Sunshine State (G)
Posted to house_wilson
Title: Sunshine State
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G
Words: 1227
Summary: House, Wilson, and their son Jack take a vacation.
Notes: Kid!fic. Prequel to My Fathers’ Son; follows after Papa’s Retreat. No spoilers for any season. Thanks to nightdog_barks and daisylily for beta.
The “short” boat ride from Marco Island to Key West - which they’d had to leave their hotel at the ungodly hour of seven a.m. to catch - turned out to be not one, not two, but three hours long. Three hours of unsteady footing, loud vacationers, and a nauseated and therefore extraordinarily cranky toddler.
Well, actually it’d only been a half-hour of cranky toddler, because Wilson had quickly grown annoyed with House’s reasonable and moderate observations on the situation and had banished him to the other side of the boat.
“One two-year-old is enough for me to handle,” Wilson had gritted out, arms wrapped around whimpering Jack, as House took his leave. House had been more than mildly offended, but given that his chances for being vomited on had decreased significantly (the cluster of frat brothers around the bar notwithstanding) he took his banishment with good grace.
Until he’d lost the last of his walking-around money in the slot machines, and then he was just bored. Glaring, whining, and the occasional gagging kept him away from the amusements of teasing Wilson and teaching the kid inappropriate things. Not that he wanted to sit with them anyway. Too suspicious, especially on the way to Key West, of all places. Might as well wear a rainbow shirt, pink capris, and a “Kiss Me, I’m Gay” button.
Still.
By the time the boat docked, none of them were in a good mood. Lunch was a short, disgruntled affair at the nearest place with consumable food, and the cab ride to the beach cottage couldn’t end quickly enough for House.
Wilson disappeared with the by-now wailing kid, and House was left to cart all the crap into the beach cottage himself. The cab driver was a cold-hearted monster with no sympathy for the differently-abled, but two twenties settled the matter to everyone’s satisfaction. Probably not Wilson’s, in that everything was thrown into a pile less than two feet inside the front door, but it was his own damn fault for taking off like that.
Kitchen was tiny; living room was big; hall bathroom was clean. Had been clean. (Couldn’t really blame him for the errant stream; he still had his sea legs.) His keen deductive reasoning led him to conclude that the master bedroom door was the one that did not have angry sobs emanating from behind it, and thus that was the one he entered. Cool tile floor, large adjoining bathroom with whirlpool tub, sliding glass door to the huge deck on the back of the cottage. Beach-themed décor, but not overdoing it. Ceiling fan with rattan blades, creating a gentle breeze across the king-size bed. House settled back to wait for Wilson to come in and apologize for forcing him to endure such a horrendous morning.
When he awoke, the light showed that the sun had dipped significantly lower in the sky. Wilson had come and gone, if the long swim trunks draped artfully across the foot of the bed were any indication. House was tempted to ignore them out of spite - he’d been bamboozled into this trip, after all - but it was hot enough that he felt sticky under his jeans. A little more air circulation wouldn’t be a bad thing.
A few moments later, he stepped out onto the deck sporting a gray t-shirt and a pretty awesome bathing suit. Unobtrusive black, but with a line of small red and orange flames down each leg. Bitchin’.
Leaning on the rail, he looked out across the beach. It was empty except for a beach chair, a few plastic toys, and two brown-haired figures in matching blue swim trunks bent over near the water, studying something intently. Jack had on his serious thinking face, the one House tried to pretend wasn’t adorable, and Wilson was smiling, and honestly, no grown man wanted ‘adorable’ attached to his persona in other people’s minds, right? Right?
Wilson looked up toward the deck then, and his eyes met House’s. Trick of the light, maybe, the way it seemed like his smile grew brighter, but he didn’t wave House over, didn’t call out. In turning back to Jack, House knew he was letting House do what he pleased. No pressure.
Watching them out there, now digging with a yellow plastic shovel, House thought of his mother: how much she loved Jack, how happy she’d be if she was here. He thought of another time on the beach with his mother, her showing him how to dig his toes in the sand and uncover the coquinas. Tiny little shells with animals in them, moving and tickling, and alive. He’d been filled with the wonder of it, and the affection in his mother’s eyes. And every minute the old man had stood off to the side, too busy or aloof or whatever it had been to join his own damn kid on the beach.
