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Sep. 3rd, 2006 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubberbuttonTitle: Misery Loves Company
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Beta: none.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Beta: none.
James Wilson has never quite gotten the hang of love. Oh, he’s good at the superficial aspects- flowers, moonlit walks, reading poetry. All that comes naturally to him; hell, he even enjoys it. He’s been in one relationship or another since he started going steady with Janette Miller in the seventh grade. Women love him and he is more than happy to love them right back.
Which, of course, is what makes it so ironic that he’s finalizing his third divorce. Even now he isn’t sure quite what had gone wrong. The love died, he guesses, though that sounds painfully cliché. Maybe it had never really been love, a thought which manages to make him feel even worse. Somehow a fictitious love exposed is even more wretched than a temporary love extinguished.
He pours himself a snifter of brandy and downs it with a grimace. It’s a little early in the evening for maudlin musings on the nature of love. Oh well. So he’s getting an early start. He has a lot of musing to do. Oh yes. And then there will be self-recriminations, bowel-quaking doubt and a doubt-shot of bitterness.
He’s still going strong on the recriminations when House shows up, the motorcycle jacket seemingly inconsistent paired with the cane. Great, just what he needs. Someone to mock his pain. He leans heavily on the doorframe and tries to explain in clear, unslurred terms that he really doesn’t want company right now, thanks. House looks dubious, and Wilson has the sinking feeling that his sober act is less than convincing. It would be easier to manage if the room would quit swaying like that.
House pushes past him and takes a moment to examine the bottle Wilson’s been working through. He’s abandoned the accompanying glass; it seemed more efficient to just swig straight from the bottle. “Just something to settle my nerves,” he offers.
“Yeah, well, this’d do it.” House sets the bottle back down with a thump on the coffee table. “You should be damn well near numb by now.”
Wilson shrugs and manages to collapse into the sofa more or less on purpose. “That’s the idea.” He reaches for the bottle but House pushes it out of reach with the cane.
“I think you’ve had enough there, tiger. It’s been awhile since you’ve been to a frat party.”
“I don’t recall inviting you to this one.” Wilson weighs his odds of getting the bottle if he knocks House’s cane away. Still not too good- even without the cane, House fights dirty. As if reading his mind, or possibly the longing looks, House picks up the bottle and carries it out to the kitchen. When he returns, he has a glass of water which he thrusts into Wilson’s hand.
“Drink this.” It’s House’s most authoritative tone.
Wilson obeys. When he finishes it, House gets him another glass; this one he just sets on the coffee table.
“My God, I’m pathetic,” Wilson observes, considering it a small victory that he gets to say it before House does.
“Yeeeeeeeeeeah.” House sinks down next to Wilson with a wince as his leg twinges.
“What is wrong with me?” Wilson asks with the sloppy earnestness born of too much brandy.
House leans back, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “You really want to know?”
Wilson really doesn’t, but he’s a masochist when he’s ferschnickered. “Yeah. What brand of completely fucked-up am I?”
There’s a long pause and Wilson can practically hear House coming up with an alphabetical list of his failings. Finally House just says, “You’re not fucked-up.” He takes a moment and reconsiders. “Well, okay, you’re pretty fucked-up right now, but you won’t be tomorrow morning. Then you’ll just be unbelievably hung-over.” It takes Wilson’s alcohol-fuzzy brain a moment to process that it’s not a jibe, insult or dripping with sarcasm, and when it does Wilson suddenly finds it wildly funny. The laughter bubbles forth with more than a touch of hysteria.
“Three divorces,” he giggles, “Three! If this was baseball, I’d be... I’d be out.” He waves three fingers in House’s face for emphasis. “I lose at love.” Wilson’s laughter is coming dangerously close to tears.
House sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. “That makes two of us.” House leans forward and snags the remote from the coffee table, and begins flipping through channels so quickly that Wilson barely has time to register the image on the screen before it changes. He takes a drink, the water sloshing over his hand and down his front, and lets the threatening tears subside. By the time he finishes the glass, he feels a lot calmer- apparently the sought after numbness is setting in. He settles back on the couch, letting his head loll over the arm. They sit there for awhile, not bothering to turn on the lights as the last bit of sun abandons the room. They both prefer the dark anyway.
“Why are you here?” Wilson asks, realizing that House never said in the first place.
“You still have my copy of Kung Fu Hustle. I want it back.” It’s superficially true, but they both know that Kung Fu Hustle could wait until tomorrow. House catches Wilson’s incredulous look and reluctantly shrugs. “Misery loves company.”
