May 30th
“I don’t have to come,” Wilson said, his voice low and earnest. “I understand if you don’t want me to be there.”
“I want you do be there.” House shrugged into his navy blue blazer and checked his reflection in the hall mirror. Only extreme nerves could inspire such vanity, Wilson thought wryly.
“You look good,” Wilson said. He reached out to straighten House’s collar and let his hands come to rest on House’s chest, which rose and fell faster than normal under his splayed fingers. House leaned in, closing the space between them and kissed Wilson softly. Wilson was always surprised how gentle House could be, tender even. He let his body admit what he could never say aloud. Finally, Wilson broke the kiss to check his watch.
“We’ve got to go. Their flight gets in at 5:30 and with traffic…”
“I know, I know,” House grumbled. “Are you sure we can’t just abandon them at the airport?”
“No,” Wilson scolded, “They’re your parents. Besides, they know where you live.”
“I could move,” House suggested hopefully.
Wilson grinned and grabbed his car keys, ushering House out the door. In the car, House fidgeted more than usual, fiddling with the radio, the window controls, glove compartment and visor.
“House. Stop,” Wilson said the third time House changed the station in the middle of a song he particularly liked.
“This is not going to go well,” House said, like some prophet of doom.
“No, probably not,” Wilson agreed, amiably enough. “But it’s only a weekend. We’ll get through it.”
“If I don’t commit seppuku first.”
“Ritual suicide? Come on, you’re more of a shotgun in the mouth guy.” That earned a smirk. “They like me, House, remember? I’m the son they wished they had.”
“No, they liked you- when we watched football and drank beer.”
“We still watch football and drink beer.”
“Yeah, but now we sleep together afterwards. You were supposed to straighten me out, not seduce me.”
“Hey, I was the seducee not the seducer,” Wilson protested.
“Like that’s going to make a difference,” House snorted. “Mom’s going to mince around it, trying to reassure me that she still loves me, while attempting to convince me that I still have options and don’t have to resort to you. Dad, God, Dad will harangue me for ruining my life and now yours too. He’s so fucking dramatic.”
“Now we know where you got it from.” Wilson slowed down to let a minivan pull out in front of them.
“I am nothing like him,” House spat vehemently.
At the next stoplight Wilson reached under the seat, groping for a moment before he secured a small package. He handed to House, who took it dubiously.
“What’s this?” House sounded accusatory, as if Wilson had just offered him a used Kleenex instead of a gift wrapped in cream paper and a pink ribbon.
“It’s a Mother’s Day gift,” Wilson explained patiently.
“Why’d you buy me a Mother’s Day gift?”
“It’s for your mother.”
House’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you buy my mother a gift?”
“I didn’t,” Wilson said shortly. “You did.” Comprehension dawned on House’s face. “It’s a silk scarf. You have impeccable taste.”
“She’ll know it’s not from me,” House said sourly.
Wilson nodded once, eyes on the road. “You’ll both pretend.”
_________________
They managed to avoid talking about anything real waiting for the Houses’ luggage and on the way to the restaurant Wilson had reservations at. They discussed the plane ride, traffic, House’s latest patient, Wilson’s latest patient, and the weather- in that order and everybody taking a turn to comment. The trouble didn’t start until midway through their entrees when the conversation inevitably turned to romantic prospects.
“I know Greg has managed to scare them all off, but is there anyone new in your life, James?” Blythe inquired, oblivious to the look of panic that flashed momentarily over her son’s face. The scarf was a watercolor wash of blues and purples around her neck. It really was very lovely.
“Well, actually, there is. A rather special someone.” Wilson set down his wine glass and exchanged a quick look with House.
“Really?” Blythe said, looking delighted. “Is it serious?”
“Very,” Wilson assured her.
“And when do we get to meet this lovely young lady?” Blythe leaned forward, her hands clasped in excitement.
“It’s me, Mom,” House said quietly.
“What?” Blythe said, clearly confused.
Wilson placed a hand over hers. “Greg and I are together.”
For a long moment no one spoke, the clink and chatter of the restaurant becoming disproportionately loud.
“Together?” Blythe echoed faintly.
“Yeah, Mom.” House stared into the remains of his salmon.
“Oh.”
“I know this may come as something of a surprise, but we hope that you’ll be happy for us,” Wilson forged on, seemingly prepared to drag them all to a happy accord if it killed him.
