Sink or Swim; (another) Churchverse fic
Title: Sink or Swim
Author: simple__man
Pairing: House/Wilson (established)
Word Count: 2787
Warnings: 1st person/OC POV; kid!fic; mild cursing
Summary: Trouble in paradise...Church talks about his parents and his problems.
A/N: Part of the Church-verse. Past stories can be found at my fic journal simple__stuff. I wanted to write a story about how Church views his parent's relationship, and I realized that I have the same dish problem that Church has, and decided to explore it a little bit. Have fun!
Nothing good ever comes of my having to wash dishes.
No, seriously, stay with me here. This is going to be good.
It's not that I mind washing dishes, because I don't. It's the one chore that I don't really hate doing. Besides vacuuming. I like vacuuming, because I always piss Jimmy off while I'm doing it. He swears I'd vacuum over a rhinoceros if it was sitting in the middle of the floor. Which, I probably would.
Back to the dishes, though, the washing itself doesn't bother me. It's the fact that every "Church, we need to talk," or "What exactly were you thinking, Christian?" or "Did you honestly think we wouldn't ever figure it out?" talk that I've ever been given has happened over a sinkful of dishes.
Seriously, nothing strikes fear into my heart like Pop pouring soap onto a sponge or Jimmy grabbing a dishcloth. Maybe I should clarify, then. It's not that I mind washing dishes, it's that I would prefer to wash them alone.
Anyway, who doesn't have a dishwasher these days? I ask you. When I complain about it, Jimmy just smiles that smile of his and says that I'm his dishwasher. And he says it in such a way that implies that I should enjoy this title, and give it my absolute all, or there will be disappointment. Not mine, his. Which, as you know, is much, much worse.
House, on the other hand, goes into a long diatribe about living in Egypt and desert sands and how hot it was and dust everywhere and did I think he had a dishwasher and whine whine whine cry cry. If he's in a good mood.
If not, then I get the look with the eyes that he does that I hate? You know the look. And that pretty much means that he knows that I'm talking but nothing is penetrating and I might as well go fuss about the dishwasher to a brick wall.
Either way, I still end up washing the damned dishes. This is what comes of having old parents. If you tell them I said that I'll hurt you in ways that haven't been invented yet.
Oh well, it's not the worst thing that I have to do. That honor belongs to mowing the lawn, and do we have a riding lawn mower? Yeah, sure, okay. Everybody thinks that just because all of my parents are doctors that I'm just swimming in money.
Kiss my ass. They hold onto a dollar until it bleeds. I don't know what they're saving for, but whatever it is, it had better be good. Probably retirement. Maybe college. Whatever, boring.
What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, Sink Talks. I hate Sink Talks. If it's bad enough that the laziest of lazy assholes goes and grabs a sponge, then you know you're in for it.
So of course we had one last night, or else we wouldn't really be talking about this, now would we? We meaning Dad and myself. Me and Dad. Dad and me. No Jimmy in sight.
Hence the talking. Which led, as expected, to you. Because Heaven forbid that the House-Wilson family have a crisis that doesn't end up in our therapist's office, right?
Look, don't take it personally. It's not that I don't like you. Okay, maybe it is. I resent having to talk about my life, and I resent the fact that I usually end up doing it even though I resent myself for doing it. This, in turn, makes me resent you.
You're writing, "Patient admits to being full of resentment," aren't you? I resent that.
Enough about me, and more with the crisis, okay? It's not like these sessions last forever. They just seem that way.
Anyway, the asshole starts scrubbing away at those stubborn caked-on stains, and I know it's bad, but I guess I didn't realize how bad it could be.
See, here's the thing. For people who argue constantly (and I do mean constantly, sunup to sundown), my parents really don't fight all that often. Clarification: my dads don't fight all that often. Cuddy is a special case, and not pertinent to the discussion.
No fights is a good thing, right? You'd think, but see, I've figured them out. They fight, they just don't fight in front of me. They get all quiet, ignore each other, and pretend like nothing's wrong. House stomps around as best he can and growls and menaces the cats, and Jimmy cleans the bathtub and the refrigerator and under the stove and the top shelf of everyone's closet. Meanwhile, they save all the best name-calling and knickknack-throwing for work.
I guess. It's an educated guess; a hypothesis, if you will. No one would tell me either way, but I imagine that's what happens. You'd probably know better than I would.
Back to the pot-scrubbing. House is going at it like taking off the gluey-macaroni bits is the most important problem he's tackled in his entire existence, and he's not saying too much of anything, and right before I tear my hair out in frustration, he starts talking.