“Right.” After a moments thought, Wilson adds, “Thanks.”
House smiles wryly, but doesn’t look away from the TV. “No problem, Jimmy.”
Which, of course, is what makes it so ironic that he’s finalizing his third divorce. Even now he isn’t sure quite what had gone wrong. The love died, he guesses, though that sounds painfully cliché. Maybe it had never really been love, a thought which manages to make him feel even worse. Somehow a fictitious love exposed is even more wretched than a temporary love extinguished.
He pours himself a snifter of brandy and downs it with a grimace. It’s a little early in the evening for maudlin musings on the nature of love. Oh well. So he’s getting an early start. He has a lot of musing to do. Oh yes. And then there will be self-recriminations, bowel-quaking doubt and a doubt-shot of bitterness.
He’s still going strong on the recriminations when House shows up, the motorcycle jacket seemingly inconsistent paired with the cane. Great, just what he needs. Someone to mock his pain. He leans heavily on the doorframe and tries to explain in clear, unslurred terms that he really doesn’t want company right now, thanks. House looks dubious, and Wilson has the sinking feeling that his sober act is less than convincing. It would be easier to manage if the room would quit swaying like that.
House pushes past him and takes a moment to examine the bottle Wilson’s been working through. He’s abandoned the accompanying glass; it seemed more efficient to just swig straight from the bottle. “Just something to settle my nerves,” he offers.
“Yeah, well, this’d do it.” House sets the bottle back down with a thump on the coffee table. “You should be damn well near numb by now.”
Wilson shrugs and manages to collapse into the sofa more or less on purpose. “That’s the idea.” He reaches for the bottle but House pushes it out of reach with the cane.
“I think you’ve had enough there, tiger. It’s been awhile since you’ve been to a frat party.”
“I don’t recall inviting you to this one.” Wilson weighs his odds of getting the bottle if he knocks House’s cane away. Still not too good- even without the cane, House fights dirty. As if reading his mind, or possibly the longing looks, House picks up the bottle and carries it out to the kitchen. When he returns, he has a glass of water which he thrusts into Wilson’s hand.
“Drink this.” It’s House’s most authoritative tone.
Wilson obeys. When he finishes it, House gets him another glass; this one he just sets on the coffee table.
“My God, I’m pathetic,” Wilson observes, considering it a small victory that he gets to say it before House does.
“Yeeeeeeeeeeah.” House sinks down next to Wilson with a wince as his leg twinges.
“What is wrong with me?” Wilson asks with the sloppy earnestness born of too much brandy.
House leans back, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “You really want to know?”
Wilson really doesn’t, but he’s a masochist when he’s ferschnickered. “Yeah. What brand of completely fucked-up am I?”
There’s a long pause and Wilson can practically hear House coming up with an alphabetical list of his failings. Finally House just says, “You’re not fucked-up.” He takes a moment and reconsiders. “Well, okay, you’re pretty fucked-up right now, but you won’t be tomorrow morning. Then you’ll just be unbelievably hung-over.” It takes Wilson’s alcohol-fuzzy brain a moment to process that it’s not a jibe, insult or dripping with sarcasm, and when it does Wilson suddenly finds it wildly funny. The laughter bubbles forth with more than a touch of hysteria.
“Three divorces,” he giggles, “Three! If this was baseball, I’d be... I’d be out.” He waves three fingers in House’s face for emphasis. “I lose at love.” Wilson’s laughter is coming dangerously close to tears.
House sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. “That makes two of us.” House leans forward and snags the remote from the coffee table, and begins flipping through channels so quickly that Wilson barely has time to register the image on the screen before it changes. He takes a drink, the water sloshing over his hand and down his front, and lets the threatening tears subside. By the time he finishes the glass, he feels a lot calmer- apparently the sought after numbness is setting in. He settles back on the couch, letting his head loll over the arm. They sit there for awhile, not bothering to turn on the lights as the last bit of sun abandons the room. They both prefer the dark anyway.
“Why are you here?” Wilson asks, realizing that House never said in the first place.
“You still have my copy of Kung Fu Hustle. I want it back.” It’s superficially true, but they both know that Kung Fu Hustle could wait until tomorrow. House catches Wilson’s incredulous look and reluctantly shrugs. “Misery loves company.”
“Right.” After a moments thought, Wilson adds, “Thanks.”
House smiles wryly, but doesn’t look away from the TV. “No problem, Jimmy.”