Moments
Title: Moments
Characters: House & Wilson
Rating: G
Warnings: spoilers through "Safe" (2x16).
Words: 1447
x-posted to house_wilson and housefic.
No one had ever shown up on my doorstep with a suitcase before. Stacy had moved in gradually--a shirt here, a pair of pants and a toothbrush there. Before I knew it, my closet was full of her things and we were living together. With Wilson it was different; he is all of a suddenly there, his belongings all sitting there in the suitcase, one complete package sitting on the doorstep.
He suggested we go out to dinner--he hadn't had a chance to shop for anything worth making for dinner and wasn't in the mood for peanut butter. I only agreed when he said he'd pick up the check. When the waitress brought us the bill, she asked if everything had been satisfactory. Wilson answered yes, everything had been fine, but I looked at her very seriously and said that tonight was our anniversary. Wilson spluttered a protest, but the waitress was already blushing and giggling, heading to the kitchen to get us a free piece of cake to split. Wilson glared at me through mouthfuls of chocolate icing but still paid the check. The waitress continued to eye us as we exited the restaurant. I heard her whispering to her friend that Wilson and I were so cute together! Although she wasn't sure how these things worked, because she thought that the top ought to pick up the check. I doubled over laughing in the parking lot.
Wilson asked if I had blankets he could use for the short time he planned on being here. He explained that all the blankets in the house were Julie's, because her women's club had a thing for knitting afghans. I said nothing, but rummaged through the closet until I found a blanket or two. Wilson complained that they smelled like mothballs; I shot back that if he had wanted blankets that smelled like roses he ought to have brought them himself. Still, he fell asleep with the blankets up around his neck, breathing deeply the scent of mothballs and my closet.
Cuddy confronted me outside the clinic mid-morning. She said that scuttlebutt around the hospital was that Wilson had spent the night at my place. I retorted that if she continued to use words like "scuttlebutt" then she'd have to continue to attract men with her cleavage instead of her brain and her wit. I also wanted to know why people were more interested in the idea of Wilson staying with me than they were with the idea of Wilson leaving his wife.
His maid rearranged my closet. When I had time to be less angry, I was in a state of shock. Wilson stood with me in front of the clean, organized closet, his head tilted to one side as he took in what he called its "grandeur." I assured him he'd never see it like this again. It wasn't a closet if it wasn't in a state of disarray, I told him--to which he replied that it must also be my philosophy that it wasn't a sink if it wasn't full of dirty dishes.
I lay on the floor with my headphones on and my eyes closed. Wilson thought I wouldn't hear him when he snuck in, but I did. I asked him how his day was, calling him honey. He grinned at me.
Wilson's cell phone rang partway through Monster Truck Jam. He glanced down at it, shook his head, and let it ring. After the third time in a row this happened, I assumed that Julie was calling. He would have his reasons not to answer that call; she had, after all, beaten him at his own game. He'd finally gotten to stomp off in a self-righteous huff, even if he didn't deserve it. At the seventh call, I finally grabbed the phone and yelled into it that Wilson didn't want to talk to her so she should stop calling and move on with her life. I can't say I've ever seen Wilson look more thankful than the moment when I turned the phone off, although he told me that I'd just created a new set of problems. Almost immediately, my home phone started ringing. I sighed. We were in this for the long haul.
I left him Post-It notes on empty containers, saying that he should chill out and that his pancakes were delicious.
I heard movement from the living room around three in the morning. At first I was alarmed--movement in my apartment late at night meant vandals, thieves, or hookers I'd forgotten about--but then I remembered Wilson. I limped towards the kitchen; the fridge light was on. He heard my barefooted footsteps but didn't turn from the fridge. Speaking in to the milk cartons, beer bottles, and containers of leftover Chinese, he told me how much he missed Julie, how he knew that it would end sometime but how splitting like this was more painful than he thought, how there was no good way for him to go back to her in the face of his own hypocrisy. He told me how he got better sleep on my sofa than he did in his bed at home those last few weeks because he didn't fall asleep with worry gnawing a hole in his gut. He told me how he wished there was someone--anyone--else he could have gone to at a time like this, because I had done so little to make his life better or his time easier, but how at the same time he couldn't imagine crashing anywhere else. He told me with a shaky laugh, finally looking up, how he wished I hadn't eaten all the pancakes, because they were a sort of comfort food and he could really use some comfort right now. I got the griddle out and cleaned off the stove; we made pancakes at three in the morning. We didn't say anything that mattered, but then again, we didn't have to.