A loud man, is my father. He yells, he bellows, he shouts, he snarls, he yells, and yes, he has even been known to holler. Not to belabor the point, but nothing good ever comes out of House using his inside voice.
He says, "Church, we need to talk," and I know that my shit is sunk.
My dad has been my dad for my entire life, and I can count on my hands the amount of times he's called me by my name. Kiddo, the kid, the boy, the brat, the demon, the spawn, the demon spawn, the tribble, the beast, the imp, Lucifer, the Antichrist, All Hail Satan, crumbsnatcher, ankle-biter...you get the idea.
Quit writing. You're focusing on the wrong thing. Pay attention, this is about to get good.
He talks, I listen, because I know better than to start denying guilt before I've even been accused of something. Learned that lesson the hard way, let me tell you.
What is with you, do you have ADD? You should get tested or something. What I may or may not have allegedly done in a possible moment of abject stupidity has nothing at all whatsoever to do with this story. When I get caught, or rather, if I get caught, then I'll fill you in. Promise.
I'm shocked to find that House isn't yet privy to the bad, bad thing I might possibly have done, and is actually talking about something that has nothing to do with me. Of course, when he gets through, I kinda wish he had found out, and we were moving onto the sentencing phase, which leads to the time served/let us never speak of this again phase. I like that phase.
Look, I'm trying to spare your feelings here, but there's no easy way to say this. (This is how it was put to me, so this is how I'll put it to you, okay?) For reasons I'm not going into right now, Jimmy has decided that he needs to do us both a favor and go live in a hotel. How this is supposed to help matters, I'm not entirely sure. He wanted me to tell you that he loves you, he's not mad at you, and that you can call him anytime.
After this little speech, House goes back to his manic pot-scrubbing with a vengeance, as if he hasn't just dropped a bomb on my entire world, and left me standing there, alone, in the burning, stinking wreckage.
I'm not stupid, okay. I pay attention, especially when they don't think I'm paying attention. I listen, I hear things, I snoop around until I accidentally find interesting pieces of ancient history. Divorce papers, for instance.
Not once, not twice, but three times. Three wives, three divorces; one husband, one "trial separation". Jimmy's phrase, not mine. Again, three divorces, two of the initiated by the other party, one of them initiated by himself.
I don't know, maybe they think they're protecting me, that's their thing, but I've stolen the damned papers out of his room enough times to know what isn't being said.
What I'm not understanding is this: if he did...whatever...whatever the word is that we're all avoiding...then it's obvious to me that House really doesn't give a damn about it. He's more pissed off over the leaving, and the problems the leaving (the running away, okay, that's what it is) is causing and will no doubt cause.
And, if I'm allowed to give the asshole more credit than he'll give himself, I think he might be more upset over the fact that this is hurting me than any hurt that's been done to him.
Dammit, what do I care? If he...if there was a problem, then we'll deal. That's what we do. Everything else that happens to us, we stick together, we get each other through it, and we laugh about it later. It's our thing.
But leaving? Without a word? Pack a bag, rent a room, and disappear from the face of the earth? Okay, answering his phone still, but for how long? This is so absolutely out of line, so opposed to the Jimmy that I know (though this isn't the first time this has happened, but that was in the before--long time ago, galaxy far, far away--when I wasn't even a hope of a possibility).
Fuck.
Okay, let me break this down for you. House loves Wilson. Wilson loves House. House and Wilson love Church. Reverse that, repeat ad infinitum. This isn't speculation, this is bone-deep knowledge. I'm more sure of my parent's love for each other than I am that the sun will come up in the morning. I can count on one more than the other.
What I can't count on? That Jimmy's noble streak and House's stubborn streak (less of a streak, more a full-body paint job) won't conspire to screw my life up entirely.
I'm sure every kid that comes in here whining about their parents splitting up says that, right? In my case, though? It's truth. House is my father, biologically and in every other way imaginable, but he's about as capable of single parenting as I am of flying to the moon: not happening without a shitload of help.
He's a genius. There's no doubt about this. He's also insane. Not in a "standing over you while you sleep with a knife in his hand" way, but in a "doing crazy shit in the hopes that some sick person won't die".
And if that means not coming home for four, five days, sleeping in his clothes, not eating anything that doesn't reside in a vending machine, and getting arrested for breaking into the patient's house or hitting their sister in the eye, or whatever the hell he gets into his head to do this week, that's what he's going to do.
