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house_wilson2011-01-07 06:03 pm
nightdog_barks) wrote in house_wilson2011-01-07 06:03 pm
Entry tags:
A Housefic: Something of Value
Title: Something of Value
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: Wilson, House, mention of Cuddy. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Only in the most general way for the beginning of Season 7. No spoilers for anything beyond the last current episode (7.8, "Small Sacrifices").
Summary: Some things end, some things begin, but the important stuff will always be there. 1,221 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Cut text is from an old nursery rhyme.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks tohannah, who knew how to make it better, and to pwcorgigirl, who knew how it ends.
Something of Value
Wilson answers on the third knock, which is good because House is on the verge of saying the hell with it and using his keys.
"Why didn't you use your keys?" Wilson says. He's in his grey sweats, athletic socks, no shoes; his hands are dusty and his hair is standing up in unruly badger tufts. He leaves the door open as he pads away, turning and disappearing into the hallway to his bedroom.
"I was trying to give you space," House calls after him. "Isn't that what you usually want after your girlfriends leave?" Wilson reappears in the bedroom doorway, blinks at him. "Or is that ex-wives? Honestly, I can never remember."
"Very funny," Wilson says, but he says it in a mild tone and doesn't appear to be angry.
"Just getting in my bon mot quotient for the day." House looks around. As usual, the condo is spotless. The TV is on, nattering away quietly in the background. "You said when you called you needed something."
"Yeah," Wilson says. He runs a hand through his hair, making the badger tufts stand up even more. "I've packed up a lot of stuff, but I thought you might like to go through your old bedroom, make sure you didn't miss anything."
"Miss ... " House looks around again, and this time he sees the cardboard boxes stacked in the corners and by the kitchen island. "What are you doing?" he says, even though the answer is clear.
Wilson's eyebrows draw together in obvious puzzlement. "Cuddy didn't tell you? I thought she'd tell you."
"We aren't joined at the hip," House snaps.
"No, I know that. I mean ... " Wilson gives up in favor of rubbing at the back of his neck. "Look," he says, then stops and starts again. "I sold the condo," he says at last. He takes his hand away from his neck and waves it in an encompassing motion, first at the bedroom, then at the living room. "I don't need this much room, so ... I called Bonnie. And I sold it."
House thinks about all the things he could say and decides not to say them. Instead he says, "So where are you moving to?" Wilson looks relieved.
"I signed a lease on a one-bedroom apartment," he says. "It's closer to the hospital, anyway."
House leans on his cane. "Okay," he says. He straightens up. "Okay," he says again. "Bedroom."
Of course, he doesn't look for anything in his old bedroom. House knows he cleaned it out when Sam moved in, so he gives it a cursory scan and starts poking around in the hallway and guest closets instead. A cold rain is beginning to drum against the windows, and he can hear Wilson working in his own bedroom, so after a few minutes he moves on to the junk closet. At least, that's what he'd called it -- Wilson had insisted on referring to it as a broom closet, even though it had never held any brooms that House knew of. If anything, House thinks as he opens the narrow door to reveal the multiple shelves, it's more like a linen closet. A lone pencil, disturbed by the faintest of vibrations, rolls forward one turn, stopping on its next planed side. Dust bunnies congregate in the corners -- obviously Wilson and his bucket of killer antiseptic haven't made it this far yet. He's about to close the door when a glint of gold on the floor catches his eye.
At first he thinks it's a woman's barrette, caught in the loops of beige carpet. He looks around again; Wilson's still busy elsewhere, so he lowers himself to a careful crouch and works it free.
He turns it over in his hand as he stands up -- a slender gold bar, hinged at one end with a second length of springy wire to form a small metal clothespin. A tiny gold caduceus is set at the center of the gold bar.
Not a barrette. A tie clip.
House holds it up, squints at the back. Sure enough, there's lettering there, engraved lines in a spidery script, almost too minute to read. He tilts it toward the closet light.
J.E.W. 6.17.89
A tie clip, and a graduation present. One of those gifts from an elderly relative that people never wear, until it ends up dropped into a box full of other loose crap somewhere along the line and the box gets dragged from place to place eternally until it's kicked over in a junk -- no, a broom closet. No doubt it's listed somewhere as one of the minor circles of Hell. House feels his lips curve upward in a smile -- there's probably an equally ugly pair of cufflinks floating around somewhere. He turns it back over, rubs at the caduceus with his thumb. In all the years he's known Wilson, he's seen tie clips come and go -- mostly go -- but he's never seen this one grace any of Wilson's neckwear.
