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sick_wilson2008-12-31 06:31 pm
nightdog-barks.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2008-12-31 06:31 pm
Entry tags:
A Cup of Kindness
TITLE: A Cup of Kindness
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
CHARACTERS: House, Wilson
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: None.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the end of Season 4, in a very vague way.
SUMMARY: There are some New Year's resolutions that are just made to be broken. Aren't there? 1,668 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Just a small something for the end of the year, not meant to be taken too seriously. I've taken some liberties with the weather, Wilson's kitchen, and Dick Clark. The LJ-cut text is from "Rock Around the Clock," by Bill Haley and the Comets. It has nothing to do with this story. *g* Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks todeelaundry and hannahorlove.
A Cup of Kindness
"You weren't at the party," House says the moment Wilson opens the door. Gotta jump right in, go on the attack immediately where Wilson's concerned -- otherwise he'll do that verbal two-step, dance away where you can't get at him and the moment's lost. This time, though, Wilson doesn't look like he's up for dancing or anything else. His eyes are dull, his nose swollen and red, and his hair is mussed and standing on end as if he's just gotten out of bed.
Which ... he might have, House notes, taking in Wilson's loose flannel pants, bare feet, and rumpled grey t-shirt.
"What?" Wilson says stupidly, except it comes out more like "Whad?"
"You weren't at the party," House repeats. "You know I can't stand those things without you there to distract me."
"The ... oh. Th'party." Wilson turns away, starts to shuffle slowly toward the couch. It's obviously an invitation to come in, so House does.
"Yes, th'party," he says. "There's this thing called the economy; it's all the rage right now. It's tanking, so Cuddy wanted her world-famous doctors there to speak with silver tongues in gilded tones, which means me sitting silently while you work your magic."
"Mmmm," Wilson says from his prone position on the couch. His forearm is covering his eyes, as if the already-dim light in the apartment is painful. "Called her. Apologized. Said I couldn't make it this year."
"Yeah, well, she obviously didn't get the message."
"Sorry," Wilson murmurs, but he doesn't move otherwise, and House stumps cautiously forward.
"This isn't like you," he observes. "Normally you're all Mister Has-Tuxedo-Will-Travel. You love schmoozing with the high rollers. You -- " He stops, frowning. There's a faint sheen of sweat on Wilson's forehead, the softest of wheezes on every respiration ...
"You're sick!" House announces triumphantly.
Wilson groans. "It's a head cold," he mumbles.
"Think so?" Moving quickly now, House makes his way to Wilson's side and bends down, laying the back of his free hand against Wilson's forehead. "Fever, at least 100. Mild photophobia. Possibly fluid in the lungs." He sits down on the couch, hip-bumping Wilson to make room. "You've got the flu," he crows.
"Not on purpose," Wilson whines.
"Well, of course not on purpose," House says. "Who goes around getting the flu on purpose?" He pretends to study Wilson critically. "On the other hand -- "
"Go away, House," Wilson mutters. "I'm fine." His arm hasn't moved, though, and House can see that he's shivering a little.
"Sure you are, Saint Martyr." House shifts position, lets his gaze sweep around the tidy apartment. "Got any blankets anywhere?"
The arm finally comes up as Wilson waves vaguely.
"Bedroom," he croaks. "In th'closet." His voice catches a little on the "c" in closet, and he coughs pathetically.
House rolls his eyes; nevertheless, he levers himself up and makes his way into the bedroom. It's only a little brighter in here -- the lamp on what would have been Amber's side of the bed is on, revealing sheets and a bedspread in disarray and a sweat-soaked pillowcase. Wilson's iPod is in its dock, playing what sounds like an eternal loop of white noise, soft New Age-y shooshing sounds that are probably meant to be ocean waves. House briefly considers whacking it with his cane, stilling the fake ocean forever, but instead he crosses to the closet's folding doors.
