It's Daisylily's Birthday!
Dec. 15th, 2008 07:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deelaundryDaisylily is so very awesome. So awesome that she is made of it. Trying to enumerate her virtues, I'm rendered speechless, so I'll let House yammer on instead.
Title: On the Way (Part 1 of 2)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R (eventually)
Summary: The honeymoon sequel to "That Time Cameron Had Mono"
Notes: Part 2 will be finished tomorrow -- you'll get to celebrate your birthday twice! In this 'verse, New Jersey doesn't allow same-sex marriage or civil unions, because the original fic was written before the court case that produced civil unions in NJ.
A down-to-the-molecule search of the apartment had turned up nothing. Well, it had turned up several things House had thought he’d lost permanently – among them two game cartridges, a morphine prescription, Vixen Extreme Vol. 3 No. 4, and the outline for a glomerulonephritis journal article – but nothing related to the mystery honeymoon.
House hated mysteries.
OK, OK, that wasn’t entirely true. What House hated was not knowing things, especially things he ought to know.
Such as where his son-of-a-bitch... partner-type-whoozit was taking him on his honeymoon.
House hadn’t worked out his position on nomenclature yet. Wilson had been bandying about “fiancé” and “husband,” but then what else could you expect from a man with enough marrying experience to throw a Bridal Expo? Given that a commitment ceremony bought them zippo in the way of legal rights, House didn’t see why they couldn’t just use the classics of “roommate” and “dear friend” the way all the old closeted queers had done. Wilson, in spite of his slavish adoration for film of the 1920s and ‘30s, had not been inclined to agree.
They’d argued for thirty minutes, and then had really hot sex. In the bedroom closet, interestingly enough. Then Wilson had gone back to “my fiancé,” and House had taken three Vicodin and gone back to “my dude” and searching the apartment for honeymoon clues.
Bupkis.
Electronic searching had been similarly fruitless. The airlines and Amtrak were as tight-lipped as Cuddy on “Shirt-Free Fridays,” and really, House wasn’t sure Wilson was ready for the kind of intimate commitment this ceremony signified if he wasn’t able to trust his devoted partner with something so simple as the recently revised passwords for his online banking and credit card accounts.
“Fat chance,” Wilson had replied and kept on folding the laundry. Ass.
House had gotten into Wilson’s library check-out history, and he’d gleefully noted the guidebook for Fiji among the “classic literature” and sci-fi TV show novelizations Wilson normally devoured. The glee had been tempered seconds later when a second guidebook for the Adirondacks showed up and had been doused permanently at the sight of the next ten. Wilson was either worse-than-usually indecisive, hiding the real destination among the garbage (Walt Disney World? Seriously?), or fucking with him.
Wilson’s grin when he noticed what House was going through gave the answer away. Ass.
So, in the absence of concrete evidence, House was now forced to use his keen psychological insight into the workings of Wilson’s mind to divine their destination. Alternatively, he’d annoy Wilson into telling him. Either one would work.
“You,” House said as Wilson steered the Volvo onto US-1, “have a deep-seated fetish for the conventional.”
“Uh-huh,” Wilson replied. “Explains why I took to you so quickly.”
“I am the exception proving more rules than even you can articulate. Today's commitment thingy wasn't enough for you, even with the suits and the rabbi and the family blessing and I really could've done without your grandmother kissing me; has she always smelled that strongly of roses and herring? – so now you’re taking us to Massachusetts to make it legal.”
“There’s a residency requirement to get married in Massachusetts.”
“Canada. No residency requirement.”
“True, but the marriage wouldn’t be legal in Jersey.” Wilson glanced over, eyebrows raised to their most annoyingly challenging level. Stupid eyebrows, always thought they had one up on House.
He looked out the window for a while as the “scenery” rolled by. No matter where they went, what paper they got signed, they still wouldn’t have a legal union in New Jersey. Leaving the rant about that aside for another day, House moved on. “OK, Canada, but for sentimental reasons, not legal ones. We’re going to Montreal, because you want to show me around McGill.”
