Housefic: To Have and to Hold
May. 22nd, 2012 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksTitle: To Have and to Hold
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson, a few OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Yes, for guys being intimate.
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.22 ("Everybody Dies").
Summary: House and Wilson are on the road, but something's lacking. House has a solution, whether Wilson likes it or not. 2,030 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is fluffy. And sappy. But I couldn't not write it. The cut-text is from Andrew Marvell's To his Coy Mistress.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks toblackmare, who knew how to end a meal.
To Have and to Hold
They'd been arguing for three days.
"Because if we don't use my real name it won't be legal."
"Since when are you concerned about anything legal?" Wilson turned away and ran a hand through his hair. His hand stopped on the back of his neck and rested there. "We could have done this in New Jersey," he said more quietly. "If you'd wanted to do this, we could've done it in New Jersey."
"And they would have arrested me in New Jersey," House said. He took a step forward, leaned closer. "Look around, Wilson," he said. "What do you see?"
Wilson looked. The Iowa countryside stretched away on all sides, gently rolling hills, red-painted barns, black-and-white cows placidly ruminating in the fields. It was the closest thing to a living Norman Rockwell painting Wilson had ever seen.
"They're not looking for me here," House said.
"They're not looking for you anywhere," Wilson replied. "But they will be if you use your real name!"
"You're still not getting it," House said. "This is the middle of nowhere. See?" He fumbled for his cellphone, held it up and flipped it open. NO SIGNAL, the screen informed them curtly. "They probably don't even get ESPN here!"
"House, there are these things called satellite dishes ... "
House rolled his eyes. "Will you calm down? It's been over a month. Hell, it's been almost two months. You know how long the average American's attention span is? I can assure you, it's not much longer than a gnat's." He put his cellphone away. "No one, and I repeat no one is going to connect Greg House-me with the Doctor Greg House who died tragically in that warehouse fire in Jersey."
"Tragic is stretching it a bit."
"See? You're already getting into the spirit of things."
"House ... "
House ignored him and lowered his helmet onto his head. He buckled the strap and kicked his bike into gear.
"Come on, Wilson," he said. "Let's go get hitched."
"You know, you fellas coulda done this in New Jersey," the clerk said. Her name was Caroline, black letters on a white badge. She set aside their drivers' licenses and Social Security cards and picked up the license application.
"It's a long story," House said.
"Mm-hmm," Caroline said. "It usually is." She looked at their licenses and cards again, and Wilson's heart sank, but all she did was scoop them up and pass them back under the safety-glass barrier.
"There you go," Caroline said. "Come back in three days to be married by a judge, less you've already got a religious figure of your choice lined up."
"Three days?" House said.
Caroline regarded them with a steely eye. "Don't tell me," she said. "You wanna waive the waiting period."
"We do," House said. "Oh, wait, I say that later."
Caroline's expression said that she was not amused. "And I suppose there's a long story behind this, too."
Wilson started to open his mouth, to say come on, House, let's just forget this, let's go buy a couple of six-packs and get the hell out of Dodge. But House spoke first.
"Nope," he said. "Not that it's any of your business, but there's a really short story behind it. He's dying of cancer."
There was a silence that could only be described as horrific, before Caroline said at last, "Sir, that's not the least bit funny."
"It's not meant to be. Wilson, show her one of your scrips."
"House, I -- "
"Show her."
Silently, Wilson dug into his jacket pocket. Silently, he handed over the small amber vial to the clerk. He cleared his throat as she inspected the label.
"It's, uh ... phenergan," he said. "It's prescribed for -- "
"I know what it's prescribed for," Caroline said. Her expression had changed. She handed the pill bottle back and pulled another printed form from a separate stack.
"Waiver application," she said. "Additional fee of five dollars." She looked at them over the top rims of her glasses. "You fellas are still gonna need witnesses, though. One for the license, two for the ceremony."
House's eyes brightened and he smiled beseechingly. The corners of Caroline's mouth twitched, but she shook her head.
"Against the rules," she said. "Besides, you need a disinterested witness." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Really disinterested." She held their gaze, then looked deliberately away, beyond House and Wilson and to the left. As if hypnotized, they turned and followed her look.