There are at least a half-dozen blankets inside, all different weaves and weights for every possible temperature gradient. Woolen blankets, thick cotton blankets, cushy velour blankets, all neatly stacked in perfect hospital-squares and smelling faintly of cedar.
He grunts as he yanks the nearest one off the top and goes back into the living room.
"Here," he says, and tosses the blanket at Wilson. It lands with a floop! on his chest, and he blinks at it as if wondering where it came from. The apartment is quiet as Wilson unfolds the blanket and drapes it awkwardly over himself. House leans on his cane.
"When was the last time you ate something?"
"Um," Wilson says. He's pulled the blanket all the way up to his nose and is peeking out over the edge like a little kid trying to ward off nightmares. He lets go of the blanket for a moment and rubs at his eyes. "This morning. Had some toast."
"Nothing since then?"
"Wasn't hungry. I'll ... order something. Later."
"Nobody's going to deliver it," House says. "Use your ears, unless they're all stuffed up. We're supposed to get a half-inch of ice before morning, and it was starting to sleet when I knocked on the door."
"I'll be fine." Wilson turns onto his side and kicks at the blanket to straighten it.
"Well, I'm not going to take care of you," House declares. He crosses the short distance to the kitchen and opens the pantry door.
It's a Wilson pantry, all right -- plenty of ingredients, but nothing ready-made. No cans of condensed soup or chili, no Spaghetti-O's, no Jello or pudding cups. There are, however, cartons of free-range, organic broth with smiling chickens on the box, packages of dried Asian noodles, bottles of sesame oil and tamari. House's eyes narrow, and he turns to the refrigerator.
All the staples -- milk, butter, eggs, boring boring yogurt. A plastic container catches his eye, and he gives it a closer look. Roasted chicken, a thigh or a breast, shredded. A jar of low-fat mayonnaise sits next to it.
Chicken salad, House thinks. Boring. He stands still a moment, then pulls open the crisper. Spinach. A small bag of those mixed pre-washed baby greens. And right there on top, a thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger. He balances his cane handle over the edge of the kitchen counter and starts to pull things out of the fridge.
"Didn't you get a flu shot?" he calls back into the living room. "Or did you give it away this year to someone you thought was more deserving? Some other saintly doctor?" He stops in the act of setting a saucepan on the stove and pitches his voice a little higher. "Why, thank you, Dr. Wilson!"
"Was at a convention," Wilson says. His voice is partially muffled by the blanket and he punctuates his statement by coughing some more. "What are you doing in there?"
"I'm moonlighting in my second job with the Health Department," House says. "Got any mold in here? Aflatoxins? Dead rats?" Wilson's chef's knife makes precise, even slices of ginger, and the spicy scent tickles House's nostrils.
"Only rat in here is you," Wilson grumbles. "Seriously, House, get out of my kitchen."
"No can do -- I think I just spotted a whole colony of cockroaches in the breadbasket." He pours a few cups of broth in the saucepan and turns up the heat. He can hear the sleet pattering against the window, and he remembers the trip he made to Hokkaido when he was fifteen, the huge pots of shabu-shabu Mariko-san would make to ward off the winter chill. He drops the ginger slices into the simmering chicken broth, waits a few minutes, then dumps in the shredded meat.
"Turn on the TV," he yells. "I wanna see the ball drop!"
Wilson's reply is lost, but the TV blinks and suddenly Times Square roars to life in Wilson's living room. House glances up; Dick Clark is shouting into a microphone and snow is falling, floating past the television cameras and glistening on overcoats and jackets. House breaks off a handful of dried noodles and adds them to the soup. From the TV, Dinosaur Dick is yammering on about the giant Waterford crystal ball they're going to drop, and House wonders just how much of a shattered mess it would make if it actually hit the street, each of the 2,668 glass plates crazing, then splintering into millions of flying shards ...
"House?" Wilson calls, and House shakes himself free of his reverie.
"Just a minute," he yells. "You don't mind if I spread some bait around to get rid of all these ants, do you?" He hears Wilson start to chuckle, but it quickly turns into another cough.
