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sick_wilson2007-08-11 09:38 am
alanwolfmoon.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-08-11 09:38 am
trash cans beware (ch 30!)
Title: Trash cans beware (ch 30!)
Pairing: House / Wilson, House/Chase mild friendship
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG
Summary: In honour of the '200 members' prompt onsick_wilson
The prompt was "Today wasn't the first time Wilson had been a little late for work recently, so House didn't give it much thought. Especially since the patient Cuddy had found for him was turning out to be more than just a case of intestinal flu, after all."
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Notes: Only my seccond attempt at fanfiction. Ever. Reveiws and flames alike are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast) oh, i want to hug this chapter. that's the one disadvantage to writing completly on the computer. it's really uncomfortable to hug a monitor.
30 chapters! i can't belive i made it this far! thanks to everybody who's been putting up with me for thirty chapters!
I just got back from working at a summer camp for a week. aka: enjoying the chance to wierd people out by dry popping my meds (pollen alergies and adhd) just because I can.
and now the story.
“Hello.”
“That Cameron girl said you were refusing to see me.”
“Note the past tense in that sentence, dad.”
“You think I’m going to break down and beg?”
“I think Wilson talked me into giving you a chance to talk to me.”
“And he didn’t come along himself?”
“Are you indicating something?” asked House, very sharply.
John House winced slightly.
“No...”
The one thing he couldn’t bug his son about and he had hit on it right from the start.
He usually thought Greg was stubborn, but he knew that he himself was stubborn to the point of breaking the people around him because of it.
Greg at least gave up the fight for his friends some of the time...
“Look....”
“I am looking.”
“I thought you said you were going to give me a chance to talk.”
“Wilson thought I should give you the physical chance to do it without initiating it yourself by calling or something. He didn’t expect that I would make it emotionally easy for you.”
John House sighed heavily.
Blythe House stood outside the room, carrying a cup with steam coming out of it, ignoring the pain from the heat as she watched her son and husband square off verbally.
Gregory leaned his cane on the table, crossing his arms as he listened to his father’s argument.
John’s lower jaw was jutting in that peculiar way that meant he wanted to stop arguing but couldn’t bring himself to lose...
“And what if I do! What would you say to that!” carried through the glass in her son’s currently slightly hoarse voice.
Poor Gregory. He was always so worn, emotionally and physically, and even now that he was finding a bit of happiness with his friend Dr. Wilson, he was still so stressed by everything else...
“Sick!” echoed through the hallway, only part of a string of words uttered by john that Blythe knew had nothing to do with his condition.
Oh dear, John had been talking about Dr. Wilson, had hit Gregory’s one soft spot...
She could see Gregory’s shoulder’s hunch slightly, could see him convulsively close his right hand tightly, as though he were squeezing his cane.
She pressed her ear to the glass, knowing that whether or not she had to announce her presence depended on what Gregory’s next words were.
“I only.....................it was Wilson’s idea........I didn’t have any reason to want to.........and you think I’ll .........you say that........one last chance........Wilson told me.......*only* because Wilson......so take it or.......” she heard, missing some parts of the sentence through the glass.
She smiled thinly, glad that Gregory’s friend Dr. Wilson had guessed that the sorest subject would be himself and had posessed the foresight to convince Gregory to give his father an extra chance during this conversation.
Now for if John could take being given the chance....
“It’s me.” muttered House, coming into the darkened differential room to find Wilson lying on the couch, apparently asleep.
Wilson sat up immediately.
“House?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d it go?”
“Terrible. On the upside, he did shut up about you after half an hour.”
“What do you mean ‘terrible’?”
“I mean now I have to treat him.”
Wilson smiled.
“That’s not so bad.”
House looked uncomfortably at the ground.
“What?”
“Just....I don’t think you should talk to him for the next few days....”
“Why would I want to?”
“I don’t know. Just....don’t.”
“I’m sorry, but I feel obliged to ask why....”
House snorted.
“I...ah...said some things to him...mostly to shut him up. Some of them had more truth behind them than I thought they would before I heard myself say them. Nothing bad.” said House, rolling his eyes at Wilson’s raised eyebrow.
Wilson sighed, shook his head carefully, and started gathering up the stuff he wanted to take home.
Elsewhere in the hospital, one seventy or so year old woman was sitting in a hallway near her husband’s room, humming quietly to herself as she crocheted a scarf out of sparkly blue yarn and thought about what her son had just said to his father. Every time she recalled the exact words, a large smile would break out across her lips, and all she would feel would be happiness for her son and his friend.