Again, not stupid, although my parents often forget that just because I can't be seen, doesn't mean I'm not there, hanging onto every word. House was so much worse before I was born, it's not even funny. The stuff he does now, it's nothing compared to the crap he used to get into, and drunk and high besides.
Now, how the hell am I supposed to watch out for him when he's supposed to be watching out for me? He'll try, I know he will, he's not completely hopeless, but do you think he'll be able to? He doesn't even think he'll be able to, he's always saying how everything hinges on Jimmy. He's not lying, it does. House and I are too much alike. I need constant supervision, okay, and so does he.
You know what's going to end up happening? I do.
House and I will limp along at playing house for a few weeks, maybe even a month or two. When the dishes and the laundry and the bills get backed up, and we're out of groceries and we're out of shampoo and the cats run away, then House will bite the bullet and call his parents.
Grandpa and Grandma will come, because they love me. They'll hang out, we'll get the house clean, buy some milk and eggs and condiments, maybe some shampoo, entice the cats home with promises of catnip and tuna. We'll visit a few flea markets, a museum or two, and then they'll get tired of House working too much (Blythe) and ignoring them (John).
And then someone will say quite innocently, "Greg, why don't we take Church back home with us?"
Okay, so you remember the part where I said Cuddy wasn't pertinent to the discussion? She's pertinent now.
She's going to have a litter of pups over this entire thing, anyway, but when someone starts talking about taking me away? Yeah, that dog won't hunt. She doesn't want me, but she sure as hell doesn't want anyone else to have me.
She'll feel like she has to sue for custody, and I don't want that and neither does she. Cuddy likes things the way they are now, and I'm right there with her.
I like my ancient, dishwasher-less house. I like my fat, stupid cats. I like my nosy, weird neighbors. I hate my school, but I've gone to school with the same jackasses since kindergarten, and I hate training new minions. I like the hospital and the nurses and House's fellows and Jimmy's patients.
I like the Chinese restaurant we always eat at, and the McDonald's that knows my order before I give it. I like the gas station that has those greasy hot dogs that probably aren't even real meat but I eat them anyway. I like the library where they know my name, and the dentist who reviles said name and pretends he doesn't remember that I bit him on the calf that one time.
I want things to stay exactly the way they are, and never, ever change.
I know that's childish, I know that. But I have a good life, and it's a good life because people love me enough to make it that way. They're fucked up and neurotic, and House is probably a sociopath or something, but they love me. And I love them.
But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I love Jimmy best.
Maybe not best, but certainly...never mind, I can't explain it. I don't love him more, I just love him different. And I love him different because he loves me different. House and Lisa, they have to love me. Biologically. Genetically. Whatever. Jimmy doesn't.
I'm not saying that if he really loved me, he wouldn't leave me. That's not true. Whatever happens, I know that Jimmy loves me, and that he's got it somewhere in his head that leaving us is the best thing for not only him and House, but for me, as well.
Which is completely retarded, but that's Jimmy for you.
I don't care. I don't care what he did, and I don't care who it hurt. He could kill someone in cold blood two feet away from me, and I would probably help him dispose of the body. Shit, I'd help him dismember the body first.
Don't put that in my file, moron. Don't you know me well enough by now to know when I'm speaking in hyperbole? Dumbass.
Anyway, what I mean by that is this: I love my Mom. And that's how I think of him, and always will. To you, to him, to any uptight assholes it might offend, I'll call him Jimmy. Sometimes Wilson. But in my heart of hearts, that's my mother.
You can write that one down.
I'm damned if I'll let these two idiots fuck my life up. House gets away with being an asshole dumbshit all the time, but Jimmy makes one mistake and it's run for the hills time? I don't think so.
He's coming home, taking his lumps, and then getting back to fixing my lunch and refolding the towels and making House take his vitamins and going to PTA meetings and holding bald-headed kid's hands and staring at Cuddy's boobs and fussing about the light bill and buying cat litter and driving me around and whatever all the hell else he does.
I can't think of a better punishment for him, can you?
So, are we about done here? I've got parents to beat over the head with bricks and large sticks and maybe cookware, and I've got grandparents to ward away with voodoo and outright lies, and custody issues that might never come up but still give me hives anyway.
And you've got more people to listen to, and scribble little snide notes about. Oh, don't look at me that way, you know they're snide. Just admit it. Have fun, don't work too hard, I'll be back next week to give you the update and brighten your boring, sad little world.
Admit it, we're your favorites, aren't we?
