ext_21821 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
fourteencandles.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sick_wilson2007-05-07 01:47 am
fourteencandles.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-05-07 01:47 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Sunscreen
Title: Sunscreen
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fourteencandles
Rating: PG
Length: 2,300 words
Summary: Wilson is pathetic, but House has been there before.
Notes: Written for the 100 members prompt! It just kind of... ends. I meant for it to be House/Wilson, but it ends up as just House, Wilson. Ah well. It was fun while it lasted.
"Wilson!" For once, House's voice lacked any mockery or sarcasm. He sounded genuinely shocked. "What in God's name happened to your face?"
Wilson paused in the doorway, and House watched as he raised his hand, then seemed to stop himself just in time, before his fingers could touch the red, puffy skin of his nose and cheeks. Instead he sighed and brushed his fingers through his hair, looking nervous. "Allergic reaction," he said, stepping further into the conference room.
“Uh, duh,” House said, pushing up from his chair to follow Wilson over to the coffee machine. He stood next to him and leaned in, ignoring Wilson’s hand trying to bat him away. Wilson looked like he’d had his face pressed against sun-hot glass; the skin was red and looked both dry and painful. His lips were cracked, so much so that when he lifted the coffee to drink, House winced.
Wilson rolled his eyes – the rest of his face was so vividly red that the whites of his eyes were shocking – and stepped back. “I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t hover.”
“I don’t hover.”
“Mm.” Wilson took another sip of his coffee, and House decided to pour himself a cup. “Not in the traditional sense. But you do have a look in your eye that says I’m about to become your latest project.”
Coffee poured, House started for his office. Wilson followed without being asked. “Save me the trouble, then,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk.
“Sunscreen,” Wilson said, making another quickly aborted attempt at rubbing his face. “Allergic reaction to sunscreen.”
House narrowed his eyes. It was January; not a big time for tanning. “Why would you need –“
“I went for a run by the river,” he said, shrugging.
Now it was House’s turn to roll his eyes. “You idiot. You probably read your own skin cancer brochures for fun.”
“I wrote that one, actually,” Wilson said. “Anyway, I think it was the Kaphon. I should’ve checked the label more closely. Live and learn.”
“And then get corticosteroids,” House said. “You need a scrip?”
“Nah,” Wilson said, heading for the door. “I got Cuddy to write me one this morning.”
He left, and House took a meditative sip of his coffee. Wilson could be pretty dumb, sometimes. It was one of the only reasons they were still friends: House would never have been able to tolerate a guy who was exactly as smart and put-together as Wilson looked to be.
“Yow,” Cameron said, walking in. “Just saw Dr. Wilson. What happened?”
“Radiation burns,” House said. “From all that time spent in front of the microwave.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s had a run of bad luck, hasn’t he?”
House understood it was a mainly rhetorical question, so he didn’t bother with answering it. “Why are you here?” he asked instead.
She was there to remind him about the upcoming staff meeting that he’d promised he’d go to, and at which he’d also promised to put forward some proposal of Cameron’s about allowing flex time for medically-relevant volunteering. House could barely stay awake while she was explaining the idea; he was pretty sure Wilson had been briefed on the topic, too, so he’d just count on him to pick up the slack.
Wilson had been having a run of what Cameron saw as bad luck for a few months. House recognized it in a different way: this was Wilson finding his way in the world of singleness. He’d finally bought himself a nice little condo, about a month ago, and since then it had been one domestic mishap after another. For a guy who could make killer waffles, Wilson wasn’t doing so well with bachelor life. He’d managed to dye several of his shirts green by trying to do his own laundry – House had programmed his computer to sing “It’s Not Easy Being Green” when it was turned on, just for that occasion – and he’d been staying pretty late at work every night, probably because he didn’t want to go back to his dark, semi-furnished condo. He hadn’t really ever been completely single in the ten years they’d been friends. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising to see Wilson flailing without a wife around, but it was, somehow. House had been making his own breakfast, and his own bed, and his own fun, for years, now, and he felt like maybe it was time to step up and offer Wilson some friendly advice on how to live alone.