I did listen to all my voicemail before I deleted it. We'd left the phone off the hook because Julie kept calling, but the only messages that showed up on the machine were from the man who wanted to rent Wilson his apartment. Still, I wanted Wilson to stay, and he wanted to stay, even if he didn't know it, so I deleted every last voicemail. What else are friends for?
I cooked dinner one day. I even went shopping for the ingredients. Wilson was a bit perturbed when I pulled the grape jelly and chili sauce out of the grocery bag, but the sweet and sour meatballs were delicious, and the beer we drank with them made us care less about how they tasted. Eventually, I got off the couch to stagger to bed; as I walked towards the kitchen with my dirty dishes, Wilson started laughing--a harsh sound. He'd had a revelation: we were like the meatballs, the two of us, sweet and sour. I didn't have to ask which one he thought I was. I smiled mirthlessly to myself, knowing that he'd be doing the dishes in the morning.
I sat in my apartment, half-pondering the case and half-watching an episode of Spongebob on TiVo, wondering if and when Wilson would come in. I hadn't considered the possibility that he'd just fall asleep on the stoop.
Wilson told me afterwards the Cuddy had called him into her office after it was all said and done and eyed him suspiciously for a while, going on about how close the hospital was to being sued every week and how I was going to be the cause of every one of her eventual grey hairs. Wilson knew better than to ask what this had to do with him because he and Cuddy both knew whose fault it was that I had gotten on that elevator in the first place.
That was my very favorite cane, too. Still, I think we'd both say it was worth it.
I asked Wilson if, after the divorce went through, he was going to marry whoever this new woman was. He shrugged, reminding me that even the divorce was a long ways off. Marriage didn't really seem to be working for him. On the other hand, there was something to be said for having someone there when you got home from work, someone who'd be there no matter what. I told him he had that now, spreading my hands wide and raising my eyebrows in a completely unserious manner. He rolled his eyes and told me he was thinking about getting a dog. Our hands rested side-by-side on the couch between us.
Characters: House & Wilson
Rating: G
Warnings: spoilers through "Safe" (2x16).
Words: 1447
x-posted to house_wilson and housefic.
No one had ever shown up on my doorstep with a suitcase before. Stacy had moved in gradually--a shirt here, a pair of pants and a toothbrush there. Before I knew it, my closet was full of her things and we were living together. With Wilson it was different; he is all of a suddenly there, his belongings all sitting there in the suitcase, one complete package sitting on the doorstep.
He suggested we go out to dinner--he hadn't had a chance to shop for anything worth making for dinner and wasn't in the mood for peanut butter. I only agreed when he said he'd pick up the check. When the waitress brought us the bill, she asked if everything had been satisfactory. Wilson answered yes, everything had been fine, but I looked at her very seriously and said that tonight was our anniversary. Wilson spluttered a protest, but the waitress was already blushing and giggling, heading to the kitchen to get us a free piece of cake to split. Wilson glared at me through mouthfuls of chocolate icing but still paid the check. The waitress continued to eye us as we exited the restaurant. I heard her whispering to her friend that Wilson and I were so cute together! Although she wasn't sure how these things worked, because she thought that the top ought to pick up the check. I doubled over laughing in the parking lot.
Wilson asked if I had blankets he could use for the short time he planned on being here. He explained that all the blankets in the house were Julie's, because her women's club had a thing for knitting afghans. I said nothing, but rummaged through the closet until I found a blanket or two. Wilson complained that they smelled like mothballs; I shot back that if he had wanted blankets that smelled like roses he ought to have brought them himself. Still, he fell asleep with the blankets up around his neck, breathing deeply the scent of mothballs and my closet.
Cuddy confronted me outside the clinic mid-morning. She said that scuttlebutt around the hospital was that Wilson had spent the night at my place. I retorted that if she continued to use words like "scuttlebutt" then she'd have to continue to attract men with her cleavage instead of her brain and her wit. I also wanted to know why people were more interested in the idea of Wilson staying with me than they were with the idea of Wilson leaving his wife.