You don't have to say anything. I can tell.
Author: simple__man
Pairing: House/Wilson (established)
Word Count: 2787
Warnings: 1st person/OC POV; kid!fic; mild cursing
Summary: Trouble in paradise...Church talks about his parents and his problems.
A/N: Part of the Church-verse. Past stories can be found at my fic journal simple__stuff. I wanted to write a story about how Church views his parent's relationship, and I realized that I have the same dish problem that Church has, and decided to explore it a little bit. Have fun!
Nothing good ever comes of my having to wash dishes.
No, seriously, stay with me here. This is going to be good.
It's not that I mind washing dishes, because I don't. It's the one chore that I don't really hate doing. Besides vacuuming. I like vacuuming, because I always piss Jimmy off while I'm doing it. He swears I'd vacuum over a rhinoceros if it was sitting in the middle of the floor. Which, I probably would.
Back to the dishes, though, the washing itself doesn't bother me. It's the fact that every "Church, we need to talk," or "What exactly were you thinking, Christian?" or "Did you honestly think we wouldn't ever figure it out?" talk that I've ever been given has happened over a sinkful of dishes.
Seriously, nothing strikes fear into my heart like Pop pouring soap onto a sponge or Jimmy grabbing a dishcloth. Maybe I should clarify, then. It's not that I mind washing dishes, it's that I would prefer to wash them alone.
Anyway, who doesn't have a dishwasher these days? I ask you. When I complain about it, Jimmy just smiles that smile of his and says that I'm his dishwasher. And he says it in such a way that implies that I should enjoy this title, and give it my absolute all, or there will be disappointment. Not mine, his. Which, as you know, is much, much worse.
House, on the other hand, goes into a long diatribe about living in Egypt and desert sands and how hot it was and dust everywhere and did I think he had a dishwasher and whine whine whine cry cry. If he's in a good mood.
If not, then I get the look with the eyes that he does that I hate? You know the look. And that pretty much means that he knows that I'm talking but nothing is penetrating and I might as well go fuss about the dishwasher to a brick wall.
Either way, I still end up washing the damned dishes. This is what comes of having old parents. If you tell them I said that I'll hurt you in ways that haven't been invented yet.
Oh well, it's not the worst thing that I have to do. That honor belongs to mowing the lawn, and do we have a riding lawn mower? Yeah, sure, okay. Everybody thinks that just because all of my parents are doctors that I'm just swimming in money.
Kiss my ass. They hold onto a dollar until it bleeds. I don't know what they're saving for, but whatever it is, it had better be good. Probably retirement. Maybe college. Whatever, boring.
What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, Sink Talks. I hate Sink Talks. If it's bad enough that the laziest of lazy assholes goes and grabs a sponge, then you know you're in for it.
So of course we had one last night, or else we wouldn't really be talking about this, now would we? We meaning Dad and myself. Me and Dad. Dad and me. No Jimmy in sight.
Hence the talking. Which led, as expected, to you. Because Heaven forbid that the House-Wilson family have a crisis that doesn't end up in our therapist's office, right?
Look, don't take it personally. It's not that I don't like you. Okay, maybe it is. I resent having to talk about my life, and I resent the fact that I usually end up doing it even though I resent myself for doing it. This, in turn, makes me resent you.
You're writing, "Patient admits to being full of resentment," aren't you? I resent that.
Enough about me, and more with the crisis, okay? It's not like these sessions last forever. They just seem that way.
Anyway, the asshole starts scrubbing away at those stubborn caked-on stains, and I know it's bad, but I guess I didn't realize how bad it could be.
See, here's the thing. For people who argue constantly (and I do mean constantly, sunup to sundown), my parents really don't fight all that often. Clarification: my dads don't fight all that often. Cuddy is a special case, and not pertinent to the discussion.
No fights is a good thing, right? You'd think, but see, I've figured them out. They fight, they just don't fight in front of me. They get all quiet, ignore each other, and pretend like nothing's wrong. House stomps around as best he can and growls and menaces the cats, and Jimmy cleans the bathtub and the refrigerator and under the stove and the top shelf of everyone's closet. Meanwhile, they save all the best name-calling and knickknack-throwing for work.
I guess. It's an educated guess; a hypothesis, if you will. No one would tell me either way, but I imagine that's what happens. You'd probably know better than I would.
Back to the pot-scrubbing. House is going at it like taking off the gluey-macaroni bits is the most important problem he's tackled in his entire existence, and he's not saying too much of anything, and right before I tear my hair out in frustration, he starts talking.
