Another day, another crossover fic...
Title: Subtlety Is Not In Our Vocabulary
Author: starlingthefool
Fandom: House MD/His Dark Materials crossover
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG 13 for swearing.
Summary: House, Wilson, and their respective dæmons have an illuminating conversation.
A/N: Written for this house_fest prompt: "Vaguely crossover-ish for concept borrowing: the characters have dæmons, á la His Dark Materials. Characters A and B interact in some capacity (up to you); the dæmons are active participants in the exchange, whether verbally or through body language."
Wikipedia's explanation of what a daemon is can be found here. Also, I have pictures of the everyone's dæmons here, if anybody is interested.
Thanks to dominus_trinus for the beta!
"You should go talk to him," Medea said. The opossum dæmon sat on House's desk, watching as he tossed a rubber ball against the wall of his office.
Cuddy, her silver fox dæmon trotting self-importantly at her heels, had just blown into and out of House's office with the usual whirlwind of incriminations, threats, and accusations. This time, she'd also demanded that House apologize to Wilson. For what, he had no idea, and neither did she. The other doctor been holed up in his office for the entire morning, missing a budget meeting and blowing off a consult. Whatever was wrong with Wilson, she'd assumed it was his fault. Or at the very least, House's bad influence finally taking hold of the other doctor.
"He's a big boy," he replied to Medea. "He doesn't need me to hold his hand while he has an emotional breakdown."
Medea glared at him. "Maybe he doesn't need to hold somebody's hand. Maybe he just needs somebody to tell him to stop self-indulging."
"You saw him. That was not the 'I'm wallowing in self-pity' look on his face. That was the 'I'm in a dark pit of doom' look. I know it well."
"Yeah, you see it in the mirror all the time. Go talk to him," she said.
House shook his head and threw the ball against the wall again. "I like this shirt. It's vintage. Saline from his tears as he sobs all over my shoulder might damage it."
Medea suddenly perked her head up, sniffing at the air. "Do you smell that?"
"What?" House asked, inhaling. He didn't notice anything unusual.
"It smells like... like... a bunch of bullshit."
He glared at her, which of course, she returned fearlessly.
"You love him, and don't give me that look because you know you do, even if you won't tell him that; you're his friend, he puts up with an unbelievable amount of crap from you and for you, but you won't ask him what's wrong?"
House shrugged. "That about sums it up, yeah."
Medea nudged his forearm where it lay on the desk.
"Go talk to him already. And don't tell me you like that shirt. You were using it as a dishtowel last month."
House sighed melodramatically and put down the rubber ball. "Outsmarted again. Fine, I'll go talk to him," he said, standing. He picked Medea up, allowing her to latch onto his shoulder before he walked across his office and went out onto the balcony, awkwardly crossing over the brick partition. He knocked on Wilson's door once, then opened it without bothering to wait for an answer.
Wilson was laying down on the couch in his office, his tie loose and his collar unbuttoned, one arm flung over his eyes. Shamira, Wilson's dusty tan and gray coyote dæmon, lay despondently on the ground beside him. All they needed was an empty whiskey bottle and Hank Williams crooning mournfully from Wilson's stereo to complete the portrait of self-indulgent melancholy
"Go away, House," Wilson said, not even bothering to uncover his eyes.
"Cuddy told me to apologize to you."
Shamira lifted her head and looked at him. "For what?" she asked.
"I have no idea. She just assumed that whatever was wrong with you was my fault."
"I'm real sorry," Wilson said sarcastically.
"That's supposed to be my line, remember?"
Wilson didn't bother to answer him, and Shamira just turned away, curling up into a tight ball on the floor. House shared a look with Medea.
"So," he began again. "Since I can't remember doing anything abnormally horrible to you, I can assume this pity party is about something else."
Wilson sighed and said, "It's nothing that concerns you. You can go back to avoiding work with a clear conscience." Wilson waited a moment before adding, "In your own office, preferably."
House settled into a chair near the couch. "Actually, I'm in the mood to play doctor."
Both Wilson and Shamira looked up at him.
"By which I mean therapist," House clarified.
Shamira laid her ears back and growled at him, and Wilson rolled his eyes. "Seriously, House. Go away. I'm not in the mood." He threw his arm back over his eyes, but Shamira kept her body facing him, watching as Medea slowly crawled off of House's shoulder and dropped onto the ground.
