FIC COMMENTARY FOR F.E.C.D.
Title: For Every Closed Door (11/14) [FIC COMMENTARY]
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson, original characters.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing.
Summary: "House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?"
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: This is the beginning of the end! By my estimation, there’s three more (fairly dense) chapters left after this. My goal is to finish it by the end of the month.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
“I think for me, death was just a wake-up call.”
“That night, a man was killed by a speeding car and I was there to take his soul. The street on which he died turned into a flowing river of light, and he hesitated at its banks. I told him to take a deep breath, as if it’s the last one you will ever take; because sometimes in life, or in death I guess, you just never know.”
-From Dead Like Me.
All right. So welcome to the fic commentary for the eleventh chapter of For Every Closed Door. I’m currently laid out in bedwith some kind of nasty flu, so if some of this commentary seems a little loopy, blame the fever and cough syrup.
Anyway, to start off, I just wanted to give a bit of background for this. If you want more, you can check out my fairly exhaustive post-mortem I wrote just after posting the last chapter.
As a writer, I tend to fit into the “characters over plot” school; i.e., I believe that having good, well-rounded, interesting characters can carry a story much better than an equally interesting plot with boring characters. So my plots and premises tend to be simpler.
I definitely stretched that with this story. Yeah, the characterization is there (House fans tend to be brutal if it’s not), but the plot is pretty thick and twisty. Especially for me. The amazing thing is how easy all of this was. This story pretty much fell into my lap already developed, plot laid out in broad strokes. I just needed to fill in the rest of it.
If that makes sense. (Seriously, I have a fever and have been mainlining Nyquil. It’s probably a bad idea to write like this, but I’ve got fuck all else to do today.)
Anyway, onto the story.
"Can I get some coffee, Debra?"
"It's Rhonda," the waitress said, glaring at House. "It's on my badge."
"Sorry. I need new glasses," House said cheerfully. Actually, his eyesight had never been better. Being undead had its good points.
"That's not all you need," Rhonda muttered, walking away.
Kay was staring at him suspiciously. "You are remarkably cheerful this morning. Especially for somebody who fucked up a reap all of two days ago, traumatizing a young girl, possibly for the rest of her afterlife." [[Quick note to say that while this chapter and the following one are my favorite parts of the story, the previous was my least favorite. I didn’t like writing it, the subplot of someone missing a reap was entirely lifted from DLM, it was unoriginal, and… yeah. It existed only to push that plot a little further. I think it sucked.]]
"I've realized that one can't dwell on the past," House proclaimed. "I'm going to start living in the moment."
Actually, he was dwelling more on the future; specifically the future around 8pm tonight, when Wilson was going to meet him at a bar near the university called Shorty's. He almost wished he could boast about it to the other Reapers, without the risk of Kay ripping his arms off and beating him with them.
"That was a short-lived guilt trip," Ada said, from behind the newspaper. She was catching up on the obituaries. Reapers, House had noticed, read the obits as faithfully as red-blooded businessmen read the stock pages, and probably for all the same reasons. [[This is DLM cannon. I don’t remember which episode it was, but there’s one with Roxy and Rube reading the obituaries. I thought it was hilarious, so I stuck it in here.]]
"I learn from my mistakes. I don't burden myself with them," he said nastily. [Such a House-ian answer, I think.]]
Rhonda came back with their coffees, shoving House's mug across the table so that part of the coffee slopped out the side.
"Thanks, Mabel," he called after her, mopping up the brown puddle with his napkin. He checked his coffee for signs of it being spat in, but it seemed to be free of angry waitress spittle.
"Did you cause your other bosses to have mental breakdowns? I'm starting to think paranoia is setting in. Because I'm having a hard time believing that you are actually here, showing up dutifully at nine-thirty without your usual early morning bitchiness," Kay said. She was looking at him like he was an x-ray scan, and she was just dying to find some cloudy spots or hairline fractures.
"And here you are, complaining about it," House retorted, sipping at his coffee. "It's a mad, mad, mad world. [[Before editing, this line read “It’s a mad world. In fact, it’s a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad-” “Shut up, House!”]] You think you'd just be grateful. Now give me my damn Post-It of doom, so I can go and buy myself some food a waitress hasn't sneezed on."
[[Hennry’s Diner is based on two real-life places: The Reef, here in Olympia, and Henry’s in Burlington, Vermont.
The food is usually mediocre, the interiors are dingy and usually depressing, and the service is bad. So why do I love these places so much?
I have no real answer. I just think it’s necessary to have a place where a person can retreat to, where you can flirt with waitresses that are twice your age, nobody cares if you sit in the corner for three hours, and the coffee is crap but at least you get free refills. I always end up at these places when I’m hungover or heartbroken. It’s like Cheers, but with breakfast burritos. I also tend to write in diners a lot.]]
"Good luck with that," Kay said sarcastically, scribbling House‘s assignment onto the paper. She held it up, but drew her arm back when House reached for it.
"I don't want to have to police you, House. I don't want to be your watch dog. I don't want to be your babysitter. And I don't want to be your damn conscience."
A jolt went through him at the last sentence, remembering the last time somebody had said those words to him. It was a good thing he'd already schooled his features into a mask of innocence.
Kay held the Post-It note back out. "Don't screw up."
House grabbed the Post-It, drained the rest of his coffee, then stood up. He tipped an imaginary hat to his fellow Reapers and started walking out, scanning the name, time, and location of his Reap.
Six steps from the table, he stopped, looking at the estimated time of death: 8:35 pm. Right in the middle of his maybe-date with Wilson. Too early to reschedule it, too late to just pretend he’d got caught in traffic.
[[And right there is the setup for this whole chapter. From the outset, I wanted to write a chapter that showed House having his old life and his new one colliding together. I toyed around with different ideas on how to do this; I thought about House getting hit by a car or something, and taken to PPTH’s ER, and being treated by Chase. Too complicated. The next scenario I considered had House actually doing a reap in PPTH - preferably with the Coma Guy that he always ate lunch with. That would have been a lot of fun, but again, too complicated. This chapter ended up being 13 pages on Word; the reap-in-PPTH plot would have been probably twice as long.
Simpler, in my opinion, is usually better. Complications don’t make stories denser, or multi-layered, or anything like that. At least, not usually. Clarity is key in good storytelling. So says me, anyway.]]
House turned around, and back sat down at the table.
"I can't do this," he said.
Kay looked at him, coffee cup raised halfway to her mouth. Ada and Colby also stared at him.
"Is this some kind of ethical crisis, or..." Kay waved her hand vaguely.
"Just this one." He thrust the note back at her. “I can’t.”
She didn't take it. "Why not?"
House thought fast. "I've got other plans tonight."
She rolled her eyes. "You can Tivo The OC, House."
"That's not it!" he growled.
"L-Word? X-Files?" Kay guessed.
"Professional wrestling?" Colby asked.
"Dynasty reruns?" Ada chimed in. [[Do their TV show choices give a clue to their characters? Damn straight they do. This may be one of my favorite bits of dialogue ever.]]
"Shut up! It's not TV!"
That left him, unfortunately, with all of his fellow Reapers staring at him, waiting to learn what it was.
[[I just wanted to interrupt again to make a point.
What, at its heart, is House’s characterization? In most AUs, there’s a few traits that are always set; he limps, walks with a cane, and is in pain. He takes drugs. He’s also a cranky, miserable bastard and a doctor. These things are immutable.
Aaaaand then there’s my fic. House is dead; he no longer walks with a limp, doesn’t need a cane, doesn’t need drugs for chronic pain. He can also no longer practice medicine. He’s still a cranky bastard, but not quite as depressed (that whole lack-of-chronic-pain thing certainly helps).
So what’s left over? I had to convince people that it was still House doing all these things. Not just some dude with the same name.
There’s a few parts where I think I really did that. In one of the early chapters, when he makes a whole experiment out of suicide, is one of them. In the next chapter, when he finally gets Wilson back to his apartment, their interaction seems very true to me. And this next conversation about prostitutes, in my opinion, does it.]]
"It's... I've got a hooker coming over," he said. It was the first thing that popped into his head.
Colby snorted his coffee out his nose, Ada groaned in disgust, and Kay laughed at him.
"Figures," Kay said. "But I can't help you. Better call and cancel."
"I can't cancel. I put down a deposit. They've got my credit card number," he whined. "They don't do refunds."
"You gave a prostitute your credit card number?" Ada asked.
"Actually, you can pay over the phone with credit cards if you go through a reputable escort service, though you still need to tip them in cash," Colby said, mopping up the coffee he'd spewed. He stopped when he noticed the rest of the table staring at him. “Uh, not that I’d know or anything...” [[ILU COLBY. Poor boy. It must be hard getting dates when you barely look legal.]]