So he walked in to Wilson’s office just before lunch and narrowly missed getting hit in the head with a flying pen. “What the hell?” he asked, turning to Wilson.
“It leaked,” he said. House looked and saw a spreading blue stain at the base of the pocket on Wilson’s white shirt. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to hit you. Just – ugh.”
“It matches your tie.”
Wilson groaned and started to drop his head into his hands, then stopped abruptly and cursed. “You think Chase or Foreman have a shirt I can borrow?”
“My shirts aren’t good enough?” House said.
“You wear T-shirts,” Wilson said, shaking his head, “often with logos that my dying, underage patients might not find comforting. Besides, you’re a stick figure.”
House smirked. “South Beach,” he said, and watched Wilson raise an eyebrow and then wince at the move.
“South Beach Vicodin Addict Diet,” Wilson said. “It has such a lovely ring to it. Are you here for a reason?”
“I thought you might want to invite me over this evening,” House said. “I’m feeling a real need to watch something in your collection of spectacularly pedestrian films.”
“Wow. Rarely has so tempting a proposition been made,” Wilson said, then he shrugged. “Yeah, all right. After work?”
“That’s basically now, for me,” House said. “But I can wait until you’re done, too.”
Wilson smiled, just a tiny smile. “You’re all heart,” he said, then stood up. “Is Chase next door?”
House grinned. “He’s eating in the cafeteria, I believe. But why go to all that trouble when I know the combination to his locker?”
That night, House followed Wilson back to his place. The condo wasn’t bad, really – it was bigger than House’s own place, which made some sense since Wilson made about twice as much money as he did. What it had in space, however, it lacked in furnishings; a brand new couch, still factory-stiff, sat in the middle of the floor across from a nice television in the living room, but Wilson had no coffee table or end tables. His books were stacked in boxes shoved against the wall, and the hallway was also lined with boxes. House grumbled about tripping over things but found the chaos to be an excellent excuse for simply staying put on the couch and making Wilson fetch everything.
“IKEA delivers, you know,” House said, watching Wilson shove a pair of boxes across the floor to act as an end table for House’s beer.
“Who has the time to order?” Wilson muttered, then stood up straight. “Wait, I know: you do. Why didn’t I go into your field?”
“Stupidity,” House said cheerfully. “How’s your face?”
“Great,” Wilson said, sitting next to him. “It only itches when I’m awake.” They were eating pizza out of the box, resting on a makeshift coffee table of more book boxes. Wilson didn’t have plates or silverware, either, which didn’t really bother House but seemed to be driving Wilson slowly insane.
“You could steal some stuff from the hospital,” House said.
“Like an armchair?”
“I was thinking silverware, but your idea sounds a lot more fun. I’m in.”
Wilson laughed, then groaned. House looked over and saw a new splotch of red on Wilson’s – actually, Foreman’s white shirt. “This is not my day.”
House shrugged. “Cold water, then some hydrogen peroxide.” Wilson looked over as though this might be a trick. “What?”
“I feel like I just stepped into Hints from Heloise.”
“It’s a chemical reaction,” House said, shaking his head. He took his last bite of pizza and wiped his hands, melodramatically, on his pants. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He followed Wilson’s directions to the first door on the left in the short hallway. Apparently, the condo didn’t have a master bath, because Wilson’s toothbrush was sitting right next to the sink. House considered messing with it, and opened the medicine cabinet to see if there was anything that might be particularly helpful. Inside, he found the usual Wilson cosmetics on the bottom shelf: whitening toothpaste, hair gel, and some kind of expensive monthly leave-in conditioner. On the next row up, though, there was an expensive-looking bottle of women’s perfume and a matching bottle of lotion. House picked up the perfume and smelled it, then grimaced. It was the same slightly-fruity scent that Julie had always worn.
“Oh, Wilson, you idiot,” he murmured, putting the perfume back on the shelf.
A quick survey of the shower revealed more former-Mrs.-Wilson paraphernalia, including a small bottle of salon-brand shampoo next to Wilson’s solid old Head-and-Shoulders bottle and a round tin of moisturizer hiding in one of the under-sink drawers. House carried that out into the living room with him, holding it behind his back as he approached.