"So what happened?" House asked, ignoring his last statement. "One of your baldies kick off? Was there a gray hair in your comb? Another future ex-Mrs. Wilson dump you?"
Medea was now making her way slowly toward Shamira. The coyote shifted closer to Wilson, ignoring the opossum's questioning stare.
Wilson just shook his head in answer to his friend's questions, and turned to face the couch.
"Come on," House said, rolling his eyes. "It can't be that bad."
Medea sniffed curiously at Shamira, ignoring the coyote as she bristled at the intrusion.
"I forgot," Wilson retorted. "You've cornered the market in being miserable. Anybody else's problems are insignificant in comparison to your own epic tribulations."
"My point exactly. It's good that you're getting some perspective on this," House said in his best annoying therapist voice
Shamira growled at Medea, her lips curling back to reveal rows of sharp, canine teeth. Above her, Wilson visibly clenched his jaw.
"Why is it that whenever I actually want to have a conversation with you, you're completely unavailable? And when I would much rather mope in my office, alone, not bothering anyone, you refuse to let the matter rest?"
Before he could answer, Wilson suddenly sat up, swung his feet off the couch, and nailed House with an angry glare.
"And just what the hell do you care anyway? Do you think this is actually helpful, to have all my personal failures thrown in my face? Is being reminded that I'm getting old and can't have a functional relationship supposed to cheer me up? Or the fact that most of my patients will inevitably die? Or that-" Wilson cut himself off, shaking his head as if to negate whatever he had been about to say. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before continuing.
"I've had a bad day, House. I've had to hand out three cancer diagnoses, two of them terminal, one of them to a fourteen year old. Irvine is transferring over to Boston General, two of the new therapies the department was researching got their funding cut-"
"And Julie is getting remarried," House remarked, his tone careless, but his eyes focused on the other doctor, wanting to see his reaction.
Wilson's jaw dropped open. In the following silence, Shamira got up and sat between his legs, nudging at his hand with her muzzle. He petted her absently, still staring at House.
"How did you know?" Wilson asked finally.
"The invitation is on your desk," House said, gesturing to the tasteful cream-colored card that was lying on top of the mound of paperwork.
Wilson leaned back into the couch. "Shit."
"She actually sent you an invitation?" Medea asked, incredulous.
"Of course," Shamira replied. "The bitch always was polite."
"Mira," Wilson said, a soft reprimand.
"What? Fine, I take it back," the coyote growled. "She wasn't polite. But she was a bitch."
"I've gotta agree with her there," House said.
Wilson groaned and lay back on the couch, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Thanks for the talk House. It's been really helpful. I'd like to go back to wallowing in peace, now."
He shut his eyes determinedly, waiting for House to leave.
"You're being pathetic," House said.
"I'm fully aware of that. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out," Wilson said, still refusing to open his eyes.
House looked at Medea and shrugged. What else was he supposed to do? The best thing would probably be to leave with most of his pride still intact. The opossum gave him a withering glance, and started crawling up the couch.
"Medea?" House asked, his pulse suddenly accelerating. She reached the cushions where Wilson was still determinedly ignoring them, and then, entirely without House's permission, reached forward and stepped onto Wilson's chest. House inhaled sharply as overwhelming sensations ran through his body at the sudden contact between his dæmon and another person.
Wilson's eyes flew open, and he looked at the gray and black opossum with shock as she walked forward and then sat on his stomach.
"I'm sorry your ex-wife is a bitch," the dæmon said kindly, staring into Wilson's wide brown eyes. "But there's plenty of other fish in the sea." And then, dear God, she winked at him.
House snapped himself out of his daze and snatched the dæmon off of Wilson's chest. "Shameless hussy. Quit trying to embarrass me," he said, but his tone was uneven, and he could feel a blush creeping up his neck. He put the opossum onto his shoulders and stalked out of the room.
When he was safely back behind the closed doors of his own office, he collapsed onto his armchair.
"What the hell do are you doing?" he hissed at his dæmon. "What were you thinking?"
"He needed it," she said calmly, her liquid black eyes inscrutable. "And you wanted it."
"You idiot. You absolute moron," he said to her. "You think coming onto him like that was what he wanted? Fuck." House leaned back and dug his knuckles into his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. "I can't believe you did that. Have you ever heard of subtlety?"
Further berating was interrupted by a hesitant knock at his door. "What?" House shouted in irritation.
The door opened. House stilled as Wilson slipped inside, Shamira behind him. He turned to shut the door behind them, then reluctantly faced House.