House laid down on his (well, really Wilson’s at this point) bed, watching Wilson sleep soundly and thinking back over his conversation with his dad.
Yes, he had managed to admit the hardest thing he had ever said to the last person he wanted to know, but did it matter after all? Did it matter that he had told his homophobic asshole bastard of a father that the only person he cared about other that his mother was Wilson? Did it matter that his father had told him that he was a disgusting excuse for a person and that he never wanted to see him again? Did it matter that he had lied to Wilson because he wanted Wilson to stop worrying about the state the relationship between House and his father? Did it matter that he had indirectly told Wilson that his father had finally broken down and asked for help when in reality the old geezer was still as stubborn of an asshole as ever? Did it matter that now he had to find some way to explain the fact that he was “treating” his father when his father was going to reject everything thought up by his “sick” son? Did it matter that as he sat on the bed next to his best friend he recalled watching other children running to their fathers and older brothers when the rowdiest drunks on the bases had gotten out of control, while he hid in a stack of crates in a corner, unable to seek refuge with his father because his father was part of the ruckus. Did it matter that he recalled sitting by a Japanese hospital bed for his entire fifteenth birthday while his first friend in years lay in critical condition because Greg’s own father had gone into a drunken rage and beat the older boy up when he tried to protect Greg during a large bar fight that had extended throughout the entire base? Did it matter that he felt a surge of protectiveness towards Wilson that eclipsed all the reservations he had built up in the years since that birthday?
The last one probably mattered. All of them probably mattered, and in time Wilson would find them all out.
But not now. Certainly not the last few unless his father tried to do something to Wilson.
He had thought for six years that he would never again be able to open up without shattering. Without breaking. He wasn’t shattered. And he had definitely opened his gates a crack to Wilson.
Wilson turned over in his sleep, snuggling against the warmth that was sitting next to him. House looked down, biting his lip. This was it. Everything in the last two months had been leading up to these thoughts, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed them coming. He wondered why he hadn’t fought when he realized they were on their way. He wondered how Wilson was going to react to the fact they had surfaced. He realized that he wanted Wilson to know. He was surprised at himself, but he knew he had to show Wilson sometime, and now, when he had finally accepted them himself, was probably the best time he was ever going to get. Before any regrets or depressed withdrawing to privacy caught him up and swept him away from the truth.
“Wilson?”
Wilson continued to sleep.
House rolled his eyes, thinking that there was always something that kept a moment from being perfect.
He rubbed his knuckles hard over Wilson’s chest, impatient for his friend to wake up before he lost the nerve to tell him.
Wilson glared sleepily up at House, rubbing his chest.
“That hurt. Why’d ya have to do that?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Couldn’t you have waited five minutes to wake me up in a less painful way?”
“No. I need to talk to you.”
Wilson blinked, looking concerned.
“Did something happen? Your dad?”
“No. I just need to talk to you.”
Wilson sighed, rolling his eyes at what he was expecting to be a late night consult on fantasy football stats.
“What about?”
“I.....”
House swallowed, looking up at the ceiling.
Wilson tilted his head looking worriedly at House’s face, expecting to see pain lines tracing the corners of his friend’s eyes. They weren’t there. House was hesitating because of something emotional, not something physical.
House swallowed again and looked down, meeting Wilson’s eyes.
“I really, really, really want you to stay. Not because of your cooking.”
There. It was out. Granted, he hadn’t managed to get the whole idea out, but what he had said was blatantly clear and formal. He was surprised to find how hard it had been to say “stay” rather than “stick around.” The former meant he was totally serious about this. The latter that he was somewhat casual. The former scared him to death.
Wilson gaped at House.
For over a minute.
Then he pinched himself.
It hurt.
Pairing: House / Wilson, House/Chase mild friendship
Author:
alanwolfmoonRating: PG
Summary: In honour of the '200 members' prompt on
sick_wilsonThe prompt was "Today wasn't the first time Wilson had been a little late for work recently, so House didn't give it much thought. Especially since the patient Cuddy had found for him was turning out to be more than just a case of intestinal flu, after all."
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Notes: Only my seccond attempt at fanfiction. Ever. Reveiws and flames alike are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast) oh, i want to hug this chapter. that's the one disadvantage to writing completly on the computer. it's really uncomfortable to hug a monitor.
30 chapters! i can't belive i made it this far! thanks to everybody who's been putting up with me for thirty chapters!