“What kind of sunscreen did you say that was?” he asked, stopping just inside the room.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wilson said, shrugging. “Whatever was on sale at the drug store.”
“I bet it’s hard finding sunscreen at this time of year,” House said. “Say, if you’re not going to use the rest of it, could I have it? Wouldn’t want to end up your patient.”
“I threw it away,” Wilson said. “Like I’d give it to you anyway. You’d probably sneak in and smear it on my pillow.”
“Hey, that’s unfair. I don’t try to cause you pain,” House said. Wilson glared at him. “I’m not saying it’s not sometimes a side-effect to the things I do, but it’s never my initial goal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Unlike, say, your ex-wife.” Wilson shifted on the couch, and he’d started to look guilty, House thought. He pulled out the moisturizer and held it up. “The new ex isn’t so ex anymore, huh?”
Wilson sat up. “What?”
“Her shampoo in your shower, her perfume in your cabinet – you’ve been sneaking around with your ex.” House rolled his eyes. “And her moisturizer rubbed off on your face. It’s oddly fitting, like a scarlet letter made of inflammation.”
Wilson sighed. “I can assure you, I haven’t been sneaking around with Julie.”
“Just someone who smells a lot like her?” House shook his head. “Just because they say men are dogs doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”
“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” Wilson said. “OK?”
He looked like he was telling the truth, but sometimes, it was hard to tell with Wilson. Particularly now, when he looked a bit like a blown up red balloon wearing a stained shirt. “Then what are you doing with all this stuff?”
“It must have come along in the move,” he said.
“Try again,” House said. “You haven’t even unpacked your books, and you expect me to believe you just randomly happened to find your ex wife’s toiletries and put them away? This stuff is newly bought. Most of it is barely used. So either you’re seeing Julie, or a Julie scent-a-like, or –“ House finished that sentence in his head: or this stuff is for you. “Do I need to be sitting down for this conversation?”
Wilson shrugged. “It’s not what you think. Either thing that you think.” House nodded, slowly, and limped over to the couch. He took a seat on the other side from Wilson. “I bought – the perfume package was on sale at the mall, with the lotion and the moisturizer. I just – “ He stopped and ducked his head and rubbed his neck. “I miss my wife, House,” he said.
“Oh, good Lord.” House wanted to turn away, but it was a little fascinating. He could tell Wilson was blushing only because his ears had started to turn red to match his face.
“I miss the smell of her. I miss waking up next to her. I miss the noise she made in the morning getting ready for work, the way she always moved my wallet and keys and my god damned pocket protector from one pocket to the next. I didn’t even realize she did that stuff.” He shook his head. “So I bought the stuff just thinking it would be nice to have those reminders. Just the smell.” He shrugged. “She always did have nice skin.”
“You’re allergic to the moisturizer.”
“I guess so.”
House set the moisturizer on the coffee table. “You’re an idiot,” he said. “She left you.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said, “exactly. I wasn’t ready for things to be over, and then suddenly – suddenly I’m living alone in a hotel, and now this place.”
“Pathetic,” House murmured, but he didn’t put too much venom behind it. He remembered pretty well how it felt to be left behind, how it felt when you were the one left standing, looking around, going what the hell just happened? Stacy had left for very good reasons – just like Julie Wilson had, from what House could gather – but it had still hurt like crazy. She’d made the best coffee in the world. There just wasn't any good protection against this. House looked over and saw Wilson’s eyes were closed. He cleared his throat. “This weekend, we’ll go shopping,” he said.
Wilson looked over. He looked tired. “Yeah?”
House nodded. “You bring the wallet, I’ll bring the good taste.”
Wilson’s eyes closed again, but his expression was, suddenly, much more relaxed. “I’m going to wind up with glow-in-the-dark paint and fuzzy pillows, right?”
“I don’t want to elevate your expectations,” House said. He nudged Wilson’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Homey.”
“Homey,” Wilson repeated. He leaned back toward House, but instead of a nudge, he stayed in place, their shoulders just touching. “Sounds all right.”