A janitor was there, mopping the courthouse floor while talking to another guy dressed in blue coveralls. A business insignia was stitched on the chest; from this distance, all Wilson could make out was a bright red "G."
They looked back at Caroline. She smiled.
The Justice of the Peace was an enormous man, his eyes almost hidden in his face like raisins in a crescent bun. His hands, however, were small, the nails meticulously manicured, and he laid a finger on the marriage license before him with the delicate touch of a mouse.
"Everything in order here, Carol?" he said. His voice was deep, rumbling out of the depths, with an accent Wilson couldn't quite place. He reminded him a little of Sydney Greenstreet. "It had better be, since you've interrupted my lunch for this." A half-order of takeout salad sat on the judge's desk, off to the side, a plastic fork sticking desultorily out of a lonely tomato wedge.
"All ship-shape, Louis," Caroline said. "Sorry about your lunch, but this one's kind of an emergency."
The judge looked up. "Neither of them look pregnant," he observed.
Carol smiled. "A different sort of emergency, Louis."
The judge sighed. "Fine," he said. "You folks got anything written out? Anything you want to say?"
"I think they're just in a hurry, Louis."
The judge hitched his great bulk forward and stood up. "Witnesses?" He looked around. "Oh. Hello, Stanley. George."
The janitor and the copier-repair guy Caroline had dragooned into service nodded.
"Rings?"
Wilson was about to shake his head when House reached deep into an inner pocket and retrieved a tiny silk packet. He unfolded it, and two gold bands lay within.
"House," Wilson said, and had to stop and swallow. "House, when -- "
"Shhh," House said.
The judge glanced down at the marriage license.
"All right, then. Do you, Greg, take James, to be your spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"
"I do," House said, in a tone of such solemnity that Wilson could only stare at him.
"Do you, James, take Greg, to be your spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"
Wilson's mouth moved, but no sound came out. House kicked his ankle.
"Ah! I ... uh ... I do."
"Greg, place your ring on James' finger," the judge ordered. "Do you pledge your troth, now and from this day forward?"
Wilson half-expected House to ask what the hell troth was, but House simply slid the ring onto Wilson's finger.
"I do," he said again.
"James, place your ring on Greg's finger. Do you pledge your troth, now and from this day forward?"
Wilson clasped House's hand in his own. As if in a trance, he slid the ring over House's knuckle and onto his finger.
"I do," he said.
"Then by the authority vested in me by the laws of the great state of Iowa, I now pronounce the two of you spouses for life -- legally married with all the privileges, immunities, rights and obligations as provided for under Iowa law. Congratulations."
House nodded. "There's just one more thing," he said. "Actually, two more things, but this is part of Wilson's ceremony." He turned away and unzipped his backpack. He lifted out a small bundle, an unidentifiable object wrapped in a food-stained cloth napkin, and set it on the floor.
"Mazel tov, Wilson," he said, and brought down one booted foot on the bundle. There was the sound, muffled but unmistakable, of shattering glass.
Caroline clapped her hands in delight, then regained her official composure and stepped back, smoothing her skirt as if she'd meant to do that all along.
The judge held out the license. "Take it to the Recorder's office, gentlemen," he said. "Makes it official."
Wilson took it. "Thank you, Judge," he said. "Thank you. I -- "
"Skipped a step there, didn't you, Your Honor?" House said
"House -- "
"I seem to recall there being something about kissing the ... whatever." He raised an eyebrow. "Life's short, Wilson."
"Fine," the judge said. "Kiss him. I'm going to finish my lunch."
House glanced at Caroline.
"Don't mind me," she said.
He looked at Wilson, and cocked his head in a silent question.
"Okay," Wilson said, and, "okay," again.
House's lips were dry, and the slightest bit chapped from the wind. They touched Wilson's lips gently, then pressed a little harder for the briefest of moments, and then they were gone. House looked deep into Wilson's eyes.
"Any fireworks?" he said. "Explosions? Eclipses? Meteors?"
Wilson licked at his own dry lips, and caught the faintest trace of House's ChapStick.
"No," he said.
