dreams-they’d be in his office, discussing a case, and then suddenly, House would be shoving Wilson into a tile wall or over his piano bench, driving into him repeatedly as Wilson whimpered below him.
For some reason, the actual sex with House never seemed as abnormal as after the sex was done. No matter where they had been having sex in the dream, the afterglow was always present in the bed. Perhaps it was the tragically hopeless romantic in Wilson’s subconscious. It was there where things got too strange-too obviously a dream. House would always reach over and pull Wilson close to him, nuzzling his neck until his lips were against his ear and mutter, “I love you, James.”
Wilson would always wake after that, not even his subconscious blind enough to believe such things.
70. “The youths I hung out with were violent.”
If you had told Gregory House at age nineteen that his best friend by the end of his years at med school would be a mild-mannered, gentle and loving oncology student named James Evan Wilson, he would have laughed in your face.
Gregory House was not the type of man to find interest in the mild-mannered. He never had been. He never would be-but then, Wilson would always be the exception. The friends Gregory House made at nineteen were not the type of people one would find in a teaching hospital at all-at least, not on the teaching side. They were rough and angry musicians, the kind that smashed their guitars at the end of their gig at the local bar, because they were spoiled enough that daddy would buy them a new one, anyway.
Greg was never quite happy with these friends, but he always figured he should get used to it, because his callous, sarcastic personality kept people any different from these types at a good distance. Not like he really liked people to begin with, he just chose them over the alternative. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid to be alone, but he liked the feeling of sparse company, and he’d rather mediocre friends than sitting at home by himself all day.
Six years later, he would meet an insistent, too-young freshman at Johns Hopkins during his senior year as an undergrad, and suddenly, the idea of his best friend being a mild-mannered, gentle and loving oncology student named James Even Wilson wouldn’t seem as funny.
80. “I went shopping with Grandmother in malls.”
For the first time in nearly thirty years, Wilson feels the need to delve deep into his dusty Jewish roots and exclaim, Oy, vey. When he agreed to let his grandmother take him shopping, he hadn’t known House would be coming, as well. How did House even know his grandmother? And why would such a sweet, soft-spoken woman nearing the age of ninety want to spend time with him?
“I think she thinks we’re lovers,” House murmurs to him while he watches Wilson’s grandmother looking strangely at them over a selection of purses she’s pretending to be interested in.
Wilson feels the back of his neck turn red, and when he tries to meet his grandmother’s gaze, he notices she looks away quickly. He’s suddenly curious at how open-minded she’s trying to act. “Why would she think that?” Wilson asks, turning to see House beaming demonically at him.
“I told her.”
90. “We read fairytales and looked at colourful pictures.”
“Don’t see why you get such a kick out of lying to him like that.”
“I’m not-he’s seven, House.” Wilson said exasperatedly, and despite his tone, House couldn’t help but smile. He found it amusing that even after so many years they rarely called each other by their given names. Misinterpreting the look on House’s face, Wilson continued, “Do you really want him to be as miserable as you are when he grows up?”
“I wanted his first words to be everybody lies,” House replied, “but apparently I hadn’t been saying it around him enough.” Wilson rolled his eyes and set the book of fairytales down on the bedside table, pulling the blanket over the sleeping boy before walking out of the room and swinging the door to where it was open just wide enough for a sliver of light to shine over his bed.
“Maybe you stopped believing it quite so much,” was Wilson’s clever retort, a twinge of hopefulness in his playful tone.
House smirked, as if to say you wish, but Wilson shook his head, disbelieving. “I don’t know why you’ve never wanted to believe in fairytales, House,” he said with a mischievous look on his face, “You fit the role of the wicked stepmother so well.”
“Oh, ha.” House called after him, but Wilson had already left the hallway.
100. “… it seemed like we were different, that we wouldn’t become like the rest of the stupid people; it seemed like there was an unspoken pact.”
Maybe I don’t want to push this ‘til it breaks, House had told him seriously that night in the hotel room as they contemplated pulling a Kevorkian. If he was truly being honest, Wilson couldn’t be sure, but there were times in their friendship, after that confession, where he could feel House holding back a snide comment that would be one too many, or where House would take a step forward rather than back, and pay for their lunch at the cafeteria or apologize for when he thought he might have pushed too far.
Wilson wasn’t stupid. He knew their relationship was anything but healthy, but Wilson had known early on that his chances at ever having a normal relationship were dangerously low. His desperate desire to be needed always seemed to fill with everyone else he tried to develop a connection with-eventually they would stop needing him quite so much, and Wilson, feeling useless, would sabotage himself.
But with House it was different. House wasn’t like the three ex-wives or countless girlfriends he’d had in his lifetime. House needed him continuously, however often he denied it, and it didn’t seem like that would ever change.
After all, House refused to change.