“It’ll be fine,” House promised again. “You’ll see.”
Author:
fourteencandlesRating: PG
Length: 2,300 words
Summary: Wilson is pathetic, but House has been there before.
Notes: Written for the 100 members prompt! It just kind of... ends. I meant for it to be House/Wilson, but it ends up as just House, Wilson. Ah well. It was fun while it lasted.
"Wilson!" For once, House's voice lacked any mockery or sarcasm. He sounded genuinely shocked. "What in God's name happened to your face?"
Wilson paused in the doorway, and House watched as he raised his hand, then seemed to stop himself just in time, before his fingers could touch the red, puffy skin of his nose and cheeks. Instead he sighed and brushed his fingers through his hair, looking nervous. "Allergic reaction," he said, stepping further into the conference room.
“Uh, duh,” House said, pushing up from his chair to follow Wilson over to the coffee machine. He stood next to him and leaned in, ignoring Wilson’s hand trying to bat him away. Wilson looked like he’d had his face pressed against sun-hot glass; the skin was red and looked both dry and painful. His lips were cracked, so much so that when he lifted the coffee to drink, House winced.
Wilson rolled his eyes – the rest of his face was so vividly red that the whites of his eyes were shocking – and stepped back. “I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t hover.”
“I don’t hover.”
“Mm.” Wilson took another sip of his coffee, and House decided to pour himself a cup. “Not in the traditional sense. But you do have a look in your eye that says I’m about to become your latest project.”
Coffee poured, House started for his office. Wilson followed without being asked. “Save me the trouble, then,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk.
“Sunscreen,” Wilson said, making another quickly aborted attempt at rubbing his face. “Allergic reaction to sunscreen.”
House narrowed his eyes. It was January; not a big time for tanning. “Why would you need –“
“I went for a run by the river,” he said, shrugging.
Now it was House’s turn to roll his eyes. “You idiot. You probably read your own skin cancer brochures for fun.”
“I wrote that one, actually,” Wilson said. “Anyway, I think it was the Kaphon. I should’ve checked the label more closely. Live and learn.”
“And then get corticosteroids,” House said. “You need a scrip?”
“Nah,” Wilson said, heading for the door. “I got Cuddy to write me one this morning.”
He left, and House took a meditative sip of his coffee. Wilson could be pretty dumb, sometimes. It was one of the only reasons they were still friends: House would never have been able to tolerate a guy who was exactly as smart and put-together as Wilson looked to be.
“Yow,” Cameron said, walking in. “Just saw Dr. Wilson. What happened?”
“Radiation burns,” House said. “From all that time spent in front of the microwave.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s had a run of bad luck, hasn’t he?”
House understood it was a mainly rhetorical question, so he didn’t bother with answering it. “Why are you here?” he asked instead.
She was there to remind him about the upcoming staff meeting that he’d promised he’d go to, and at which he’d also promised to put forward some proposal of Cameron’s about allowing flex time for medically-relevant volunteering. House could barely stay awake while she was explaining the idea; he was pretty sure Wilson had been briefed on the topic, too, so he’d just count on him to pick up the slack.
Wilson had been having a run of what Cameron saw as bad luck for a few months. House recognized it in a different way: this was Wilson finding his way in the world of singleness. He’d finally bought himself a nice little condo, about a month ago, and since then it had been one domestic mishap after another. For a guy who could make killer waffles, Wilson wasn’t doing so well with bachelor life. He’d managed to dye several of his shirts green by trying to do his own laundry – House had programmed his computer to sing “It’s Not Easy Being Green” when it was turned on, just for that occasion – and he’d been staying pretty late at work every night, probably because he didn’t want to go back to his dark, semi-furnished condo. He hadn’t really ever been completely single in the ten years they’d been friends. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising to see Wilson flailing without a wife around, but it was, somehow. House had been making his own breakfast, and his own bed, and his own fun, for years, now, and he felt like maybe it was time to step up and offer Wilson some friendly advice on how to live alone.
So he walked in to Wilson’s office just before lunch and narrowly missed getting hit in the head with a flying pen. “What the hell?” he asked, turning to Wilson.