House cleared his throat and waved his note around. "Anybody want to trade, then?"
"House," Kay said. "This isn't lunchtime at school. You can't trade me your apple for my crackers."
“I don’t want your damn crackers. I want to have uninterrupted sex with a woman of dubious honor. For several hours. In every room of my apartment, and half the closets. And then there‘s the clean-up time, which will take another hour at least...”
Kay shut her eyes, obviously trying to get the mental images out of her head. “House-”
“The kitchen alone will take at least forty minutes. I’ve been dying to christen those granite counters. And there was this one position from the Kama Sutra, I’ve only read about it, I think it was called ‘Plowing the Fresh Alfalfa Fields’ or something-” [[So far as I know, this is not a position from the Kama Sutra. But I agree with hwshipper that it damn well should be.]]
“House-” Kay said again, this time through gritted teeth.
“What do you want me to say to her? ‘Excuse me while I go collect somebody’s soul? It’ll only take five minutes, so keep your legs spread and the bed warm, and I’ll be right back?’” He was hoping to disgust one of them into agreeing with him, just to get him to shut up. “That is such a mood-killer.”
Ada put down her fork and shoved her plate of food away. “It certainly killed my mood.”
[[I had a lot of fun writing this dialogue. I am totally one of those TMI people, that discuss crap like this when other people are trying to eat.]]
“House!” Kay said. “Each soul is assigned to a specific Reaper. Only that Reaper can extract that person’s soul. Why do you think it was such a big fiasco with Dana?”
“Dana?”
“D. Aramark, idiot. Ride on mower accident? The reap you spectacularly screwed up? Any of that ring a bell?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said impatiently. “What does that have to do with anything?” [[I just wanted to let everyone know that I just sneezed six times in a row. Somebody, please, put me out of my misery.]]
“You think if we could have, one of us wouldn’t have gotten her out of there, rather than searching all over creation for your stupid ass? I can’t trade you, neither can anybody else. You got the Post-It, it’s your responsibility.”
“You wrote the Post-It,” House said, shoving the little paper square across the table. “Unwrite it.”
“House, I just give out the assignments. I don’t actually make them, and I can’t take them back. I‘m middle management.”
“Sounds like a cop-out,” he said.
“It is what it is,” she said with a shrug. “I can’t help you. Deal with it.” She pushed the note back across the table. “Do your damn job,” she said, glaring at him. It was the kind of glare that promised a lot of suffering if he didn’t follow orders. Even Cuddy couldn’t glare like that. Of course, Kay had had almost a century to perfect it, and firing him meant a lot more than being out of a job.
[[I tend, especially with fanfic, to try and set my own deadlines. Especially with long, multi-part fics, I have to keep the inertia going or I crap out completely - this is why it took me five months to write Love Is a Battlefield and three months for Rush Down Darkness, (though to be fair to myself, I spent one of those months traveling around in China - hard to do much writing) both of which were only thirty pages. For Every Closed Door took about four, and was 126 pages. The comments I get feed my excitement for writing, which is why I post things up as chapters instead of as finished wholes. Getting immediate feedback and appreciation is really gratifying.
The downside of working like this is that the revision process gets shortened. So we end up with things like this last exchange between House and Kay, which could have been shortened a lot, and this awful run-on sentence coming up.]]
House snatched the note off the table and stalked out of the diner, wheels already turning in his head.
*****
It took a moment for House to recognize the weird, jumpy, fluttery feeling in his chest for what it was. He was nervous.
He told himself he was nervous because he had to balance Operation Weasel with Operation Secret Reap, and even though the address was only seven blocks away, the whole process would take cunning, skill, deftness, and if he was going to be honest with himself, a shitload of luck. [[Oh my god. TOO MANY COMMAS. See what I mean about the tradeoff in revision time?]]
He was not nervous because he was going on his first date in two years.
[[Honey doesn’t count. He had to trick her into it.]]
And he was definitely not nervous because he was going on a date with Wilson, the very concept of which had been unimaginable until a week and a half ago.
Nevertheless, his decidedly-not-nervous stomach clenched inside him when he saw Wilson walk through the doors. He was not, for a change, wearing a tie. Instead, the collar of his blue shirt was open, exposing a small strip of his neck and the top of his chest. House yanked his gaze up from the small V of skin, and up to Wilson’s face.
[[I’m not usually a big fan of the “Surprise! WE’RE GAY!” storylines. That’s why I needed Wilson’s extra UST. And there’s a lot of unwritten denial in House’s back story. ]]
At the cafe, Wilson had looked all right. Better than the last two times House had seen him, at the funeral and the day after. Tonight, he looked exhausted again, circles drawn under his eyes and fatigue etched into the line of his shoulders.
He waved to Wilson, and watched as the man walked over, then flopped down across from him with a dramatic sigh. [[Wilson is master of Le Sigh. Hanging out with House has given him plenty of practice in perfecting his various exhalations.]]
“It was your first day back at work, wasn’t it?” House asked.
Wilson smiled wryly. “Third, actually. The first and second were easier. Everybody avoided asking me personal questions, and were afraid to knock on my door if it was closed.”
“They probably assumed you were in there, crying your eyes out,” House said, offering a small smile.
Wilson nodded. “Because I’m such a sensitive guy,” he said sardonically. “Today, they figured out I wasn’t going to bite anyone’s head off, so it was just a long series of long sympathetic glances and ‘How are you doing, Doctor Wilson?’” House grinned at Wilson’s simpering tone. It sounded just like Cameron.
[[The ducklings are one of my weaker points in House fic. I have a hard time writing them, for whatever reason, so they’re mostly absent from my fics. Except in passing mentions, like this one. Because it's just too easy to make fun of Cam sometimes]]
“I don’t know why you put up with it. Tell everyone to piss off and find some other tragedy to sigh over.”
Wilson smiled again, but it was mixed with something.
[[Mixed with what? Way to be inarticulate.]]
“What is it?” House asked.
“Nothing,” Wilson said quickly, looking away and waving to a waiter. “Two Sam Adams,” he said, and the waiter walked off.
“Really, what was that look for?”
Wilson apparently decided to play innocent. “What look? There was no look.”
“Don’t be coy,” House said, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. Wilson rolled his eyes and House smiled. “Seriously. What was it?”
Wilson sighed, and the smile dropped off his face. “It’s... what you said. It sounded like something House would say.”
House blinked.
[[Actions speak louder than words. It's true in life and true in fiction. I could have spent a paragraph detailing House's emotional reaction here, but it wouldn't be realistic. In real life, people rarely sit down and note every single thing that they're feeling. They just react; or don't react, as House does here. (And yes, I know I'm just drowning in irony for bringing realism into a story about grim reapers seducing their best friends, but you know what I mean.)
In telling a story, sometimes all you need is the bare minimum. More than that, the bare minimum is sometimes the most elegant way to state a point. Too much time spent explaining how a character is feeling clutters a story and drags it down. If you can show it in some simple action, do it. I used two words, and they managed to say a lot. And then I used a whole lot more than that to explain my choices in writing, which probably makes me a douchebag.]]
“I know, I’m sorry,” Wilson said, taking his shock as something else entirely. “I promised myself I wouldn’t sit around talking about him or whine too much about my life, and that’s pretty much all I’ve done so far.”
“No, no,” House protested. “It’s okay, you can talk about...” he swallowed, “House all you need to.”
Right. Understanding and sympathetic; check. Operation Weasel was going along smoothly.
[[I love “Operation Weasel.” House, to my knowledge, has never done anything quite like this on the show. But he does have a playful element, as well as an appreciation for the absurd.]]
“Why were you in love with... him?” House suddenly blurted.
Smooth, easy conversation; not so much. Damn it.
“Why?” Wilson asked. “I don’t know. I never really got a chance to analyze it. I spent a long time ignoring it, and then he was gone.”
The waiter brought over their drinks. Wilson sipped his, and when the waiter left, said, “I guess that’s not the answer you want.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” House said. Of course, it was really his business, and he was dying to know what the hell had possessed Wilson to do something so utterly masochistic as to fall in love with an unrepentant bastard like him.
“Do you really want to know?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah. Call it morbid curiosity.” [[Double entendre, yay!]]
“Didn’t curiosity kill the cat?” Wilson asked, head tilted back in a slight challenge.
“Now who’s being morbid?” House retorted.
There was nothing guarded about Wilson’s laugh, and House smiled to hear it. He met Wilson’s eyes as he took a sip of his beer, still grinning, and felt something pass between them. It felt as real as a soul leaving a person’s body through a simple touch of his hand, minutes before they died; an invisible current, a strong pull between two bodies. House wondered if it had always been this way, or if he’d only noticed it now because he had something else to compare it to.
