Fic: Motel 6
Title: Motel 6. This is a bonus scene for American Gothic, and takes place on the night following that story.
Authors: third_owl and nightdog_barks. Set in the Riververse in which Wilson has quite unexpectedly survived.
Characters: House, Wilson; 770 words.
Spoilers: Yes, all the way through 8.22 and then a hard left at Albuquerque.
Warnings: None.
Summary: After last night, they are glad for any place where they can leave the lights on.
They ought to be asleep, but they aren't. They are showered, in their loose soft shirts and shorts, propped up in bed with the bathroom light and the television both on.
"So why was it such a crappy year?" House is sipping Scotch, jiggling his elbow against Wilson's arm.
Wilson snorts (he does this a lot when he's drunk, and it's one of the countless things House finds amusing about drinking with him). "Which crappy year? You'll need to be more, um ... specific."
"You said what's-his-name was a good friend and it was a crappy year. The 'good friend' part, I got. Not the 'crappy year.' Pour me another."
Wilson does, a little unsteadily, and then clinks the bottle against House's glass before refilling his own. "I was sixteen. Crappy year by, um. Definition, right?" His words are all soft around the edges now.
"But really bad for you, if you bothered to say so. That when your little brother first went off the rails?"
"And!" Wilson waves an unsteady finger at him, for emphasis. "The year I figured out about ... my dad. An' his girlfriend."
"Huh. Well, that explains a lot."
"Does it. It ... does?"
"Haven't you spent years in therapy, you idiot? Go get your money back. You would have had to lie from the moment you knew. Because I know you never told on him."
"No."
"You were screwed no matter what you did. Tell, and you're the bad guy; mom and dad both hate you for telling. Don't tell, and you're a liar and you hate yourself, and your mom would hate you if she knew you knew and didn't tell her. That about the size of it?"
"And it sucked. Think of a, a ... thing that really, really sucks. And it was like that thing." Wilson, almost always a happy drunk, suddenly isn't, and House feels like that might in some way be his fault. He drapes his arm across Wilson's shoulders; it's easy because Wilson's kind of hanging his head.
"It wasn't your fault, Jimmy."
"That's what he said. Jason. I told him."
"And he was right. But you're an idiot, and you didn't believe him." House pulls him closer, which is also easy because Wilson gets sort of ... generally floppy, when he's wasted. His head comes to rest on House's shoulder. "So you grew up to be the lying, cheating, secretive, manipulative bitch that I love." A pause while brain catches up with mouth, there, and he decides to just let it go and hope Wilson will, too. "Because you didn't want to hurt anyone."
Wilson doesn't say anything, and House takes another sip of scotch, enjoying the deep warmth in his chest. He aims the remote at the TV and clicks, lands on a movie channel. "He ran into my knife ten times," a woman says. House decides to leave it on, just to see if Wilson knows the songbook for Chicago as well as he does for A Chorus Line, but Wilson is still quiet, so House turns his head just enough to peek at Wilson's face.
He's asleep, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, a delicate strand of drool threatening to drip onto House's shirt.
House grabs a tissue from the box on the nightstand, dabs away the drip, and sighs. "You're a cheap date, Wilson." Wilson's left hand is resting on his lap, still holding the tumbler with what's left of his Scotch. About to spill it, and that would be a waste, so House takes the glass and drains it before finishing off his own.
Wilson gives no indication of waking.
"Wilson. Come on, I don' wanna sleep like this." House shakes Wilson's shoulder until there's a grunt and whimper, and with some pushing and pulling, Wilson flops over sideways on the mattress. "Good enough," House mutters.
He ought to turn off the bathroom light, but no way is he getting out of bed. Too tired. The remote has vanished in the folds of the blankets, and he's too tired to hunt for that, either. The thing can just stay on. Volume's pretty low. It's okay.
"It's okay." He stretches his hand out and slowly ruffles Wilson's hair. Good little Jimmy, keeping his dad's secrets the way House never would have. Didn't, when the secret was his mom's. "It's okay," he repeats. He lies down with his arm around Wilson's waist, his chest against Wilson's back. The hair at the nape of Wilson's neck is soft and it smells nice, and House thinks he'll sleep this way.
There's a word for it, what he's doing, but he's sure he's too drunk to remember it now.
