House Drabblefic: Set in Stone
Apr. 1st, 2007 11:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: Set in Stone
Fandom: House
Rating: G
Notes: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rat_jam Promptathon.
Prompts: House/Wilson, apology
***
"So you apologised."
Signing up for detox involves a commitment of weeks. While he knew that when he came here, he hadn't expected the time to pass this *slowly*. Or to be trapped in frighteningly cheerful decor for the entire time.
So he's now Gregory House, M.N.B. Those initials being Mind-Numbingly Bored. Next time Cuddy orders business cards, he's going to get that added right after the M.D. But that would require actually using the business cards Cuddy ordered for him, instead of handing them out at strip joints with Cuddy's office number on the back.
"House?"
He'll think about it.
"I never knew my workload was this light," he says, avoiding the topic at hand and reaching forward to take a handful of peanuts from the snack-sized bag.
"On average, you see one to two patients a week," Wilson replies, picking up his bag of peanuts and cradling them on his lap, just out of House's reach. "Not counting clinic hours, of course."
"Yeah, but I never have this much free time. If I knew there was so little requirement for my face-to-face wisdom, I would have taken up a hobby years ago."
It's a blatent lie. Firstly, he already has hobbies: Gameboy, PSP and a satisfying interest in soap operas. Secondly, he doesn't normally have this much free time. Seems oddly fitting that as he's sitting here, mind slowly rotting from sheer, utter boredom, this week's patient had the bad taste to actually *have* Lupis.
Wilson raises one perfectly dark eyebrow. Then he eats a peanut. "A hobby?"
"I'm thinking sky-diving. Bungy-jumping might strain the leg," he says, tapping his bad thigh and stretching out a little further on the bed. They're both sitting on House's single cot: Wilson at one end, House at the other. It's just long enough that those peanuts are still out of reach.
"Maybe you should play it safe and take up something more sedientary. Something you could start now. Knitting, for example."
"They don't like giving us needles in detox. Weird, huh?" As he says that, he picks up the bottom of his cane and uses the handle to swipe at the bag of nuts. He'd hoped that with enough force, the nuts would spray towards him and he could gather them up off the cheap polyester bedspread. Instead, they scatter across the carpet. "Not worth picking those up. You don't know what that carpet's seen."
For a long moment, Wilson blinks at the random sprinkle of nuts, then he licks the last traces of salt from his fingers. "Strangely enough, this brings us back to the actual topic of conversation."
"My over-abundance of free time?"
"Apologies. And the rarity of you making them."
House snorts. "I apologise all the time."
"No, you don't. You never apologise."
"I apologise to my clinic patients."
"Tritter doesn't count," Wilson says quickly, "and telling some girl's mother that you're sorry she's too stupid to understand that when detergent says toxic it's not a good idea to spoon-feed it to her four year old is not an apology."
"I said sorry," he objects half-heartedly, leaning over the side of the bed to use his cane as a hockey stick for the smallest pucks ever. It takes three tries to get one through the bathroom doorway. "Goal! Score one for the cripple."
Wilson doesn't look amused. He's wearing the pursed lips of mild disapproval, and the combination of drawn brows and slightly widened eyes that convince patients to trust and confide in him. This is Wilson in doctor-mode, trying to gently encourage his patient to do what's best for them.
House turns back to his mini-hockey. He's on his third goal when Wilson says, "You apologised."
"I do that on occasion."
"On very rare occasions. And you very rarely apologise to me."
"Not in those specific words." He scores a fourth goal. "Although I'm not sure I actually used the word sorry when I apologised to you anyway."
"You're really not going to talk about this?" Wilson asks, sounding disapproving and confused, and a little hurt. It's not that the touch of vulnerability gets to House; he's seen Wilson flirt and divorce, and even when Wilson's genuinely hurt, he doesn't take long to heal.
He also knows how obstinate and stubbord Wilson can be. And House still has weeks of enforced boredom ahead of him.
He rolls his eyes at Wilson. "You're really going to harp on about this until I do?"
"Yeah." Wilson shrugs, looks down at his hands for a moment. "I just wanted to know..."
"What?" House snaps.
"You meant it?" This time, Wilson's vulnerability isn't faked at all. The thing about friendships is that it cuts both ways. House can tell the fake vulnerability from the real, can tell manipulating guilt trips from lashing out in anger, but Wilson gets him, too.
Wilson isn't asking for a declaration or a sacrifice of liberty. He's asking for atonement and forgiveness, for reassurance and validation.
House takes a moment to line up one more swing, and sends another peanut skittering across the bathroom tiles. "You want me to engrave it in stone? Chisel it into a tablet somewhere, hang it on your walls for everyone to see?"
"Nah," Wilson replies, grin not missing a beat. "It wouldn't go with anything in my office."