“It leaked,” he said. House looked and saw a spreading blue stain at the base of the pocket on Wilson’s white shirt. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to hit you. Just – ugh.”
“It matches your tie.”
Wilson groaned and started to drop his head into his hands, then stopped abruptly and cursed. “You think Chase or Foreman have a shirt I can borrow?”
“My shirts aren’t good enough?” House said.
“You wear T-shirts,” Wilson said, shaking his head, “often with logos that my dying, underage patients might not find comforting. Besides, you’re a stick figure.”
House smirked. “South Beach,” he said, and watched Wilson raise an eyebrow and then wince at the move.
“South Beach Vicodin Addict Diet,” Wilson said. “It has such a lovely ring to it. Are you here for a reason?”
“I thought you might want to invite me over this evening,” House said. “I’m feeling a real need to watch something in your collection of spectacularly pedestrian films.”
“Wow. Rarely has so tempting a proposition been made,” Wilson said, then he shrugged. “Yeah, all right. After work?”
“That’s basically now, for me,” House said. “But I can wait until you’re done, too.”
Wilson smiled, just a tiny smile. “You’re all heart,” he said, then stood up. “Is Chase next door?”
House grinned. “He’s eating in the cafeteria, I believe. But why go to all that trouble when I know the combination to his locker?”
That night, House followed Wilson back to his place. The condo wasn’t bad, really – it was bigger than House’s own place, which made some sense since Wilson made about twice as much money as he did. What it had in space, however, it lacked in furnishings; a brand new couch, still factory-stiff, sat in the middle of the floor across from a nice television in the living room, but Wilson had no coffee table or end tables. His books were stacked in boxes shoved against the wall, and the hallway was also lined with boxes. House grumbled about tripping over things but found the chaos to be an excellent excuse for simply staying put on the couch and making Wilson fetch everything.
“IKEA delivers, you know,” House said, watching Wilson shove a pair of boxes across the floor to act as an end table for House’s beer.
“Who has the time to order?” Wilson muttered, then stood up straight. “Wait, I know: you do. Why didn’t I go into your field?”
“Stupidity,” House said cheerfully. “How’s your face?”
“Great,” Wilson said, sitting next to him. “It only itches when I’m awake.” They were eating pizza out of the box, resting on a makeshift coffee table of more book boxes. Wilson didn’t have plates or silverware, either, which didn’t really bother House but seemed to be driving Wilson slowly insane.
“You could steal some stuff from the hospital,” House said.
“Like an armchair?”
“I was thinking silverware, but your idea sounds a lot more fun. I’m in.”
Wilson laughed, then groaned. House looked over and saw a new splotch of red on Wilson’s – actually, Foreman’s white shirt. “This is not my day.”
House shrugged. “Cold water, then some hydrogen peroxide.” Wilson looked over as though this might be a trick. “What?”
“I feel like I just stepped into Hints from Heloise.”
“It’s a chemical reaction,” House said, shaking his head. He took his last bite of pizza and wiped his hands, melodramatically, on his pants. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He followed Wilson’s directions to the first door on the left in the short hallway. Apparently, the condo didn’t have a master bath, because Wilson’s toothbrush was sitting right next to the sink. House considered messing with it, and opened the medicine cabinet to see if there was anything that might be particularly helpful. Inside, he found the usual Wilson cosmetics on the bottom shelf: whitening toothpaste, hair gel, and some kind of expensive monthly leave-in conditioner. On the next row up, though, there was an expensive-looking bottle of women’s perfume and a matching bottle of lotion. House picked up the perfume and smelled it, then grimaced. It was the same slightly-fruity scent that Julie had always worn.
“Oh, Wilson, you idiot,” he murmured, putting the perfume back on the shelf.
A quick survey of the shower revealed more former-Mrs.-Wilson paraphernalia, including a small bottle of salon-brand shampoo next to Wilson’s solid old Head-and-Shoulders bottle and a round tin of moisturizer hiding in one of the under-sink drawers. House carried that out into the living room with him, holding it behind his back as he approached.