A loud man, is my father. He yells, he bellows, he shouts, he snarls, he yells, and yes, he has even been known to holler. Not to belabor the point, but nothing good ever comes out of House using his inside voice.
He says, "Church, we need to talk," and I know that my shit is sunk.
My dad has been my dad for my entire life, and I can count on my hands the amount of times he's called me by my name. Kiddo, the kid, the boy, the brat, the demon, the spawn, the demon spawn, the tribble, the beast, the imp, Lucifer, the Antichrist, All Hail Satan, crumbsnatcher, ankle-biter...you get the idea.
Quit writing. You're focusing on the wrong thing. Pay attention, this is about to get good.
He talks, I listen, because I know better than to start denying guilt before I've even been accused of something. Learned that lesson the hard way, let me tell you.
What is with you, do you have ADD? You should get tested or something. What I may or may not have allegedly done in a possible moment of abject stupidity has nothing at all whatsoever to do with this story. When I get caught, or rather, if I get caught, then I'll fill you in. Promise.
I'm shocked to find that House isn't yet privy to the bad, bad thing I might possibly have done, and is actually talking about something that has nothing to do with me. Of course, when he gets through, I kinda wish he had found out, and we were moving onto the sentencing phase, which leads to the time served/let us never speak of this again phase. I like that phase.
Look, I'm trying to spare your feelings here, but there's no easy way to say this. (This is how it was put to me, so this is how I'll put it to you, okay?) For reasons I'm not going into right now, Jimmy has decided that he needs to do us both a favor and go live in a hotel. How this is supposed to help matters, I'm not entirely sure. He wanted me to tell you that he loves you, he's not mad at you, and that you can call him anytime.
After this little speech, House goes back to his manic pot-scrubbing with a vengeance, as if he hasn't just dropped a bomb on my entire world, and left me standing there, alone, in the burning, stinking wreckage.
I'm not stupid, okay. I pay attention, especially when they don't think I'm paying attention. I listen, I hear things, I snoop around until I accidentally find interesting pieces of ancient history. Divorce papers, for instance.
Not once, not twice, but three times. Three wives, three divorces; one husband, one "trial separation". Jimmy's phrase, not mine. Again, three divorces, two of the initiated by the other party, one of them initiated by himself.
I don't know, maybe they think they're protecting me, that's their thing, but I've stolen the damned papers out of his room enough times to know what isn't being said.
What I'm not understanding is this: if he did...whatever...whatever the word is that we're all avoiding...then it's obvious to me that House really doesn't give a damn about it. He's more pissed off over the leaving, and the problems the leaving (the running away, okay, that's what it is) is causing and will no doubt cause.
And, if I'm allowed to give the asshole more credit than he'll give himself, I think he might be more upset over the fact that this is hurting me than any hurt that's been done to him.
Dammit, what do I care? If he...if there was a problem, then we'll deal. That's what we do. Everything else that happens to us, we stick together, we get each other through it, and we laugh about it later. It's our thing.
But leaving? Without a word? Pack a bag, rent a room, and disappear from the face of the earth? Okay, answering his phone still, but for how long? This is so absolutely out of line, so opposed to the Jimmy that I know (though this isn't the first time this has happened, but that was in the before--long time ago, galaxy far, far away--when I wasn't even a hope of a possibility).
Fuck.
Okay, let me break this down for you. House loves Wilson. Wilson loves House. House and Wilson love Church. Reverse that, repeat ad infinitum. This isn't speculation, this is bone-deep knowledge. I'm more sure of my parent's love for each other than I am that the sun will come up in the morning. I can count on one more than the other.
What I can't count on? That Jimmy's noble streak and House's stubborn streak (less of a streak, more a full-body paint job) won't conspire to screw my life up entirely.
I'm sure every kid that comes in here whining about their parents splitting up says that, right? In my case, though? It's truth. House is my father, biologically and in every other way imaginable, but he's about as capable of single parenting as I am of flying to the moon: not happening without a shitload of help.
He's a genius. There's no doubt about this. He's also insane. Not in a "standing over you while you sleep with a knife in his hand" way, but in a "doing crazy shit in the hopes that some sick person won't die".
And if that means not coming home for four, five days, sleeping in his clothes, not eating anything that doesn't reside in a vending machine, and getting arrested for breaking into the patient's house or hitting their sister in the eye, or whatever the hell he gets into his head to do this week, that's what he's going to do.
