repeat housecall
Title: Pray for a Harbor (1 & 2/?)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: House wonders why Wilson keeps coming back to him.
Warnings/Dislaimers/Spoilers: May contain some medical gaffe; questions of the extra-marital kind, and may not sit well with some people. Am trying to protect myself from potential lawsuits.
Note: Not the way I envisioned this to be. Reposted because LJ deleted my first entry, along with the comments that have been made. Thank you for those who have posted their comments and feedback!
---
Thank you to neverbelonged, amazonqueenkate, hawkeyecat, genagirl for your comments (which ended up being deleted *kicks LJ* And to others I forgot. Thank you very much!
1/
Head in hands, on the table. This is how House finds Wilson. It takes many ounces of will and promises of a pill in just a second to not lift his cane and poke Wilson in the center of his head. Instead, he taps the table corner lightly, and when receiving no reaction, taps again, louder this time.
"You dead?" House asks, as the rather pathetic head of his so-called friend lifts up slowly and uncertainly.
"Sorry to disappoint." Wilson scrubs his face harshly and watches House lowers himself onto the chair across the table. "What do you want?" House's involuntary glance at the clock on the wall is the only answer he needs. "Don't say it," Wilson tells House who opens his mouth to answer. "I really can't harbor you whenever Cuddy's breathing down your neck. Impossible as it may sound, your avoidance issue is even worse than your drug addiction."
"I don't have avoidance issue. I just have an issue with Cuddy," House retorts, tapping the end of his cane to the side of his chair.
"Stop tapping," Wilson snaps, which is in itself a lesson in futility as the tapping increases in frequency and magnitude. "She pays your keep every month. Imagine what'll happen if your drug acquisition documents go missing or your paycheck gets lost in the post."
"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of town this morning," House smirks as Wilson fidgets. He makes a show extracting the a pill and waving it in front of Wilson, like a child might with his toy plane. "Problems with the wife?"
Wilson throws a suffering look at House who smirks again, makes a stuttering noise (which, Wilson thinks, is supposed to resemble a car running out of gas), before popping it in his mouth and swallowing it dry. Wilson thinks he's going crazy when he thinks that House's adam's apple bobs in an interesting way. Instead he snorts and shifts the paper in front of him, "No."
"Because you love her."
"I won't be married to her if I don't." But Wilson knows that there is a degree of uncertainty. It is not a complete and utter lie, of course, because he does love his wife, doesn't he?
"You, my dear Wilson, is in a deep crater of denial. So deep and wide is the crater," House says as he waves his cane and Wilson cringes when it snags the telephone cord, "that a sperm whale could fall in it and disappear without a trace."
"I have never denied anything. I do love her," Wilson retorts, not liking where this conversation is going. If it is supposed to go anywhere.
"Ah yes. The mother of your future children... If only you can find time to make children," House observes.
"What is this? 'Pick on James Wilson' Day?" Because if it is, then he hasn't received any memo. And even though he's used to being picked on by House, he'd really appreciate if someone finds it in them to give him the heads up.
"No."
"Then what?"
"I'm bored." Because House turned down a patient transfer request, and succeeded preposterously in getting the Hospital Board to ban him from clinic duties for a month.
"Then go bother somebody else. Unlike you, I've got a lot of things to do," Wilson snaps again, which is a repeat lesson in futility as House merely leans further back into the chair and pops another Vicodin. "Go harass Cameron or Foreman or Chase, I'm sure 'keeping you entertained' is part of their job description."
"Why would I do that? They're my kids. Parents don't harass their kids."
"Your kids?" Wilson snorts in dismay. "They'd sooner kill you, plea guilty of manslaughter under depression, and be orphans, than to have you as their parent."
"That's not a very good thing to say to a friend," House mumbles. "I'm hurt."
"Good."
"Which brings us back to parenting and spouses," House plunders on.
"What about it?"
"You haven't been spending enough time with your wife. Don't you want to have kids?"
"What kind of a question is that?" And sometimes Wilson doesn't know what to say, because boy genius that he is, House runs rings around him and leaves him weirded out on the playground floor.
"The ordinary kind," House answers. "What kind do you want it to be?"