“What kind of sunscreen did you say that was?” he asked, stopping just inside the room.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wilson said, shrugging. “Whatever was on sale at the drug store.”
“I bet it’s hard finding sunscreen at this time of year,” House said. “Say, if you’re not going to use the rest of it, could I have it? Wouldn’t want to end up your patient.”
“I threw it away,” Wilson said. “Like I’d give it to you anyway. You’d probably sneak in and smear it on my pillow.”
“Hey, that’s unfair. I don’t try to cause you pain,” House said. Wilson glared at him. “I’m not saying it’s not sometimes a side-effect to the things I do, but it’s never my initial goal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Unlike, say, your ex-wife.” Wilson shifted on the couch, and he’d started to look guilty, House thought. He pulled out the moisturizer and held it up. “The new ex isn’t so ex anymore, huh?”
Wilson sat up. “What?”
“Her shampoo in your shower, her perfume in your cabinet – you’ve been sneaking around with your ex.” House rolled his eyes. “And her moisturizer rubbed off on your face. It’s oddly fitting, like a scarlet letter made of inflammation.”
Wilson sighed. “I can assure you, I haven’t been sneaking around with Julie.”
“Just someone who smells a lot like her?” House shook his head. “Just because they say men are dogs doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”
“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” Wilson said. “OK?”
He looked like he was telling the truth, but sometimes, it was hard to tell with Wilson. Particularly now, when he looked a bit like a blown up red balloon wearing a stained shirt. “Then what are you doing with all this stuff?”
“It must have come along in the move,” he said.
“Try again,” House said. “You haven’t even unpacked your books, and you expect me to believe you just randomly happened to find your ex wife’s toiletries and put them away? This stuff is newly bought. Most of it is barely used. So either you’re seeing Julie, or a Julie scent-a-like, or –“ House finished that sentence in his head: or this stuff is for you. “Do I need to be sitting down for this conversation?”
Wilson shrugged. “It’s not what you think. Either thing that you think.” House nodded, slowly, and limped over to the couch. He took a seat on the other side from Wilson. “I bought – the perfume package was on sale at the mall, with the lotion and the moisturizer. I just – “ He stopped and ducked his head and rubbed his neck. “I miss my wife, House,” he said.
“Oh, good Lord.” House wanted to turn away, but it was a little fascinating. He could tell Wilson was blushing only because his ears had started to turn red to match his face.
“I miss the smell of her. I miss waking up next to her. I miss the noise she made in the morning getting ready for work, the way she always moved my wallet and keys and my god damned pocket protector from one pocket to the next. I didn’t even realize she did that stuff.” He shook his head. “So I bought the stuff just thinking it would be nice to have those reminders. Just the smell.” He shrugged. “She always did have nice skin.”
“You’re allergic to the moisturizer.”
“I guess so.”
House set the moisturizer on the coffee table. “You’re an idiot,” he said. “She left you.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said, “exactly. I wasn’t ready for things to be over, and then suddenly – suddenly I’m living alone in a hotel, and now this place.”
“Pathetic,” House murmured, but he didn’t put too much venom behind it. He remembered pretty well how it felt to be left behind, how it felt when you were the one left standing, looking around, going what the hell just happened? Stacy had left for very good reasons – just like Julie Wilson had, from what House could gather – but it had still hurt like crazy. She’d made the best coffee in the world. There just wasn't any good protection against this. House looked over and saw Wilson’s eyes were closed. He cleared his throat. “This weekend, we’ll go shopping,” he said.
Wilson looked over. He looked tired. “Yeah?”
House nodded. “You bring the wallet, I’ll bring the good taste.”
Wilson’s eyes closed again, but his expression was, suddenly, much more relaxed. “I’m going to wind up with glow-in-the-dark paint and fuzzy pillows, right?”
“I don’t want to elevate your expectations,” House said. He nudged Wilson’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Homey.”
“Homey,” Wilson repeated. He leaned back toward House, but instead of a nudge, he stayed in place, their shoulders just touching. “Sounds all right.”
“It’ll be fine,” House promised again. “You’ll see.”
no subject