House took a step down the deck, and another, and another, and when he got to the sand, it was packed down, hardly more difficult to walk on than gravel.
“Be careful with Jack,” House admonished as he lowered himself carefully into the beach chair. “You’ve picked the world’s only paved beach, and if he falls, he’ll be bawling for hours.”
That gentle smile never wavered. “We’re being careful. And I think the sand pack is only because of the tide. When it goes out a bit, the beach’ll get fluffier. Jack, show House what you found.”
Running over to House’s chair, Jack yelled “Look!” and held up his prize.
“Hm,” House said, pulling it in for a closer look and inadvertently dragging Jack along too when the boy refused let go. “It’s a Jasper Cone.”
“No,” Jack admonished seriously. “It’s a shell.”
“I stand corrected,” House conceded, relinquishing the Jasper Cone into Jack’s grasp. He tried not to smile but wasn’t sure he was entirely successful.
Jack stood quietly beside the chair for a moment, looking House over but keeping a clear distance between them. Finally he called, “Pop?”
Wilson turned from where he was crouched at the water line. “Yes, honey?”
“Is this home?” Jack asked.
With a perplexed frown, Wilson hastily rinsed his hands in the water and headed the few steps toward the chair. “Is this what?”
House reached out and ran a hand slowly down his smart boy’s back. “Yes, Jack; we can act like we do when we’re at home.”
Grinning broadly, Jack climbed into House’s lap, threw his arms around House’s neck, and rested his head on House’s chest. House adjusted Jack’s position for maximum comfort and settled back into the chair, his son’s weight pleasantly heavy on him like a thick quilt in winter.
Wilson had picked up the plastic shovel again. Over the next few minutes, he sat a few feet away from the chair, digging at the wet sand.
“What are you doing?” House asked him as Jack wiggled contently.
“Building a sandcastle.”
“By yourself, without the toddler?”
Wilson looked back over his shoulder at them. “Yes.”
House wasn’t normally a fan of stating the obvious, but this had to be pointed out: “You’re a forty-two year old man building a sandcastle by yourself.”
“Too gay?” He abandoned the attempt and scooted back to sit right next to the beach chair.
“Way too gay,” House replied, and reached down to hold Wilson’s hand.
Title: Sunshine State
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G
Words: 1227
Summary: House, Wilson, and their son Jack take a vacation.
Notes: Kid!fic. Prequel to My Fathers’ Son; follows after Papa’s Retreat. No spoilers for any season. Thanks to nightdog_barks and daisylily for beta.
The “short” boat ride from Marco Island to Key West - which they’d had to leave their hotel at the ungodly hour of seven a.m. to catch - turned out to be not one, not two, but three hours long. Three hours of unsteady footing, loud vacationers, and a nauseated and therefore extraordinarily cranky toddler.
Well, actually it’d only been a half-hour of cranky toddler, because Wilson had quickly grown annoyed with House’s reasonable and moderate observations on the situation and had banished him to the other side of the boat.
“One two-year-old is enough for me to handle,” Wilson had gritted out, arms wrapped around whimpering Jack, as House took his leave. House had been more than mildly offended, but given that his chances for being vomited on had decreased significantly (the cluster of frat brothers around the bar notwithstanding) he took his banishment with good grace.
Until he’d lost the last of his walking-around money in the slot machines, and then he was just bored. Glaring, whining, and the occasional gagging kept him away from the amusements of teasing Wilson and teaching the kid inappropriate things. Not that he wanted to sit with them anyway. Too suspicious, especially on the way to Key West, of all places. Might as well wear a rainbow shirt, pink capris, and a “Kiss Me, I’m Gay” button.
Still.
By the time the boat docked, none of them were in a good mood. Lunch was a short, disgruntled affair at the nearest place with consumable food, and the cab ride to the beach cottage couldn’t end quickly enough for House.
Wilson disappeared with the by-now wailing kid, and House was left to cart all the crap into the beach cottage himself. The cab driver was a cold-hearted monster with no sympathy for the differently-abled, but two twenties settled the matter to everyone’s satisfaction. Probably not Wilson’s, in that everything was thrown into a pile less than two feet inside the front door, but it was his own damn fault for taking off like that.
