Housefic: Bonfire
May. 11th, 2012 03:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksTitle: Bonfire
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No.
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.20 ("Post Mortem") and a promo/sneak peek for episode 8.21.
Summary: House pays a visit to Wilson. 1,412 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Cut-text is from the song Vacation by the Go-Go's.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks and a tip of the hat todeelaundry, who knew exactly the right ending, and whose fic Work by Night provided a specific moment for this story.
Bonfire
"You're not dead," House says, and Wilson smiles at that, just a little, the corners of his lips turning up amidst all that stubble.
"And good morning to you, too, House," he says mildly. "Would you like to come in?"
House isn't sure. On the one hand, Wilson is supposed to be dead, and this is supposed to be over, but on the other hand ...
"It's been ten months," House says, and it has. Wilson just looks at him. "I got a call," House says. "From your ... from Kyle Calloway. A voicemail," and why is he saying all this? It's not like Wilson doesn't know. Hey, Wilson, you were only supposed to live five months, and then you lived that and five more. Hey, Wilson, you left me a voicemail, it was you, I know it was. Hey, Wilson.
"Yes," Wilson says, thankfully cutting off that chain of thought, and stands away from the door, just enough to let House in. If he wants to come in.
"You're living near the ocean," House says, and there he goes again. Wilson doesn't know he's living near the ocean, practically on the fucking seashore? Close enough to wake up to the gulls and pelicans? Wilson would pay attention to shit like that, gulls and pelicans.
"Yes," Wilson says again, like it's the most normal thing in the world that House is here on his front step, the front step of this cottage on Cape May, close enough to the ocean to sit and watch the waves all day. If that's what you want to do.
"Do you want to come in?" Wilson says.
This is stupid, House thinks, but what he says is "Rode all the way out here. Might as well."
"So you're not dead," House says, once they're seated in the tiny living room, on an overstuffed sofa with a hideous printed pattern of sand dollars and tropical fish. Wilson's made a pot of coffee, but he's having tea -- of course he would, something with the warm, spicy scent of strong ginger, settles the stomach. A TV is on in the corner, the sound muted, showing some old black-and-white movie, the kind Wilson likes. A shot of windmills fills the screen -- someone's in Holland, walking along a canal. They used to do that, House remembers. Put landmarks in the picture so the audience would know where they were. Windmills, we're in Holland, everyone's plucky and brave. The Eiffel Tower, we're in Paris, champagne and cigarettes. Visual shorthand, so you're not lost.
The door into what House assumes is the bedroom is closed. A line of pill bottles, their pharmacy labels festooned with red flags, stand guard on the kitchen table. House doesn't look at them.
Wilson tastes his tea, puts the cup back down. "No, House, I'm not dead," he says. "I just wanted to ... see you."
"You didn't want to see me before."
"Before, you were trying to get me to do something I didn't want to do."
"With good reason."
"Your reasons. Not mine."
House is fully aware that a description of his facial expression may include the word glaring, but it's not like there's a whole lot he can do about it.
"You're still angry," Wilson observes. He looks at his hands, resting in his lap. "This was a mistake. I'm sorry."
House picks up his own coffee cup but doesn't drink from it.
"You said you'd only use the name Kyle Calloway if you were dying," he says.
"I'm sorry," Wilson says again. He looks up from under his eyebrows. "I'll try and die faster."
House drops the cup. Miraculously, it doesn't shatter, but coffee does go all over the carpet and House's shoes.
"You bastard," House says.
Wilson's just sitting there. He makes no move to pick up the cup or grab a paper towel from the kitchen. "Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he says.
"No," House says. "I'll never forgive you. But I'll have another cup of coffee."
Wilson nods, like that's just what he expected. Bastard, House thinks again, and finds his throat unexpectedly tight.
Bastard.