"I..." he began helplessly, then fell awkwardly silent, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Shamira trotted forward and sat in front of House, her golden eyes glaring at him suspiciously. "Did you mean that?" she asked finally. "Or is this just a new way of screwing with us?"
House glanced up at Wilson, who was staring at him nervously, then at Medea, who was watching the whole scene intently. Then House leaned forward, and, stretching his hand, gingerly laid his fingers against the coyote's neck. Both she and Wilson closed their eyes as House buried his hand in the dæmon's thick fur.
"I am sorry about Julie," House said after a moment, his fingers still playing with the strands of Shamira's fur.
"To hell with her," the coyote rumbled, her tail beating gently against the carpet.
"Mira," Wilson said distractedly.
"What?" She opened her eyes and favored him and Medea with a mischievous look.
"Now would be a good time to kiss him," the opossum whispered from her perch on his shoulder, before jumping onto the arm of the chair to touch noses with Shamira.
House opened his mouth to argue with her, or at least tell her to shut up, when he felt Wilson nudge his leg with one of his ridiculously nice shoes. He looked up to see the other doctor grinning sheepishly at him.
"She's right, you know."
"But-"
"Shut up, House." Wilson bent forward at the waist, and kissed House softly on the lips.
For a second, he froze, his thought process like a team of spooked horses trying to bolt in a dozen different directions at once. Wilson seemed to sense his sudden stiffness, and started to pull away. House's hand shot out by its own accord and wrapped around the other man's neck, pulling him back in for a deeper, wetter, and more satisfying kiss than the first one.
From behind them, House heard Shamira mutter, "Sheesh. Finally."
"Shut up, Mira!" Wilson turned and growled at her.
House grinned, but then the moment had been spoiled. Wilson stood back up, rubbing at his neck again. House became aware of a cramp beginning in his own neck, probably from the awkward angle of the kiss.
"So," Wilson began, then faltered. "What now?" he finished lamely.
Three pairs of eyes were on him, watching; one pair golden, one black, and one brown.
"Buy me lunch," House finally said, lips quirking up in a lopsided smile. "We can go from there."
Medea snorted, but Wilson's and Shamira's mirrored grins were answer enough for him.
Author: starlingthefool
Fandom: House MD/His Dark Materials crossover
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG 13 for swearing.
Summary: House, Wilson, and their respective dæmons have an illuminating conversation.
A/N: Written for this house_fest prompt: "Vaguely crossover-ish for concept borrowing: the characters have dæmons, á la His Dark Materials. Characters A and B interact in some capacity (up to you); the dæmons are active participants in the exchange, whether verbally or through body language."
Wikipedia's explanation of what a daemon is can be found here. Also, I have pictures of the everyone's dæmons here, if anybody is interested.
Thanks to dominus_trinus for the beta!
"You should go talk to him," Medea said. The opossum dæmon sat on House's desk, watching as he tossed a rubber ball against the wall of his office.
Cuddy, her silver fox dæmon trotting self-importantly at her heels, had just blown into and out of House's office with the usual whirlwind of incriminations, threats, and accusations. This time, she'd also demanded that House apologize to Wilson. For what, he had no idea, and neither did she. The other doctor been holed up in his office for the entire morning, missing a budget meeting and blowing off a consult. Whatever was wrong with Wilson, she'd assumed it was his fault. Or at the very least, House's bad influence finally taking hold of the other doctor.
"He's a big boy," he replied to Medea. "He doesn't need me to hold his hand while he has an emotional breakdown."
Medea glared at him. "Maybe he doesn't need to hold somebody's hand. Maybe he just needs somebody to tell him to stop self-indulging."
"You saw him. That was not the 'I'm wallowing in self-pity' look on his face. That was the 'I'm in a dark pit of doom' look. I know it well."
"Yeah, you see it in the mirror all the time. Go talk to him," she said.
House shook his head and threw the ball against the wall again. "I like this shirt. It's vintage. Saline from his tears as he sobs all over my shoulder might damage it."
Medea suddenly perked her head up, sniffing at the air. "Do you smell that?"
"What?" House asked, inhaling. He didn't notice anything unusual.
"It smells like... like... a bunch of bullshit."
He glared at her, which of course, she returned fearlessly.
"You love him, and don't give me that look because you know you do, even if you won't tell him that; you're his friend, he puts up with an unbelievable amount of crap from you and for you, but you won't ask him what's wrong?"