The gold warms to his touch.
"House? Hey, House!" The sound of Wilson's voice startles House into motion. He slips the tie clip into his jacket pocket and shuts the closet door.
"House, what are you doing out here? You done in the bedroom?"
House rubs his hands together, retrieves his cane from where it's been leaning against the wall. "I'm done," he says. "You done?"
Wilson's wearing a new stripe of powdery dust across his chest, and he's pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves. He scrubs distractedly at his face, leaving a fingerswipe through the grit on his cheek. "Yeah, it'll be a while before I'm done." He drops his hands to his sides and nods at House. "Thanks for helping out," he says, then turns and pads away down the hallway, shoulders slumped.
House watches him go, then takes a step forward. "Hey," he says. Wilson turns around, eyebrows rising in question.
"Hey," House says again. "You should take a break." He shouldn't be able to feel the tie clip resting in his pocket, but he can, a minuscule feather-weight against the lining. "Got any beer in the refrigerator?"
Wilson looks confused. "I ... yeah. But don't you need to get back home? I thought -- "
"I'll order a pizza," House says, brushing past a still-confused Wilson. "You get the remote and find a Bowl game."
"Okay," Wilson says. "But ... I still don't understand."
House pulls out his cell phone, settles onto the sofa. Outside, the rain is still coming down. Maybe it will stop by morning. "Nothing to understand.
"It's the new year, time for resolutions. Or is that revolutions?" The speed dial sings a little bippity-beep song in his ear, then starts to ring.
"Massimo's Cafe Dine In Take Out Catering Delivery, Pharmaceutical Catering Available," a harried waiter says. "May I take your order please."
House pivots the phone away from his mouth. "Happy New Year, Wilson." He pivots the phone back. "Hi, yes, I'd like two medium pizzas, Sicilian, and two stromboli, steak ... "
Wilson starts to raise his hand in that wait, stop gesture of his. It's been a while -- maybe he thinks House has forgotten what he likes? House waves him away.
"Wait. The stromboli -- make that one steak, one chicken. Yeah. Yeah, the old usual."
~ fin
Note:
Massimo's is a real pizza place in Princeton, and they really do advertise "Pharmaceutical Catering" on their menu. As far as I can determine through Googling, it seems to mean they do catering for drug reps' meetings and conventions, although I like to think of it as the healing, pharmaceutical powers of pizza. *g*
Author:
nightdog_barks Characters: Wilson, House, mention of Cuddy. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Only in the most general way for the beginning of Season 7. No spoilers for anything beyond the last current episode (7.8, "Small Sacrifices").
Summary: Some things end, some things begin, but the important stuff will always be there. 1,221 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Cut text is from an old nursery rhyme.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
hannah, who knew how to make it better, and to pwcorgigirl, who knew how it ends.Something of Value
Wilson answers on the third knock, which is good because House is on the verge of saying the hell with it and using his keys.
"Why didn't you use your keys?" Wilson says. He's in his grey sweats, athletic socks, no shoes; his hands are dusty and his hair is standing up in unruly badger tufts. He leaves the door open as he pads away, turning and disappearing into the hallway to his bedroom.
"I was trying to give you space," House calls after him. "Isn't that what you usually want after your girlfriends leave?" Wilson reappears in the bedroom doorway, blinks at him. "Or is that ex-wives? Honestly, I can never remember."
"Very funny," Wilson says, but he says it in a mild tone and doesn't appear to be angry.
"Just getting in my bon mot quotient for the day." House looks around. As usual, the condo is spotless. The TV is on, nattering away quietly in the background. "You said when you called you needed something."
"Yeah," Wilson says. He runs a hand through his hair, making the badger tufts stand up even more. "I've packed up a lot of stuff, but I thought you might like to go through your old bedroom, make sure you didn't miss anything."
"Miss ... " House looks around again, and this time he sees the cardboard boxes stacked in the corners and by the kitchen island. "What are you doing?" he says, even though the answer is clear.
Wilson's eyebrows draw together in obvious puzzlement. "Cuddy didn't tell you? I thought she'd tell you."
"We aren't joined at the hip," House snaps.
"No, I know that. I mean ... " Wilson gives up in favor of rubbing at the back of his neck. "Look," he says, then stops and starts again. "I sold the condo," he says at last. He takes his hand away from his neck and waves it in an encompassing motion, first at the bedroom, then at the living room. "I don't need this much room, so ... I called Bonnie. And I sold it."
House thinks about all the things he could say and decides not to say them. Instead he says, "So where are you moving to?" Wilson looks relieved.
