Comes a Day (PG-13)
Posted to house_wilson on 4/28
Title: Comes a Day
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson (but mostly safe for friendshippers)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 743
Notes: Future fic, written for phinnia.
There comes a day when the prediction House’s “father” made comes true: he really is good for quite literally nothing.
He can’t work, can’t walk, can’t wipe his own butt. He can barely talk - can’t always think, even. Nothing. He’s a lump of flesh, pain-free but utterly useless.
And still Wilson greets him every day with a smile. That stupid Buck Up, Mary Sunshine smile. House is sick of it.
“Nuh,” House says the next time Wilson gets close enough to hear him.
“Yeah?” Wilson asks, as his smile devolves to a frown. He kicks his ugly old-man slippers off - show-off - and climbs onto the bed next to House. His arm goes around House’s shoulders, and his head ducks down, temple alighting gently on House’s collarbone. He reaches over to poke at the ugly giganto-button remote in House’s hand. “You’re right; this show sucks.”
The channel changes to something loud and explosion-filled. “Much better,” Wilson sighs, and his body gets heavier against House’s. He’s going to stay for a while.
Asshole.
It’s a good word, one House had forgotten he knew, so he says it out loud. “Asshole.”
Wilson grunts but doesn’t look up, which makes House realize Wilson doesn’t know House is talking to him. So House head-butts him.
“Ow!” Wilson shouts, far louder than the situation calls for, but it’s attention, and that’s what House wanted. It slips his mind for a second, why he wanted the attention, in the glee of imagining a cartoon-type lump arising three inches on Wilson’s scalp, but when that doesn’t happen, he remembers.
“You’re an asshole,” he tells Wilson, who is scrubbing at his head, messing up the preternaturally still-thick still-dark strands.
Wilson scowls and demands, “What did I do?”
“Nothing.”
Sighing, Wilson says, “C’mon, I just - can’t do everything by myself any more. The flesh is weak, you know?” He looks up at House with puppy-dog eyes, because he doesn’t get it. And of course he doesn’t get it; he’s never gotten it, so why would he start now?
“C’mon,” Wilson wheedles, repeating himself. “I hired the hottest nurses I could find to take over for me. Twin twenty-three-year-old knockouts, that makes bath time a lot more fun than me complaining about my knees, right?”
House snorts and looks back at the television. Peter and Jessica are easy on the eyes, but that’s not what he’s talking about. Not one bit. “Useless.”
Wilson’s body tenses everywhere it’s touching House, the palpable sign of the war that seems to skirmish inside Wilson a lot lately - the war between anger and sadness, between yelling and sniffling. He’s getting sick of House’s shit, again at long last, and why wouldn’t he? House was no treat before, and now he can’t do a damn thing. Not a goddamn thing. It’s no wonder Wilson’s going to leave him.
“I just can’t do it,” Wilson says, and Sniffling has defeated Yelling. “I can’t. I’m sorry, House. You don’t want to hear it, and it’s not easy for me to say, but something has to give.”
Wilson’s leaving him, dumping him, right here and now. It hurts a lot, but it’s not a surprise. No one needs a lump, a good-for-nothing -
“If I want to be able to stand long enough to cook our meals, which I do, then I can’t stress my knees out with all the stooping and kneeling that comes with bathing you. And if I want to be able to get out of bed at all, which I do, my back can’t handle doing all your transfers.” Wilson looks up at him. “Not that I don’t like being in bed with you. Just, mobility is a good thing.”
There’s a hand on House’s jaw, a thumb rubbing his cheek. “I’m sorry,” Wilson whispers.
“Dumbass.” Those eyes are so gorgeous, even with the droopy lids and adjoining wrinkles, that House thinks he might cry. “I’m useless one. Can’t -” He’s tired; pathetically weary, to the point of not making it through a sentence. “Do anything for you.”
Wilson smiles. It’s the Buck Up, Mary Sunshine smile, except House is thinking maybe it was never that. Maybe it was, it is, something altogether different. “Breathe,” Wilson says. “That’s what you can do for me. Breathe; be; exist. You being alive makes me happy.”
It can’t be true. It can’t.
“Good for nothing,” House says with a scowl.