“Well, shit.” House flinched as his father swore loudly. “That’s a helluva thing to pull on your mother and me after we’ve been through. The attitude, the disrespect, the willful ingratitude for all we’ve done for you, but this takes the cake.”
“Dad,” House started.
“You could have at least had the decency to not ruin Mother’s Day with this. Your mother was looking forward to this.”
Blythe placed a tentative hand on her husband’s arm. “John, it’s not important.”
Abruptly House rose; their glasses rattled as he upset the table in his haste to get away. “I have to pee,” he said flatly. They watched him make his way through the crowed restaurant, awkwardly negotiating the circuitous route to the bathroom.
The senior House turned his baleful expression on Wilson, but only opened his mouth to shovel porterhouse steak into it.
Blythe poked at her baked potato. “It’s just…are you sure you’re being responsible?”
Wilson looked at her uncertainly. “Pardon?”
“Greg really cares for you and I know he wouldn’t ever say this, but he’d do a lot to please you. Are you sure you aren’t taking advantage of him?”
Wilson sputtered a moment. “You think I seduced him.” He didn’t know why he was surprised that House was right. He pushed away from the table and stood. “Your son can look out for himself, Blythe.” He turned and stalked after House.
House had locked himself in the last stall, Converse sneakers and cane visible under the door. Wilson knocked tentatively.
“House. I know you’re in there.”
“I’m taking a crap, let me do it in peace,” came House’s gruff voice.
“You are not.” Wilson pressed his eye to the sliver of space between door and wall. He could just make out House, seated but dressed, his forehead resting on his cane. “There’s a limited amount of time you can believably hide in there.”
“I’m willing to test that theory.”
Wilson banged on the door a couple times. “Come on, let me in.” There was a brief silence, then the snick of the lock being turned. Wilson slipped into the stall and shut the door behind him, locking it again. It was testament to just how shitty House felt that he neglected to make a lascivious comment.
“Have they officially disowned me yet?” House asked tiredly. “If you’re only with me to get in on the House family fortune, you might want to reconsider.”
“Not to worry, I’m only with you for your body. No, they haven’t disowned you. And they won’t either. They just need some time to get used to the idea. They’ll come around.” Wilson said it with more conviction than he felt.
“They’ll never come around to the idea of their son being a fag.”
“They love you.”
“Doubt it.” House’s voice was bitter.
“I love you.”
House looked up at that, meeting Wilson’s eyes for the first time since he’d left the table. “Don’t doubt that.” House held Wilson’s gaze for a long moment. Finally he sighed, breaking the mood. “Ready to head back into the trenches?” He asked.
“Yeah, are you?” Wilson said and offered House a hand up. House took the proffered hand, letting Wilson pull him to his feet. With them both standing the confined space was even tighter, and Wilson found himself pressed up against the door.
“Almost,” House said and stole a kiss, long and passionate; his hands making a fumbling inventory of Wilson’s body. When he finally pulled away, Wilson was left breathless and panting. “Alright- now I’m ready.” House unlocked the door and made a surprisingly quick exit. Wilson trailed after him, stopping to rearrange all that House had disheveled.
“Do you want me to hold your hand?” Wilson offered.
“Try, and I’ll bludgeon you to death.” House raised his cane threateningly. “Though that would probably please my father.”
“Alright, but you better make it up to me later,” Wilson said playfully.
House’s expression softened, “I will.”
June 11th
Wilson used his key to get into House’s apartment. He’d had a copy even before they’d gotten together, but now he actually felt comfortable enough to use it without knocking first. He braced the bag of groceries against his hip and got the key in the door. He’d taken to picking up things from the market on the corner- milk, vegetables, things that didn’t come out of a can and weren’t sugar-frosted. House mostly refused to eat them, unless Wilson made him, but it was a start. The man still ate like a college co-ed. Wilson secretly envied House’s metabolism; he’d had to start cutting back on the coffee-break donuts lately to keep from going up a notch on his belt. Middle age was a bitch.
House was sprawled on the couch, beer in one hand, remote in the other. He eyed the grocery bag with obvious contempt. “That’s not more rabbit food is it? Steve can only eat so much of it.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to eat healthier. Rather the opposite, actually.” Wilson started putting away the groceries. The fridge was finally beginning to look less like condiment storage.