"I walk," Wilson says as they're walking, on the beach but far enough up so that House's cane doesn't sink into the sand. "And I read, and I watch old movies, and there's a hospice nurse -- his name is Rick, Rick Dahlgren, who comes three times a week to check on me. So yes, House, I've become the pathetic, useless excuse for a human being you predicted." He looks outward, eyes scanning the horizon. "I know that's what you were thinking."
"Wasn't," House says, and okay, maybe he was, but only a little. He walks on, but after he's taken a few steps he notices he's walking alone and has to go back.
"Have to stop for a minute," Wilson says, wearing that same apologetic smile he always used to get when he was embarrassed about something. He's got his hands on his hips, and his cheeks are an antic red like they're windburned, to go right along with sounding winded, like he's been running instead of walking sedately down a windy beach.
"How much are you sleeping?" House says, even though he knows the answer.
Wilson tips his head back like he's looking for the 9:20 from LaGuardia and takes a couple of deep breaths. When he looks back at House his eyes are bright.
"Enough," he says. "I'm sleeping enough."
"Liar," House says.
Wilson smiles at him, and this time it's a good smile, the old smile. House turns away quickly.
"We should get back," he says. "It's probably time for Raphael to be knocking on your door."
"Rick," Wilson says.
"Whatever."
They have to stop once more on the way back to the cottage for Wilson to catch his breath, and when they're at the gate Wilson stops again and holds onto the railing for a couple of minutes.
"This is stupid," House grumbles. He's not sure whether he's addressing Wilson or the situation at hand. Maybe it's both. Maybe it doesn't matter. He looks over at his bike, parked in the graveled driveway.
"Oh, you don't have to go already," Wilson says, correctly interpreting the glance. "You just got here!"
"I have ... places to go," House says. "It's the weekend. People to see. Hookers to satisfy." He's lying, and he's sure Wilson knows he's lying, but to his surprise, Wilson doesn't call him on it. His shoulders slump, though.
Oh, no you don't.
"It was nice seeing you," House says. "Kyle."
Wilson doesn't answer at first, but when he does, it's as if House hasn't spoken at all.
"I was hoping you could stay," he says. "Just ... for a little while." He looks at House, almost shyly. "It's ... Bonfire on the Beach night."
How House manages to successfully keep a straight face, he'll never know.
"Wow," he says. "Do Frankie Avalon and Annette Funny-jello show up too? Do we all hold hands and sing Kum-ba-ya?"
"No," Wilson says. "But there's beach food, and dollar beer."
"Oh, well then," House says, and he's about to come back with another rejoinder, another zinger about how fucking stupid a bonfire night on the beach is, when something happens. Something he wasn't expecting. An insight, maybe, or some other equally trite and over-used word that people use when something finally punches them in the face.
This whole thing is stupid. This fight is stupid. This stupid disease, this stupid, screwed-up friendship, this stupid thing they call life.
No windmills, House thinks. No signposts. Where are we?
He wishes, oddly, that he could ask someone, but there's only Wilson looking back at him, and he doesn't think Wilson knows either.
What the hell. He is a little tired. The Repsol was running rough on the way down; he should have it looked at.
"Sure," House says. "I can stay for a few days."
"Okay," Wilson says. "That's good." There's a short pause that's more peaceful than it has any right to be.
"And," Wilson continues, "there's a craft show on Wednesday. I went last month, and it's got some serious artists and some you-really-hope-they-aren't-serious amateurs. That's something you don't want to miss."
House looks away, out toward the ocean, then back at Wilson, who's just standing there, his hand still on the gate.
"There's a lot I don't want to miss, huh?" he says.
"I suppose so," Wilson says and leads the way back into his house.
~ fin
Author:
nightdog_barksCharacters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No.
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.20 ("Post Mortem") and a promo/sneak peek for episode 8.21.