He just hopes, after last night, that he's also too drunk to remember any dreams he might have.
Authors: third_owl and nightdog_barks. Set in the Riververse in which Wilson has quite unexpectedly survived.
Characters: House, Wilson; 770 words.
Spoilers: Yes, all the way through 8.22 and then a hard left at Albuquerque.
Warnings: None.
Summary: After last night, they are glad for any place where they can leave the lights on.
They ought to be asleep, but they aren't. They are showered, in their loose soft shirts and shorts, propped up in bed with the bathroom light and the television both on.
"So why was it such a crappy year?" House is sipping Scotch, jiggling his elbow against Wilson's arm.
Wilson snorts (he does this a lot when he's drunk, and it's one of the countless things House finds amusing about drinking with him). "Which crappy year? You'll need to be more, um ... specific."
"You said what's-his-name was a good friend and it was a crappy year. The 'good friend' part, I got. Not the 'crappy year.' Pour me another."
Wilson does, a little unsteadily, and then clinks the bottle against House's glass before refilling his own. "I was sixteen. Crappy year by, um. Definition, right?" His words are all soft around the edges now.
"But really bad for you, if you bothered to say so. That when your little brother first went off the rails?"
"And!" Wilson waves an unsteady finger at him, for emphasis. "The year I figured out about ... my dad. An' his girlfriend."
"Huh. Well, that explains a lot."
"Does it. It ... does?"
"Haven't you spent years in therapy, you idiot? Go get your money back. You would have had to lie from the moment you knew. Because I know you never told on him."
"No."
"You were screwed no matter what you did. Tell, and you're the bad guy; mom and dad both hate you for telling. Don't tell, and you're a liar and you hate yourself, and your mom would hate you if she knew you knew and didn't tell her. That about the size of it?"
"And it sucked. Think of a, a ... thing that really, really sucks. And it was like that thing." Wilson, almost always a happy drunk, suddenly isn't, and House feels like that might in some way be his fault. He drapes his arm across Wilson's shoulders; it's easy because Wilson's kind of hanging his head.
"It wasn't your fault, Jimmy."
"That's what he said. Jason. I told him."
"And he was right. But you're an idiot, and you didn't believe him." House pulls him closer, which is also easy because Wilson gets sort of ... generally floppy, when he's wasted. His head comes to rest on House's shoulder. "So you grew up to be the lying, cheating, secretive, manipulative bitch that I love." A pause while brain catches up with mouth, there, and he decides to just let it go and hope Wilson will, too. "Because you didn't want to hurt anyone."
Wilson doesn't say anything, and House takes another sip of scotch, enjoying the deep warmth in his chest. He aims the remote at the TV and clicks, lands on a movie channel. "He ran into my knife ten times," a woman says. House decides to leave it on, just to see if Wilson knows the songbook for Chicago as well as he does for A Chorus Line, but Wilson is still quiet, so House turns his head just enough to peek at Wilson's face.
He's asleep, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, a delicate strand of drool threatening to drip onto House's shirt.
House grabs a tissue from the box on the nightstand, dabs away the drip, and sighs. "You're a cheap date, Wilson." Wilson's left hand is resting on his lap, still holding the tumbler with what's left of his Scotch. About to spill it, and that would be a waste, so House takes the glass and drains it before finishing off his own.
Wilson gives no indication of waking.
"Wilson. Come on, I don' wanna sleep like this." House shakes Wilson's shoulder until there's a grunt and whimper, and with some pushing and pulling, Wilson flops over sideways on the mattress. "Good enough," House mutters.
He ought to turn off the bathroom light, but no way is he getting out of bed. Too tired. The remote has vanished in the folds of the blankets, and he's too tired to hunt for that, either. The thing can just stay on. Volume's pretty low. It's okay.
"It's okay." He stretches his hand out and slowly ruffles Wilson's hair. Good little Jimmy, keeping his dad's secrets the way House never would have. Didn't, when the secret was his mom's. "It's okay," he repeats. He lies down with his arm around Wilson's waist, his chest against Wilson's back. The hair at the nape of Wilson's neck is soft and it smells nice, and House thinks he'll sleep this way.
There's a word for it, what he's doing, but he's sure he's too drunk to remember it now.
He just hopes, after last night, that he's also too drunk to remember any dreams he might have.