Kitchen was tiny; living room was big; hall bathroom was clean. Had been clean. (Couldn’t really blame him for the errant stream; he still had his sea legs.) His keen deductive reasoning led him to conclude that the master bedroom door was the one that did not have angry sobs emanating from behind it, and thus that was the one he entered. Cool tile floor, large adjoining bathroom with whirlpool tub, sliding glass door to the huge deck on the back of the cottage. Beach-themed décor, but not overdoing it. Ceiling fan with rattan blades, creating a gentle breeze across the king-size bed. House settled back to wait for Wilson to come in and apologize for forcing him to endure such a horrendous morning.
When he awoke, the light showed that the sun had dipped significantly lower in the sky. Wilson had come and gone, if the long swim trunks draped artfully across the foot of the bed were any indication. House was tempted to ignore them out of spite - he’d been bamboozled into this trip, after all - but it was hot enough that he felt sticky under his jeans. A little more air circulation wouldn’t be a bad thing.
A few moments later, he stepped out onto the deck sporting a gray t-shirt and a pretty awesome bathing suit. Unobtrusive black, but with a line of small red and orange flames down each leg. Bitchin’.
Leaning on the rail, he looked out across the beach. It was empty except for a beach chair, a few plastic toys, and two brown-haired figures in matching blue swim trunks bent over near the water, studying something intently. Jack had on his serious thinking face, the one House tried to pretend wasn’t adorable, and Wilson was smiling, and honestly, no grown man wanted ‘adorable’ attached to his persona in other people’s minds, right? Right?
Wilson looked up toward the deck then, and his eyes met House’s. Trick of the light, maybe, the way it seemed like his smile grew brighter, but he didn’t wave House over, didn’t call out. In turning back to Jack, House knew he was letting House do what he pleased. No pressure.
Watching them out there, now digging with a yellow plastic shovel, House thought of his mother: how much she loved Jack, how happy she’d be if she was here. He thought of another time on the beach with his mother, her showing him how to dig his toes in the sand and uncover the coquinas. Tiny little shells with animals in them, moving and tickling, and alive. He’d been filled with the wonder of it, and the affection in his mother’s eyes. And every minute the old man had stood off to the side, too busy or aloof or whatever it had been to join his own damn kid on the beach.
House took a step down the deck, and another, and another, and when he got to the sand, it was packed down, hardly more difficult to walk on than gravel.
“Be careful with Jack,” House admonished as he lowered himself carefully into the beach chair. “You’ve picked the world’s only paved beach, and if he falls, he’ll be bawling for hours.”
That gentle smile never wavered. “We’re being careful. And I think the sand pack is only because of the tide. When it goes out a bit, the beach’ll get fluffier. Jack, show House what you found.”
Running over to House’s chair, Jack yelled “Look!” and held up his prize.
“Hm,” House said, pulling it in for a closer look and inadvertently dragging Jack along too when the boy refused let go. “It’s a Jasper Cone.”
“No,” Jack admonished seriously. “It’s a shell.”
“I stand corrected,” House conceded, relinquishing the Jasper Cone into Jack’s grasp. He tried not to smile but wasn’t sure he was entirely successful.
Jack stood quietly beside the chair for a moment, looking House over but keeping a clear distance between them. Finally he called, “Pop?”
Wilson turned from where he was crouched at the water line. “Yes, honey?”
“Is this home?” Jack asked.
With a perplexed frown, Wilson hastily rinsed his hands in the water and headed the few steps toward the chair. “Is this what?”
House reached out and ran a hand slowly down his smart boy’s back. “Yes, Jack; we can act like we do when we’re at home.”
Grinning broadly, Jack climbed into House’s lap, threw his arms around House’s neck, and rested his head on House’s chest. House adjusted Jack’s position for maximum comfort and settled back into the chair, his son’s weight pleasantly heavy on him like a thick quilt in winter.
Wilson had picked up the plastic shovel again. Over the next few minutes, he sat a few feet away from the chair, digging at the wet sand.
“What are you doing?” House asked him as Jack wiggled contently.
“Building a sandcastle.”
“By yourself, without the toddler?”
Wilson looked back over his shoulder at them. “Yes.”
House wasn’t normally a fan of stating the obvious, but this had to be pointed out: “You’re a forty-two year old man building a sandcastle by yourself.”
“Too gay?” He abandoned the attempt and scooted back to sit right next to the beach chair.
“Way too gay,” House replied, and reached down to hold Wilson’s hand.