Some H/W Longer Drabbles
Fic: Drabbles, Vignettes and Slightly Longer Drabbles
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: H/W, and one with a Foreman/Wendy guest appearance
Rating: G - PG-13
Warnings: Very, very slight spoilers for minor storylines in Season Two and Three
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Change
There was a time, Wilson thinks, when he would have laughed off House’s comments or given them a sarcastic reply. He might have instigated a little, prodded him into an unrelenting snapping battle of wisecracks and grins. Plenty of instances of that happening, Wilson thinks as he tangles his hand in House’s scarf and pulls smirking lips together for a kiss. And maybe he’ll miss that paradoxical, convoluted simplicity, when each look translated as something different and not-worth-risking. Maybe. He sighs the word into House’s mouth and the rest of his thoughts fold neatly away.
2. Protection
St. Gregory is the patron saint of choirboys, musicians, school children, teachers, and the plague. Among other things. Gregory House, sans the saint part, likes the latter the best. In his hand, the little card listing St. Gregory’s responsibilities do not say protector from plague or even curer of plague-just Patron Saint of Plague, as if he were right up front conducting symptoms with a practiced musician’s flair.
House looks to Wilson, already leaving after giving him the medallion and paper. The absurdity of a religious gift is not lost on him, and neither is the relevance of one.
3. G-Man
“You never told me you were in a band together.”
“You never asked.”
“Yes, well, I guess I should have been tipped off when you both walked in swinging guitars and sporting matching leather jackets with Rock On stitched across the front pocket.”
“Please. We’re too cool for pockets. He played drums anyway.”
“Why didn’t you ever ask me if I wanted to hang out and play?”
“Because I know your mommy would worry about you hurting your ear drums. We’re serious musicians. We don’t turn down the amps until the cops come. Besides, I really don’t need to see you rocking out on the accordion.”
“Surprisingly, I’ve never touched an accordion in my life.”
“Or any other musical instrument for that matter.”
“How would you know? I might have a drum kit set up in my basement.”
“I know you just want to come over so we can make sweet music together, but-”
“House-”
“Actually… Now that I think about it, we do have some room for groupies.”
“Forget it. Just-never mind.”
4. Give &
house house house house house
I’m going to
house house hou
Forget why if you can’t
house hous
Remember why I’m still here and
house
Isn’t that reason enough to take care of yourself?
wilson.
5. & Take
wilson wilson wilson wilson wilson
This needle isn’t
wilson wilson wils
For you, so stop wasting
wilson wilso
And burying your worth under my pills; it’s
wilson
My will, and you can’t break it without destroying us.
house.
6. Bogey Man
He’d never gotten used to kissing House, those thin lips surrounded by a briar patch of stubble, how tight a large pair of hands would be around his forearms, not quite embracing, but something equally possessive, grasping with the strength of a child terrified of something unseen waiting beneath the bed, an army of monstrous backup prepared to slink out from the closet as soon as darkness fell like a mute, listless tongue.
He’d gotten used to holding him, though, whispering reassurances that didn’t rise from the safety of indistinguishable murmurs.
7. Telemarketers
Click.
“Hello?”
“You-you picked up your phone.”
“It was ringing.”
“You never answer your phone. At least not without screening your calls first.”
“I’m trying to avoid work. I just had a twenty-minute conversation with some woman trying to scam me into giving away my social security number because I won a cruise.”
“You won a cruise?”
“Did you not hear that scam part? Why are you calling anyway? It’s two in the afternoon. I’m playing hooky. What’s your excuse?”
“Between patient meetings. I was… I was just wondering if your couch was still open.”
“Your hotel not up to standards? Complain to the manager and get a discount. You’re good at suckering people into seeing your point of view.”
“I’m serious, House. Could I stay a couple days at your place?”
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
“You said you didn’t want to do this again.”
“I can’t change my mind?”
“Nope.”
“House, I won’t-if you don’t want to, we don’t have to-I mean... House, it’s boring here and there’s some family reunion going on my floor. Kids screaming down the hallway every hour of the night. And then it’s eerily quiet in my room at all the other times, and I get here after work and do paperwork, turn on the same shows I hate for background noise because watching movies by myself is pathetic, and there are dead flies frozen between the window glass, and-House? House, are you there?”
“Did you just say dead flies?”
“Well… I haven’t looked, but I’m sure they’re there.”
“And there aren’t dead flies between my windows?”
“I’m okay with your dead flies.”
“And you really want to be with them this time?”
“Are you asking for promises?”
“I’m asking for something that isn’t a scam.”
“This isn’t.”
“Not this time?”
“It’s never been.”
“…Fine. I got a pillow and a couple blankets waiting for you, then.”
Click.
