(no subject)
Who: House-Wilson and Wilson-House
Where: The hangar
What: A MAN HUG. A BIG, SWEATY, ENTIRELY PLATONIC MAN HUG.
When: Following this series of e-mails (and before the last petal falls off the rose in the West Wing of the Beast's castle)
Base protocol stipulated at least a week between the submission of a requisition form and the delivery of whatever it was you were requisitioning. Ostensibly, this was done so that a pool of tireless robot secretaries could screen your request and, depending on whether you were asking for socks or WMDs, filter it through the right channels. Plus, shipping a whole piano couldn't be an easy request to fill. House figured that Wilson'd had a week, week-and-a-half of guilt stuffed into him. Either that, or he was running out of Vicodin and Cuddy the Iron Claw had been too busy reading Tiger Beat to get him a refill.
Being Wilson wasn't exactly easy, either. House had started to pick up a couple of the other man's tics without even realizing it. The superhero stance. The awkward back-of-the-neck rub. Oiling his Armanis three times a day. On the sixth day, House had caved and switched Wilson's tassels for a pair of Converse. It was the only compromise to the other man's appearance that House felt comfortable enough to allow himself.
He let himself in through the screechy side door of the hangar. All new deliveries were cataloged here before they were sent to the requisitioners. House saw a familiar shape underneath the wing of a plane: large, square, and covered with a packing blanket. Wilson's head pumped blood into House's heart. Oh, baby, where have you been all my life?
Another shape beside the piano. He recognized this one, too. He should -- he'd spent the better part of the last forty-eight years staring at it in the mirror every morning. His pace slowed a little.
"Hey."
Where: The hangar
What: A MAN HUG. A BIG, SWEATY, ENTIRELY PLATONIC MAN HUG.
When: Following this series of e-mails (and before the last petal falls off the rose in the West Wing of the Beast's castle)
Base protocol stipulated at least a week between the submission of a requisition form and the delivery of whatever it was you were requisitioning. Ostensibly, this was done so that a pool of tireless robot secretaries could screen your request and, depending on whether you were asking for socks or WMDs, filter it through the right channels. Plus, shipping a whole piano couldn't be an easy request to fill. House figured that Wilson'd had a week, week-and-a-half of guilt stuffed into him. Either that, or he was running out of Vicodin and Cuddy the Iron Claw had been too busy reading Tiger Beat to get him a refill.
Being Wilson wasn't exactly easy, either. House had started to pick up a couple of the other man's tics without even realizing it. The superhero stance. The awkward back-of-the-neck rub. Oiling his Armanis three times a day. On the sixth day, House had caved and switched Wilson's tassels for a pair of Converse. It was the only compromise to the other man's appearance that House felt comfortable enough to allow himself.
He let himself in through the screechy side door of the hangar. All new deliveries were cataloged here before they were sent to the requisitioners. House saw a familiar shape underneath the wing of a plane: large, square, and covered with a packing blanket. Wilson's head pumped blood into House's heart. Oh, baby, where have you been all my life?
Another shape beside the piano. He recognized this one, too. He should -- he'd spent the better part of the last forty-eight years staring at it in the mirror every morning. His pace slowed a little.
"Hey."