Fic: House-Sitting, H/W
Fic: House-Sitting
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: H/W
Rating: G
Warnings: Spoilers for "Words and Deeds"
A/N: Short little post-ep piece. Forgive me for fluffiness. Well, semi-fluffiness. I don't care after last night's ep. : )
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There were still dishes loitering around in the sink. A bowl had brownish chicken noodle plastered to the bottom, and something greasy was obstinately clinging to the mismatching plate. Two glasses, neither washed out. No urge to clean prodded him, so Wilson wandered out of the kitchen and poured some rat feed into Steve’s cage. The only rips this great McQueen was doing lately were rips through the empty toilet paper roll, which Wilson had taken out of the bathroom and given to the pet as a chew toy. It alternated as a tunnel for sleeping.
A low, smooth bass line thudded away in the background, and Wilson had almost forgotten he’d turned on the radio when he’d first arrived. There was something about being in House’s apartment that required sound-the TV murmuring beneath his and House’s own voices; the offbeat clinking of dishes; Steve’s wheel clattering, squeaking, oddly soothing, like a languidly circling mobile. Wilson smiled as the music carpeted the room. It was quiet enough to be indistinguishable but rhythmic enough to be perceived. He set the closed rat feed down on the coffee table, which had its edges scuffed slightly from the soles of shoes, and moved across the room.
So House had apologized. Wilson tried recalling the exact words, but the conversation was already fading a bit around the edges, having been so unexpected and stunning afterwards. Each time he thought of it, new words were substituted in House’s mouth; but his expression was always the same, he was always carefully considering the tie in his hands, always returning to Wilson with friend on his lips and startling clarity in his eyes.
Wilson couldn’t remember if House had ever verbally combined the words I’m and sorry, but that tilting, lilting smile at the end was all he’d needed. It was quiet, conspiratorial assurance between the two of them that there were no longer grudges being held. House had forgiven him. And maybe House could forgive himself, too. Absolution curled securely somewhere in Wilson’s stomach, swelling to his chest, replaying relief over again in his head as the tension fled.
Wilson’s unprompted sigh now merged into a small laugh. He hadn’t been sure how this would all work until tonight, an hour ago, when he’d stood outside House’s transient cell-an almost comic picture of what-could-have-been. Now the idea of jail as a punishment seemed absurd, an inane, empty threat that was paper-thin and dissolved somewhere in disoriented winter months.
It was finally over. No more legal issues thwarting their everyday lives, no more shoving the other person away in the name of manipulation and self-preservation. Sure, Wilson figured, Cuddy would make sure House never forgot what she had to do so he’d narrowly avoid jail, but House typically reveled in his snarky interchanges with her.
If she really was so intent on forcing him into double clinic, she might get more than what she bargained for. Bizarre diagnoses. Idiotic patients. Hell, House might barricade himself in one of the clinic rooms and refuse to come out to treat anyone if Cuddy pushed him too far. House would page him and they'd sit around watching lame afternoon shows on TV. Wilson started grinning over the familiarity, the normality, wiping a hand over his face. He was surprised to find himself shaking just a little.
Steve had crawled out from his toilet paper roll and was sniffing curiously into the gray, cylindrical grains in his food dish. Wilson double-checked to make sure the cage had been relocked properly when he noticed the answering machine blinking in the back corner of the kitchen.
There was only one message. It wasn’t Wilson’s business, but the apartment had always felt more like home than real home or hotels did, so he pressed it regardless.
“Wilson, I know you’re there. I know I told you to bring me my personals but you’re probably setting up camp anyway. Cheaper than a hotel, isn’t it? Just remember: You’re responsible for anything that goes wrong or breaks while you’re there. Pipe bursts, leaky ceiling, termites, whatever. That’s all on you and your money. And you should probably know that I made you Steve McQueen’s godfather, so while I’m gone, you’re his legal guardian. Take care of my rat.”
The beep concluding the message faded off, and Wilson returned to the living room, taking a seat on the couch. Feet up on the coffee table, one at a time. The practiced routine came easily within the welcoming walls. He’d sat at the far left end of the couch, his usual spot, as if he was expecting someone else to arrive and had to make room. Whenever House did get out of rehab, Wilson knew, he wouldn’t be without Vicodin, but the apology would be remembered too, as would this new balance of order.
He blinked hard one-too-many times and inhaled with forced steadiness. Steve scuffled around in his cage beside the couch, and House’s voice circled lightly around in his head, saying nothing much in particular, but spinning in idle reassurance with the music musing through the room. House would mock him unmercifully if he knew just how close Wilson had let himself be pushed. Get a backbone. Do something. Challenge me.
This was a good need, Wilson decided, taking in the room once more. He swallowed the tightness rising in his throat and rested his head back against the sofa, anticipating the way the cushion next to him would cave slightly with another person there.
Maybe he’d stay this time.
end