"And this is relevant to you how?" Wilson dreads the answer, because he thinks he knows the answer, because he thinks he knows House. And he watches House sit up and hobble towards the door.
"I'm thinking... Chinese."
"Okay," Wilson answers, without thinking, because its easier to not think when House is concerned. And so when he hears the door creaks open and clicks shut, he finds himself reaching for the telephone. And when he listens to the dialtone in his ear, and his heart beating loudly against his eardrums, he wonders what the world has got to.
"Hey darling... Yeah. I know, I'm sorry... I'll make it up to you... I know... Take care, okay? Yeah. I'll see you. Sleep well... I love you, too... Uh huh... Bye... Okay... Bye." He hears her inhalation -- deep and sharp. He listens to her exhale, and was abruptly cut midway by the dialtone.
He replaces the handset in its cradle and grabs a random file. As he walks out the door and greets a fellow doctor, he looks up the corridor leading to House's office and sighs. He wonders what he's signed himself in for, and wonders whether he'll come out of it alive.
---
2/
He is supposed to be home by now, eating Chinese, and talking rubbish with Wilson. Instead, Cuddy (bless her heart, but not) signed a late transfer patient with an interesting condition. At least Cuddy thought so, because House really can't see what's so interesting about this patient. But then again, Cuddy might just be interested in the patient's ass. Or the fame factor. Cameron told him that the patient is some famous painter or some sort. Because she should know this kind of things.
He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, twirls his cane, playing a ditty with his good leg, and is generally bored. He likes watching his kids banter amongst themselves. They're just like a disease going out on a date with Autoimmunedeficiency - once they get together, they won't let up. Chase is talking now, and House is mildly amused at the way collective brows frown in concentration. "... or it could be bacterial, the symptoms fit. Lymphogranuloma venereum..."
"Hold up, hold up." And the rest of the room turns to face him, and House finds it amusing that they all look at him like he knows the answer. Haven't they learned anything by now?
"Yeah?" Chase asks, and by the looks of it, slightly miffed that his hypothesis presentation is cut short.
"I know you know you're talking in English," House says, earning a glare from Chase. "I know you know I know the language," he continues on, this time earning an impatient glare from Foreman. "But I don't seem to understand a word you say. Speak clearly." Which earns him a 'you can't be serious' glare from Cameron. And House needs to admit that Cameron does look cute rolling her eyes in righteous indignation like that.
"I was saying..." Chase starts again, this time drawing out his words.
"I said, 'speak clearly', not 'speak slowly'. The latter does not necessarily mean the former." House likes baiting. Especially when baiting takes his mind off things. Like going home, eating Chinese, and talking trash with Wilson. Chase is turning red in the face. That can't be healthy, can it?
Popping a Vicodin just for the heck of it, House notices Wilson hovering by the door. "Have you come to rescue me from a dreadful overtime?"
Instead of answering however, Wilson walks around the table and takes the empty chair next to Foreman, "So, what's up?"
"The patient is Leonard Williams." Cameron, the ever-helpful. Slightly unable to answer a question with the proper response, but who cares?
"The painter?"
"Great," House cuts in, limping over to stand behind Wilson's chair. "Now that we've introduced you to the patient, can we please go now?" He taps the underside of the chair with his cane impatiently. "Come on. I'm sure Cameron can get him to sign an autograph for you."
"Okay!" Wilson exclaims, jumping out of the chair. "And stop wielding your cane like a weapon."
"Well then, let's get a move on. Before I beat you with a stick." House can feel three pair of eyes following his and Wilson's steps towards the door. "Right, kids. Play nice. Do the necessary tests. Y'all know my number." He pauses and receives three enthusiastic nods from them. "Are you sure?" He asks.
"Yes," Foreman answers.
"Good. Don't call it."
---
This is where he's supposed to be. At home, eating Chinese, and talking rubbish with Wilson.
"Don't you feel guilty? Spending the night with me instead of your wife?" House feels smug, because he can.
"Maybe," Wilson answers around a mouthful of fried rice. "A little."
"There's only so many times you can fake overnight shifts until she suspects," House brandishes a braised beef which is duly snatched by Wilson.
"Too late. She already does."
"But she's too nice to ask," House observes.
