Ever After (PG)
Nov. 23rd, 2008 05:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deelaundryPosted to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson and housefic
Title: Ever After, sequel to Long Weekend
Author: Dee Laundry
Rating: PG for theme
Words: 1626
Summary: House gets to start over. That's a good thing.
Notes: Afterlife fic, with references to major character death. Spoilers through episode 5-4. Thank you to Early Readers, including especially![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_barks and daisylily for support.
It’s been a while since Wilson breathed his last. A week, maybe? Time doesn’t have much meaning here.
House did go to Cuddy’s that first night, pretty much because he couldn’t think of what else to do. Cuddy woke up about five, took off her nightgown, and then...
A very gorgeous, very naked woman – one who’d featured in House’s fantasies far more than once – took a steamy, sensuous shower as House watched with his Dad. Mortifying. A strange turn of phrase for the afterlife, but still the most appropriate word.
Mortifying.
He hustled Dad out after that, and they drifted for a while. Here, there, everywhere, nowhere.
Dad imparts life lessons – afterlife lessons – with the same regularity and odd fervor that he had when House was young. And, as they were when House was young, the lessons are admonishments with very little actual useful information in them.
“God will speak to you when you’re ready.”
“Patience, boy, will get you by.”
“Just because you want something, doesn’t mean you deserve to get it. And even deserving it doesn’t mean you will get it. Unless it’s being taken down a peg. That you’ll get every time.”
They’re in a weird nowhere land: a stump that Dad’s sitting on, grass underneath, but no sky at all. Dad’s whittling; House can’t remember where he got the knife. Maybe he’s had it all along.
Dad’s talking again, more lessons, more words that weave together into a tarp that wraps around House’s heart, squeezing him, making him feel small. He’s feeling very small, heartsick, weighed down, and it’s at that moment that God speaks to him.
Not in words. Not even in pictures. Suddenly, his mind is just clear. Like the burnoff of a morphine haze, he can think again. There’s one thought in his mind, and it slides down his brain stem, flips up and out of his mouth: “You’re not my real father.”
John House straightens up, drops the wood and knife, and stares solemnly at House. “No, I am not.”
House feels a tickle on his neck, and swings around. There’s Wilson, standing fifty yards away. Amber’s with him, behind a little, hand on his shoulder, but he only has eyes for House. Warm eyes. A hint of a smile that means something.
He turns back to John House, who’s sitting straight and rigid on the stump. “I don’t have to stay with you,” House says.
“No. You do not.”
It’s not permission, House realizes. It’s admission, confirmation of something House knows.
“You’re right,” John House says, and House is surprised not to feel elation at those words. No triumph, because John House is nothing to him. Might as well be a concrete building or a swath of landscape rolling by. Nothing House ever has to give another thought to, and he heads off, toward Wilson.
He’s running, feet pelting, and with every stride his legs grow a little shorter, and his arms, and his torso, so that by the time he’s just steps away, he’s aiming at Wilson’s knees, but Wilson grabs him up. Swings his feet off the ground like flying, and hoists him high, up where they can see each other, and that’s home there, home in Wilson’s eyes and Wilson’s arms.
“My mom’s not dead yet,” House says.
“I know,” Wilson says, right arm holding House securely on Wilson’s hip, left hand smoothing down House’s hair.
House likes how warm Wilson’s hand is. “And I don’t have a dad.”
“You could if you wanted,” Wilson says, telling House something he already knows. They look at each other for a long minute, and it’s happy and scary at the same time, but then Wilson gets brave and says, “I’d really like to be your dad.”
A chance to start again, that’s what God’s offering. Start from the beginning and see what else might be made of him.
House looks at Wilson’s chest. No pocket protector; nothing shielding his heart. “You’d do it right?”
Wilson shifts his hand, puts his thumb under House’s chin to tilt House’s head up and look him straight in the eyes. “I can’t promise that I’ll be perfect, only that I’ll try with everything I have. I’ve got the loving you part down, for sure.”
“You’ll teach me to be better?”
“House, you never needed to be better. You just needed to learn how to stop getting in the way of your own happiness.”
House kicks a little, nudges Wilson’s tummy with a knee. “You weren’t so great at that yourself.”
Wilson laughs, a hearty laugh House hadn’t heard in years. “Can we try to learn together?”
“Yes,” House says, “I want to,” and his Wilson’s squeezing him tight, kissing his head, heart pressed to heart, and there might be some tears in there somewhere but mostly there are smiles of every different sort.