[[Flirting = some kind of telepathy. I’m convinced of it. Anyway, I loved writing their flirts.
Also, I did another weird thing with this story. I wrote a House/Wilson hookup fic, in which those two characters had almost no interaction for the first half of the story. And then when they did, they weren’t exactly House and Wilson, because House was Mika. Except Wilson, deep down in some drippy basement level of his subconscious, knew it was really House.
Apparently, I can’t do anything the easy way.]]
“I think,” Wilson said, interrupting House’s musings, “it was because he saw right through me, more than anybody else ever had. I mean, he did that to everybody,” Wilson added, dismissively. “He’d look right through the facade and into the damaged part of a person, because that‘s what interested him. And he’d use it against you if he had to. But,” and Wilson held up his hand for emphasis. “But he allowed me, and only me for these last few years, to look back at him the same way. He was... vulnerable and at the same time, completely unapproachable.”
[[And that’s it, folks. My version of the H/W dynamic in a nutshell.]]
House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?
“Also, he made me laugh,” Wilson added, taking a sip of his beer. “And everyone knows that’s the easiest way to get somebody to want you.” He gave House a look over the rim of his beer, and House felt a different kind of current pass between them. That was not just any look. That was a significant look. Highly significant, even. Downright flirtatious, maybe.
House was saved from trying to formulate an appropriate response by his cell phone going off. He flipped it open and looked at the screen; the words Alarm: 8:20pm flashed on it. House allowed a look of annoyance to cross his features.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to take this-”
“Go ahead,” Wilson said, leaning back and drinking more of his beer. House got up and walked over towards the empty hallway where the restrooms were. He was close enough that Wilson could overhear him, but far away enough that Wilson couldn’t hear who was on the other line.
“What is it?” House said. “I’m out.... Yes, I’m with someone. None of your business... Are you drunk? ...I can tell. He’s a friend... Maybe, does it really matter? ...Yes, he is.” He glanced quickly back over to Wilson, who was examining the drinks menu a little too studiously. “Yes, very much so. Maybe. No, you can’t talk to him! Now would you please... Are you serious? Please tell me you’re not serious... You can’t get somebody there to do it? What about your credit cards?... Oh, god, fine. I’ll be right over.”
[[The first time I tried to write this commentary, I wrote out the other half of this imagined conversation with Mika’s cousin. Then my computer deleted the whole file. And I’m too lazy and stoned and sick to do it again. Sorry guys.]]
“The time is now 8:20 pm, Eastern Standard Time. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number you wish to reach,” a tinny, automated voice spoke in his ear. House ignored it, and kept up his side of a one-sided conversation with nobody.
“Yes, really. No, you suck and you owe me. A lot. We’ll talk about payment when you’re not drunk, that way you can’t claim to forget... No! You can’t talk to him! I’m hanging up now. No, stay at the bar, I’ll come there. I’ll be over soon. Just... shut up. No, he’s not coming with me, and you can damn well wait until you’re sober to interrogate me. It’s... yes, I’ll be over, shut the hell up and don’t move and I’ll be right there.” He flipped his phone decisively shut, hoping he hadn’t overdone it.
[[Which is to say, I was hoping I hadn’t overdone it.]]
He came back over to the table. “My cousin,” House said. Wilson lifted his eyebrows in an Oh? expression, and House went on. “Apparently, she drank too much to drive herself home, and doesn’t have the money to pay for a cab.”
“Does she need a ride? My car-”
“No!” House said, a little too loudly. That was definitely not part of the plan. “No, I’m just going to run over there and give her some money, wait for the cab to come pick her up. It shouldn’t take long. I...” House cleared his throat, wondering why this was so hard. He’d never had a problem lying to Wilson before. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me. I hate to be rude, but-”
“It’s really not a problem for me to drive her home, if you-”
“No! Really, you don’t want to do that. She’s a mess right now. She’ll probably vomit in your backseat. She’d hate for that to be your first impression of her.”
God, Wilson, for once in your life would you shut up and not try to rescue a woman in distress?! In retrospect, House should have made the imaginary cousin male.
[[Wilson definitely has a knight-in-shining-armor complex. He needs to find a unicorn to ride around on and travel throughout the lands, curing cancer, saving puppies, and providing rebound sex.
…I think that was the Nyquil talking.]]
“At least let me give you a ride over,” Wilson said, starting to stand.
“You don’t have to do that,” House said desperately. “It’s only six blocks, it’ll take twenty minutes-”
“It’s no problem,” Wilson said. He drained the rest of his beer. “It’ll be quicker and I won’t have to wait for you. Unless you’d rather walk?”
House desperately tried to think of an excuse to walk. He couldn’t very well tell Wilson that he’d stashed his motorcycle around the corner, because then Wilson might want to see it and then he’d notice how very identical it seemed to the one Wilson's dead best friend had borrowed $10,000 from him to buy. All sorts of awkward questions would have to be answered.
“That was a joke,” Wilson said, before House could think of a legitimate excuse. “It’s raining.” He pointed towards the doors, and sure enough, a steady rain was pouring onto the street outside. Shit. Times like this, House wished he could believe in a Higher Power, just so he could curse him for being an utter shit with a sadistic sense of humor.
*****
Wilson’s car was the exact same it had always been. Same leather seats, same vacuumed floors, same change jar by the gear shift, same smell of coffee and cologne. House wasn’t sure why this was surprising, or why it felt so strange to be in Wilson’s car again. It had been, what? Two and a half weeks since he’d died, so maybe three weeks since he’d last been in the Volvo. It felt like years.
The rain played a steady tattoo on the roof of the car as they drove from Shorty’s to the address on House’s Post-It. It was another bar; they were a dime a dozen this close to the University, and this one was called The Other Place. Clever. Wilson pulled over, and House unbuckled his seat.
[[The Other Place is actually a bar in Burlington, Vermont. People mostly call it the OP, just to avoid embarrassment. and/or confusion.]]
“Stay in the car, okay? I’ll be right back, once I get my cousin into a cab.”
Wilson nodded, and House hoped like hell he wouldn’t change his mind and follow him in. He opened the door and got out, pulling his collar up against the heavy, driving rain and ran across the parking lot.
God, running. He’d never get tired of being able to do it.
He pushed open the door and ran a hand through his wet hair. The bar above the clock said it was 8:29. He had six minutes to find a G. Morrison. He scanned the bar, looking to see the most likely person to die.
“I hope you didn’t leave the hooker at home,” a voice spoke behind his shoulder. House whirled around. Kay was sitting at a table, a bottle of Rolling Rock in front of her. “Reputable escort service or not, that’s just begging to be robbed.”
Once House’s pulse was approaching normal, he said, “I thought you didn’t want to be my damn watchdog.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Kay said.
“You don’t trust me?”
“You given me much reason to, these last couple weeks?”
Great. He offered a big, silent FUCK YOU to the Universe in general, and the Powers That Be in particular, then sighed.
“Fine. Make yourself useful and help me find her. Or him.” House said. Kay nodded to a table on the other side of the bar, where two women sat, both in their late twenties, nursing identical martinis and giggling.
“Already did. That’s Leah Hernandez and Genevieve Morrison. Both are in the masters of teaching program at the University. Leah is getting married in three weeks, and Genevieve is still recovering from her last break up. Leah‘s fiancé is the buff guy bent over at the pool table.”
[[I’m convinced that Kay was checking out his ass, but didn’t feel the need to mention it.]]
House stared at her. “You get a different Post-It than me?” he asked.
“No, I’m just adept at eavesdropping. I also saw their IDs when they showed them to the bartender.”
“Which one is which?” House asked, his glance darting from one woman to the other.
Kay took another drink from her Rolling Rock. “Find out for yourself.”
House rolled his eyes, then made his way over to the two women.
“Oops!” he exclaimed as he knocked into the table with his hip. Both martinis fell, dumping generous amounts of vodka and vermouth onto the lacquer finish.
[[I just found out that a proper martini contains gin, not vodka. Vodka is apparently only a more recent substitute.
I’m a whiskey girl myself.]]
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m not drunk, just clumsy. Really.” He gave them a smile that was meant to be disarming, though he was aware it likely looked foolish on Mika Tesla‘s boring face. “Let me get you another. Bartender! Two more martinis for...” Here he looked expectantly at Leah and Genevieve.
Both women looked like they had no idea what had just happened.
“This is the part where you tell me your names,” House prompted in a stage whisper. “Two more martinis for...”
“Leah,” said the blonde after a moment. A blonde named Hernandez? He would have guessed the other way around. Nonetheless, he shook her hand.
“Genevieve,” said the brunette. Bingo. House shook her hand, felt the quick rush of her soul leaving her body.
