Long Weekend (PG)
Nov. 22nd, 2008 08:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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house_wilson and housefic
Title: Long Weekend
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: Wilson, House
Rating: PG for theme
Words: 577
Summary: Wilson spirals down; House waits. NOT HAPPY. Spoilers through episode 5-4. There is a sequel to this fic: Ever After.
Wilson gets fired on Friday. Walks out of Cuddy’s office with a smile on his face. He’s happy he got fired, which doesn’t surprise House. Not given what Wilson’s been up to – or, rather, not up to lately.
“You wanted Cuddy to can you,” House says, falling into step right next to Wilson as he pushes out past the Clinic doors. “No chance of getting guilted into staying if you make her push instead of walking out yourself.”
Wilson doesn’t respond. He never responds lately, but that’s all right. House understands why.
Slam, through the stairwell door, and Wilson’s going up the steps two at a time. The lab coat billows out like wings. House waits at the bottom of the staircase for Wilson to come back down again with whatever trinkets he’ll take from his office.
Wilson bangs Taub’s wife on Saturday. Could’ve picked anyone for this, House thinks at first, but it turns out that’s not true. Wilson needs the anger of a woman scorned – whether forgiveness has been given or not – and he wants the guilt that comes from knowing he’s betrayed someone he knows. Again. It’s a particular kind of guilt he wants: sandspur guilt covered in spikes that pierce and cling. The kind that stays with you, under your skin, nettles, settles, doesn’t go away.
Wilson destroys House’s couch on Sunday. Takes a honking big chef’s knife to it, stabbing, ripping. He plunges the blade in over and over.
At one point he hits frame and his arm jars. House wonders if the shoulder’s dislocated, the way that Wilson’s shouting and jumping, but no. Wilson proves that a moment later when he takes a sidearm swing and rends the back cushion from one side to the other.
Fluff spouts from the gash, and Wilson takes no notice whatsoever.
Wilson dies on Monday. Barely Monday – 12:03 – but Monday nonetheless. House watches his chest fail to rise for thirty seconds, counted off precisely, and then turns to the left.
Empty air.
He looks back at Wilson’s body, sees no movement, and counts for sixty seconds, then another twenty just to be safe. Dead. Wilson’s definitely dead. House looks out around the room, searching.
Empty air.
The low rumble of chuckling bypasses House’s ears and pounds directly into his heart. “You son of a bitch,” he says.
“Don’t talk about your grandmother that way,” John House replies, stepping into view.
“You said –”
Dad shakes his head. “You never learned how to listen, did you, boy? Never. I said you’d get to see him, and I said he’d die. I didn’t say you’d get to see him after he died.”
House looks down at the lifeless body. “Where’d he go?”
“Hell if I know,” Dad says. “Want to go hang around your girl Lisa? She’s got a hell of a body, and she’ll probably be hitting the shower in a couple of hours.”
House ignores the suggestion. “Where did he go?”
“You think anybody tells me anything? Chain of command, son. Need to know. God figures I don’t need to know; I figure you don’t need to know. Got any reason you want to hang around this empty old place?”
House shakes his head.
Dad clamps an unwelcome hand on his shoulder and nods off toward the distance. “Well, then let’s get a move on.”
house_wilson and houseficTitle: Long Weekend
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: Wilson, House
Rating: PG for theme
Words: 577
Summary: Wilson spirals down; House waits. NOT HAPPY. Spoilers through episode 5-4. There is a sequel to this fic: Ever After.
Wilson gets fired on Friday. Walks out of Cuddy’s office with a smile on his face. He’s happy he got fired, which doesn’t surprise House. Not given what Wilson’s been up to – or, rather, not up to lately.
“You wanted Cuddy to can you,” House says, falling into step right next to Wilson as he pushes out past the Clinic doors. “No chance of getting guilted into staying if you make her push instead of walking out yourself.”
Wilson doesn’t respond. He never responds lately, but that’s all right. House understands why.
Slam, through the stairwell door, and Wilson’s going up the steps two at a time. The lab coat billows out like wings. House waits at the bottom of the staircase for Wilson to come back down again with whatever trinkets he’ll take from his office.
Wilson bangs Taub’s wife on Saturday. Could’ve picked anyone for this, House thinks at first, but it turns out that’s not true. Wilson needs the anger of a woman scorned – whether forgiveness has been given or not – and he wants the guilt that comes from knowing he’s betrayed someone he knows. Again. It’s a particular kind of guilt he wants: sandspur guilt covered in spikes that pierce and cling. The kind that stays with you, under your skin, nettles, settles, doesn’t go away.
Wilson destroys House’s couch on Sunday. Takes a honking big chef’s knife to it, stabbing, ripping. He plunges the blade in over and over.
At one point he hits frame and his arm jars. House wonders if the shoulder’s dislocated, the way that Wilson’s shouting and jumping, but no. Wilson proves that a moment later when he takes a sidearm swing and rends the back cushion from one side to the other.
Fluff spouts from the gash, and Wilson takes no notice whatsoever.
Wilson dies on Monday. Barely Monday – 12:03 – but Monday nonetheless. House watches his chest fail to rise for thirty seconds, counted off precisely, and then turns to the left.
Empty air.
He looks back at Wilson’s body, sees no movement, and counts for sixty seconds, then another twenty just to be safe. Dead. Wilson’s definitely dead. House looks out around the room, searching.
Empty air.
The low rumble of chuckling bypasses House’s ears and pounds directly into his heart. “You son of a bitch,” he says.
“Don’t talk about your grandmother that way,” John House replies, stepping into view.
“You said –”
Dad shakes his head. “You never learned how to listen, did you, boy? Never. I said you’d get to see him, and I said he’d die. I didn’t say you’d get to see him after he died.”
House looks down at the lifeless body. “Where’d he go?”
“Hell if I know,” Dad says. “Want to go hang around your girl Lisa? She’s got a hell of a body, and she’ll probably be hitting the shower in a couple of hours.”
House ignores the suggestion. “Where did he go?”
“You think anybody tells me anything? Chain of command, son. Need to know. God figures I don’t need to know; I figure you don’t need to know. Got any reason you want to hang around this empty old place?”
House shakes his head.
Dad clamps an unwelcome hand on his shoulder and nods off toward the distance. “Well, then let’s get a move on.”