Even Amber’s smiling, when House bothers to look up. “Her, I don’t like so much,” House whispers to his Wilson.
“That’s OK,” Wilson says. “I like her well enough for the both of us.”
House clutches tighter to his Wilson’s neck. “You won’t leave me for her?”
“I won’t leave you at all.” Wilson’s arms tighten again around House’s back, so secure. “But I want her to stay with us, too.”
Laying down the law, setting the record straight, House insists, “She’s not my mother.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Amber says, rolling her eyes.
“Literally?” House throws back, and they all laugh.
Amber’s hand on Wilson’s shoulder doesn’t seem like a grappling hook anymore. It’s just a hand. One that soothes Wilson, one that Wilson likes having there. House can put up with it, for his Wilson’s sake.
In the midst of this, of home, of coming to terms, a question re-occurs to House. “Where did you go?” he asks his Wilson. “After you died.”
“I don’t know,” Wilson says. “Here, there, and everywhere. I saw my grandmothers first, just like I remember them from when I was a kid. They’re great cooks; you’re going to love them. And my grandfathers, and my Uncle Irwin.” Wilson chuckles. “His breath still stinks, but he’s a good guy.”
“You didn’t see Amber first?”
His Wilson smiles at Amber, a twinkle in his eye. “Not first, but close to first.”
Amber twinkles back, and House pulls closer to Wilson, plasters himself to Wilson’s skin. “Sooner than me,” he says sadly, quietly, but Wilson hears it and lifts House up again to look in his eyes.
“I wanted to see you,” Wilson says earnestly.
House raises an eyebrow. They tried the obfuscation thing for years, hiding truth in lies and lies in truth. House has had enough of that shit.
“You were angry when you died,” he says. “Angry at me.”
Yes,” Wilson admits. “I wanted to see you and didn’t want to at the same time. I got over the anger pretty quickly, though.” He twiddles House’s hair. “But I knew I still had to wait. Didn’t know why. It just wasn’t time.”
House hugs his Wilson, arms around Wilson’s neck, cheek pressed to cheek. “You weren’t ready.”
“Or you weren’t. I don’t know. But it was worth the wait.”
“Yeah.” He hugs tighter.
It shouldn’t make any difference that they can now name this thing they have, but it does. Wilson is his, forever, and he’s Wilson’s. And now they can have more on top. Wilson can have Amber, and for House, it’s open. Once he learns how, he can have more people in his life (in his afterlife) – friends, as many as he wants. More connections, more things to learn, but always, always in the end, his Wilson.
“How old is he?” Amber asks.
“Old enough to answer his own questions,” Wilson replies, a little laugh in his voice. House wiggles and stretches, and Wilson gets the clue and sets him down on the ground.
“I think I’m a grown man,” House tells Amber. “I feel I’m a little kid.”
“You look like you’re about two.” She’s really tall. It’s disconcerting, in a way Wilson’s height isn’t.
“Nah, not that young,” House insists. “I just didn’t want to break Wilson’s back when he picked me up. I can be any size I want.”
Arched eyebrow – her face is quite pretty, and her long blond hair looks good pulled back like it is. “Really?”
Bigger, House thinks, and nothing happens.
Amber’s smirk is very annoying.
Bigger, House thinks, bigger, bigger, bigger!
“It’s OK,” Wilson says, “I believe you,” and suddenly House feels the concept of bigger, and zoom, there he goes.
“Huh,” Wilson says, from his suddenly less far-away height. “About eight, I’d guess.”
“That sounds about right,” House says, and throws his arms around his Wilson’s abdomen.
Wilson’s smaller hands hold him just as warmly. Two or eight, doesn’t matter. Except it does, a little.
“Can you get any bigger than that?” Wilson asks.
“Nope,” House replies confidently. “Not now.”
“Not until you’re ready,” his Wilson concurs, and House is slipping down Wilson’s legs, shorter, shorter, and arms straining high.
Wilson grins and picks him up again, both arms around him, chest to chest, like a piggy-back ride but in front. Amber’s hand slips into House’s view again, lightly around his Wilson’s bicep, and it’s all right. House doesn’t mind.
“What now?” Amber asks. She said the same thing on the bus, only that wasn’t her, and anyway, that was a very long time ago.
Wilson kisses the top of House’s head and then starts walking. “I was thinking, lunch.”
“Is it lunch time?” House asks.
“It is if we want it to be,” Wilson replies.
“OK,” House says, soothed by their forward movement, with Wilson’s heartbeat strong and steady in his ear. “First we’ll have lunch.”
house_wilson and houseficTitle: Ever After, sequel to Long Weekend
Author: Dee Laundry
Rating: PG for theme
Words: 1626
Summary: House gets to start over. That's a good thing.