"I keep thinking that she's going to serve up the papers any day now," Wilson answers, not looking up from his dinner.
"Ever wonder why your marriages never stick?" House observes casually. He likes watching Wilson eat, he concludes.
"Let me guess. Because I spend more time with you than with my wife?"
"Wives." House feels the need to correct. "Don't you feel guilty?"
Wilson leans back and looks at him with a knowing look, "Are you trying to tell me that you don't want me here anymore?"
"No." Because Wilson knows what loneliness eats from inside, and House will be truly lonely when Wilson stops coming. Not that he's going to admit that. "But I thought you want kids. And I can't give you kids. Trust me, I'm a doctor."
"I don't want kids. At least not now. What gives you the idea?"
"Oh, you want it. You just don't know it yet." House intercepts Wilson's advances on his last piece of chicken. "And besides, don't you want them to grow up into little Camerons, Foremans, and Chases?"
"Why would I want that?"
"Why wouldn't you? They're clever - a term which I use very lightly, of course. One has a cute butt, one has an accent that can amuse you for hours. And the other one..." House pauses and swallows a Vicodin. "Well, let's just say... he has an interesting color."
"That's... rude," Wilson counters.
"Okay. Maybe not little Camerons, Chases, or Foremans. How about a little specimen of Cuddy?"
Wilson weighs his options and settles for a threat, "I can leave right now."
"Yes, you can. But you won't."
"You're so full of yourself."
"No. It's because I know you that well. You can't leave me." House keeps his gaze level and waits until Wilson yields and drops his. "Look at you. You're married, and yet, you're here." He shakes his head and smiles triumphantly. "You can't leave me."
"One day," Wilson croaks out. "One day I'll leave you."
"Unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on whose perspective we're taking... that one day isn't today." House braces himself against the table and lifts himself up. "I'm going to play. What song'd you like?"
But Wilson can only manage a whispered "Damn you" and House thinks about the appropriateness of the word. He runs his fingers over the black and white keys in front of him and thinks about simple things in life and why things progress as they do. And he thinks about damnation and the possibility of him annoying the devil enough to let him off the hook.
Teaser/Snippet/whatever for future installment: here
---
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: House wonders why Wilson keeps coming back to him.
Warnings/Dislaimers/Spoilers: May contain some medical gaffe; questions of the extra-marital kind, and may not sit well with some people. Am trying to protect myself from potential lawsuits.
Note: Not the way I envisioned this to be. Reposted because LJ deleted my first entry, along with the comments that have been made. Thank you for those who have posted their comments and feedback!
---
Thank you to neverbelonged, amazonqueenkate, hawkeyecat, genagirl for your comments (which ended up being deleted *kicks LJ* And to others I forgot. Thank you very much!
1/
Head in hands, on the table. This is how House finds Wilson. It takes many ounces of will and promises of a pill in just a second to not lift his cane and poke Wilson in the center of his head. Instead, he taps the table corner lightly, and when receiving no reaction, taps again, louder this time.
"You dead?" House asks, as the rather pathetic head of his so-called friend lifts up slowly and uncertainly.
"Sorry to disappoint." Wilson scrubs his face harshly and watches House lowers himself onto the chair across the table. "What do you want?" House's involuntary glance at the clock on the wall is the only answer he needs. "Don't say it," Wilson tells House who opens his mouth to answer. "I really can't harbor you whenever Cuddy's breathing down your neck. Impossible as it may sound, your avoidance issue is even worse than your drug addiction."
"I don't have avoidance issue. I just have an issue with Cuddy," House retorts, tapping the end of his cane to the side of his chair.
"Stop tapping," Wilson snaps, which is in itself a lesson in futility as the tapping increases in frequency and magnitude. "She pays your keep every month. Imagine what'll happen if your drug acquisition documents go missing or your paycheck gets lost in the post."
"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of town this morning," House smirks as Wilson fidgets. He makes a show extracting the a pill and waving it in front of Wilson, like a child might with his toy plane. "Problems with the wife?"
Wilson throws a suffering look at House who smirks again, makes a stuttering noise (which, Wilson thinks, is supposed to resemble a car running out of gas), before popping it in his mouth and swallowing it dry. Wilson thinks he's going crazy when he thinks that House's adam's apple bobs in an interesting way. Instead he snorts and shifts the paper in front of him, "No."