8. The Spy
House half-opened one eye, peering out from between lashes like a stole-away behind venetian blinds. Wilson still had his head tossed back in sleep. The angle of his nose matched that of his exposed adam’s apple. He was still wearing an undershirt for self-conscious reasons, although House hadn’t made any snide remarks about the emergence of his middle-age frame. Not yet, anyway. He was still formulating a couple good ones to unleash on Wilson at a particularly public event.
Wilson stirred as if he could sense House’s schemes taking shape. He turned toward House’s side of the bed, mumbling in half-sleep, and House reminded himself to think of a joke about the little trail of drool escaping from the corner of Wilson’s mouth. Reaching out his hand that had been previously tucked beneath the pillow, House pinched a piece of Wilson’s undershirt, making sure to catch some stomach in the process. Wilson opened his eyes but only saw House sleeping innocently beside him.
9. Field Studies
The orange leaves bursting into their autumn flame outside of the hospital pulsed in the breeze, catching light and then dimming in early afternoon, when the storm rolled in. It hailed a little, though that was a bit of an anomaly for Jersey given the month. House spent his lunch break catching a few chunks of ice outside. He’d used Wilson’s Tupperware and kept Wilson’s salad inside, too, to cushion the ice as it dropped from the sky so he could get a more accurate estimation of the circumference of the hail.
“Don’t even try to tell me it’s medically relevant.” Cuddy had perfected the House-what-the-hell-are-you-doing stance. She raised a precisely waxed eyebrow, interchangeably wincing up at the disfavoring skies and down at House, who was stretching his cane out from the doorway to the balcony to retrieve the Tupperware.
“Smaller than a baseball, but bigger than a golf ball,” House replied moments later, tossing a piece of hail from one palm to the other.
“Wonderful. Your patient with the heart condition will be thrilled to know.” She glanced at House’s container. “And I’m sure Wilson will love that you’ve found another use for his lunch.”
House squinted his eyes, mocking, and was about to reply when he reconsidered the hail, the salad, and the Tupperware. He dropped his chin to his chest reflectively.
Cuddy shook her head. “There’s no way you figured something out from that. Your patient is a ten-year-old with an irregular heartbeat and swelling legs.”
“I know.” House plopped the hail back into the salad with a quiet, self-satisfied smirk. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
He was out the door before Cuddy could even throw up her hands.
10. And All That Jazz
“Oh, shit.”
Foreman purposefully turned himself and Wendy in the opposite direction, quickly offering to buy her something, anything, at one of the stands. As long as it was away from the row directly in front of them, section D, seats three and four particularly.
“But they’re just starting…”
“They’ll be playing for the next two hours. Don’t you want to get some hot chocolate? It’s gotta be forty degrees out here. You warm enough? They’re selling scarves-”
“Eric, what’s wrong?” Wendy laughed softly, her yellow curls brushing along his face as she pulled him back to her. “You wanted to be here for the jazz. They’re playing now. Just enjoy it.”
“Yeah, Eric, where are you going?” The man in seat three turned around, smiling beneath his gray-and-tan cap.
Wendy nodded towards him. “Isn’t that Dr. House?”
“Or funnel cakes, maybe,” Foreman added between his teeth. “You sure you’re not hungry?”
“That is him, isn’t it? With Dr. Wilson. I didn’t know they were coming, too.”
Foreman gave Wendy an apologetic look. “Trust me, neither did I. House” -he passed Wendy and returned to his own seat, leaning between House and Wilson in front of him- “I’d ask what the hell you’re doing here, but I know it’s just to make sure none of this date goes smoothly, so.”
“Oh, don’t be so cynical, Eric,” House replied easily. “Wilson got it into his head that a weekend at the Poconos would be fun, and then he just happened to see a pamphlet about the Jazz Festival, and you know how much Wilson likes jazz. What a coincidence running into you here!”
“Yeah. What a coincidence.” Foreman shook his head and closed his eyes. He’d given up asking patience of himself. Accepting House’s antics was easier. Anticipating them-he was still working on that.
Wilson, who had been perusing the festival pamphlet for the time of shows, offered a thin, appeasing smile to Foreman as he glanced over at House.
“I’ll keep him in line. Don’t worry.”
Foreman returned to Wendy, who was looking particularly flushed in the brisk Pennsylvanian air. Slipping their fingers between each other’s, he kept his back towards House as if trying vainly to segregate his professional and personal lives. Maybe they could still find something else to do. There were parks throughout the Poconos. It would be quiet; they could enjoy each other’s company.
“How much do you like jazz?” he asked her.
Over Foreman’s shoulder, she could just catch Wilson leaning into House, gesturing to something in the pamphlet and using the closeness as an excuse to touch his leg, fingers skimming the seam of his jeans.
Wendy smiled, squeezing his hand.
“About as much as they like it.”
end