“Do you realize how many take-out joints rely solely on me for survival? I can let them down. Hey, while you’re in there, grab me a beer.” Wilson heard the roar of a television audience, which transitioned abruptly to gunfire as House changed the channel. Wilson grabbed a couple of beers and joined House, who grudgingly moved his feet to make room for Wilson, and promptly plunked them in Wilson’s lap. Wilson grimaced, but just twisted off the bottle caps and handed House his beer. House wiggled his toes happily.
“You can rub my feet if you want to.”
“Oh, please, can I?” Wilson said sarcastically, catching a big toe and giving it a sharp pinch.
“Yes, but only because I’m feeling magnanimous.” House stretch languorously, apparently pleased with himself and the world.
Wilson rolled his eyes, but began to skillfully knead House’s aching arches. House sighed, eyes half-closed with bliss. “You’re in an awfully good mood. Makes me suspicious. Who’d you terrorize today?”
“Terrorize? Moi? Lies, all of it.” He nudged Wilson’s thigh in remonstration as Wilson paused in his attentions. “Don’t stop. …Mmmmm, good. I’m just relieved I managed to make it through the day without any ill-advised birthday solicitations.”
“We thought about a surprise party, but couldn’t book the pony rides.” Wilson stopped rubbing, this time ignoring House’s protest. “Actually, though, you haven’t made it quite through yet.” He got up, setting House’s feet back down behind him.
“Oh, God. What’ve you done? Please tell me you haven’t invited anyone who’s not paid to remove their clothing.” House threw an arm over his face as though overwhelmed by the thought of human interaction.
“Relax, it’s not that bad. And there is no socializing expected from you at all.” Wilson made his exit before House could lodge further complaints. He quickly retrieved the box from where he’d stashed it behind the vacuum in the hall closet- the one place House was sure not to stick his nose. He returned to the living room feeling apprehensive. He’d agonized for months about what to get House. When asked what he wanted, House invariably answered ‘porn,’ ‘a midget with pointy shoes’ or would suggest Wilson do something obscene and that required more flexibility than Wilson had possessed in years.
“Happy birthday,” Wilson said, proffering the package. It was a long and narrow box, white with a dark blue ribbon tied in a bow around the middle. House stared at it as if it were a particularly obscure blob on an MRI scan. “Go on. Take it. Don’t worry; I don’t actually expect you to have a happy birthday.”
Finally, House sat up and accepted the package, laying it across his knees. Deft fingers made quick work of the ribbon and carefully lifted the lid. There lay a cane, more ornate than any of the few House owned; the body was rich rosewood with an elegantly worked silver head. Gingerly, he lifted it out, running his finger tips down the dark wood, face inscrutable. Wilson watched breathlessly, realizing now that he’d made a huge mistake.
After the seeming success of the ketamine treatment, House had tossed his collection of canes. It had been uncharacteristically optimistic of him, as if by cutting his safety line he could force the treatment to succeed. He’d hobbled around for weeks when the pain slowly but inevitably returned, unwilling to acknowledge that his body had betrayed him a second time.
It had taken an embarrassing collapse in the cafeteria for House to finally admit defeat. Wilson had stolen a cane from one of the physical therapists to use the rest of the day, then taken him to get his own after work. It was the first time since the infarction Wilson had seen House near tears. Wilson had found an excuse- made up an excuse- to stay with him that night. Just in case. But House hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor, hadn’t pushed the limits of his Vicodin dosage. He’d just gone to bed, staring at the ceiling and ignoring Wilson whenever he checked in on him. The next morning they’d gotten up and gone to work, the cane once again part of the landscape and the ketamine treatment never to be talked about again.
“The top screws off,” Wilson said finally, trying desperately to decipher House’s expression. House looked at him briefly, then twisted the handle off and slid the saber hidden within free. “It’s not as sharp as your acerbic wit, but it could do some damage.”
House brandished the sword experimentally, the corner of his mouth slowly quirked in a grin.
“You’re not going to take that to work,” Wilson admonished.
House pointed it at him and grinned. “Try and stop me.”
Wilson slapped his forehead in comic chagrin. “Cuddy’s going to kill me. Please, at least promise me you won’t threaten patients.”
Laughing, House raised his right hand, “I solemnly swear not to threaten my patients unless they really, really, really deserve it. Or I’m in a bad mood. Or it’s a day that ends in ‘y’.” He shrugged as if to say that he was powerless to resist.