The soup is bubbling away. House throws in some of the baby greens; they wilt in seconds and he follows up with a shot of tamari and a few drops of sesame oil. A quick stir to blend the flavors, and the light meal is complete. He turns off the heat, carefully ladles some of the soup into one of Wilson's extra-large coffee mugs and fishes out the ginger slices, then drops in a spoon and carries the mug into the living room, where he sets it gently onto the coffee table. On the television, Dick Clark is counting down the seconds along with everyone else in Times Square.
"What's this?" Wilson says, staring at the steam rising from the mug. He slowly sits up, the blanket draped over his shoulders. "You cooked for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head," House says, easing himself down into the nearby armchair. "Eat it all up and maybe I'll bring you some Tylenol."
Wilson is still staring at the cup of soup.
"You cooked for me?" he repeats. House keeps his eyes on the television screen.
"New Year's resolution," he says. "Be nice to Wilson one day out of the year. And see?" He gestures toward the TV. "Already done. Now I can revert to my normal self for all of 2009."
Times Square explodes in cheers as the lights go on, outlining 2 0 0 9 in huge neon numerals. From strategically-placed loudspeakers, an old familiar tune blares forth, and the crowd begins to sing.
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind -- "
Wilson picks up the mug of soup and blows a soft breath over the surface.
"Happy New Year, House," he says quietly.
House leans back and makes himself more comfortable by putting his feet up on the coffee table.
"Happy New Year, Wilson," he says.
~ fin
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
A Few Notes:
Tamari is a variety of soy sauce. More information about it may be found here and here.
Shabu-shabu is delicious. Read more about it here.
The Waterford crystal ball scheduled to drop this year is real.
Title and closing quote are from Auld Lang Syne.
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesCHARACTERS: House, Wilson
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: None.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the end of Season 4, in a very vague way.
SUMMARY: There are some New Year's resolutions that are just made to be broken. Aren't there? 1,668 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Just a small something for the end of the year, not meant to be taken too seriously. I've taken some liberties with the weather, Wilson's kitchen, and Dick Clark. The LJ-cut text is from "Rock Around the Clock," by Bill Haley and the Comets. It has nothing to do with this story. *g* Cross-posted to
house_wilson. BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
deelaundry and hannahorlove. A Cup of Kindness
"You weren't at the party," House says the moment Wilson opens the door. Gotta jump right in, go on the attack immediately where Wilson's concerned -- otherwise he'll do that verbal two-step, dance away where you can't get at him and the moment's lost. This time, though, Wilson doesn't look like he's up for dancing or anything else. His eyes are dull, his nose swollen and red, and his hair is mussed and standing on end as if he's just gotten out of bed.
Which ... he might have, House notes, taking in Wilson's loose flannel pants, bare feet, and rumpled grey t-shirt.
"What?" Wilson says stupidly, except it comes out more like "Whad?"
"You weren't at the party," House repeats. "You know I can't stand those things without you there to distract me."
"The ... oh. Th'party." Wilson turns away, starts to shuffle slowly toward the couch. It's obviously an invitation to come in, so House does.
"Yes, th'party," he says. "There's this thing called the economy; it's all the rage right now. It's tanking, so Cuddy wanted her world-famous doctors there to speak with silver tongues in gilded tones, which means me sitting silently while you work your magic."
"Mmmm," Wilson says from his prone position on the couch. His forearm is covering his eyes, as if the already-dim light in the apartment is painful. "Called her. Apologized. Said I couldn't make it this year."
"Yeah, well, she obviously didn't get the message."
"Sorry," Wilson murmurs, but he doesn't move otherwise, and House stumps cautiously forward.
"This isn't like you," he observes. "Normally you're all Mister Has-Tuxedo-Will-Travel. You love schmoozing with the high rollers. You -- " He stops, frowning. There's a faint sheen of sweat on Wilson's forehead, the softest of wheezes on every respiration ...
