mercyrobot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mercyrobot) wrote2009-05-21 12:50 pm
mercyrobot) wrote2009-05-21 12:50 pm
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I think I wrote this, anyway.
Um. So. I found this thing in my googledocs? I have no memory of writing it. Sometimes I will paste things into a document if they're long and a pain to click through, but that's usually fairly obvious when I've done it. Plus this is short, and not actually that great, so why would I do that?
So I must have written it, and the revision history seems to back me up on that. The television choice and the 'specific heat of lo mein' remark sound like me, but the rest... *shrug* Maybe I was drunk. Except it's so G-rated that I highly doubt it.
Rough days were par for the course when your job was cancer, but today had been rougher than usual for Wilson. He'd had a death and two terminal diagnoses, one of which was a ten-year-old girl, and a nasty relapse after a three-year remission just to ice the cake. Most times chance and the little leeway scheduling afforded could spread these things over slightly longer periods, but there were days when it all just piled on with no good news to take some of the sting away. He hadn't even had anyone to talk to because House had spent all day neck-deep in a marathon differential with his team, one of those cases that just wouldn't crack. The five minutes of having food stolen off his plate before he said something that sent House off in genius-epiphany mode didn't count, and even the 'is it cancer?' consult had been with Chase because House had been too busy.
House always said that Wilson fed on neediness, but occasionally Wilson needed too, which was kind of a sad state to be in when one's best friend in the world was an emotionally-inaccessible misanthrope, but House's brand of comfort was not the contradiction in terms it seemed on the surface. It wasn't hugging and puppies, no. It was something more subtle than that, just a quiet sort of undemanding acceptance that House seemed to be able to sense the need for and deliver, leaving Wilson to suddenly realize a few hours in that he felt much better. It had absolutely nothing to do with the 'decade of unrequited love' factor; that was as natural as breathing at this point.
Even if he sometimes did want something a little more direct, it sure as hell beat staring at the dingy wallpaper of the latest pre-furnished dive of an apartment he'd signed a short-term lease on while waiting for the dust to settle around The Julie Negotiations. He hated the limbo of it, the bareness of the place, but at the same time was unable to bring himself to do anything about it because he'd just be moving out soon. Tonight wasn't for brooding and trying to beat the staticky TV into submission (no point in getting cable), and House's lumpy sofa seemed a small price to pay for knowing that there was someone on the other side of the wall who gave a shit about him, even if it wasn't exactly the way he wanted.
He wanted to drink beer and watch a plotless movie with House drowning out the dialogue with tasteless comments, maybe eat some Chinese and doze off to the notes of something bluesy on the piano. They wouldn't Talk About Things, or probably about anything at all, but at the end of the night Wilson would feel calm and closer to decent. In thanks he'd cook breakfast in the morning, those pancakes House loved so much.
Already buoyed by his plan, he felt a little bit better even just putting in the take-out order. He bought beer and picked up the food, and wasn't even discouraged by the fact that there weren't any lights on when he got to House's place. The guy had been known to sit around in the dark out of sheer laziness. Though it turned out he wasn't home yet, Wilson knew for a fact the team had wrapped up the marathon case so he would be soon. He let himself in with his key and sat down in front of the TV to wait.
Two beers later, there was no sign of House. Finally he caved and texted "I got Chinese," but got no response. Calling sent him straight to voicemail. He didn't leave a message.
Wilson gave up and ate the egg rolls, which wouldn't keep and which House didn't like that much anyway. He thought about leaving, but being alone here was still better than being alone at the apartment, so he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa to the accompaniment of the Buffy DVD that had been left in the player, paused in the middle of the musical episode.
He must have dozed off, because the credits were rolling when he woke to the sound of the door opening. "Either you're the stupidest burglar ever or you're Wilson," House called out to what probably looked like an empty living room.
"I got Chinese," Wilson said, "but it's probably cold." He tried not to sound pouty about that.
A few seconds later he was being shoved into an upright position. "I'm surprised at you," House said around a mouthful of lo mein. "You know how important proper temperature control is to food saftey."
He wanted to ask 'where've you been,' but didn't, because it didn't really matter. House was here now, that was the important thing, and he'd set two beers on the coffee table. Wilson picked up the one nearest him and took a long drink. "Ever wonder what would happen if everyone at the hospital started breaking into song?" he asked instead.
"Hopefully Cuddy would do a burlesque number," House said. "Maybe with pasties."
"I think that's crossing the line between burlesque and just plain old stripping."
"That works too." House flipped the TV to some college football game and eyed Wilson sideways. "Rough day at the office?"
Wilson sighed and nodded. "You have no idea."
"I got covered in potentially biotoxic ooze and had to take a decontamination shower."
"I had to tell a ten-year-old she has six months to live."
"With Foreman."
"Her mother hit me."
"Okay, you win." He passed Wilson the carton, which was now mostly rejected vegetables with a few stray noodles. "How long've you been here?"
"I don't know, what's the specific heat of lo mein? Two beers and half a Buffy." It would be easier if House were the Talking About Things type, because then Wilson wouldn't have to wonder if House was getting the between-the-lines 'I've had a crappy day, cheer me up.' Pretty much everything with them that wasn't caustic remarks and pranks and arguing stayed between the lines, as if to voice care or trust would invalidate their existence. He thinks maybe House thinks that if it's not said, it's not real, and therefore can't be taken away from him.