“Very good to meet you Leah and Genevieve,“ House said. He turned to the bartender. “Add it to the redhead’s tab, the one in the corner,” he said conspiratorially, smiling when the man nodded.
House turned back to Genevieve and Leah. “Again, very sorry about the drinks. Have a good night.”
House walked back to Kay’s table feeling like one hell of a smooth operator. He might have strutted a little bit.
“Oh yeah. Who’s that bad-ass mother- shut your mouth! Only talking about House,” he sang in his best Issac Hayes impression, as he sat down at the table.
“I can dig it,” Kay said obligingly, a small smile at her lips.
“You’re daaaaaamn right,” House said, grabbing Kay’s Rolling Rock and taking a deep pull off of it. [[That is quite possibly my favorite exchange in this entire fic. I have trouble believing sometimes that this never happened on the show.]] “I don’t suppose you can take care of Jennifer, can you? Escort her to the other side and stuff.”
“Genevieve, you mean? Sure. You wouldn’t want to keep your friend outside waiting.”
[[Oh snap, son.]]
House froze in the middle of taking another swig from the bottle of beer. He swallowed, then put the bottle back on the table. He looked outside before he could stop himself. Wilson had moved the car so it was underneath an awning, and was standing outside, leaning against his car and smoking. He was across the street, somewhat shadowed, but clearly visible from the bar’s windows.
When he looked back at his fellow Reaper, he saw her watching him. Damn.
“She’s got quite the jaw line,” she said. “And broad shoulders. And lack of breasts.”
[I like Kay. A lot. I’d totally invite her over for dinner and get drunk with her. Aside from this, I think she’s just a good character; imperfect, stubborn, with plenty of faults, but has interesting dynamics with the rest of the characters.
I didn’t really know about the OC hatred that a lot of fandom harbors. I had heard of the Mary Sue phenomenon, but creating some kind of perfect female lead was never my intention. She certainly wasn’t there for House to fall in love with.
For about 5 minutes though, I entertained the idea of House and Kay having really bad, drunk sex. Because it would have been funny, and added a hilarious element to their dynamic. Maybe if this had been an original fiction, I would have gone there.
But no. Kay is drowning in UST for Delia and House is all for getting in Wilson’s pants. And I think I would have lost quite a few readers the very second that happened. Which is silly, but there it is.]
House was saved from having to defend himself by a fight suddenly breaking out at the pool table. Leah’s buff fiancé started shouting and shoving some other buff guy. Leah jumped up to try and break it up, leaving Genevieve alone at the table, shaking her head. House caught movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a Graveling emerge from the shadows. The creature scampered over to Genevieve as she picked up the olive from her empty martini and put it in her mouth. He (or she, House thought to himself) pulled back a black, gnarled hand, and slapped the woman hard on the back. He saw Genevieve gasp, and swore he could hear the olive as it lodged in her windpipe. The Graveling disappeared, and Genevieve started the process of choking to death.
[[I don’t think I ever really described Gravelings in any way that did them justice. Here is a picture of them, if you’re interested.]]
House turned back to Kay. He stared into her eyes, but could see no hint as to whether she recognized Wilson for who he was. Her face was as blank as slate; no accusations or recriminations visible, there was nothing. He had no idea what she was thinking, and it was disconcerting.
She would have been a better poker player than Wilson. [[High praise, coming from House.]]
He looked back to Genevieve Morrison. She was beginning to turn blue, and was feebly waving one of her arms, trying to get somebody’s attention. Everyone in the bar was still focused on the fight, which showed no sign of breaking up despite interference from two bartenders, Leah, and another woman, who House assumed was the other guy’s date.
“Go on,” Kay said. “I’ll take care of it in here.” She waved him off, drinking the last of her beer. “Go on before it’s too late.” [[Ah, see? Right there, he should have known Kay wasn’t telling him something. ]]
He heard the sound of a body falling, and assumed it was either Genevieve collapsing, or that somebody had thrown a punch. House stood up. He dug a few dollars out of his pocket and left them on the table. “For their drinks,” he said.
[[House giving Kay the money is not an apology, or a thank you. I'm not sure what this gesture means, only that it’s important.
I love me some ambiguity, in case you couldn't tell.]]
Kay nodded, and waved him off, and he walked out back into the rain. He felt dazed. Too much had happened in the last half hour.
Wilson watched him walk back towards the car. He offered the cigarette in his hand to House when he reached the awning under which he was parked, but House shook his head.
[[Why did I write Wilson as a smoker? It was pretty much a whim that began in chapter four (I think), and I probably could have made it a one-time thing. But I really liked the image, and what it did to his character.
Smoking is a self-destructive habit. Also, a slightly romantic one, and definitely an ironic one for a doctor. What better for a semi-suicidal oncologist who just lost his best friend and UST object?]]
He leaned next to Wilson instead, a bare inch of space between their shoulders, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. It was coming down harder now, the first of the spring thunderstorms, pounding out a heavy rhythm in the awning above them.
[[I didn’t notice this until recently, but I write about rain a lot. I moved to the Pacific Northwest about a year and a half ago. The rumors are true: it rains all the goddam time. I’m always walking in it, whining about it, or just otherwise dealing with it. Obviously, my writing reflects that.]]
“Is your cousin going to be all right?” Wilson asked. It took House a moment to figure out what he was talking about.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine. She just had a rough night. Boyfriend broke up with her, you know how it is.”
Wilson nodded, took a final drag of his cigarette, then pitched it into a puddle, where it sizzled briefly and then extinguished.
Across the street, House watched Kay escort the soul of Genevieve Morrison out of the bar, holding the door open for her. Kay waved to him briefly, and then Genevieve, looking up and seeing him, did too. House waved back, and so did Wilson.
“Is that a friend with her? I thought you said you were calling her a cab.”
House blinked. Wilson could see ghosts now. Not just him. If he wasn’t so suddenly exhausted, he would have gone into analytical overdrive.
[[I think this got a mention back in chapter 4 or 5, but Wilson is a tiny bit psychic in this story. He sees House at the funeral, and knows that Mika is actually House at some level. And now, he can see ghosts.
I’m a big fan of foreshadowing. All of this was meant to be telling the readers that Wilson’s number was coming up. He's close to the world of the dead, and gets progressively closer throughout the story.]]
Realizing that Wilson was looking at him, waiting, House cleared his throat. “Yeah. A friend of ours. She’s going to take her home.” House had to bite his lip to stop from snickering at his choice of words.
[[I always hated it when people referred to death as “going home.” Reminds me of some really uncomfortable funerals.]]
House shifted his weight against the car, and Wilson looked over at him. Suddenly there was another one of those currents between them, like a tide between their bodies.
House followed it, leaning forward. He hesitated, his mouth an inch from Wilson’s, to look into the other man’s eyes. Fear. Desire. And faintly, though House would swear it was there, recognition. He closed the gap between them, and shut his eyes as he laid his mouth softly on Wilson’s.
The other man stiffened briefly, and for a moment, House wondered if he’d made a mistake, pushed Wilson too far, reached for too much. But then Wilson relaxed, and House felt a hand cautiously laid against his hip. Wilson’s mouth opened briefly; House tasted the cigarette and the beer they’d drunk on his breath. There was the smell of the rain, Wilson’s cologne, his sweat. There was the warmth emanating from the man’s skin, the touch of his fingers curling around House’s hips.
[[Sensory input is sexy. Kissing ain’t all about tongue.
I like the restraint here as well. It's easy to go overboard on sex scenes. Especially in slash, graphic sex is practically commonplace. I always thought it was a lot better to focus on certain things - House's sensory perceptions in this case. The play-by-plays in some sex scenes actually put me off. I rarely write anything above R for this reason. Long-lasting sex is great. Sex scenes that go on for dozens of paragraphs are not so great. Half of their appeal is in the impact, and the longer (or more frequent, if it's a novel - think of Jean M. Auel's Earth's Children series, where the characters rarely do anything besides hunt, fuck, and emote) the lesser the impact.
And of course, there's easily a dozen fics out there that don't follow this rule, and are awesome and hot and sexy. This is just how I roll.]]
Not me. It’s Mika he’s kissing, Mika he’s touching.
But so what? He could argue logistics with himself all night. All he cared about was that he was kissing Wilson, and that it was good, and the hell with the rest of it. The over-analyzing of the whole situation could wait until tomorrow. Late tomorrow.
Eventually, the kiss ended. House opened his eyes, but Wilson kept his shut. [[Maybe it’s Mika he’s kissing, but that sure as hell isn’t who Wilson’s thinking about.]]
“Come over?” House asked.
Wilson nodded, then leaned forward in to kiss House again.
[[Questions? Comments? Did I skip something important? Help me out here, I’m sick and pathetic and slightly confused at the moment.]]
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House/Wilson, original characters.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing.