Wilson sank down on the sofa next to House and leaned in to kiss him briefly. “Well, that’s a great weight off my mind.”
“So,” House said after a minute, “Does this mean you’re not getting me a stripper?”
July 4th
“Are these even legal?” Wilson asked with horrified joy, staring into the large cardboard box House had just plunked on top of the staff evaluation he’d been trying to fill out.
“Of course. In the former Soviet Union.” House trailed a loving finger over the roman candles, rockets, snakes, black cats, smoke bombs, air bombs, fountains and, of course, sparklers. “We are going to take these babies and blow some shit up as our forefathers intended.”
“Where, exactly? I’m pretty sure your landlord frowns on explosives.” Wilson pulled the evaluation out from under the box; he’d really been hoping to have these completed today and it was already half-past five.
“My cousin owns thirty acres half an hour out of town.” House snatched the paperwork from Wilson’s hand.
“And he’s invited us to use it?” Wilson sounded dubious that any of House’s relatives would invite him anywhere, or even acknowledge blood ties.
“Well, he probably won’t arrest us if he catches us, if that’s what you’re asking. Come on, Cuddy’s in a meeting; now’s the perfect time to make a getaway.” House made his way around the desk and perched next to Wilson’s elbow, making any kind of actual work impossible. No one did distracting quite like House. “We’ll grab some burgers on the way out; it’ll be a regular date.”
“Does this mean I have to let you feel me up in the back seat?” Wilson tried, and almost succeeded, to sound like he genuinely objected to being ‘felt up.’
“But of course. And if I pay for the burgers, you have to put out, too,” House leered.
“My virtue is safe then, seeing as how that’s never happened,” Wilson shot back, surveying the pile of paperwork on his desk, obviously torn. He really needed to get this done.
“Aw. Don’t make me beg,” House said huskily. Wilson sighed; he already knew the inevitable conclusion of this discussion. It was really only a question of how long he’d make House wait before agreeing. The pile of files sat on his desk, a silent admonition.
Screw it. “Okay,” he agreed, and then amended, “But I’m driving,” before House could think his victory complete.
It took them considerably longer to get there than House had estimated. In fairness, it probably wouldn’t have if Wilson hadn’t taken the wrong exit out of town, a mistake that he would probably never live down. The beer-run added to their total time too. Plus the going back for matches.
Finally, though, they pulled up an unmarked gravel road that House insisted led to his cousin’s property. Overgrown fields threatened to swallow the choked path back up and weeds thwacked along the side of Wilson’s car.
“Are you sure this is a place?” Wilson asked, when they came to a rusted red gate impeding their way. He turned off the ignition and wondered if it would be worth the effort to try and talk House into abandoning this misadventure. But once set on a path of destruction, House could not be swayed.
“Sure it is.” House was already on his way out. “Leave the car, grab the works,” he called, managing to scramble over the offending gate with an agility beyond most of the cane-wielding set. Wilson followed more slowly, trying to avoid getting his loafers muddy and awkwardly carting the box of explosives.
They found a clearing pretty quickly, or at least a patch of bare ground and what was probably a leftover fire-pit that would serve nicely for their pyrotechnics. Wilson ended up being the one actually setting things off. House explained that he couldn’t make a quick enough getaway should things go horribly wrong; he failed to elaborate on how likely he thought that was. So Wilson lit the fuses while House shouted advice about technique and aesthetics from several hundred feet away. Wilson quickly learned that lighting fireworks of dubious quality and even more dubious legality was closer to an art than a science. His family had always celebrated the Fourth of July in a more demure fashion, with a garden party and lemonade in a cut-crystal punchbowl, thus his previous experience was limited to the sparklers he and he cousins had been allowed to run around on the back lawns with.
There was something to be said for the thrill of the explosion, the spangle of sparks raining down in a fleeting glitter, Wilson had to grudgingly admit. However, there was considerably less to be said for the panic when a freshly lit firecracker tipped over before take-off.
“I don’t suppose you thought to bring a fire extinguisher.” Wilson had vivid footage of raging wildfires playing in his head, and, okay, they were usually in place out west, but he really didn’t want to be responsible for the first New Jersey blaze in recorded history.