I just got back from working at a summer camp for a week. aka: enjoying the chance to wierd people out by dry popping my meds (pollen alergies and adhd) just because I can.
trash cans beware
trash cans beware (ch 2)
trash cans beware ch 3
trash cans beware (ch 4)
trash cans beware (ch 5)
Trash cans beware (ch 6)
PART SEVEN!
trash cans beware ch 8
trash cans beware (ch 9)
trash cans beware (ch 10)
trash cans beware (ch 11)
trash cans beware (ch 12)
trash cans beware (ch 13)
trash cans beware (ch 14)
trash cans beware (ch 15)
trash cans beware (ch 16)
trash cans beware (ch 17)
trash cans beware (ch 18)
there are many ways to avoid flames for a stoyr. posting it in a format that no one can actually read? now that's clever. (ch 19)
trash cans beware (ch 20, 21, 22, 23)
trash cans beware (ch 24)
trash cans beware (ch 25!)
trash cans beware (ch 26)
trash cans beware (ch 27)
trash cans beware (ch 28)
trash cans beware (ch 2)
trash cans beware ch 3
trash cans beware (ch 4)
trash cans beware (ch 5)
Trash cans beware (ch 6)
PART SEVEN!
trash cans beware ch 8
trash cans beware (ch 9)
trash cans beware (ch 10)
trash cans beware (ch 11)
trash cans beware (ch 12)
trash cans beware (ch 13)
trash cans beware (ch 14)
trash cans beware (ch 15)
trash cans beware (ch 16)
trash cans beware (ch 17)
trash cans beware (ch 18)
there are many ways to avoid flames for a stoyr. posting it in a format that no one can actually read? now that's clever. (ch 19)
trash cans beware (ch 20, 21, 22, 23)
trash cans beware (ch 24)
trash cans beware (ch 25!)
trash cans beware (ch 26)
trash cans beware (ch 27)
trash cans beware (ch 28)
and now the story.
“Hello.”
“That Cameron girl said you were refusing to see me.”
“Note the past tense in that sentence, dad.”
“You think I’m going to break down and beg?”
“I think Wilson talked me into giving you a chance to talk to me.”
“And he didn’t come along himself?”
“Are you indicating something?” asked House, very sharply.
John House winced slightly.
“No...”
The one thing he couldn’t bug his son about and he had hit on it right from the start.
He usually thought Greg was stubborn, but he knew that he himself was stubborn to the point of breaking the people around him because of it.
Greg at least gave up the fight for his friends some of the time...
“Look....”
“I am looking.”
“I thought you said you were going to give me a chance to talk.”
“Wilson thought I should give you the physical chance to do it without initiating it yourself by calling or something. He didn’t expect that I would make it emotionally easy for you.”
John House sighed heavily.
Blythe House stood outside the room, carrying a cup with steam coming out of it, ignoring the pain from the heat as she watched her son and husband square off verbally.
Gregory leaned his cane on the table, crossing his arms as he listened to his father’s argument.
John’s lower jaw was jutting in that peculiar way that meant he wanted to stop arguing but couldn’t bring himself to lose...
“And what if I do! What would you say to that!” carried through the glass in her son’s currently slightly hoarse voice.
Poor Gregory. He was always so worn, emotionally and physically, and even now that he was finding a bit of happiness with his friend Dr. Wilson, he was still so stressed by everything else...
“Sick!” echoed through the hallway, only part of a string of words uttered by john that Blythe knew had nothing to do with his condition.
Oh dear, John had been talking about Dr. Wilson, had hit Gregory’s one soft spot...
She could see Gregory’s shoulder’s hunch slightly, could see him convulsively close his right hand tightly, as though he were squeezing his cane.
She pressed her ear to the glass, knowing that whether or not she had to announce her presence depended on what Gregory’s next words were.
“I only.....................it was Wilson’s idea........I didn’t have any reason to want to.........and you think I’ll .........you say that........one last chance........Wilson told me.......*only* because Wilson......so take it or.......” she heard, missing some parts of the sentence through the glass.
She smiled thinly, glad that Gregory’s friend Dr. Wilson had guessed that the sorest subject would be himself and had posessed the foresight to convince Gregory to give his father an extra chance during this conversation.
Now for if John could take being given the chance....
“It’s me.” muttered House, coming into the darkened differential room to find Wilson lying on the couch, apparently asleep.
Wilson sat up immediately.
“House?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d it go?”
“Terrible. On the upside, he did shut up about you after half an hour.”
“What do you mean ‘terrible’?”
“I mean now I have to treat him.”
Wilson smiled.
“That’s not so bad.”
House looked uncomfortably at the ground.