Summary: "House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?"
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: This is the beginning of the end! By my estimation, there’s three more (fairly dense) chapters left after this. My goal is to finish it by the end of the month.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
“I think for me, death was just a wake-up call.”
“That night, a man was killed by a speeding car and I was there to take his soul. The street on which he died turned into a flowing river of light, and he hesitated at its banks. I told him to take a deep breath, as if it’s the last one you will ever take; because sometimes in life, or in death I guess, you just never know.”
-From Dead Like Me.
All right. So welcome to the fic commentary for the eleventh chapter of For Every Closed Door. I’m currently laid out in bedwith some kind of nasty flu, so if some of this commentary seems a little loopy, blame the fever and cough syrup.
Anyway, to start off, I just wanted to give a bit of background for this. If you want more, you can check out my fairly exhaustive post-mortem I wrote just after posting the last chapter.
As a writer, I tend to fit into the “characters over plot” school; i.e., I believe that having good, well-rounded, interesting characters can carry a story much better than an equally interesting plot with boring characters. So my plots and premises tend to be simpler.
I definitely stretched that with this story. Yeah, the characterization is there (House fans tend to be brutal if it’s not), but the plot is pretty thick and twisty. Especially for me. The amazing thing is how easy all of this was. This story pretty much fell into my lap already developed, plot laid out in broad strokes. I just needed to fill in the rest of it.
If that makes sense. (Seriously, I have a fever and have been mainlining Nyquil. It’s probably a bad idea to write like this, but I’ve got fuck all else to do today.)
Anyway, onto the story.
"Can I get some coffee, Debra?"
"It's Rhonda," the waitress said, glaring at House. "It's on my badge."
"Sorry. I need new glasses," House said cheerfully. Actually, his eyesight had never been better. Being undead had its good points.
"That's not all you need," Rhonda muttered, walking away.
Kay was staring at him suspiciously. "You are remarkably cheerful this morning. Especially for somebody who fucked up a reap all of two days ago, traumatizing a young girl, possibly for the rest of her afterlife." [[Quick note to say that while this chapter and the following one are my favorite parts of the story, the previous was my least favorite. I didn’t like writing it, the subplot of someone missing a reap was entirely lifted from DLM, it was unoriginal, and… yeah. It existed only to push that plot a little further. I think it sucked.]]
"I've realized that one can't dwell on the past," House proclaimed. "I'm going to start living in the moment."
Actually, he was dwelling more on the future; specifically the future around 8pm tonight, when Wilson was going to meet him at a bar near the university called Shorty's. He almost wished he could boast about it to the other Reapers, without the risk of Kay ripping his arms off and beating him with them.
"That was a short-lived guilt trip," Ada said, from behind the newspaper. She was catching up on the obituaries. Reapers, House had noticed, read the obits as faithfully as red-blooded businessmen read the stock pages, and probably for all the same reasons. [[This is DLM cannon. I don’t remember which episode it was, but there’s one with Roxy and Rube reading the obituaries. I thought it was hilarious, so I stuck it in here.]]
"I learn from my mistakes. I don't burden myself with them," he said nastily. [Such a House-ian answer, I think.]]
Rhonda came back with their coffees, shoving House's mug across the table so that part of the coffee slopped out the side.
"Thanks, Mabel," he called after her, mopping up the brown puddle with his napkin. He checked his coffee for signs of it being spat in, but it seemed to be free of angry waitress spittle.
"Did you cause your other bosses to have mental breakdowns? I'm starting to think paranoia is setting in. Because I'm having a hard time believing that you are actually here, showing up dutifully at nine-thirty without your usual early morning bitchiness," Kay said. She was looking at him like he was an x-ray scan, and she was just dying to find some cloudy spots or hairline fractures.
"And here you are, complaining about it," House retorted, sipping at his coffee. "It's a mad, mad, mad world. [[Before editing, this line read “It’s a mad world. In fact, it’s a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad-” “Shut up, House!”]] You think you'd just be grateful. Now give me my damn Post-It of doom, so I can go and buy myself some food a waitress hasn't sneezed on."
[[Hennry’s Diner is based on two real-life places: The Reef, here in Olympia, and Henry’s in Burlington, Vermont.
The food is usually mediocre, the interiors are dingy and usually depressing, and the service is bad. So why do I love these places so much?
I have no real answer. I just think it’s necessary to have a place where a person can retreat to, where you can flirt with waitresses that are twice your age, nobody cares if you sit in the corner for three hours, and the coffee is crap but at least you get free refills. I always end up at these places when I’m hungover or heartbroken. It’s like Cheers, but with breakfast burritos. I also tend to write in diners a lot.]]
"Good luck with that," Kay said sarcastically, scribbling House‘s assignment onto the paper. She held it up, but drew her arm back when House reached for it.
"I don't want to have to police you, House. I don't want to be your watch dog. I don't want to be your babysitter. And I don't want to be your damn conscience."
A jolt went through him at the last sentence, remembering the last time somebody had said those words to him. It was a good thing he'd already schooled his features into a mask of innocence.
Kay held the Post-It note back out. "Don't screw up."
House grabbed the Post-It, drained the rest of his coffee, then stood up. He tipped an imaginary hat to his fellow Reapers and started walking out, scanning the name, time, and location of his Reap.
Six steps from the table, he stopped, looking at the estimated time of death: 8:35 pm. Right in the middle of his maybe-date with Wilson. Too early to reschedule it, too late to just pretend he’d got caught in traffic.
[[And right there is the setup for this whole chapter. From the outset, I wanted to write a chapter that showed House having his old life and his new one colliding together. I toyed around with different ideas on how to do this; I thought about House getting hit by a car or something, and taken to PPTH’s ER, and being treated by Chase. Too complicated. The next scenario I considered had House actually doing a reap in PPTH - preferably with the Coma Guy that he always ate lunch with. That would have been a lot of fun, but again, too complicated. This chapter ended up being 13 pages on Word; the reap-in-PPTH plot would have been probably twice as long.
Simpler, in my opinion, is usually better. Complications don’t make stories denser, or multi-layered, or anything like that. At least, not usually. Clarity is key in good storytelling. So says me, anyway.]]
House turned around, and back sat down at the table.
"I can't do this," he said.
Kay looked at him, coffee cup raised halfway to her mouth. Ada and Colby also stared at him.
"Is this some kind of ethical crisis, or..." Kay waved her hand vaguely.
"Just this one." He thrust the note back at her. “I can’t.”
She didn't take it. "Why not?"
House thought fast. "I've got other plans tonight."
She rolled her eyes. "You can Tivo The OC, House."
"That's not it!" he growled.
"L-Word? X-Files?" Kay guessed.
"Professional wrestling?" Colby asked.
"Dynasty reruns?" Ada chimed in. [[Do their TV show choices give a clue to their characters? Damn straight they do. This may be one of my favorite bits of dialogue ever.]]
"Shut up! It's not TV!"
That left him, unfortunately, with all of his fellow Reapers staring at him, waiting to learn what it was.
[[I just wanted to interrupt again to make a point.
What, at its heart, is House’s characterization? In most AUs, there’s a few traits that are always set; he limps, walks with a cane, and is in pain. He takes drugs. He’s also a cranky, miserable bastard and a doctor. These things are immutable.
Aaaaand then there’s my fic. House is dead; he no longer walks with a limp, doesn’t need a cane, doesn’t need drugs for chronic pain. He can also no longer practice medicine. He’s still a cranky bastard, but not quite as depressed (that whole lack-of-chronic-pain thing certainly helps).
So what’s left over? I had to convince people that it was still House doing all these things. Not just some dude with the same name.
There’s a few parts where I think I really did that. In one of the early chapters, when he makes a whole experiment out of suicide, is one of them. In the next chapter, when he finally gets Wilson back to his apartment, their interaction seems very true to me. And this next conversation about prostitutes, in my opinion, does it.]]
"It's... I've got a hooker coming over," he said. It was the first thing that popped into his head.
Colby snorted his coffee out his nose, Ada groaned in disgust, and Kay laughed at him.
"Figures," Kay said. "But I can't help you. Better call and cancel."
"I can't cancel. I put down a deposit. They've got my credit card number," he whined. "They don't do refunds."
"You gave a prostitute your credit card number?" Ada asked.
"Actually, you can pay over the phone with credit cards if you go through a reputable escort service, though you still need to tip them in cash," Colby said, mopping up the coffee he'd spewed. He stopped when he noticed the rest of the table staring at him. “Uh, not that I’d know or anything...” [[ILU COLBY. Poor boy. It must be hard getting dates when you barely look legal.]]
House cleared his throat and waved his note around. "Anybody want to trade, then?"