“Quit worrying. It looks like rain anyway,” House retorted. Of course, that just gave Wilson something new to worry about, for indeed the sky had that gray, laden look that always promised a downpour. House rolled his eyes in one of those expressions that managed to convey his absolute scorn when he couldn’t be bothered to actually put it into words. “Relax, that’s the last of ‘em anyway. Looks like we failed to do any real damage. Oh well, there’s always next year.”
Wilson sank to the ground, having given up on keeping his work clothes clean. He didn’t want to know what the drycleaner’s would think. “There’s something sad and desperate about grown men enjoying third-rate explosives this much,” Wilson asserted.
“Yeah. Almost as sad as a guy who’s sleeping with his crippled best friend as place holder until he can find the next missus.”
Even after years of walking the razor’s edge of friendship with House, the comment caught Wilson unprepared and left him breathless. “You’re not a place holder,” was the first thing he could think of to say, a lame comeback if ever there was one.
“So you’re going to tell the next thing with long legs and a perky rack that comes along you’d rather sleep with an aging cripple?” Somehow it was the off-hand way in which he said it that stung most of all.
Wilson rose and started gathering the burnt-out ends of spent firecrackers. “I wasn’t going to use those exact words, no. But something along those lines.”
“Leave it, Wilson,” House said, referring to Wilson’s attempted clean up.
“What will your cousin think?” Wilson said, automatically falling into responsible adult mode.
“You know, kids these days,” House said gravely. “They’ve got no respect. I blame the parents.”
But Wilson didn’t get a chance to respond, because that was when the rain hit. They made for the car, but House couldn’t exactly run and Wilson wouldn’t leave him behind, despite House’s bitching that he was a moron. By the time they reached it, they were both hopelessly soaked. Wilson took a morose satisfaction in it; glad the weather so perfectly reflected his mood. The rain drummed a gentle tattoo on the roof of the Volvo. Wilson fit the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine. Gazing out the window, he appeared utterly engrossed in watching droplets wind their way down the dusty glass. House shifted uncomfortably and tried ineffectually to wipe his face off with the hem of his soaking t-shirt. Finally the silence got to him.
“Are we just going to sit here? Because you can give me the silent treatment just as easily at home and in dry clothes.”
“I’m not punishing you.” Wilson’s voice was weary. He reached out and drew a squiggle on the rapidly fogging window. With the world outside a gray-green blur, it felt like they were the only two people in existence. “I’m not even mad.”
“Oh, God,” House drug the word out, making it two syllables of utter disgust. “You’re disappointed in me.”
Wilson continued to watch the rain run down the windshield in dirty rivulets as though deeply fascinated by the changing patterns of tributaries. He kept his mouth shut, trying to avoid giving House any more ammunition.
Finally he said, “No, I’m not disappointed in you.” He started the car, pretending that navigating the muddy road occupied his full attention so that he wouldn’t have to see if House caught the faint stressed he’d placed on ‘you’ and what it meant.
August 10
Wilson had never been a particularly devout man. He’d attended temple with his family, observed the niceties to please his mother; he even found the ritual comforting. But as for God’s presence in his own life, Wilson was dubious. He’d watched too many good people die of mindless disease to still believe in a benevolent God. And now that he was single and his parents lived in another state, he’d quit attending all together. Which was why it was unusual that he now found himself sitting in a synagogue.
House would mock him if he found him here now but as House avoided religious institutions like the plague, more so actually, Wilson felt pretty safe. Maybe that was why he’d wound up here. It was neutral territory. His office, his apartment, his favourite bar- all held inescapable reminders of House. Normally, that was reassuring. Tonight it was maddening. Wilson sat; the warm smell of old building and well-polished wood was comforting.
House had come home from work in a foul mood. His patient had died, and though the autopsy had provided the final puzzle piece, it was small consolation. House had denied his ill-temper, but he’d broken out the single malt. It was sitting on the piano when Wilson had let himself in, a half-empty sign House had given himself completely over to the melancholia that always accompanied him. It was a struggle for Wilson to hold his tongue on nights like these. House was utterly incorrigible, the more Wilson tried to cheer him, or at least keep him from testing his liver’s ability to process alcohol, the further House withdrew. It was painful to watch but also infuriating- if House would only... Wilson sighed and stifled the thought. He’d reheated a plate of chicken and roast potatoes from last night, trading it out for the whiskey on the piano, checked to see if House’s cell was on and left. He hadn’t had a particular destination in mind when he’d gotten in the car, and it wasn’t until he was half way there that he realized he was headed toward his old synagogue.