Wilson’s face lit up, the sap. “I do want to show you McGill. Would you go with me some day? Next reunion, maybe?”
House let out the loudest retching sounds he could make without actually throwing up. He wouldn’t mind touring the campus with Wilson, truth be told, but there was no way in hell he was going to any reunion. Boring, boring, boring, disastrous. The quicker Wilson got that through his thick skull, the better.
“Fine, fine,” Wilson replied, and then they were getting on the Turnpike.
“North, huh? So that’s no to Philly, DC, and the beaches of the Carolinas.”
“Unless I’m looping around to throw you off the track.”
House scoffed. “Yeah, sure, Mr. Tires-Always-Inflated-to-Recommend-Pressure is going to waste gas like that.”
Wilson looked affronted. “You never know!”
“Yes,” House replied, “I do.”
“Second time today you’ve said that,” Wilson said with a slyly sentimental smile, and House had to close his eyes before they rolled entirely out of his head.
An unknown amount of time later, House floated up out of sleep. It had come to him while he rested. “I know where you’re taking us.”
“Enlighten me,” Wilson said in an entirely-too-amused voice.
“I don’t know the exact location, but I know why you picked it. You’re a sentimental fool who’s insanely attached to the ‘firsts’ in your life. Almost all our firsts happened in New Jersey –”
“Except the first time we met.”
House sat up straighter and glared Wilson down. “Would you interrupt Poirot during his elaboration of the crime?”
“Considering he’s a fictional character, I don’t think I’ll get the chance.”
“Shut up.” House watched a moment to make sure the lips weren’t going to flap again and then continued. “Almost all our firsts happened in New Jersey, so you’re going back to an earlier memory. You’re taking us to where you first discovered the joys of sword-dueling.”
“What?”
“Homo sex.”
Wilson’s face twisted in disgust. “No, I don’t want to spend my honeymoon in Hoboken.”
House wasn’t quite sure he’d heard that correctly. “Hoboken?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Oh, I’m going to ask, and you’re going to answer. But not now, because I will not be distracted from this quest.”
“I didn’t figure that you would.”
*to be continued*
Title: On the Way (Part 1 of 2)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R (eventually)
Summary: The honeymoon sequel to "That Time Cameron Had Mono"
Notes: Part 2 will be finished tomorrow -- you'll get to celebrate your birthday twice! In this 'verse, New Jersey doesn't allow same-sex marriage or civil unions, because the original fic was written before the court case that produced civil unions in NJ.
A down-to-the-molecule search of the apartment had turned up nothing. Well, it had turned up several things House had thought he’d lost permanently – among them two game cartridges, a morphine prescription, Vixen Extreme Vol. 3 No. 4, and the outline for a glomerulonephritis journal article – but nothing related to the mystery honeymoon.
House hated mysteries.
OK, OK, that wasn’t entirely true. What House hated was not knowing things, especially things he ought to know.
Such as where his son-of-a-bitch... partner-type-whoozit was taking him on his honeymoon.
House hadn’t worked out his position on nomenclature yet. Wilson had been bandying about “fiancé” and “husband,” but then what else could you expect from a man with enough marrying experience to throw a Bridal Expo? Given that a commitment ceremony bought them zippo in the way of legal rights, House didn’t see why they couldn’t just use the classics of “roommate” and “dear friend” the way all the old closeted queers had done. Wilson, in spite of his slavish adoration for film of the 1920s and ‘30s, had not been inclined to agree.
They’d argued for thirty minutes, and then had really hot sex. In the bedroom closet, interestingly enough. Then Wilson had gone back to “my fiancé,” and House had taken three Vicodin and gone back to “my dude” and searching the apartment for honeymoon clues.
Bupkis.
Electronic searching had been similarly fruitless. The airlines and Amtrak were as tight-lipped as Cuddy on “Shirt-Free Fridays,” and really, House wasn’t sure Wilson was ready for the kind of intimate commitment this ceremony signified if he wasn’t able to trust his devoted partner with something so simple as the recently revised passwords for his online banking and credit card accounts.