Notes: Afterlife fic, with references to major character death. Spoilers through episode 5-4. Thank you to Early Readers, including especially
nightdog_barks and daisylily for support.It’s been a while since Wilson breathed his last. A week, maybe? Time doesn’t have much meaning here.
House did go to Cuddy’s that first night, pretty much because he couldn’t think of what else to do. Cuddy woke up about five, took off her nightgown, and then...
A very gorgeous, very naked woman – one who’d featured in House’s fantasies far more than once – took a steamy, sensuous shower as House watched with his Dad. Mortifying. A strange turn of phrase for the afterlife, but still the most appropriate word.
Mortifying.
He hustled Dad out after that, and they drifted for a while. Here, there, everywhere, nowhere.
Dad imparts life lessons – afterlife lessons – with the same regularity and odd fervor that he had when House was young. And, as they were when House was young, the lessons are admonishments with very little actual useful information in them.
“God will speak to you when you’re ready.”
“Patience, boy, will get you by.”
“Just because you want something, doesn’t mean you deserve to get it. And even deserving it doesn’t mean you will get it. Unless it’s being taken down a peg. That you’ll get every time.”
They’re in a weird nowhere land: a stump that Dad’s sitting on, grass underneath, but no sky at all. Dad’s whittling; House can’t remember where he got the knife. Maybe he’s had it all along.
Dad’s talking again, more lessons, more words that weave together into a tarp that wraps around House’s heart, squeezing him, making him feel small. He’s feeling very small, heartsick, weighed down, and it’s at that moment that God speaks to him.
Not in words. Not even in pictures. Suddenly, his mind is just clear. Like the burnoff of a morphine haze, he can think again. There’s one thought in his mind, and it slides down his brain stem, flips up and out of his mouth: “You’re not my real father.”
John House straightens up, drops the wood and knife, and stares solemnly at House. “No, I am not.”
House feels a tickle on his neck, and swings around. There’s Wilson, standing fifty yards away. Amber’s with him, behind a little, hand on his shoulder, but he only has eyes for House. Warm eyes. A hint of a smile that means something.
He turns back to John House, who’s sitting straight and rigid on the stump. “I don’t have to stay with you,” House says.
“No. You do not.”
It’s not permission, House realizes. It’s admission, confirmation of something House knows.
“You’re right,” John House says, and House is surprised not to feel elation at those words. No triumph, because John House is nothing to him. Might as well be a concrete building or a swath of landscape rolling by. Nothing House ever has to give another thought to, and he heads off, toward Wilson.
He’s running, feet pelting, and with every stride his legs grow a little shorter, and his arms, and his torso, so that by the time he’s just steps away, he’s aiming at Wilson’s knees, but Wilson grabs him up. Swings his feet off the ground like flying, and hoists him high, up where they can see each other, and that’s home there, home in Wilson’s eyes and Wilson’s arms.
“My mom’s not dead yet,” House says.
“I know,” Wilson says, right arm holding House securely on Wilson’s hip, left hand smoothing down House’s hair.
House likes how warm Wilson’s hand is. “And I don’t have a dad.”
“You could if you wanted,” Wilson says, telling House something he already knows. They look at each other for a long minute, and it’s happy and scary at the same time, but then Wilson gets brave and says, “I’d really like to be your dad.”
A chance to start again, that’s what God’s offering. Start from the beginning and see what else might be made of him.
House looks at Wilson’s chest. No pocket protector; nothing shielding his heart. “You’d do it right?”
Wilson shifts his hand, puts his thumb under House’s chin to tilt House’s head up and look him straight in the eyes. “I can’t promise that I’ll be perfect, only that I’ll try with everything I have. I’ve got the loving you part down, for sure.”
“You’ll teach me to be better?”
“House, you never needed to be better. You just needed to learn how to stop getting in the way of your own happiness.”
House kicks a little, nudges Wilson’s tummy with a knee. “You weren’t so great at that yourself.”
Wilson laughs, a hearty laugh House hadn’t heard in years. “Can we try to learn together?”
“Yes,” House says, “I want to,” and his Wilson’s squeezing him tight, kissing his head, heart pressed to heart, and there might be some tears in there somewhere but mostly there are smiles of every different sort.
Even Amber’s smiling, when House bothers to look up. “Her, I don’t like so much,” House whispers to his Wilson.
“That’s OK,” Wilson says. “I like her well enough for the both of us.”