Wilson stood, his lower back complaining about having spent so long on a cushion-less pew. He moved as quietly as possible, though he was the only one there. The slight scuff of his shoes on the tile floor seemed an intrusion. Leaving, he was mildly surprised to realize he actually did feel just the tiniest bit better. More peaceful.
It was an emotion that lasted only as long as it took him to get back to his car. Something on the floor of the passenger’s side caught his eye. Curious, he reached under the seat, producing the familiar blue and white DVD cases of their local rental place. Rear Window and Bringing Up Baby had been Wilson’s selections; Psycho Beach Party and some bizarre Korean horror flick had been House’s. All were movies House had said he’d returned a week ago.
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath and counted slowly to ten. They were just movies. The late fee nothing more than an annoyance. He reached ten, but felt no calmer. House had once said that their relationship was in exercise in Wilson’s self-delusion. At the time he’d argued, if you could call tying a maraschino cherry stem in a knot with your tongue an argument, but now… He threw the car in reverse, narrowly missing a pedestrian. He waved apologetically to the woman and pulled out of the parking lot at with caution. He paid more attention to traffic than was strictly necessary, atoning for his earlier recklessness. The movie place only took him a little out of his way, but that he had to go at all merely renewed his pique.
He returned the movies to the drive-by drop box, glad that he didn’t have to go in to the actual store. He wasn’t too keen to be seen here anytime soon, which was why he’d assigned House the task of returning the movies in the first place. After the incident last time they were here, it’d be awhile before he’d feel comfortable entering the premises. Sick of fighting over whether to watch TMC or MTV, Wilson had decided to grab a couple of movies and some Tai on the way home. House hadn’t wanted to come but was unwilling to give Wilson complete power over movie selection. It had taken him nearly forty-five minutes to choose, and then only after giving a rather lengthy critique of modern cinema. Wilson had finally gotten him to pick something out and herded him to the checkout. The kid at the register had looked at his hand on House’s elbow and a look had flickered across his face- that look of speculation and scorn. Wilson had always gotten that look on his public outings with House and it had always vaguely irritated him, but now that the assumptions people made about them were true, its sting was far more biting. He’d dropped House’s elbow and hurriedly dug out his membership card, putting a more seemly distance between himself and House.
House had allowed it and Wilson had momentarily thought that he hadn’t even noticed. But he was suspiciously enthusiastic as he bid the cashier goodnight and forged on through the security detectors, leaving Wilson to collect the movies and trail after. Outside the glass store-front, he’d stopped so quickly that Wilson had nearly run over him. He’d turned and grabbed Wilson, hauling him in with a hand on the back of his neck. The kiss had been hot and messy and House hadn’t broken it until they were both feeling lightheaded. It ended as quickly as it had started; he’d turned without comment and made his way to the car. Wilson had stood dumbfounded, baffled by House’s sudden demonstrativeness. That was when he’d caught sight of the kid, along with the line of customers waiting for service; they’d clearly gotten the whole show. Wilson had given a half-hearted wave, acknowledging his audience and then trotted after House as quickly as what was left of his dignity would allow.
Wilson slowed to a stop as the light changed from yellow to red. After a moment’s hesitation he got out his phone. Six rings, seven…his fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel as he waited for House to pick up. Not that he particularly thought House would. And sure enough, he was directed over to voice mail. House’s message was just an obnoxiously long clip from “I Wanna Be Sedated.”
“Hey,” Wilson ventured after the tone. Now that he’d called, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. “You forgot to take those movies back. Yeah, I’m sure it just slipped your mind. You’re probably real broken up about it, but don’t worry; I don’t mind.” Wilson tried not think about the derisive look House would get when he listened to this message. “And either quit drinking tonight or you don’t get to take your meds.” Nagging wouldn’t annoy House as much as genuine concern. “I am not taking care of that damn rat if you off yourself. K, then...” He realized the pause was getting longer and longer and he either had to say some thing or wrap it up. “Love you.” He shut his phone with a snap.
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Date: 2006-10-27 08:48 am (UTC)Had to go back and read the first part over again because I remembered liking it so much :D
Love this just as much and looking forward to the final months!