"I signed a lease on a one-bedroom apartment," he says. "It's closer to the hospital, anyway."
House leans on his cane. "Okay," he says. He straightens up. "Okay," he says again. "Bedroom."
Of course, he doesn't look for anything in his old bedroom. House knows he cleaned it out when Sam moved in, so he gives it a cursory scan and starts poking around in the hallway and guest closets instead. A cold rain is beginning to drum against the windows, and he can hear Wilson working in his own bedroom, so after a few minutes he moves on to the junk closet. At least, that's what he'd called it -- Wilson had insisted on referring to it as a broom closet, even though it had never held any brooms that House knew of. If anything, House thinks as he opens the narrow door to reveal the multiple shelves, it's more like a linen closet. A lone pencil, disturbed by the faintest of vibrations, rolls forward one turn, stopping on its next planed side. Dust bunnies congregate in the corners -- obviously Wilson and his bucket of killer antiseptic haven't made it this far yet. He's about to close the door when a glint of gold on the floor catches his eye.
At first he thinks it's a woman's barrette, caught in the loops of beige carpet. He looks around again; Wilson's still busy elsewhere, so he lowers himself to a careful crouch and works it free.
He turns it over in his hand as he stands up -- a slender gold bar, hinged at one end with a second length of springy wire to form a small metal clothespin. A tiny gold caduceus is set at the center of the gold bar.
Not a barrette. A tie clip.
House holds it up, squints at the back. Sure enough, there's lettering there, engraved lines in a spidery script, almost too minute to read. He tilts it toward the closet light.
J.E.W. 6.17.89
A tie clip, and a graduation present. One of those gifts from an elderly relative that people never wear, until it ends up dropped into a box full of other loose crap somewhere along the line and the box gets dragged from place to place eternally until it's kicked over in a junk -- no, a broom closet. No doubt it's listed somewhere as one of the minor circles of Hell. House feels his lips curve upward in a smile -- there's probably an equally ugly pair of cufflinks floating around somewhere. He turns it back over, rubs at the caduceus with his thumb. In all the years he's known Wilson, he's seen tie clips come and go -- mostly go -- but he's never seen this one grace any of Wilson's neckwear.
The gold warms to his touch.
"House? Hey, House!" The sound of Wilson's voice startles House into motion. He slips the tie clip into his jacket pocket and shuts the closet door.
"House, what are you doing out here? You done in the bedroom?"
House rubs his hands together, retrieves his cane from where it's been leaning against the wall. "I'm done," he says. "You done?"
Wilson's wearing a new stripe of powdery dust across his chest, and he's pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves. He scrubs distractedly at his face, leaving a fingerswipe through the grit on his cheek. "Yeah, it'll be a while before I'm done." He drops his hands to his sides and nods at House. "Thanks for helping out," he says, then turns and pads away down the hallway, shoulders slumped.
House watches him go, then takes a step forward. "Hey," he says. Wilson turns around, eyebrows rising in question.
"Hey," House says again. "You should take a break." He shouldn't be able to feel the tie clip resting in his pocket, but he can, a minuscule feather-weight against the lining. "Got any beer in the refrigerator?"
Wilson looks confused. "I ... yeah. But don't you need to get back home? I thought -- "
"I'll order a pizza," House says, brushing past a still-confused Wilson. "You get the remote and find a Bowl game."
"Okay," Wilson says. "But ... I still don't understand."
House pulls out his cell phone, settles onto the sofa. Outside, the rain is still coming down. Maybe it will stop by morning. "Nothing to understand.
"It's the new year, time for resolutions. Or is that revolutions?" The speed dial sings a little bippity-beep song in his ear, then starts to ring.
"Massimo's Cafe Dine In Take Out Catering Delivery, Pharmaceutical Catering Available," a harried waiter says. "May I take your order please."
House pivots the phone away from his mouth. "Happy New Year, Wilson." He pivots the phone back. "Hi, yes, I'd like two medium pizzas, Sicilian, and two stromboli, steak ... "
Wilson starts to raise his hand in that wait, stop gesture of his. It's been a while -- maybe he thinks House has forgotten what he likes? House waves him away.
"Wait. The stromboli -- make that one steak, one chicken. Yeah. Yeah, the old usual."
~ fin
Note:
Massimo's is a real pizza place in Princeton, and they really do advertise "Pharmaceutical Catering" on their menu. As far as I can determine through Googling, it seems to mean they do catering for drug reps' meetings and conventions, although I like to think of it as the healing, pharmaceutical powers of pizza. *g*