Papa's Retreat (PG)

[deelaundry]

Posted to house_wilson

Title: Papa’s Retreat
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Words: 713
Summary: Wilson wants to get away, but not by himself.
Notes: Dialogue-only, kid!fic. Prequel to My Fathers’ Son. Custom written for fffaw as a thank-you for donating to The Robert Sean Leonard Birthday Charity Drive benefiting Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS. There is a direct sequel to this fic: Sunshine State, rated G.

Hey, House, here’s the preliminary agenda for that oncology conference I was telling you about.

Where is it again?

Naples, Florida. At The Ritz.

Recession didn’t hurt you guys none.

Never does, unfortunately. You should come with me.

Because that wouldn’t look weird, me hanging around a cancer conference.

You didn’t care about the agenda matching any of your specialties when it was the Midwifery and Obstetrics Joint Congress in New Orleans last year.

That was the week of Jazz Fest.

I’m just saying: you’ve got a reputation for sniffing out boondogglery and then reveling in it. No one will bat an eye. You should come with me.

And we’ll leave Jack to fend for himself. That seems about right. He’s two and a half, after all, practically grown up.

I’ve already worked it out with Marjorie; she’s going to take care of him.

In exchange for an exorbitantly high stipend.

Of course. You should come with me.

The Ritz in Naples, huh? Which one, the Beach Resort or the Golf Resort?

It’s a skin cancer conference.

Golf Resort, then.

With a shuttle to the Beach Resort. You should come with me.

I’ll think about it.

You know the best thing about Naples?

How fuck-all far it is from a decent-sized airport?

That it’s only a short boat ride from the Keys.

Oh, you’re not.

Oh, I am.

You’re thinking about going to Key West. Sweater-vest Guy. You. Do they make swimsuits that button down?

I’m past the ‘thinking about it’ stage and all the way into the ‘found the perfect two-bedroom beach cottage and put down a nonrefundable deposit on it’ stage. You should come with us.

‘Us’? You and Rickie and Renato and Drew?

Who?

How do you not know more about your heritage? My So-Called Life, La Cage Aux Folles, and Queer as Folk US.

The way your mind works never ceases to amaze me. ‘Us’ means me and Jack. I’m taking my kid to the beach.

I thought he was going to be with Marjorie. You just said --

He is going to be with Marjorie during the conference. At the Ritz, in an adjoining room. And when the conference is over, she’s going home, and I’m taking him to the Keys, for swimming and sandcastles and shell collecting and fruity drinks and ice cream. It’ll be fun. You should come with us.

Fruity drinks sounds about right. Two men and a preschooler -- that doesn’t look suspicious.

You’re forgetting the ice cream. House, it’s Key West, a community full of people who’ve raised nonconformity to an art unsurpassed even by you. No one will care. Seriously.

No.

Fine, do what you want. I’m taking my kid to the beach. And I’m going to wear bright rainbow-colored swim trunks and a unicorn shirt and tell everyone who’ll listen how much I simply adore smooching with my husband. Unless, of course, you’re there to stop me.

You’re evil.

Through and through. The most fabulous thing about my husband, I’ll say, is how soft his lips are. Perfect for nibbling. And when my hubby, my Poochie-Coo --

You are not going to say Poochie-Coo.

When my Poochie-Coo is feeling extra grumpy-wumpy like a bear cub, I just --

You are not going to say that!

Wike a widdle gwumpy bear cub --

Oh, good god, Jack is going to vomit on you if you talk like that.

He won’t be able to stop me, though. I can talk and clean up vomit at the same time. You’ve seen me do it. On more than one occasion.

You are evil.

Yes, I am.

You already bought my plane ticket, didn’t you?

I am a wellspring of hope and optimism.

And evil.

We established that.

It’s the only reason I don’t detest you completely, you know.

I know. Want to give one of the opening speeches at the conference?

You’re grinning way too widely; it’s disgusting.

I’m happy; sue me. My baby’s going to the beach with me.

You’re thinking, ‘And Jack, too.’

Yep, I am, Poochie-Coo.

That’s it; I’m staying here.

Kidding! Sorry! Sorry! It’ll never pass my lips again, I promise. C’mon, let me make it up to you.

It may involve sand in uncomfortable places.

I’m pretty much depending on that.

Comments

[deelaundry.livejournal.com]

Wilson knows what would make House nuts! House wouldn't even be there; just the thought of it would drives House around the bend. Heh, heh, heh.

Thanks! (It was a good trip, although the lack of consistent internet was a little perturbing.)