“What?”
“Just....I don’t think you should talk to him for the next few days....”
“Why would I want to?”
“I don’t know. Just....don’t.”
“I’m sorry, but I feel obliged to ask why....”
House snorted.
“I...ah...said some things to him...mostly to shut him up. Some of them had more truth behind them than I thought they would before I heard myself say them. Nothing bad.” said House, rolling his eyes at Wilson’s raised eyebrow.
Wilson sighed, shook his head carefully, and started gathering up the stuff he wanted to take home.
Elsewhere in the hospital, one seventy or so year old woman was sitting in a hallway near her husband’s room, humming quietly to herself as she crocheted a scarf out of sparkly blue yarn and thought about what her son had just said to his father. Every time she recalled the exact words, a large smile would break out across her lips, and all she would feel would be happiness for her son and his friend.
House laid down on his (well, really Wilson’s at this point) bed, watching Wilson sleep soundly and thinking back over his conversation with his dad.
Yes, he had managed to admit the hardest thing he had ever said to the last person he wanted to know, but did it matter after all? Did it matter that he had told his homophobic asshole bastard of a father that the only person he cared about other that his mother was Wilson? Did it matter that his father had told him that he was a disgusting excuse for a person and that he never wanted to see him again? Did it matter that he had lied to Wilson because he wanted Wilson to stop worrying about the state the relationship between House and his father? Did it matter that he had indirectly told Wilson that his father had finally broken down and asked for help when in reality the old geezer was still as stubborn of an asshole as ever? Did it matter that now he had to find some way to explain the fact that he was “treating” his father when his father was going to reject everything thought up by his “sick” son? Did it matter that as he sat on the bed next to his best friend he recalled watching other children running to their fathers and older brothers when the rowdiest drunks on the bases had gotten out of control, while he hid in a stack of crates in a corner, unable to seek refuge with his father because his father was part of the ruckus. Did it matter that he recalled sitting by a Japanese hospital bed for his entire fifteenth birthday while his first friend in years lay in critical condition because Greg’s own father had gone into a drunken rage and beat the older boy up when he tried to protect Greg during a large bar fight that had extended throughout the entire base? Did it matter that he felt a surge of protectiveness towards Wilson that eclipsed all the reservations he had built up in the years since that birthday?
The last one probably mattered. All of them probably mattered, and in time Wilson would find them all out.
But not now. Certainly not the last few unless his father tried to do something to Wilson.
He had thought for six years that he would never again be able to open up without shattering. Without breaking. He wasn’t shattered. And he had definitely opened his gates a crack to Wilson.
Wilson turned over in his sleep, snuggling against the warmth that was sitting next to him. House looked down, biting his lip. This was it. Everything in the last two months had been leading up to these thoughts, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed them coming. He wondered why he hadn’t fought when he realized they were on their way. He wondered how Wilson was going to react to the fact they had surfaced. He realized that he wanted Wilson to know. He was surprised at himself, but he knew he had to show Wilson sometime, and now, when he had finally accepted them himself, was probably the best time he was ever going to get. Before any regrets or depressed withdrawing to privacy caught him up and swept him away from the truth.
“Wilson?”
Wilson continued to sleep.
House rolled his eyes, thinking that there was always something that kept a moment from being perfect.
He rubbed his knuckles hard over Wilson’s chest, impatient for his friend to wake up before he lost the nerve to tell him.
Wilson glared sleepily up at House, rubbing his chest.
“That hurt. Why’d ya have to do that?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Couldn’t you have waited five minutes to wake me up in a less painful way?”
“No. I need to talk to you.”
Wilson blinked, looking concerned.
“Did something happen? Your dad?”
“No. I just need to talk to you.”
Wilson sighed, rolling his eyes at what he was expecting to be a late night consult on fantasy football stats.
“What about?”
“I.....”
House swallowed, looking up at the ceiling.
Wilson tilted his head looking worriedly at House’s face, expecting to see pain lines tracing the corners of his friend’s eyes. They weren’t there. House was hesitating because of something emotional, not something physical.
House swallowed again and looked down, meeting Wilson’s eyes.
“I really, really, really want you to stay. Not because of your cooking.”
There. It was out. Granted, he hadn’t managed to get the whole idea out, but what he had said was blatantly clear and formal. He was surprised to find how hard it had been to say “stay” rather than “stick around.” The former meant he was totally serious about this. The latter that he was somewhat casual. The former scared him to death.
Wilson gaped at House.
For over a minute.
Then he pinched himself.
It hurt.
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