"You're sick!" House announces triumphantly.
Wilson groans. "It's a head cold," he mumbles.
"Think so?" Moving quickly now, House makes his way to Wilson's side and bends down, laying the back of his free hand against Wilson's forehead. "Fever, at least 100. Mild photophobia. Possibly fluid in the lungs." He sits down on the couch, hip-bumping Wilson to make room. "You've got the flu," he crows.
"Not on purpose," Wilson whines.
"Well, of course not on purpose," House says. "Who goes around getting the flu on purpose?" He pretends to study Wilson critically. "On the other hand -- "
"Go away, House," Wilson mutters. "I'm fine." His arm hasn't moved, though, and House can see that he's shivering a little.
"Sure you are, Saint Martyr." House shifts position, lets his gaze sweep around the tidy apartment. "Got any blankets anywhere?"
The arm finally comes up as Wilson waves vaguely.
"Bedroom," he croaks. "In th'closet." His voice catches a little on the "c" in closet, and he coughs pathetically.
House rolls his eyes; nevertheless, he levers himself up and makes his way into the bedroom. It's only a little brighter in here -- the lamp on what would have been Amber's side of the bed is on, revealing sheets and a bedspread in disarray and a sweat-soaked pillowcase. Wilson's iPod is in its dock, playing what sounds like an eternal loop of white noise, soft New Age-y shooshing sounds that are probably meant to be ocean waves. House briefly considers whacking it with his cane, stilling the fake ocean forever, but instead he crosses to the closet's folding doors.
There are at least a half-dozen blankets inside, all different weaves and weights for every possible temperature gradient. Woolen blankets, thick cotton blankets, cushy velour blankets, all neatly stacked in perfect hospital-squares and smelling faintly of cedar.
He grunts as he yanks the nearest one off the top and goes back into the living room.
"Here," he says, and tosses the blanket at Wilson. It lands with a floop! on his chest, and he blinks at it as if wondering where it came from. The apartment is quiet as Wilson unfolds the blanket and drapes it awkwardly over himself. House leans on his cane.
"When was the last time you ate something?"
"Um," Wilson says. He's pulled the blanket all the way up to his nose and is peeking out over the edge like a little kid trying to ward off nightmares. He lets go of the blanket for a moment and rubs at his eyes. "This morning. Had some toast."
"Nothing since then?"
"Wasn't hungry. I'll ... order something. Later."
"Nobody's going to deliver it," House says. "Use your ears, unless they're all stuffed up. We're supposed to get a half-inch of ice before morning, and it was starting to sleet when I knocked on the door."
"I'll be fine." Wilson turns onto his side and kicks at the blanket to straighten it.
"Well, I'm not going to take care of you," House declares. He crosses the short distance to the kitchen and opens the pantry door.
It's a Wilson pantry, all right -- plenty of ingredients, but nothing ready-made. No cans of condensed soup or chili, no Spaghetti-O's, no Jello or pudding cups. There are, however, cartons of free-range, organic broth with smiling chickens on the box, packages of dried Asian noodles, bottles of sesame oil and tamari. House's eyes narrow, and he turns to the refrigerator.
All the staples -- milk, butter, eggs, boring boring yogurt. A plastic container catches his eye, and he gives it a closer look. Roasted chicken, a thigh or a breast, shredded. A jar of low-fat mayonnaise sits next to it.
Chicken salad, House thinks. Boring. He stands still a moment, then pulls open the crisper. Spinach. A small bag of those mixed pre-washed baby greens. And right there on top, a thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger. He balances his cane handle over the edge of the kitchen counter and starts to pull things out of the fridge.
"Didn't you get a flu shot?" he calls back into the living room. "Or did you give it away this year to someone you thought was more deserving? Some other saintly doctor?" He stops in the act of setting a saucepan on the stove and pitches his voice a little higher. "Why, thank you, Dr. Wilson!"
"Was at a convention," Wilson says. His voice is partially muffled by the blanket and he punctuates his statement by coughing some more. "What are you doing in there?"