House clutches tighter to his Wilson’s neck. “You won’t leave me for her?”
“I won’t leave you at all.” Wilson’s arms tighten again around House’s back, so secure. “But I want her to stay with us, too.”
Laying down the law, setting the record straight, House insists, “She’s not my mother.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Amber says, rolling her eyes.
“Literally?” House throws back, and they all laugh.
Amber’s hand on Wilson’s shoulder doesn’t seem like a grappling hook anymore. It’s just a hand. One that soothes Wilson, one that Wilson likes having there. House can put up with it, for his Wilson’s sake.
In the midst of this, of home, of coming to terms, a question re-occurs to House. “Where did you go?” he asks his Wilson. “After you died.”
“I don’t know,” Wilson says. “Here, there, and everywhere. I saw my grandmothers first, just like I remember them from when I was a kid. They’re great cooks; you’re going to love them. And my grandfathers, and my Uncle Irwin.” Wilson chuckles. “His breath still stinks, but he’s a good guy.”
“You didn’t see Amber first?”
His Wilson smiles at Amber, a twinkle in his eye. “Not first, but close to first.”
Amber twinkles back, and House pulls closer to Wilson, plasters himself to Wilson’s skin. “Sooner than me,” he says sadly, quietly, but Wilson hears it and lifts House up again to look in his eyes.
“I wanted to see you,” Wilson says earnestly.
House raises an eyebrow. They tried the obfuscation thing for years, hiding truth in lies and lies in truth. House has had enough of that shit.
“You were angry when you died,” he says. “Angry at me.”
Yes,” Wilson admits. “I wanted to see you and didn’t want to at the same time. I got over the anger pretty quickly, though.” He twiddles House’s hair. “But I knew I still had to wait. Didn’t know why. It just wasn’t time.”
House hugs his Wilson, arms around Wilson’s neck, cheek pressed to cheek. “You weren’t ready.”
“Or you weren’t. I don’t know. But it was worth the wait.”
“Yeah.” He hugs tighter.
It shouldn’t make any difference that they can now name this thing they have, but it does. Wilson is his, forever, and he’s Wilson’s. And now they can have more on top. Wilson can have Amber, and for House, it’s open. Once he learns how, he can have more people in his life (in his afterlife) – friends, as many as he wants. More connections, more things to learn, but always, always in the end, his Wilson.
“How old is he?” Amber asks.
“Old enough to answer his own questions,” Wilson replies, a little laugh in his voice. House wiggles and stretches, and Wilson gets the clue and sets him down on the ground.
“I think I’m a grown man,” House tells Amber. “I feel I’m a little kid.”
“You look like you’re about two.” She’s really tall. It’s disconcerting, in a way Wilson’s height isn’t.
“Nah, not that young,” House insists. “I just didn’t want to break Wilson’s back when he picked me up. I can be any size I want.”
Arched eyebrow – her face is quite pretty, and her long blond hair looks good pulled back like it is. “Really?”
Bigger, House thinks, and nothing happens.
Amber’s smirk is very annoying.
Bigger, House thinks, bigger, bigger, bigger!
“It’s OK,” Wilson says, “I believe you,” and suddenly House feels the concept of bigger, and zoom, there he goes.
“Huh,” Wilson says, from his suddenly less far-away height. “About eight, I’d guess.”
“That sounds about right,” House says, and throws his arms around his Wilson’s abdomen.
Wilson’s smaller hands hold him just as warmly. Two or eight, doesn’t matter. Except it does, a little.
“Can you get any bigger than that?” Wilson asks.
“Nope,” House replies confidently. “Not now.”
“Not until you’re ready,” his Wilson concurs, and House is slipping down Wilson’s legs, shorter, shorter, and arms straining high.
Wilson grins and picks him up again, both arms around him, chest to chest, like a piggy-back ride but in front. Amber’s hand slips into House’s view again, lightly around his Wilson’s bicep, and it’s all right. House doesn’t mind.
“What now?” Amber asks. She said the same thing on the bus, only that wasn’t her, and anyway, that was a very long time ago.
Wilson kisses the top of House’s head and then starts walking. “I was thinking, lunch.”
“Is it lunch time?” House asks.
“It is if we want it to be,” Wilson replies.
“OK,” House says, soothed by their forward movement, with Wilson’s heartbeat strong and steady in his ear. “First we’ll have lunch.”
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Date: 2008-11-24 02:28 am (UTC)One typo - "A strange turn of phase for the afterlife..." I think that was supposed to be "phrase."