“Fat chance,” Wilson had replied and kept on folding the laundry. Ass.
House had gotten into Wilson’s library check-out history, and he’d gleefully noted the guidebook for Fiji among the “classic literature” and sci-fi TV show novelizations Wilson normally devoured. The glee had been tempered seconds later when a second guidebook for the Adirondacks showed up and had been doused permanently at the sight of the next ten. Wilson was either worse-than-usually indecisive, hiding the real destination among the garbage (Walt Disney World? Seriously?), or fucking with him.
Wilson’s grin when he noticed what House was going through gave the answer away. Ass.
So, in the absence of concrete evidence, House was now forced to use his keen psychological insight into the workings of Wilson’s mind to divine their destination. Alternatively, he’d annoy Wilson into telling him. Either one would work.
“You,” House said as Wilson steered the Volvo onto US-1, “have a deep-seated fetish for the conventional.”
“Uh-huh,” Wilson replied. “Explains why I took to you so quickly.”
“I am the exception proving more rules than even you can articulate. Today's commitment thingy wasn't enough for you, even with the suits and the rabbi and the family blessing and I really could've done without your grandmother kissing me; has she always smelled that strongly of roses and herring? – so now you’re taking us to Massachusetts to make it legal.”
“There’s a residency requirement to get married in Massachusetts.”
“Canada. No residency requirement.”
“True, but the marriage wouldn’t be legal in Jersey.” Wilson glanced over, eyebrows raised to their most annoyingly challenging level. Stupid eyebrows, always thought they had one up on House.
He looked out the window for a while as the “scenery” rolled by. No matter where they went, what paper they got signed, they still wouldn’t have a legal union in New Jersey. Leaving the rant about that aside for another day, House moved on. “OK, Canada, but for sentimental reasons, not legal ones. We’re going to Montreal, because you want to show me around McGill.”
Wilson’s face lit up, the sap. “I do want to show you McGill. Would you go with me some day? Next reunion, maybe?”
House let out the loudest retching sounds he could make without actually throwing up. He wouldn’t mind touring the campus with Wilson, truth be told, but there was no way in hell he was going to any reunion. Boring, boring, boring, disastrous. The quicker Wilson got that through his thick skull, the better.
“Fine, fine,” Wilson replied, and then they were getting on the Turnpike.
“North, huh? So that’s no to Philly, DC, and the beaches of the Carolinas.”
“Unless I’m looping around to throw you off the track.”
House scoffed. “Yeah, sure, Mr. Tires-Always-Inflated-to-Recommend-Pressure is going to waste gas like that.”
Wilson looked affronted. “You never know!”
“Yes,” House replied, “I do.”
“Second time today you’ve said that,” Wilson said with a slyly sentimental smile, and House had to close his eyes before they rolled entirely out of his head.
An unknown amount of time later, House floated up out of sleep. It had come to him while he rested. “I know where you’re taking us.”
“Enlighten me,” Wilson said in an entirely-too-amused voice.
“I don’t know the exact location, but I know why you picked it. You’re a sentimental fool who’s insanely attached to the ‘firsts’ in your life. Almost all our firsts happened in New Jersey –”
“Except the first time we met.”
House sat up straighter and glared Wilson down. “Would you interrupt Poirot during his elaboration of the crime?”
“Considering he’s a fictional character, I don’t think I’ll get the chance.”
“Shut up.” House watched a moment to make sure the lips weren’t going to flap again and then continued. “Almost all our firsts happened in New Jersey, so you’re going back to an earlier memory. You’re taking us to where you first discovered the joys of sword-dueling.”
“What?”
“Homo sex.”
Wilson’s face twisted in disgust. “No, I don’t want to spend my honeymoon in Hoboken.”
House wasn’t quite sure he’d heard that correctly. “Hoboken?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Oh, I’m going to ask, and you’re going to answer. But not now, because I will not be distracted from this quest.”
“I didn’t figure that you would.”
*to be continued*