"I'm moonlighting in my second job with the Health Department," House says. "Got any mold in here? Aflatoxins? Dead rats?" Wilson's chef's knife makes precise, even slices of ginger, and the spicy scent tickles House's nostrils.
"Only rat in here is you," Wilson grumbles. "Seriously, House, get out of my kitchen."
"No can do -- I think I just spotted a whole colony of cockroaches in the breadbasket." He pours a few cups of broth in the saucepan and turns up the heat. He can hear the sleet pattering against the window, and he remembers the trip he made to Hokkaido when he was fifteen, the huge pots of shabu-shabu Mariko-san would make to ward off the winter chill. He drops the ginger slices into the simmering chicken broth, waits a few minutes, then dumps in the shredded meat.
"Turn on the TV," he yells. "I wanna see the ball drop!"
Wilson's reply is lost, but the TV blinks and suddenly Times Square roars to life in Wilson's living room. House glances up; Dick Clark is shouting into a microphone and snow is falling, floating past the television cameras and glistening on overcoats and jackets. House breaks off a handful of dried noodles and adds them to the soup. From the TV, Dinosaur Dick is yammering on about the giant Waterford crystal ball they're going to drop, and House wonders just how much of a shattered mess it would make if it actually hit the street, each of the 2,668 glass plates crazing, then splintering into millions of flying shards ...
"House?" Wilson calls, and House shakes himself free of his reverie.
"Just a minute," he yells. "You don't mind if I spread some bait around to get rid of all these ants, do you?" He hears Wilson start to chuckle, but it quickly turns into another cough.
The soup is bubbling away. House throws in some of the baby greens; they wilt in seconds and he follows up with a shot of tamari and a few drops of sesame oil. A quick stir to blend the flavors, and the light meal is complete. He turns off the heat, carefully ladles some of the soup into one of Wilson's extra-large coffee mugs and fishes out the ginger slices, then drops in a spoon and carries the mug into the living room, where he sets it gently onto the coffee table. On the television, Dick Clark is counting down the seconds along with everyone else in Times Square.
"What's this?" Wilson says, staring at the steam rising from the mug. He slowly sits up, the blanket draped over his shoulders. "You cooked for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head," House says, easing himself down into the nearby armchair. "Eat it all up and maybe I'll bring you some Tylenol."
Wilson is still staring at the cup of soup.
"You cooked for me?" he repeats. House keeps his eyes on the television screen.
"New Year's resolution," he says. "Be nice to Wilson one day out of the year. And see?" He gestures toward the TV. "Already done. Now I can revert to my normal self for all of 2009."
Times Square explodes in cheers as the lights go on, outlining 2 0 0 9 in huge neon numerals. From strategically-placed loudspeakers, an old familiar tune blares forth, and the crowd begins to sing.
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind -- "
Wilson picks up the mug of soup and blows a soft breath over the surface.
"Happy New Year, House," he says quietly.
House leans back and makes himself more comfortable by putting his feet up on the coffee table.
"Happy New Year, Wilson," he says.
~ fin
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
A Few Notes:
Tamari is a variety of soy sauce. More information about it may be found here and here.
Shabu-shabu is delicious. Read more about it here.
The Waterford crystal ball scheduled to drop this year is real.
Title and closing quote are from Auld Lang Syne.
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Favorite Lines: "It's tanking, so Cuddy wanted her world-famous doctors there to speak with silver tongues in gilded tones, which means me sitting silently while you work your magic."
"Wilson's iPod is in its dock, playing what sounds like an eternal loop of white noise, soft New Age-y shooshing sounds that are probably meant to be ocean waves."
Perfect Wilson lines and House wanting to hit it with his cane was perfect. I thought House cooking for Wilson was a nice touch. The best part of that was when House says "Now I can revert to my normal self for all of 2009." Totally Housian! :D Happy New Year, my friend! :D
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House can make me supper anytime :D
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