"House," Kay said. "This isn't lunchtime at school. You can't trade me your apple for my crackers."
“I don’t want your damn crackers. I want to have uninterrupted sex with a woman of dubious honor. For several hours. In every room of my apartment, and half the closets. And then there‘s the clean-up time, which will take another hour at least...”
Kay shut her eyes, obviously trying to get the mental images out of her head. “House-”
“The kitchen alone will take at least forty minutes. I’ve been dying to christen those granite counters. And there was this one position from the Kama Sutra, I’ve only read about it, I think it was called ‘Plowing the Fresh Alfalfa Fields’ or something-” [[So far as I know, this is not a position from the Kama Sutra. But I agree with hwshipper that it damn well should be.]]
“House-” Kay said again, this time through gritted teeth.
“What do you want me to say to her? ‘Excuse me while I go collect somebody’s soul? It’ll only take five minutes, so keep your legs spread and the bed warm, and I’ll be right back?’” He was hoping to disgust one of them into agreeing with him, just to get him to shut up. “That is such a mood-killer.”
Ada put down her fork and shoved her plate of food away. “It certainly killed my mood.”
[[I had a lot of fun writing this dialogue. I am totally one of those TMI people, that discuss crap like this when other people are trying to eat.]]
“House!” Kay said. “Each soul is assigned to a specific Reaper. Only that Reaper can extract that person’s soul. Why do you think it was such a big fiasco with Dana?”
“Dana?”
“D. Aramark, idiot. Ride on mower accident? The reap you spectacularly screwed up? Any of that ring a bell?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said impatiently. “What does that have to do with anything?” [[I just wanted to let everyone know that I just sneezed six times in a row. Somebody, please, put me out of my misery.]]
“You think if we could have, one of us wouldn’t have gotten her out of there, rather than searching all over creation for your stupid ass? I can’t trade you, neither can anybody else. You got the Post-It, it’s your responsibility.”
“You wrote the Post-It,” House said, shoving the little paper square across the table. “Unwrite it.”
“House, I just give out the assignments. I don’t actually make them, and I can’t take them back. I‘m middle management.”
“Sounds like a cop-out,” he said.
“It is what it is,” she said with a shrug. “I can’t help you. Deal with it.” She pushed the note back across the table. “Do your damn job,” she said, glaring at him. It was the kind of glare that promised a lot of suffering if he didn’t follow orders. Even Cuddy couldn’t glare like that. Of course, Kay had had almost a century to perfect it, and firing him meant a lot more than being out of a job.
[[I tend, especially with fanfic, to try and set my own deadlines. Especially with long, multi-part fics, I have to keep the inertia going or I crap out completely - this is why it took me five months to write Love Is a Battlefield and three months for Rush Down Darkness, (though to be fair to myself, I spent one of those months traveling around in China - hard to do much writing) both of which were only thirty pages. For Every Closed Door took about four, and was 126 pages. The comments I get feed my excitement for writing, which is why I post things up as chapters instead of as finished wholes. Getting immediate feedback and appreciation is really gratifying.
The downside of working like this is that the revision process gets shortened. So we end up with things like this last exchange between House and Kay, which could have been shortened a lot, and this awful run-on sentence coming up.]]
House snatched the note off the table and stalked out of the diner, wheels already turning in his head.
*****
It took a moment for House to recognize the weird, jumpy, fluttery feeling in his chest for what it was. He was nervous.
He told himself he was nervous because he had to balance Operation Weasel with Operation Secret Reap, and even though the address was only seven blocks away, the whole process would take cunning, skill, deftness, and if he was going to be honest with himself, a shitload of luck. [[Oh my god. TOO MANY COMMAS. See what I mean about the tradeoff in revision time?]]
He was not nervous because he was going on his first date in two years.
[[Honey doesn’t count. He had to trick her into it.]]
And he was definitely not nervous because he was going on a date with Wilson, the very concept of which had been unimaginable until a week and a half ago.
Nevertheless, his decidedly-not-nervous stomach clenched inside him when he saw Wilson walk through the doors. He was not, for a change, wearing a tie. Instead, the collar of his blue shirt was open, exposing a small strip of his neck and the top of his chest. House yanked his gaze up from the small V of skin, and up to Wilson’s face.
[[I’m not usually a big fan of the “Surprise! WE’RE GAY!” storylines. That’s why I needed Wilson’s extra UST. And there’s a lot of unwritten denial in House’s back story. ]]
At the cafe, Wilson had looked all right. Better than the last two times House had seen him, at the funeral and the day after. Tonight, he looked exhausted again, circles drawn under his eyes and fatigue etched into the line of his shoulders.
He waved to Wilson, and watched as the man walked over, then flopped down across from him with a dramatic sigh. [[Wilson is master of Le Sigh. Hanging out with House has given him plenty of practice in perfecting his various exhalations.]]
“It was your first day back at work, wasn’t it?” House asked.
Wilson smiled wryly. “Third, actually. The first and second were easier. Everybody avoided asking me personal questions, and were afraid to knock on my door if it was closed.”
“They probably assumed you were in there, crying your eyes out,” House said, offering a small smile.
Wilson nodded. “Because I’m such a sensitive guy,” he said sardonically. “Today, they figured out I wasn’t going to bite anyone’s head off, so it was just a long series of long sympathetic glances and ‘How are you doing, Doctor Wilson?’” House grinned at Wilson’s simpering tone. It sounded just like Cameron.
[[The ducklings are one of my weaker points in House fic. I have a hard time writing them, for whatever reason, so they’re mostly absent from my fics. Except in passing mentions, like this one. Because it's just too easy to make fun of Cam sometimes]]
“I don’t know why you put up with it. Tell everyone to piss off and find some other tragedy to sigh over.”
Wilson smiled again, but it was mixed with something.
[[Mixed with what? Way to be inarticulate.]]
“What is it?” House asked.
“Nothing,” Wilson said quickly, looking away and waving to a waiter. “Two Sam Adams,” he said, and the waiter walked off.
“Really, what was that look for?”
Wilson apparently decided to play innocent. “What look? There was no look.”
“Don’t be coy,” House said, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. Wilson rolled his eyes and House smiled. “Seriously. What was it?”
Wilson sighed, and the smile dropped off his face. “It’s... what you said. It sounded like something House would say.”
House blinked.
[[Actions speak louder than words. It's true in life and true in fiction. I could have spent a paragraph detailing House's emotional reaction here, but it wouldn't be realistic. In real life, people rarely sit down and note every single thing that they're feeling. They just react; or don't react, as House does here. (And yes, I know I'm just drowning in irony for bringing realism into a story about grim reapers seducing their best friends, but you know what I mean.)
In telling a story, sometimes all you need is the bare minimum. More than that, the bare minimum is sometimes the most elegant way to state a point. Too much time spent explaining how a character is feeling clutters a story and drags it down. If you can show it in some simple action, do it. I used two words, and they managed to say a lot. And then I used a whole lot more than that to explain my choices in writing, which probably makes me a douchebag.]]
“I know, I’m sorry,” Wilson said, taking his shock as something else entirely. “I promised myself I wouldn’t sit around talking about him or whine too much about my life, and that’s pretty much all I’ve done so far.”
“No, no,” House protested. “It’s okay, you can talk about...” he swallowed, “House all you need to.”
Right. Understanding and sympathetic; check. Operation Weasel was going along smoothly.
[[I love “Operation Weasel.” House, to my knowledge, has never done anything quite like this on the show. But he does have a playful element, as well as an appreciation for the absurd.]]
“Why were you in love with... him?” House suddenly blurted.
Smooth, easy conversation; not so much. Damn it.
“Why?” Wilson asked. “I don’t know. I never really got a chance to analyze it. I spent a long time ignoring it, and then he was gone.”
The waiter brought over their drinks. Wilson sipped his, and when the waiter left, said, “I guess that’s not the answer you want.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” House said. Of course, it was really his business, and he was dying to know what the hell had possessed Wilson to do something so utterly masochistic as to fall in love with an unrepentant bastard like him.
“Do you really want to know?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah. Call it morbid curiosity.” [[Double entendre, yay!]]
“Didn’t curiosity kill the cat?” Wilson asked, head tilted back in a slight challenge.
“Now who’s being morbid?” House retorted.
There was nothing guarded about Wilson’s laugh, and House smiled to hear it. He met Wilson’s eyes as he took a sip of his beer, still grinning, and felt something pass between them. It felt as real as a soul leaving a person’s body through a simple touch of his hand, minutes before they died; an invisible current, a strong pull between two bodies. House wondered if it had always been this way, or if he’d only noticed it now because he had something else to compare it to.
[[Flirting = some kind of telepathy. I’m convinced of it. Anyway, I loved writing their flirts.