Summary: House pays a visit to Wilson. 1,412 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Cut-text is from the song Vacation by the Go-Go's.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks and a tip of the hat to
deelaundry, who knew exactly the right ending, and whose fic Work by Night provided a specific moment for this story.Bonfire
"You're not dead," House says, and Wilson smiles at that, just a little, the corners of his lips turning up amidst all that stubble.
"And good morning to you, too, House," he says mildly. "Would you like to come in?"
House isn't sure. On the one hand, Wilson is supposed to be dead, and this is supposed to be over, but on the other hand ...
"It's been ten months," House says, and it has. Wilson just looks at him. "I got a call," House says. "From your ... from Kyle Calloway. A voicemail," and why is he saying all this? It's not like Wilson doesn't know. Hey, Wilson, you were only supposed to live five months, and then you lived that and five more. Hey, Wilson, you left me a voicemail, it was you, I know it was. Hey, Wilson.
"Yes," Wilson says, thankfully cutting off that chain of thought, and stands away from the door, just enough to let House in. If he wants to come in.
"You're living near the ocean," House says, and there he goes again. Wilson doesn't know he's living near the ocean, practically on the fucking seashore? Close enough to wake up to the gulls and pelicans? Wilson would pay attention to shit like that, gulls and pelicans.
"Yes," Wilson says again, like it's the most normal thing in the world that House is here on his front step, the front step of this cottage on Cape May, close enough to the ocean to sit and watch the waves all day. If that's what you want to do.
"Do you want to come in?" Wilson says.
This is stupid, House thinks, but what he says is "Rode all the way out here. Might as well."
"So you're not dead," House says, once they're seated in the tiny living room, on an overstuffed sofa with a hideous printed pattern of sand dollars and tropical fish. Wilson's made a pot of coffee, but he's having tea -- of course he would, something with the warm, spicy scent of strong ginger, settles the stomach. A TV is on in the corner, the sound muted, showing some old black-and-white movie, the kind Wilson likes. A shot of windmills fills the screen -- someone's in Holland, walking along a canal. They used to do that, House remembers. Put landmarks in the picture so the audience would know where they were. Windmills, we're in Holland, everyone's plucky and brave. The Eiffel Tower, we're in Paris, champagne and cigarettes. Visual shorthand, so you're not lost.
The door into what House assumes is the bedroom is closed. A line of pill bottles, their pharmacy labels festooned with red flags, stand guard on the kitchen table. House doesn't look at them.
Wilson tastes his tea, puts the cup back down. "No, House, I'm not dead," he says. "I just wanted to ... see you."
"You didn't want to see me before."
"Before, you were trying to get me to do something I didn't want to do."
"With good reason."
"Your reasons. Not mine."
House is fully aware that a description of his facial expression may include the word glaring, but it's not like there's a whole lot he can do about it.
"You're still angry," Wilson observes. He looks at his hands, resting in his lap. "This was a mistake. I'm sorry."
House picks up his own coffee cup but doesn't drink from it.
"You said you'd only use the name Kyle Calloway if you were dying," he says.
"I'm sorry," Wilson says again. He looks up from under his eyebrows. "I'll try and die faster."
House drops the cup. Miraculously, it doesn't shatter, but coffee does go all over the carpet and House's shoes.
"You bastard," House says.
Wilson's just sitting there. He makes no move to pick up the cup or grab a paper towel from the kitchen. "Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he says.
"No," House says. "I'll never forgive you. But I'll have another cup of coffee."
Wilson nods, like that's just what he expected. Bastard, House thinks again, and finds his throat unexpectedly tight.
Bastard.
"I walk," Wilson says as they're walking, on the beach but far enough up so that House's cane doesn't sink into the sand. "And I read, and I watch old movies, and there's a hospice nurse -- his name is Rick, Rick Dahlgren, who comes three times a week to check on me. So yes, House, I've become the pathetic, useless excuse for a human being you predicted." He looks outward, eyes scanning the horizon. "I know that's what you were thinking."