“Good for me,” Wilson replies, and House’s heart stings with the truth.
Title: Comes a Day
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson (but mostly safe for friendshippers)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 743
Notes: Future fic, written for phinnia.
There comes a day when the prediction House’s “father” made comes true: he really is good for quite literally nothing.
He can’t work, can’t walk, can’t wipe his own butt. He can barely talk - can’t always think, even. Nothing. He’s a lump of flesh, pain-free but utterly useless.
And still Wilson greets him every day with a smile. That stupid Buck Up, Mary Sunshine smile. House is sick of it.
“Nuh,” House says the next time Wilson gets close enough to hear him.
“Yeah?” Wilson asks, as his smile devolves to a frown. He kicks his ugly old-man slippers off - show-off - and climbs onto the bed next to House. His arm goes around House’s shoulders, and his head ducks down, temple alighting gently on House’s collarbone. He reaches over to poke at the ugly giganto-button remote in House’s hand. “You’re right; this show sucks.”
The channel changes to something loud and explosion-filled. “Much better,” Wilson sighs, and his body gets heavier against House’s. He’s going to stay for a while.
Asshole.
It’s a good word, one House had forgotten he knew, so he says it out loud. “Asshole.”
Wilson grunts but doesn’t look up, which makes House realize Wilson doesn’t know House is talking to him. So House head-butts him.
“Ow!” Wilson shouts, far louder than the situation calls for, but it’s attention, and that’s what House wanted. It slips his mind for a second, why he wanted the attention, in the glee of imagining a cartoon-type lump arising three inches on Wilson’s scalp, but when that doesn’t happen, he remembers.
“You’re an asshole,” he tells Wilson, who is scrubbing at his head, messing up the preternaturally still-thick still-dark strands.
Wilson scowls and demands, “What did I do?”
“Nothing.”
Sighing, Wilson says, “C’mon, I just - can’t do everything by myself any more. The flesh is weak, you know?” He looks up at House with puppy-dog eyes, because he doesn’t get it. And of course he doesn’t get it; he’s never gotten it, so why would he start now?
“C’mon,” Wilson wheedles, repeating himself. “I hired the hottest nurses I could find to take over for me. Twin twenty-three-year-old knockouts, that makes bath time a lot more fun than me complaining about my knees, right?”
House snorts and looks back at the television. Peter and Jessica are easy on the eyes, but that’s not what he’s talking about. Not one bit. “Useless.”
Wilson’s body tenses everywhere it’s touching House, the palpable sign of the war that seems to skirmish inside Wilson a lot lately - the war between anger and sadness, between yelling and sniffling. He’s getting sick of House’s shit, again at long last, and why wouldn’t he? House was no treat before, and now he can’t do a damn thing. Not a goddamn thing. It’s no wonder Wilson’s going to leave him.
“I just can’t do it,” Wilson says, and Sniffling has defeated Yelling. “I can’t. I’m sorry, House. You don’t want to hear it, and it’s not easy for me to say, but something has to give.”
Wilson’s leaving him, dumping him, right here and now. It hurts a lot, but it’s not a surprise. No one needs a lump, a good-for-nothing -
“If I want to be able to stand long enough to cook our meals, which I do, then I can’t stress my knees out with all the stooping and kneeling that comes with bathing you. And if I want to be able to get out of bed at all, which I do, my back can’t handle doing all your transfers.” Wilson looks up at him. “Not that I don’t like being in bed with you. Just, mobility is a good thing.”
There’s a hand on House’s jaw, a thumb rubbing his cheek. “I’m sorry,” Wilson whispers.
“Dumbass.” Those eyes are so gorgeous, even with the droopy lids and adjoining wrinkles, that House thinks he might cry. “I’m useless one. Can’t -” He’s tired; pathetically weary, to the point of not making it through a sentence. “Do anything for you.”
Wilson smiles. It’s the Buck Up, Mary Sunshine smile, except House is thinking maybe it was never that. Maybe it was, it is, something altogether different. “Breathe,” Wilson says. “That’s what you can do for me. Breathe; be; exist. You being alive makes me happy.”
It can’t be true. It can’t.
“Good for nothing,” House says with a scowl.
“Good for me,” Wilson replies, and House’s heart stings with the truth.