Also, I did another weird thing with this story. I wrote a House/Wilson hookup fic, in which those two characters had almost no interaction for the first half of the story. And then when they did, they weren’t exactly House and Wilson, because House was Mika. Except Wilson, deep down in some drippy basement level of his subconscious, knew it was really House.
Apparently, I can’t do anything the easy way.]]
“I think,” Wilson said, interrupting House’s musings, “it was because he saw right through me, more than anybody else ever had. I mean, he did that to everybody,” Wilson added, dismissively. “He’d look right through the facade and into the damaged part of a person, because that‘s what interested him. And he’d use it against you if he had to. But,” and Wilson held up his hand for emphasis. “But he allowed me, and only me for these last few years, to look back at him the same way. He was... vulnerable and at the same time, completely unapproachable.”
[[And that’s it, folks. My version of the H/W dynamic in a nutshell.]]
House couldn‘t have felt more naked if he‘d worn nothing but his socks to the bar. Why the hell had he asked Wilson that, of all questions?
“Also, he made me laugh,” Wilson added, taking a sip of his beer. “And everyone knows that’s the easiest way to get somebody to want you.” He gave House a look over the rim of his beer, and House felt a different kind of current pass between them. That was not just any look. That was a significant look. Highly significant, even. Downright flirtatious, maybe.
House was saved from trying to formulate an appropriate response by his cell phone going off. He flipped it open and looked at the screen; the words Alarm: 8:20pm flashed on it. House allowed a look of annoyance to cross his features.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to take this-”
“Go ahead,” Wilson said, leaning back and drinking more of his beer. House got up and walked over towards the empty hallway where the restrooms were. He was close enough that Wilson could overhear him, but far away enough that Wilson couldn’t hear who was on the other line.
“What is it?” House said. “I’m out.... Yes, I’m with someone. None of your business... Are you drunk? ...I can tell. He’s a friend... Maybe, does it really matter? ...Yes, he is.” He glanced quickly back over to Wilson, who was examining the drinks menu a little too studiously. “Yes, very much so. Maybe. No, you can’t talk to him! Now would you please... Are you serious? Please tell me you’re not serious... You can’t get somebody there to do it? What about your credit cards?... Oh, god, fine. I’ll be right over.”
[[The first time I tried to write this commentary, I wrote out the other half of this imagined conversation with Mika’s cousin. Then my computer deleted the whole file. And I’m too lazy and stoned and sick to do it again. Sorry guys.]]
“The time is now 8:20 pm, Eastern Standard Time. If you would like to make a call, please hang up and dial the number you wish to reach,” a tinny, automated voice spoke in his ear. House ignored it, and kept up his side of a one-sided conversation with nobody.
“Yes, really. No, you suck and you owe me. A lot. We’ll talk about payment when you’re not drunk, that way you can’t claim to forget... No! You can’t talk to him! I’m hanging up now. No, stay at the bar, I’ll come there. I’ll be over soon. Just... shut up. No, he’s not coming with me, and you can damn well wait until you’re sober to interrogate me. It’s... yes, I’ll be over, shut the hell up and don’t move and I’ll be right there.” He flipped his phone decisively shut, hoping he hadn’t overdone it.
[[Which is to say, I was hoping I hadn’t overdone it.]]
He came back over to the table. “My cousin,” House said. Wilson lifted his eyebrows in an Oh? expression, and House went on. “Apparently, she drank too much to drive herself home, and doesn’t have the money to pay for a cab.”
“Does she need a ride? My car-”
“No!” House said, a little too loudly. That was definitely not part of the plan. “No, I’m just going to run over there and give her some money, wait for the cab to come pick her up. It shouldn’t take long. I...” House cleared his throat, wondering why this was so hard. He’d never had a problem lying to Wilson before. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me. I hate to be rude, but-”
“It’s really not a problem for me to drive her home, if you-”
“No! Really, you don’t want to do that. She’s a mess right now. She’ll probably vomit in your backseat. She’d hate for that to be your first impression of her.”
God, Wilson, for once in your life would you shut up and not try to rescue a woman in distress?! In retrospect, House should have made the imaginary cousin male.
[[Wilson definitely has a knight-in-shining-armor complex. He needs to find a unicorn to ride around on and travel throughout the lands, curing cancer, saving puppies, and providing rebound sex.
…I think that was the Nyquil talking.]]
“At least let me give you a ride over,” Wilson said, starting to stand.
“You don’t have to do that,” House said desperately. “It’s only six blocks, it’ll take twenty minutes-”
“It’s no problem,” Wilson said. He drained the rest of his beer. “It’ll be quicker and I won’t have to wait for you. Unless you’d rather walk?”
House desperately tried to think of an excuse to walk. He couldn’t very well tell Wilson that he’d stashed his motorcycle around the corner, because then Wilson might want to see it and then he’d notice how very identical it seemed to the one Wilson's dead best friend had borrowed $10,000 from him to buy. All sorts of awkward questions would have to be answered.
“That was a joke,” Wilson said, before House could think of a legitimate excuse. “It’s raining.” He pointed towards the doors, and sure enough, a steady rain was pouring onto the street outside. Shit. Times like this, House wished he could believe in a Higher Power, just so he could curse him for being an utter shit with a sadistic sense of humor.
*****
Wilson’s car was the exact same it had always been. Same leather seats, same vacuumed floors, same change jar by the gear shift, same smell of coffee and cologne. House wasn’t sure why this was surprising, or why it felt so strange to be in Wilson’s car again. It had been, what? Two and a half weeks since he’d died, so maybe three weeks since he’d last been in the Volvo. It felt like years.
The rain played a steady tattoo on the roof of the car as they drove from Shorty’s to the address on House’s Post-It. It was another bar; they were a dime a dozen this close to the University, and this one was called The Other Place. Clever. Wilson pulled over, and House unbuckled his seat.
[[The Other Place is actually a bar in Burlington, Vermont. People mostly call it the OP, just to avoid embarrassment. and/or confusion.]]
“Stay in the car, okay? I’ll be right back, once I get my cousin into a cab.”
Wilson nodded, and House hoped like hell he wouldn’t change his mind and follow him in. He opened the door and got out, pulling his collar up against the heavy, driving rain and ran across the parking lot.
God, running. He’d never get tired of being able to do it.
He pushed open the door and ran a hand through his wet hair. The bar above the clock said it was 8:29. He had six minutes to find a G. Morrison. He scanned the bar, looking to see the most likely person to die.
“I hope you didn’t leave the hooker at home,” a voice spoke behind his shoulder. House whirled around. Kay was sitting at a table, a bottle of Rolling Rock in front of her. “Reputable escort service or not, that’s just begging to be robbed.”
Once House’s pulse was approaching normal, he said, “I thought you didn’t want to be my damn watchdog.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Kay said.
“You don’t trust me?”
“You given me much reason to, these last couple weeks?”
Great. He offered a big, silent FUCK YOU to the Universe in general, and the Powers That Be in particular, then sighed.
“Fine. Make yourself useful and help me find her. Or him.” House said. Kay nodded to a table on the other side of the bar, where two women sat, both in their late twenties, nursing identical martinis and giggling.
“Already did. That’s Leah Hernandez and Genevieve Morrison. Both are in the masters of teaching program at the University. Leah is getting married in three weeks, and Genevieve is still recovering from her last break up. Leah‘s fiancé is the buff guy bent over at the pool table.”
[[I’m convinced that Kay was checking out his ass, but didn’t feel the need to mention it.]]
House stared at her. “You get a different Post-It than me?” he asked.
“No, I’m just adept at eavesdropping. I also saw their IDs when they showed them to the bartender.”
“Which one is which?” House asked, his glance darting from one woman to the other.
Kay took another drink from her Rolling Rock. “Find out for yourself.”
House rolled his eyes, then made his way over to the two women.
“Oops!” he exclaimed as he knocked into the table with his hip. Both martinis fell, dumping generous amounts of vodka and vermouth onto the lacquer finish.
[[I just found out that a proper martini contains gin, not vodka. Vodka is apparently only a more recent substitute.
I’m a whiskey girl myself.]]
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m not drunk, just clumsy. Really.” He gave them a smile that was meant to be disarming, though he was aware it likely looked foolish on Mika Tesla‘s boring face. “Let me get you another. Bartender! Two more martinis for...” Here he looked expectantly at Leah and Genevieve.
Both women looked like they had no idea what had just happened.
“This is the part where you tell me your names,” House prompted in a stage whisper. “Two more martinis for...”
“Leah,” said the blonde after a moment. A blonde named Hernandez? He would have guessed the other way around. Nonetheless, he shook her hand.
“Genevieve,” said the brunette. Bingo. House shook her hand, felt the quick rush of her soul leaving her body.