House shrugged. "That about sums it up, yeah."
Medea nudged his forearm where it lay on the desk.
"Go talk to him already. And don't tell me you like that shirt. You were using it as a dishtowel last month."
House sighed melodramatically and put down the rubber ball. "Outsmarted again. Fine, I'll go talk to him," he said, standing. He picked Medea up, allowing her to latch onto his shoulder before he walked across his office and went out onto the balcony, awkwardly crossing over the brick partition. He knocked on Wilson's door once, then opened it without bothering to wait for an answer.
Wilson was laying down on the couch in his office, his tie loose and his collar unbuttoned, one arm flung over his eyes. Shamira, Wilson's dusty tan and gray coyote dæmon, lay despondently on the ground beside him. All they needed was an empty whiskey bottle and Hank Williams crooning mournfully from Wilson's stereo to complete the portrait of self-indulgent melancholy
"Go away, House," Wilson said, not even bothering to uncover his eyes.
"Cuddy told me to apologize to you."
Shamira lifted her head and looked at him. "For what?" she asked.
"I have no idea. She just assumed that whatever was wrong with you was my fault."
"I'm real sorry," Wilson said sarcastically.
"That's supposed to be my line, remember?"
Wilson didn't bother to answer him, and Shamira just turned away, curling up into a tight ball on the floor. House shared a look with Medea.
"So," he began again. "Since I can't remember doing anything abnormally horrible to you, I can assume this pity party is about something else."
Wilson sighed and said, "It's nothing that concerns you. You can go back to avoiding work with a clear conscience." Wilson waited a moment before adding, "In your own office, preferably."
House settled into a chair near the couch. "Actually, I'm in the mood to play doctor."
Both Wilson and Shamira looked up at him.
"By which I mean therapist," House clarified.
Shamira laid her ears back and growled at him, and Wilson rolled his eyes. "Seriously, House. Go away. I'm not in the mood." He threw his arm back over his eyes, but Shamira kept her body facing him, watching as Medea slowly crawled off of House's shoulder and dropped onto the ground.
"So what happened?" House asked, ignoring his last statement. "One of your baldies kick off? Was there a gray hair in your comb? Another future ex-Mrs. Wilson dump you?"
Medea was now making her way slowly toward Shamira. The coyote shifted closer to Wilson, ignoring the opossum's questioning stare.
Wilson just shook his head in answer to his friend's questions, and turned to face the couch.
"Come on," House said, rolling his eyes. "It can't be that bad."
Medea sniffed curiously at Shamira, ignoring the coyote as she bristled at the intrusion.
"I forgot," Wilson retorted. "You've cornered the market in being miserable. Anybody else's problems are insignificant in comparison to your own epic tribulations."
"My point exactly. It's good that you're getting some perspective on this," House said in his best annoying therapist voice
Shamira growled at Medea, her lips curling back to reveal rows of sharp, canine teeth. Above her, Wilson visibly clenched his jaw.
"Why is it that whenever I actually want to have a conversation with you, you're completely unavailable? And when I would much rather mope in my office, alone, not bothering anyone, you refuse to let the matter rest?"
Before he could answer, Wilson suddenly sat up, swung his feet off the couch, and nailed House with an angry glare.
"And just what the hell do you care anyway? Do you think this is actually helpful, to have all my personal failures thrown in my face? Is being reminded that I'm getting old and can't have a functional relationship supposed to cheer me up? Or the fact that most of my patients will inevitably die? Or that-" Wilson cut himself off, shaking his head as if to negate whatever he had been about to say. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before continuing.
"I've had a bad day, House. I've had to hand out three cancer diagnoses, two of them terminal, one of them to a fourteen year old. Irvine is transferring over to Boston General, two of the new therapies the department was researching got their funding cut-"
"And Julie is getting remarried," House remarked, his tone careless, but his eyes focused on the other doctor, wanting to see his reaction.
Wilson's jaw dropped open. In the following silence, Shamira got up and sat between his legs, nudging at his hand with her muzzle. He petted her absently, still staring at House.
"How did you know?" Wilson asked finally.
"The invitation is on your desk," House said, gesturing to the tasteful cream-colored card that was lying on top of the mound of paperwork.
Wilson leaned back into the couch. "Shit."
"She actually sent you an invitation?" Medea asked, incredulous.