So I must have written it, and the revision history seems to back me up on that. The television choice and the 'specific heat of lo mein' remark sound like me, but the rest... *shrug* Maybe I was drunk. Except it's so G-rated that I highly doubt it.
Rough days were par for the course when your job was cancer, but today had been rougher than usual for Wilson. He'd had a death and two terminal diagnoses, one of which was a ten-year-old girl, and a nasty relapse after a three-year remission just to ice the cake. Most times chance and the little leeway scheduling afforded could spread these things over slightly longer periods, but there were days when it all just piled on with no good news to take some of the sting away. He hadn't even had anyone to talk to because House had spent all day neck-deep in a marathon differential with his team, one of those cases that just wouldn't crack. The five minutes of having food stolen off his plate before he said something that sent House off in genius-epiphany mode didn't count, and even the 'is it cancer?' consult had been with Chase because House had been too busy.
House always said that Wilson fed on neediness, but occasionally Wilson needed too, which was kind of a sad state to be in when one's best friend in the world was an emotionally-inaccessible misanthrope, but House's brand of comfort was not the contradiction in terms it seemed on the surface. It wasn't hugging and puppies, no. It was something more subtle than that, just a quiet sort of undemanding acceptance that House seemed to be able to sense the need for and deliver, leaving Wilson to suddenly realize a few hours in that he felt much better. It had absolutely nothing to do with the 'decade of unrequited love' factor; that was as natural as breathing at this point.
Even if he sometimes did want something a little more direct, it sure as hell beat staring at the dingy wallpaper of the latest pre-furnished dive of an apartment he'd signed a short-term lease on while waiting for the dust to settle around The Julie Negotiations. He hated the limbo of it, the bareness of the place, but at the same time was unable to bring himself to do anything about it because he'd just be moving out soon. Tonight wasn't for brooding and trying to beat the staticky TV into submission (no point in getting cable), and House's lumpy sofa seemed a small price to pay for knowing that there was someone on the other side of the wall who gave a shit about him, even if it wasn't exactly the way he wanted.
He wanted to drink beer and watch a plotless movie with House drowning out the dialogue with tasteless comments, maybe eat some Chinese and doze off to the notes of something bluesy on the piano. They wouldn't Talk About Things, or probably about anything at all, but at the end of the night Wilson would feel calm and closer to decent. In thanks he'd cook breakfast in the morning, those pancakes House loved so much.
Already buoyed by his plan, he felt a little bit better even just putting in the take-out order. He bought beer and picked up the food, and wasn't even discouraged by the fact that there weren't any lights on when he got to House's place. The guy had been known to sit around in the dark out of sheer laziness. Though it turned out he wasn't home yet, Wilson knew for a fact the team had wrapped up the marathon case so he would be soon. He let himself in with his key and sat down in front of the TV to wait.
Two beers later, there was no sign of House. Finally he caved and texted "I got Chinese," but got no response. Calling sent him straight to voicemail. He didn't leave a message.
Wilson gave up and ate the egg rolls, which wouldn't keep and which House didn't like that much anyway. He thought about leaving, but being alone here was still better than being alone at the apartment, so he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa to the accompaniment of the Buffy DVD that had been left in the player, paused in the middle of the musical episode.
He must have dozed off, because the credits were rolling when he woke to the sound of the door opening. "Either you're the stupidest burglar ever or you're Wilson," House called out to what probably looked like an empty living room.
"I got Chinese," Wilson said, "but it's probably cold." He tried not to sound pouty about that.
A few seconds later he was being shoved into an upright position. "I'm surprised at you," House said around a mouthful of lo mein. "You know how important proper temperature control is to food saftey."
He wanted to ask 'where've you been,' but didn't, because it didn't really matter. House was here now, that was the important thing, and he'd set two beers on the coffee table. Wilson picked up the one nearest him and took a long drink. "Ever wonder what would happen if everyone at the hospital started breaking into song?" he asked instead.
"Hopefully Cuddy would do a burlesque number," House said. "Maybe with pasties."
"I think that's crossing the line between burlesque and just plain old stripping."
"That works too." House flipped the TV to some college football game and eyed Wilson sideways. "Rough day at the office?"
Wilson sighed and nodded. "You have no idea."
"I got covered in potentially biotoxic ooze and had to take a decontamination shower."
"I had to tell a ten-year-old she has six months to live."
"With Foreman."
"Her mother hit me."
"Okay, you win." He passed Wilson the carton, which was now mostly rejected vegetables with a few stray noodles. "How long've you been here?"
"I don't know, what's the specific heat of lo mein? Two beers and half a Buffy." It would be easier if House were the Talking About Things type, because then Wilson wouldn't have to wonder if House was getting the between-the-lines 'I've had a crappy day, cheer me up.' Pretty much everything with them that wasn't caustic remarks and pranks and arguing stayed between the lines, as if to voice care or trust would invalidate their existence. He thinks maybe House thinks that if it's not said, it's not real, and therefore can't be taken away from him.
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I watched the first episode when it premiered.
EVEN SO! I liked this, just didn't feel qualified to poke at it 'cause I know balls about the show.
So there. :p