Again, not stupid, although my parents often forget that just because I can't be seen, doesn't mean I'm not there, hanging onto every word. House was so much worse before I was born, it's not even funny. The stuff he does now, it's nothing compared to the crap he used to get into, and drunk and high besides.
Now, how the hell am I supposed to watch out for him when he's supposed to be watching out for me? He'll try, I know he will, he's not completely hopeless, but do you think he'll be able to? He doesn't even think he'll be able to, he's always saying how everything hinges on Jimmy. He's not lying, it does. House and I are too much alike. I need constant supervision, okay, and so does he.
You know what's going to end up happening? I do.
House and I will limp along at playing house for a few weeks, maybe even a month or two. When the dishes and the laundry and the bills get backed up, and we're out of groceries and we're out of shampoo and the cats run away, then House will bite the bullet and call his parents.
Grandpa and Grandma will come, because they love me. They'll hang out, we'll get the house clean, buy some milk and eggs and condiments, maybe some shampoo, entice the cats home with promises of catnip and tuna. We'll visit a few flea markets, a museum or two, and then they'll get tired of House working too much (Blythe) and ignoring them (John).
And then someone will say quite innocently, "Greg, why don't we take Church back home with us?"
Okay, so you remember the part where I said Cuddy wasn't pertinent to the discussion? She's pertinent now.
She's going to have a litter of pups over this entire thing, anyway, but when someone starts talking about taking me away? Yeah, that dog won't hunt. She doesn't want me, but she sure as hell doesn't want anyone else to have me.
She'll feel like she has to sue for custody, and I don't want that and neither does she. Cuddy likes things the way they are now, and I'm right there with her.
I like my ancient, dishwasher-less house. I like my fat, stupid cats. I like my nosy, weird neighbors. I hate my school, but I've gone to school with the same jackasses since kindergarten, and I hate training new minions. I like the hospital and the nurses and House's fellows and Jimmy's patients.
I like the Chinese restaurant we always eat at, and the McDonald's that knows my order before I give it. I like the gas station that has those greasy hot dogs that probably aren't even real meat but I eat them anyway. I like the library where they know my name, and the dentist who reviles said name and pretends he doesn't remember that I bit him on the calf that one time.
I want things to stay exactly the way they are, and never, ever change.
I know that's childish, I know that. But I have a good life, and it's a good life because people love me enough to make it that way. They're fucked up and neurotic, and House is probably a sociopath or something, but they love me. And I love them.
But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I love Jimmy best.
Maybe not best, but certainly...never mind, I can't explain it. I don't love him more, I just love him different. And I love him different because he loves me different. House and Lisa, they have to love me. Biologically. Genetically. Whatever. Jimmy doesn't.
I'm not saying that if he really loved me, he wouldn't leave me. That's not true. Whatever happens, I know that Jimmy loves me, and that he's got it somewhere in his head that leaving us is the best thing for not only him and House, but for me, as well.
Which is completely retarded, but that's Jimmy for you.
I don't care. I don't care what he did, and I don't care who it hurt. He could kill someone in cold blood two feet away from me, and I would probably help him dispose of the body. Shit, I'd help him dismember the body first.
Don't put that in my file, moron. Don't you know me well enough by now to know when I'm speaking in hyperbole? Dumbass.
Anyway, what I mean by that is this: I love my Mom. And that's how I think of him, and always will. To you, to him, to any uptight assholes it might offend, I'll call him Jimmy. Sometimes Wilson. But in my heart of hearts, that's my mother.
You can write that one down.
I'm damned if I'll let these two idiots fuck my life up. House gets away with being an asshole dumbshit all the time, but Jimmy makes one mistake and it's run for the hills time? I don't think so.
He's coming home, taking his lumps, and then getting back to fixing my lunch and refolding the towels and making House take his vitamins and going to PTA meetings and holding bald-headed kid's hands and staring at Cuddy's boobs and fussing about the light bill and buying cat litter and driving me around and whatever all the hell else he does.
I can't think of a better punishment for him, can you?
So, are we about done here? I've got parents to beat over the head with bricks and large sticks and maybe cookware, and I've got grandparents to ward away with voodoo and outright lies, and custody issues that might never come up but still give me hives anyway.
And you've got more people to listen to, and scribble little snide notes about. Oh, don't look at me that way, you know they're snide. Just admit it. Have fun, don't work too hard, I'll be back next week to give you the update and brighten your boring, sad little world.
Admit it, we're your favorites, aren't we?
You don't have to say anything. I can tell.