"Of course," Shamira replied. "The bitch always was polite."
"Mira," Wilson said, a soft reprimand.
"What? Fine, I take it back," the coyote growled. "She wasn't polite. But she was a bitch."
"I've gotta agree with her there," House said.
Wilson groaned and lay back on the couch, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Thanks for the talk House. It's been really helpful. I'd like to go back to wallowing in peace, now."
He shut his eyes determinedly, waiting for House to leave.
"You're being pathetic," House said.
"I'm fully aware of that. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out," Wilson said, still refusing to open his eyes.
House looked at Medea and shrugged. What else was he supposed to do? The best thing would probably be to leave with most of his pride still intact. The opossum gave him a withering glance, and started crawling up the couch.
"Medea?" House asked, his pulse suddenly accelerating. She reached the cushions where Wilson was still determinedly ignoring them, and then, entirely without House's permission, reached forward and stepped onto Wilson's chest. House inhaled sharply as overwhelming sensations ran through his body at the sudden contact between his dæmon and another person.
Wilson's eyes flew open, and he looked at the gray and black opossum with shock as she walked forward and then sat on his stomach.
"I'm sorry your ex-wife is a bitch," the dæmon said kindly, staring into Wilson's wide brown eyes. "But there's plenty of other fish in the sea." And then, dear God, she winked at him.
House snapped himself out of his daze and snatched the dæmon off of Wilson's chest. "Shameless hussy. Quit trying to embarrass me," he said, but his tone was uneven, and he could feel a blush creeping up his neck. He put the opossum onto his shoulders and stalked out of the room.
When he was safely back behind the closed doors of his own office, he collapsed onto his armchair.
"What the hell do are you doing?" he hissed at his dæmon. "What were you thinking?"
"He needed it," she said calmly, her liquid black eyes inscrutable. "And you wanted it."
"You idiot. You absolute moron," he said to her. "You think coming onto him like that was what he wanted? Fuck." House leaned back and dug his knuckles into his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. "I can't believe you did that. Have you ever heard of subtlety?"
Further berating was interrupted by a hesitant knock at his door. "What?" House shouted in irritation.
The door opened. House stilled as Wilson slipped inside, Shamira behind him. He turned to shut the door behind them, then reluctantly faced House.
"I..." he began helplessly, then fell awkwardly silent, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Shamira trotted forward and sat in front of House, her golden eyes glaring at him suspiciously. "Did you mean that?" she asked finally. "Or is this just a new way of screwing with us?"
House glanced up at Wilson, who was staring at him nervously, then at Medea, who was watching the whole scene intently. Then House leaned forward, and, stretching his hand, gingerly laid his fingers against the coyote's neck. Both she and Wilson closed their eyes as House buried his hand in the dæmon's thick fur.
"I am sorry about Julie," House said after a moment, his fingers still playing with the strands of Shamira's fur.
"To hell with her," the coyote rumbled, her tail beating gently against the carpet.
"Mira," Wilson said distractedly.
"What?" She opened her eyes and favored him and Medea with a mischievous look.
"Now would be a good time to kiss him," the opossum whispered from her perch on his shoulder, before jumping onto the arm of the chair to touch noses with Shamira.
House opened his mouth to argue with her, or at least tell her to shut up, when he felt Wilson nudge his leg with one of his ridiculously nice shoes. He looked up to see the other doctor grinning sheepishly at him.
"She's right, you know."
"But-"
"Shut up, House." Wilson bent forward at the waist, and kissed House softly on the lips.
For a second, he froze, his thought process like a team of spooked horses trying to bolt in a dozen different directions at once. Wilson seemed to sense his sudden stiffness, and started to pull away. House's hand shot out by its own accord and wrapped around the other man's neck, pulling him back in for a deeper, wetter, and more satisfying kiss than the first one.
From behind them, House heard Shamira mutter, "Sheesh. Finally."
"Shut up, Mira!" Wilson turned and growled at her.
House grinned, but then the moment had been spoiled. Wilson stood back up, rubbing at his neck again. House became aware of a cramp beginning in his own neck, probably from the awkward angle of the kiss.
"So," Wilson began, then faltered. "What now?" he finished lamely.
Three pairs of eyes were on him, watching; one pair golden, one black, and one brown.
"Buy me lunch," House finally said, lips quirking up in a lopsided smile. "We can go from there."
Medea snorted, but Wilson's and Shamira's mirrored grins were answer enough for him.