"Because you love her."
"I won't be married to her if I don't." But Wilson knows that there is a degree of uncertainty. It is not a complete and utter lie, of course, because he does love his wife, doesn't he?
"You, my dear Wilson, is in a deep crater of denial. So deep and wide is the crater," House says as he waves his cane and Wilson cringes when it snags the telephone cord, "that a sperm whale could fall in it and disappear without a trace."
"I have never denied anything. I do love her," Wilson retorts, not liking where this conversation is going. If it is supposed to go anywhere.
"Ah yes. The mother of your future children... If only you can find time to make children," House observes.
"What is this? 'Pick on James Wilson' Day?" Because if it is, then he hasn't received any memo. And even though he's used to being picked on by House, he'd really appreciate if someone finds it in them to give him the heads up.
"No."
"Then what?"
"I'm bored." Because House turned down a patient transfer request, and succeeded preposterously in getting the Hospital Board to ban him from clinic duties for a month.
"Then go bother somebody else. Unlike you, I've got a lot of things to do," Wilson snaps again, which is a repeat lesson in futility as House merely leans further back into the chair and pops another Vicodin. "Go harass Cameron or Foreman or Chase, I'm sure 'keeping you entertained' is part of their job description."
"Why would I do that? They're my kids. Parents don't harass their kids."
"Your kids?" Wilson snorts in dismay. "They'd sooner kill you, plea guilty of manslaughter under depression, and be orphans, than to have you as their parent."
"That's not a very good thing to say to a friend," House mumbles. "I'm hurt."
"Good."
"Which brings us back to parenting and spouses," House plunders on.
"What about it?"
"You haven't been spending enough time with your wife. Don't you want to have kids?"
"What kind of a question is that?" And sometimes Wilson doesn't know what to say, because boy genius that he is, House runs rings around him and leaves him weirded out on the playground floor.
"The ordinary kind," House answers. "What kind do you want it to be?"
"And this is relevant to you how?" Wilson dreads the answer, because he thinks he knows the answer, because he thinks he knows House. And he watches House sit up and hobble towards the door.
"I'm thinking... Chinese."
"Okay," Wilson answers, without thinking, because its easier to not think when House is concerned. And so when he hears the door creaks open and clicks shut, he finds himself reaching for the telephone. And when he listens to the dialtone in his ear, and his heart beating loudly against his eardrums, he wonders what the world has got to.
"Hey darling... Yeah. I know, I'm sorry... I'll make it up to you... I know... Take care, okay? Yeah. I'll see you. Sleep well... I love you, too... Uh huh... Bye... Okay... Bye." He hears her inhalation -- deep and sharp. He listens to her exhale, and was abruptly cut midway by the dialtone.
He replaces the handset in its cradle and grabs a random file. As he walks out the door and greets a fellow doctor, he looks up the corridor leading to House's office and sighs. He wonders what he's signed himself in for, and wonders whether he'll come out of it alive.
---
2/
He is supposed to be home by now, eating Chinese, and talking rubbish with Wilson. Instead, Cuddy (bless her heart, but not) signed a late transfer patient with an interesting condition. At least Cuddy thought so, because House really can't see what's so interesting about this patient. But then again, Cuddy might just be interested in the patient's ass. Or the fame factor. Cameron told him that the patient is some famous painter or some sort. Because she should know this kind of things.
He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, twirls his cane, playing a ditty with his good leg, and is generally bored. He likes watching his kids banter amongst themselves. They're just like a disease going out on a date with Autoimmunedeficiency - once they get together, they won't let up. Chase is talking now, and House is mildly amused at the way collective brows frown in concentration. "... or it could be bacterial, the symptoms fit. Lymphogranuloma venereum..."
"Hold up, hold up." And the rest of the room turns to face him, and House finds it amusing that they all look at him like he knows the answer. Haven't they learned anything by now?
"Yeah?" Chase asks, and by the looks of it, slightly miffed that his hypothesis presentation is cut short.