His maid rearranged my closet. When I had time to be less angry, I was in a state of shock. Wilson stood with me in front of the clean, organized closet, his head tilted to one side as he took in what he called its "grandeur." I assured him he'd never see it like this again. It wasn't a closet if it wasn't in a state of disarray, I told him--to which he replied that it must also be my philosophy that it wasn't a sink if it wasn't full of dirty dishes.
I lay on the floor with my headphones on and my eyes closed. Wilson thought I wouldn't hear him when he snuck in, but I did. I asked him how his day was, calling him honey. He grinned at me.
Wilson's cell phone rang partway through Monster Truck Jam. He glanced down at it, shook his head, and let it ring. After the third time in a row this happened, I assumed that Julie was calling. He would have his reasons not to answer that call; she had, after all, beaten him at his own game. He'd finally gotten to stomp off in a self-righteous huff, even if he didn't deserve it. At the seventh call, I finally grabbed the phone and yelled into it that Wilson didn't want to talk to her so she should stop calling and move on with her life. I can't say I've ever seen Wilson look more thankful than the moment when I turned the phone off, although he told me that I'd just created a new set of problems. Almost immediately, my home phone started ringing. I sighed. We were in this for the long haul.
I left him Post-It notes on empty containers, saying that he should chill out and that his pancakes were delicious.
I heard movement from the living room around three in the morning. At first I was alarmed--movement in my apartment late at night meant vandals, thieves, or hookers I'd forgotten about--but then I remembered Wilson. I limped towards the kitchen; the fridge light was on. He heard my barefooted footsteps but didn't turn from the fridge. Speaking in to the milk cartons, beer bottles, and containers of leftover Chinese, he told me how much he missed Julie, how he knew that it would end sometime but how splitting like this was more painful than he thought, how there was no good way for him to go back to her in the face of his own hypocrisy. He told me how he got better sleep on my sofa than he did in his bed at home those last few weeks because he didn't fall asleep with worry gnawing a hole in his gut. He told me how he wished there was someone--anyone--else he could have gone to at a time like this, because I had done so little to make his life better or his time easier, but how at the same time he couldn't imagine crashing anywhere else. He told me with a shaky laugh, finally looking up, how he wished I hadn't eaten all the pancakes, because they were a sort of comfort food and he could really use some comfort right now. I got the griddle out and cleaned off the stove; we made pancakes at three in the morning. We didn't say anything that mattered, but then again, we didn't have to.
I did listen to all my voicemail before I deleted it. We'd left the phone off the hook because Julie kept calling, but the only messages that showed up on the machine were from the man who wanted to rent Wilson his apartment. Still, I wanted Wilson to stay, and he wanted to stay, even if he didn't know it, so I deleted every last voicemail. What else are friends for?
I cooked dinner one day. I even went shopping for the ingredients. Wilson was a bit perturbed when I pulled the grape jelly and chili sauce out of the grocery bag, but the sweet and sour meatballs were delicious, and the beer we drank with them made us care less about how they tasted. Eventually, I got off the couch to stagger to bed; as I walked towards the kitchen with my dirty dishes, Wilson started laughing--a harsh sound. He'd had a revelation: we were like the meatballs, the two of us, sweet and sour. I didn't have to ask which one he thought I was. I smiled mirthlessly to myself, knowing that he'd be doing the dishes in the morning.
I sat in my apartment, half-pondering the case and half-watching an episode of Spongebob on TiVo, wondering if and when Wilson would come in. I hadn't considered the possibility that he'd just fall asleep on the stoop.
Wilson told me afterwards the Cuddy had called him into her office after it was all said and done and eyed him suspiciously for a while, going on about how close the hospital was to being sued every week and how I was going to be the cause of every one of her eventual grey hairs. Wilson knew better than to ask what this had to do with him because he and Cuddy both knew whose fault it was that I had gotten on that elevator in the first place.
That was my very favorite cane, too. Still, I think we'd both say it was worth it.
I asked Wilson if, after the divorce went through, he was going to marry whoever this new woman was. He shrugged, reminding me that even the divorce was a long ways off. Marriage didn't really seem to be working for him. On the other hand, there was something to be said for having someone there when you got home from work, someone who'd be there no matter what. I told him he had that now, spreading my hands wide and raising my eyebrows in a completely unserious manner. He rolled his eyes and told me he was thinking about getting a dog. Our hands rested side-by-side on the couch between us.