"Considering the junk you keep in your office, I'm almost offended by that."
Fandom: House
Rating: G
Notes: Written for the
rat_jam Promptathon.Prompts: House/Wilson, apology
***
"So you apologised."
Signing up for detox involves a commitment of weeks. While he knew that when he came here, he hadn't expected the time to pass this *slowly*. Or to be trapped in frighteningly cheerful decor for the entire time.
So he's now Gregory House, M.N.B. Those initials being Mind-Numbingly Bored. Next time Cuddy orders business cards, he's going to get that added right after the M.D. But that would require actually using the business cards Cuddy ordered for him, instead of handing them out at strip joints with Cuddy's office number on the back.
"House?"
He'll think about it.
"I never knew my workload was this light," he says, avoiding the topic at hand and reaching forward to take a handful of peanuts from the snack-sized bag.
"On average, you see one to two patients a week," Wilson replies, picking up his bag of peanuts and cradling them on his lap, just out of House's reach. "Not counting clinic hours, of course."
"Yeah, but I never have this much free time. If I knew there was so little requirement for my face-to-face wisdom, I would have taken up a hobby years ago."
It's a blatent lie. Firstly, he already has hobbies: Gameboy, PSP and a satisfying interest in soap operas. Secondly, he doesn't normally have this much free time. Seems oddly fitting that as he's sitting here, mind slowly rotting from sheer, utter boredom, this week's patient had the bad taste to actually *have* Lupis.
Wilson raises one perfectly dark eyebrow. Then he eats a peanut. "A hobby?"
"I'm thinking sky-diving. Bungy-jumping might strain the leg," he says, tapping his bad thigh and stretching out a little further on the bed. They're both sitting on House's single cot: Wilson at one end, House at the other. It's just long enough that those peanuts are still out of reach.
"Maybe you should play it safe and take up something more sedientary. Something you could start now. Knitting, for example."
"They don't like giving us needles in detox. Weird, huh?" As he says that, he picks up the bottom of his cane and uses the handle to swipe at the bag of nuts. He'd hoped that with enough force, the nuts would spray towards him and he could gather them up off the cheap polyester bedspread. Instead, they scatter across the carpet. "Not worth picking those up. You don't know what that carpet's seen."
For a long moment, Wilson blinks at the random sprinkle of nuts, then he licks the last traces of salt from his fingers. "Strangely enough, this brings us back to the actual topic of conversation."
"My over-abundance of free time?"
"Apologies. And the rarity of you making them."
House snorts. "I apologise all the time."
"No, you don't. You never apologise."
"I apologise to my clinic patients."
"Tritter doesn't count," Wilson says quickly, "and telling some girl's mother that you're sorry she's too stupid to understand that when detergent says toxic it's not a good idea to spoon-feed it to her four year old is not an apology."
"I said sorry," he objects half-heartedly, leaning over the side of the bed to use his cane as a hockey stick for the smallest pucks ever. It takes three tries to get one through the bathroom doorway. "Goal! Score one for the cripple."
Wilson doesn't look amused. He's wearing the pursed lips of mild disapproval, and the combination of drawn brows and slightly widened eyes that convince patients to trust and confide in him. This is Wilson in doctor-mode, trying to gently encourage his patient to do what's best for them.
House turns back to his mini-hockey. He's on his third goal when Wilson says, "You apologised."
"I do that on occasion."
"On very rare occasions. And you very rarely apologise to me."
"Not in those specific words." He scores a fourth goal. "Although I'm not sure I actually used the word sorry when I apologised to you anyway."
"You're really not going to talk about this?" Wilson asks, sounding disapproving and confused, and a little hurt. It's not that the touch of vulnerability gets to House; he's seen Wilson flirt and divorce, and even when Wilson's genuinely hurt, he doesn't take long to heal.
He also knows how obstinate and stubbord Wilson can be. And House still has weeks of enforced boredom ahead of him.
He rolls his eyes at Wilson. "You're really going to harp on about this until I do?"
"Yeah." Wilson shrugs, looks down at his hands for a moment. "I just wanted to know..."
"What?" House snaps.
"You meant it?" This time, Wilson's vulnerability isn't faked at all. The thing about friendships is that it cuts both ways. House can tell the fake vulnerability from the real, can tell manipulating guilt trips from lashing out in anger, but Wilson gets him, too.
Wilson isn't asking for a declaration or a sacrifice of liberty. He's asking for atonement and forgiveness, for reassurance and validation.
House takes a moment to line up one more swing, and sends another peanut skittering across the bathroom tiles. "You want me to engrave it in stone? Chisel it into a tablet somewhere, hang it on your walls for everyone to see?"
"Nah," Wilson replies, grin not missing a beat. "It wouldn't go with anything in my office."
"Considering the junk you keep in your office, I'm almost offended by that."
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