"I know you know you're talking in English," House says, earning a glare from Chase. "I know you know I know the language," he continues on, this time earning an impatient glare from Foreman. "But I don't seem to understand a word you say. Speak clearly." Which earns him a 'you can't be serious' glare from Cameron. And House needs to admit that Cameron does look cute rolling her eyes in righteous indignation like that.
"I was saying..." Chase starts again, this time drawing out his words.
"I said, 'speak clearly', not 'speak slowly'. The latter does not necessarily mean the former." House likes baiting. Especially when baiting takes his mind off things. Like going home, eating Chinese, and talking trash with Wilson. Chase is turning red in the face. That can't be healthy, can it?
Popping a Vicodin just for the heck of it, House notices Wilson hovering by the door. "Have you come to rescue me from a dreadful overtime?"
Instead of answering however, Wilson walks around the table and takes the empty chair next to Foreman, "So, what's up?"
"The patient is Leonard Williams." Cameron, the ever-helpful. Slightly unable to answer a question with the proper response, but who cares?
"The painter?"
"Great," House cuts in, limping over to stand behind Wilson's chair. "Now that we've introduced you to the patient, can we please go now?" He taps the underside of the chair with his cane impatiently. "Come on. I'm sure Cameron can get him to sign an autograph for you."
"Okay!" Wilson exclaims, jumping out of the chair. "And stop wielding your cane like a weapon."
"Well then, let's get a move on. Before I beat you with a stick." House can feel three pair of eyes following his and Wilson's steps towards the door. "Right, kids. Play nice. Do the necessary tests. Y'all know my number." He pauses and receives three enthusiastic nods from them. "Are you sure?" He asks.
"Yes," Foreman answers.
"Good. Don't call it."
---
This is where he's supposed to be. At home, eating Chinese, and talking rubbish with Wilson.
"Don't you feel guilty? Spending the night with me instead of your wife?" House feels smug, because he can.
"Maybe," Wilson answers around a mouthful of fried rice. "A little."
"There's only so many times you can fake overnight shifts until she suspects," House brandishes a braised beef which is duly snatched by Wilson.
"Too late. She already does."
"But she's too nice to ask," House observes.
"I keep thinking that she's going to serve up the papers any day now," Wilson answers, not looking up from his dinner.
"Ever wonder why your marriages never stick?" House observes casually. He likes watching Wilson eat, he concludes.
"Let me guess. Because I spend more time with you than with my wife?"
"Wives." House feels the need to correct. "Don't you feel guilty?"
Wilson leans back and looks at him with a knowing look, "Are you trying to tell me that you don't want me here anymore?"
"No." Because Wilson knows what loneliness eats from inside, and House will be truly lonely when Wilson stops coming. Not that he's going to admit that. "But I thought you want kids. And I can't give you kids. Trust me, I'm a doctor."
"I don't want kids. At least not now. What gives you the idea?"
"Oh, you want it. You just don't know it yet." House intercepts Wilson's advances on his last piece of chicken. "And besides, don't you want them to grow up into little Camerons, Foremans, and Chases?"
"Why would I want that?"
"Why wouldn't you? They're clever - a term which I use very lightly, of course. One has a cute butt, one has an accent that can amuse you for hours. And the other one..." House pauses and swallows a Vicodin. "Well, let's just say... he has an interesting color."
"That's... rude," Wilson counters.
"Okay. Maybe not little Camerons, Chases, or Foremans. How about a little specimen of Cuddy?"
Wilson weighs his options and settles for a threat, "I can leave right now."
"Yes, you can. But you won't."
"You're so full of yourself."
"No. It's because I know you that well. You can't leave me." House keeps his gaze level and waits until Wilson yields and drops his. "Look at you. You're married, and yet, you're here." He shakes his head and smiles triumphantly. "You can't leave me."
"One day," Wilson croaks out. "One day I'll leave you."
"Unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on whose perspective we're taking... that one day isn't today." House braces himself against the table and lifts himself up. "I'm going to play. What song'd you like?"
But Wilson can only manage a whispered "Damn you" and House thinks about the appropriateness of the word. He runs his fingers over the black and white keys in front of him and thinks about simple things in life and why things progress as they do. And he thinks about damnation and the possibility of him annoying the devil enough to let him off the hook.
Teaser/Snippet/whatever for future installment: here
---