“Very good to meet you Leah and Genevieve,“ House said. He turned to the bartender. “Add it to the redhead’s tab, the one in the corner,” he said conspiratorially, smiling when the man nodded.
House turned back to Genevieve and Leah. “Again, very sorry about the drinks. Have a good night.”
House walked back to Kay’s table feeling like one hell of a smooth operator. He might have strutted a little bit.
“Oh yeah. Who’s that bad-ass mother- shut your mouth! Only talking about House,” he sang in his best Issac Hayes impression, as he sat down at the table.
“I can dig it,” Kay said obligingly, a small smile at her lips.
“You’re daaaaaamn right,” House said, grabbing Kay’s Rolling Rock and taking a deep pull off of it. [[That is quite possibly my favorite exchange in this entire fic. I have trouble believing sometimes that this never happened on the show.]] “I don’t suppose you can take care of Jennifer, can you? Escort her to the other side and stuff.”
“Genevieve, you mean? Sure. You wouldn’t want to keep your friend outside waiting.”
[[Oh snap, son.]]
House froze in the middle of taking another swig from the bottle of beer. He swallowed, then put the bottle back on the table. He looked outside before he could stop himself. Wilson had moved the car so it was underneath an awning, and was standing outside, leaning against his car and smoking. He was across the street, somewhat shadowed, but clearly visible from the bar’s windows.
When he looked back at his fellow Reaper, he saw her watching him. Damn.
“She’s got quite the jaw line,” she said. “And broad shoulders. And lack of breasts.”
[I like Kay. A lot. I’d totally invite her over for dinner and get drunk with her. Aside from this, I think she’s just a good character; imperfect, stubborn, with plenty of faults, but has interesting dynamics with the rest of the characters.
I didn’t really know about the OC hatred that a lot of fandom harbors. I had heard of the Mary Sue phenomenon, but creating some kind of perfect female lead was never my intention. She certainly wasn’t there for House to fall in love with.
For about 5 minutes though, I entertained the idea of House and Kay having really bad, drunk sex. Because it would have been funny, and added a hilarious element to their dynamic. Maybe if this had been an original fiction, I would have gone there.
But no. Kay is drowning in UST for Delia and House is all for getting in Wilson’s pants. And I think I would have lost quite a few readers the very second that happened. Which is silly, but there it is.]
House was saved from having to defend himself by a fight suddenly breaking out at the pool table. Leah’s buff fiancé started shouting and shoving some other buff guy. Leah jumped up to try and break it up, leaving Genevieve alone at the table, shaking her head. House caught movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a Graveling emerge from the shadows. The creature scampered over to Genevieve as she picked up the olive from her empty martini and put it in her mouth. He (or she, House thought to himself) pulled back a black, gnarled hand, and slapped the woman hard on the back. He saw Genevieve gasp, and swore he could hear the olive as it lodged in her windpipe. The Graveling disappeared, and Genevieve started the process of choking to death.
[[I don’t think I ever really described Gravelings in any way that did them justice. Here is a picture of them, if you’re interested.]]
House turned back to Kay. He stared into her eyes, but could see no hint as to whether she recognized Wilson for who he was. Her face was as blank as slate; no accusations or recriminations visible, there was nothing. He had no idea what she was thinking, and it was disconcerting.
She would have been a better poker player than Wilson. [[High praise, coming from House.]]
He looked back to Genevieve Morrison. She was beginning to turn blue, and was feebly waving one of her arms, trying to get somebody’s attention. Everyone in the bar was still focused on the fight, which showed no sign of breaking up despite interference from two bartenders, Leah, and another woman, who House assumed was the other guy’s date.
“Go on,” Kay said. “I’ll take care of it in here.” She waved him off, drinking the last of her beer. “Go on before it’s too late.” [[Ah, see? Right there, he should have known Kay wasn’t telling him something. ]]
He heard the sound of a body falling, and assumed it was either Genevieve collapsing, or that somebody had thrown a punch. House stood up. He dug a few dollars out of his pocket and left them on the table. “For their drinks,” he said.
[[House giving Kay the money is not an apology, or a thank you. I'm not sure what this gesture means, only that it’s important.
I love me some ambiguity, in case you couldn't tell.]]
Kay nodded, and waved him off, and he walked out back into the rain. He felt dazed. Too much had happened in the last half hour.
Wilson watched him walk back towards the car. He offered the cigarette in his hand to House when he reached the awning under which he was parked, but House shook his head.
[[Why did I write Wilson as a smoker? It was pretty much a whim that began in chapter four (I think), and I probably could have made it a one-time thing. But I really liked the image, and what it did to his character.
Smoking is a self-destructive habit. Also, a slightly romantic one, and definitely an ironic one for a doctor. What better for a semi-suicidal oncologist who just lost his best friend and UST object?]]
He leaned next to Wilson instead, a bare inch of space between their shoulders, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. It was coming down harder now, the first of the spring thunderstorms, pounding out a heavy rhythm in the awning above them.
[[I didn’t notice this until recently, but I write about rain a lot. I moved to the Pacific Northwest about a year and a half ago. The rumors are true: it rains all the goddam time. I’m always walking in it, whining about it, or just otherwise dealing with it. Obviously, my writing reflects that.]]
“Is your cousin going to be all right?” Wilson asked. It took House a moment to figure out what he was talking about.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine. She just had a rough night. Boyfriend broke up with her, you know how it is.”
Wilson nodded, took a final drag of his cigarette, then pitched it into a puddle, where it sizzled briefly and then extinguished.
Across the street, House watched Kay escort the soul of Genevieve Morrison out of the bar, holding the door open for her. Kay waved to him briefly, and then Genevieve, looking up and seeing him, did too. House waved back, and so did Wilson.
“Is that a friend with her? I thought you said you were calling her a cab.”
House blinked. Wilson could see ghosts now. Not just him. If he wasn’t so suddenly exhausted, he would have gone into analytical overdrive.
[[I think this got a mention back in chapter 4 or 5, but Wilson is a tiny bit psychic in this story. He sees House at the funeral, and knows that Mika is actually House at some level. And now, he can see ghosts.
I’m a big fan of foreshadowing. All of this was meant to be telling the readers that Wilson’s number was coming up. He's close to the world of the dead, and gets progressively closer throughout the story.]]
Realizing that Wilson was looking at him, waiting, House cleared his throat. “Yeah. A friend of ours. She’s going to take her home.” House had to bite his lip to stop from snickering at his choice of words.
[[I always hated it when people referred to death as “going home.” Reminds me of some really uncomfortable funerals.]]
House shifted his weight against the car, and Wilson looked over at him. Suddenly there was another one of those currents between them, like a tide between their bodies.
House followed it, leaning forward. He hesitated, his mouth an inch from Wilson’s, to look into the other man’s eyes. Fear. Desire. And faintly, though House would swear it was there, recognition. He closed the gap between them, and shut his eyes as he laid his mouth softly on Wilson’s.
The other man stiffened briefly, and for a moment, House wondered if he’d made a mistake, pushed Wilson too far, reached for too much. But then Wilson relaxed, and House felt a hand cautiously laid against his hip. Wilson’s mouth opened briefly; House tasted the cigarette and the beer they’d drunk on his breath. There was the smell of the rain, Wilson’s cologne, his sweat. There was the warmth emanating from the man’s skin, the touch of his fingers curling around House’s hips.
[[Sensory input is sexy. Kissing ain’t all about tongue.
I like the restraint here as well. It's easy to go overboard on sex scenes. Especially in slash, graphic sex is practically commonplace. I always thought it was a lot better to focus on certain things - House's sensory perceptions in this case. The play-by-plays in some sex scenes actually put me off. I rarely write anything above R for this reason. Long-lasting sex is great. Sex scenes that go on for dozens of paragraphs are not so great. Half of their appeal is in the impact, and the longer (or more frequent, if it's a novel - think of Jean M. Auel's Earth's Children series, where the characters rarely do anything besides hunt, fuck, and emote) the lesser the impact.
And of course, there's easily a dozen fics out there that don't follow this rule, and are awesome and hot and sexy. This is just how I roll.]]
Not me. It’s Mika he’s kissing, Mika he’s touching.
But so what? He could argue logistics with himself all night. All he cared about was that he was kissing Wilson, and that it was good, and the hell with the rest of it. The over-analyzing of the whole situation could wait until tomorrow. Late tomorrow.
Eventually, the kiss ended. House opened his eyes, but Wilson kept his shut. [[Maybe it’s Mika he’s kissing, but that sure as hell isn’t who Wilson’s thinking about.]]
“Come over?” House asked.
Wilson nodded, then leaned forward in to kiss House again.
[[Questions? Comments? Did I skip something important? Help me out here, I’m sick and pathetic and slightly confused at the moment.]]