bunnies be damned... *sigh*
First, let's put this blame squarely on the deserving parties. Namely the plotbunnies (rabid and weird as they all are) and sugar. I mean... can you resist them? Plotbunnies: the doe-eyed, cuddly-furred little hellspawns. And can you really say no to Jenners' fudge? All the way from Edinburgh? I mean... fudge! And Terry's Orange Segments. And Lindt. Lots and lots of Lindt.
Thanks to PfaH, there is a new addition to the plotbunny hatch hellhole. The plotbunny of Christmas past. Actually not. A whole spinoff charting the Terrible Trio's past, starting from that eventful (heh) meeting in the bar and conversation on the curb. It's a House/Wilson-House/Stacy-WilsonStacyFriendship story. *facepalms* This is going to be weird. I'm going to brave the weather and write it. I think. I don't know. It'll be them painting the damned town red. But this is just going to be really weird, and I have to swot up on a lot of American geography.
Never mind that, I have to try and place them in a State, give them plausible stories, and... *facepalms* Or I can just forget about it. *glares at plotbunny* Let's see if I can strangle the bunny and forget about this.
The other one is tentatively called 'The World of Her Husband' which is basically Julie thinking about Wilson and... hmm... who is Julie anyway? I mean... there's not much about her being told, except her doing Wilson's laundry and... so on and so forth. But anyway. *glares*
While typing the above rant, the plotbunny spawned again. Thankfully this one died not long after. It's Wilson. Angsting about their platonic fucked-up friendship.
Rated:PG-13
Warning: It's weird. It always is.
----
You don't make promises you can't keep, his mother used to say. And he promised Stacy that he'd take care of House. Until when? Until the sun comes down and the world recedes to nothing? Not taking care, because House is an adult. Just keeping an eye open, because House is a time-bomb waiting to blow. Volatile. House is not fragile. In fact House'll be the first clobber him with that stick of his if Wilson ever tried to insinuate that thought. Theirs was a friendship forged from a weird situation, a drunken encounter in a bar, the three of them getting kicked out of it. House and Stacy. And Wilson. The three of them used to go out and paint the town red. And green, and blue, and yellow, and every other color of the rainbow.
You don't make promises you can't keep, because he promised to stand by his friends, and he couldn't let go. Because caring leads to loving, and loving leads to all sorts of complications. Because Wilson loves. They say that he's a boy genius, posterboy of oncologists the world over. They say his biggest asset is his brain, his medical intuition. But his biggest asset, he likes to think, is that he loves. And it is also his biggest downfall. Because now he can't sever himself from the reality of friends and lovers. He won't. He preserves status quo, not question it.
You have a messiah complex, House accused him once. And whose fault 's that? Wilson wanted to ask back, but didn't. Some told him that he's strong that way, enduring House's barbed words and torment, blowing hot one day and cold the other. He thought himself weak, for not wanting to say otherwise, to walk away. But I've made a promise, he reasoned. And promises are made to be broken.
Go against the grain, he thought. Live a little. Away from House and everything that signified that wild past, when one loves with no consequences and hates with no compulsion, only to love again. Live a lot. Because he doesn't know how long he can go on like this.
But whenever he tries, he remembers those years of just the three of them against the world. But now there's only two. And he doesn't even recognize House anymore. He doesn't even recognize himself anymore.
You know, I wish I can write them having a normal relationship for once. Just the one time, so they don't have to suffer so much.
Thanks to PfaH, there is a new addition to the plotbunny hatch hellhole. The plotbunny of Christmas past. Actually not. A whole spinoff charting the Terrible Trio's past, starting from that eventful (heh) meeting in the bar and conversation on the curb. It's a House/Wilson-House/Stacy-WilsonStacyFriendship story. *facepalms* This is going to be weird. I'm going to brave the weather and write it. I think. I don't know. It'll be them painting the damned town red. But this is just going to be really weird, and I have to swot up on a lot of American geography.
Never mind that, I have to try and place them in a State, give them plausible stories, and... *facepalms* Or I can just forget about it. *glares at plotbunny* Let's see if I can strangle the bunny and forget about this.
The other one is tentatively called 'The World of Her Husband' which is basically Julie thinking about Wilson and... hmm... who is Julie anyway? I mean... there's not much about her being told, except her doing Wilson's laundry and... so on and so forth. But anyway. *glares*
While typing the above rant, the plotbunny spawned again. Thankfully this one died not long after. It's Wilson. Angsting about their platonic fucked-up friendship.
Rated:PG-13
Warning: It's weird. It always is.
----
You don't make promises you can't keep, his mother used to say. And he promised Stacy that he'd take care of House. Until when? Until the sun comes down and the world recedes to nothing? Not taking care, because House is an adult. Just keeping an eye open, because House is a time-bomb waiting to blow. Volatile. House is not fragile. In fact House'll be the first clobber him with that stick of his if Wilson ever tried to insinuate that thought. Theirs was a friendship forged from a weird situation, a drunken encounter in a bar, the three of them getting kicked out of it. House and Stacy. And Wilson. The three of them used to go out and paint the town red. And green, and blue, and yellow, and every other color of the rainbow.
You don't make promises you can't keep, because he promised to stand by his friends, and he couldn't let go. Because caring leads to loving, and loving leads to all sorts of complications. Because Wilson loves. They say that he's a boy genius, posterboy of oncologists the world over. They say his biggest asset is his brain, his medical intuition. But his biggest asset, he likes to think, is that he loves. And it is also his biggest downfall. Because now he can't sever himself from the reality of friends and lovers. He won't. He preserves status quo, not question it.
You have a messiah complex, House accused him once. And whose fault 's that? Wilson wanted to ask back, but didn't. Some told him that he's strong that way, enduring House's barbed words and torment, blowing hot one day and cold the other. He thought himself weak, for not wanting to say otherwise, to walk away. But I've made a promise, he reasoned. And promises are made to be broken.
Go against the grain, he thought. Live a little. Away from House and everything that signified that wild past, when one loves with no consequences and hates with no compulsion, only to love again. Live a lot. Because he doesn't know how long he can go on like this.
But whenever he tries, he remembers those years of just the three of them against the world. But now there's only two. And he doesn't even recognize House anymore. He doesn't even recognize himself anymore.
You know, I wish I can write them having a normal relationship for once. Just the one time, so they don't have to suffer so much.