"Wasn't," House says, and okay, maybe he was, but only a little. He walks on, but after he's taken a few steps he notices he's walking alone and has to go back.
"Have to stop for a minute," Wilson says, wearing that same apologetic smile he always used to get when he was embarrassed about something. He's got his hands on his hips, and his cheeks are an antic red like they're windburned, to go right along with sounding winded, like he's been running instead of walking sedately down a windy beach.
"How much are you sleeping?" House says, even though he knows the answer.
Wilson tips his head back like he's looking for the 9:20 from LaGuardia and takes a couple of deep breaths. When he looks back at House his eyes are bright.
"Enough," he says. "I'm sleeping enough."
"Liar," House says.
Wilson smiles at him, and this time it's a good smile, the old smile. House turns away quickly.
"We should get back," he says. "It's probably time for Raphael to be knocking on your door."
"Rick," Wilson says.
"Whatever."
They have to stop once more on the way back to the cottage for Wilson to catch his breath, and when they're at the gate Wilson stops again and holds onto the railing for a couple of minutes.
"This is stupid," House grumbles. He's not sure whether he's addressing Wilson or the situation at hand. Maybe it's both. Maybe it doesn't matter. He looks over at his bike, parked in the graveled driveway.
"Oh, you don't have to go already," Wilson says, correctly interpreting the glance. "You just got here!"
"I have ... places to go," House says. "It's the weekend. People to see. Hookers to satisfy." He's lying, and he's sure Wilson knows he's lying, but to his surprise, Wilson doesn't call him on it. His shoulders slump, though.
Oh, no you don't.
"It was nice seeing you," House says. "Kyle."
Wilson doesn't answer at first, but when he does, it's as if House hasn't spoken at all.
"I was hoping you could stay," he says. "Just ... for a little while." He looks at House, almost shyly. "It's ... Bonfire on the Beach night."
How House manages to successfully keep a straight face, he'll never know.
"Wow," he says. "Do Frankie Avalon and Annette Funny-jello show up too? Do we all hold hands and sing Kum-ba-ya?"
"No," Wilson says. "But there's beach food, and dollar beer."
"Oh, well then," House says, and he's about to come back with another rejoinder, another zinger about how fucking stupid a bonfire night on the beach is, when something happens. Something he wasn't expecting. An insight, maybe, or some other equally trite and over-used word that people use when something finally punches them in the face.
This whole thing is stupid. This fight is stupid. This stupid disease, this stupid, screwed-up friendship, this stupid thing they call life.
No windmills, House thinks. No signposts. Where are we?
He wishes, oddly, that he could ask someone, but there's only Wilson looking back at him, and he doesn't think Wilson knows either.
What the hell. He is a little tired. The Repsol was running rough on the way down; he should have it looked at.
"Sure," House says. "I can stay for a few days."
"Okay," Wilson says. "That's good." There's a short pause that's more peaceful than it has any right to be.
"And," Wilson continues, "there's a craft show on Wednesday. I went last month, and it's got some serious artists and some you-really-hope-they-aren't-serious amateurs. That's something you don't want to miss."
House looks away, out toward the ocean, then back at Wilson, who's just standing there, his hand still on the gate.
"There's a lot I don't want to miss, huh?" he says.
"I suppose so," Wilson says and leads the way back into his house.
~ fin
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-16 06:58 am (UTC)OT: I wonder about the many fics who have Wilson looking for comfort in the beach and the sea (well, the Ocean, since you guys over there have no sea handy). I wonder if it's Wilson, or whether it's some deep yearning in all human beings which some of you can rarely satisfy. My grandma, being poor, didn't get to see the sea until she was an adult, and she could still remember it vividly fifty years later.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-16 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-16 09:22 pm (UTC)As for me, I like warmth and the coziness of the mediterranean sea. There is no shore of it without wine, and olive trees, and people that look like me :).
no subject
Date: 2012-05-17 01:35 am (UTC)