deelaundry | Free Time (PG)

Posted to volakis_wilson and housefic

Title: Free Time
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: Wilson/Amber, House
Rating: PG
Words: 920
Summary: One night the schedule was thrown off.
Notes: Written for Pen and Sauty. Spoilers through episode 4-13, “No More Mr. Nice Guy.” Thanks to

nightdog_barks and

blackmare_9 for suggestions.

As she climbed out of her car, Amber hummed a happy tune. Four hours of overtime had suddenly become two – Michaels needed the experience anyway – so she was getting back to James much earlier than she’d anticipated. Always a good thing, in her book.

She was contemplating whether she wanted the ego boost of Scrabble tonight (she always won) or the challenge of Trivial Pursuit (surprisingly, James was a fount of the arcane), and as a result didn’t see House until she was almost on top of him. Eww.

“My night,” she emphasized, with no preliminaries. House was like a semi-feral dog; you had to keep a firm hand and never, ever turn your back on him.

“Which you forfeited by working late,” he countered, jabbing a bony finger in her direction. She didn’t care for the aggressive gesture, but she had to admit in her own mind that he might possibly have something approaching a point.

Not that she’d concede it to him.

“You were the one who wanted to set definitive boundaries; I offered to let Wilson set his own schedule,” she explained. She jingled her keys for a moment, torn between wanting to A, keep the door firmly closed, not giving House any opening whatsoever, and B, open the door, slip inside, and slam it right in his smug mug.

House made an ugly face – all of them were ugly, really, but this was purposefully grotesque – at one of the neighbors, and Amber decided she’d be better off letting him into the foyer to get him out of sight. Then she could slam the apartment door in his face. Even better.

He followed her into the foyer, still yammering about how evil she was to come home early, as if it was some trick on him instead of, say, an authentic desire to spend time relaxing in her own home with her own boyfriend. She was trying to be patient with House, trying for James’ sake, but oh, he was so infuriating. Treating James like a dog that he owned, like a possession. She knew there was genuine affection for Wilson buried somewhere in House’s manic obsession, but it was hard to see under his driving need to dominate and control, to stake his claim and defend it against any perceived encroachment.

God.

Two steps away from the apartment door, she heard the rhythmic thumping of bass turned way too loud compared to treble. “You hear that?” House asked, rather stupidly in her opinion.

“I’m not deaf,” she snapped back. “Must be one of the neighbors.”

“It sounds more like it’s coming from,” House said as Amber opened the door, “inside your –”

He stopped abruptly, and no wonder. The music was coming from inside her apartment; it was an ’80s dance tune that she couldn’t name – by Depeche Mode, maybe? – being danced to. Vigorously.

By James.

In nylon shorts, and no shirt. With a half-eaten corndog in one hand and a half-empty bottle of – she tilted her head to look – Zima? Who the hell even sold that any more?

In the middle of a duck and spin James caught sight of them, and then flailed a bit as he tried to stop and face them. She ignored the flecks of breading scattering across her floor in favor of wondering if he’d lost his ever-loving mind.

“Amber! House!” he yelped in a tone that fell shy of masculine, and she hoped for his sake he couldn’t see her flinch.

House had no such compunction, and yelled at her accusingly, “You turned him gay!”

“Me?” Oh, no, no, no. She wasn’t going to let House pull this one. “You’re the one who’s always talking about your ‘big wood’ around him!”

“You mean my cane, which I need to walk?” he shot back, and if he thought the cripple card was going to buy him any points whatsoever with her, he had another damn think coming. “I’ve been talking about it ever since I got it, and it never turned him into a wine-cooler-swilling ravehead!”

The music clicked off suddenly, startling Amber and House into looking at James again. “It’s a malt beverage,” he said sternly, as if the distinction was gravely important, and then turned on his heel and stalked into the bedroom, an air of battered dignity trailing behind him.

Amber sighed. Scrabble was definitely out for this evening.

“You –” House began to accuse, but Amber had had more than enough.

“House!” she barked and miracle of miracles, he actually shut up. “I know you’re developmentally disabled when it comes to human emotion, but let’s try, shall we? Think all the way back to your kindergarten days, to the big smiley and frowny faces, OK? Based on Wilson’s behavior, do you think he is happy? Or sad?”

House glared at her and tried to divert the conversation but she insisted loudly, “Happy or sad?”

“You’d know sad, wouldn’t you?” he saracastically and sullenly replied.

She figured that was as good as she’d get and asked, “So, do you want it to be your night now? I’ll give you a freebie.” At his continued silence, she went on, “Or do you want me to take care of it?”

House glared at the stereo, at the corndog dregs on the floor, and then, again, at her. “I said he needed a female influence, didn’t I? Just turn him back into himself before it’s my night.”

“You can count on me,” Amber said, and showed him to the door.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

recrudescence.livejournal.com

It is a malt beverage, and a tasty one. Poor Wilson--despite what everyone seems to think, he really does need some time to himself every now and then.

From:

nutty implies a certain level of pizazz I just don't have

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