"Good," House said. "Otherwise it would mean you had a brain tumor in addition to the thymoma." He took Wilson's hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's get back on the road."
"Recorder's office first," Caroline reminded. "It's right down the hall. I'll let Lucille know you're an expedited case." She started to lead them out, then paused to let George and Stanley go by. Behind them, the judge was looking with resignation at his salad.
"Thank you," Wilson said to her. "Really, we -- "
"Just doing my job," Caroline said briskly. "Congratulations, and good luck. And you -- " She looked at House, who didn't look away. "You, don't play that cancer card too often now. Might bring you trouble one day." And with that she was gone, bustling away down the corridor. They watched her go, until Wilson felt a touch at his elbow.
"Let's go," House said. "Recorder's office, then let's get out of here."
"Where to now?"
"Vegas," House said. "We can renew our vows in one of those Elvis Chapels of Love."
Every time they stopped -- every time he took off his gloves -- Wilson kept looking from his left hand, to House's hand, and back.
"When did you buy these?" he asked, over dinner. Steaks in some quiet place where they barely met the dress code, because it was what they found and because Wilson wanted a real glass of wine, even if he could only safely drink half. They'd stay in the adjacent Marriott that night. No one had pursued them; there had been no flashing lights in their rearview mirrors. "It ... looked like you'd been carrying them a while."
"Couple days after your diagnosis. I'd just signed my divorce papers."
"But ... we thought I'd live."
"I thought you'd live. You didn't. Does it matter?"
It might, Wilson thought. It was true there'd been no fireworks, no sparks, not much of anything from that weird, chaste kiss House asked for. But it had been two nights since then and Wilson's thoughts kept bouncing back there. Kiss, ring, hand, House. The look on House's face.
"You wanted this. Either way."
"Or I was preparing for the worst, just in case."
"You're a complicated guy. I'm guessing both."
Something went still about House, something quiet looking out at him, and Wilson made a choice.
"Dessert?" he said.
************
And while that should have been the end of it, it wasn't. House and Wilson had many more adventures on the road; most of them were good, but there were a few that were not. Still, there was one true thing out of all the other things that did come of it.
It was James Wilson's only marriage that didn't end in divorce.
~ fin
Author:
nightdog_barksCharacters: House, Wilson, a few OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Yes, for guys being intimate.
Spoilers: Yes, for Season 8 up to episode 8.22 ("Everybody Dies").
Summary: House and Wilson are on the road, but something's lacking. House has a solution, whether Wilson likes it or not. 2,030 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is fluffy. And sappy. But I couldn't not write it. The cut-text is from Andrew Marvell's To his Coy Mistress.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
blackmare, who knew how to end a meal.To Have and to Hold
They'd been arguing for three days.
"Because if we don't use my real name it won't be legal."
"Since when are you concerned about anything legal?" Wilson turned away and ran a hand through his hair. His hand stopped on the back of his neck and rested there. "We could have done this in New Jersey," he said more quietly. "If you'd wanted to do this, we could've done it in New Jersey."
"And they would have arrested me in New Jersey," House said. He took a step forward, leaned closer. "Look around, Wilson," he said. "What do you see?"
Wilson looked. The Iowa countryside stretched away on all sides, gently rolling hills, red-painted barns, black-and-white cows placidly ruminating in the fields. It was the closest thing to a living Norman Rockwell painting Wilson had ever seen.
"They're not looking for me here," House said.
"They're not looking for you anywhere," Wilson replied. "But they will be if you use your real name!"
"You're still not getting it," House said. "This is the middle of nowhere. See?" He fumbled for his cellphone, held it up and flipped it open. NO SIGNAL, the screen informed them curtly. "They probably don't even get ESPN here!"
"House, there are these things called satellite dishes ... "
House rolled his eyes. "Will you calm down? It's been over a month. Hell, it's been almost two months. You know how long the average American's attention span is? I can assure you, it's not much longer than a gnat's." He put his cellphone away. "No one, and I repeat no one is going to connect Greg House-me with the Doctor Greg House who died tragically in that warehouse fire in Jersey."
"Tragic is stretching it a bit."
"See? You're already getting into the spirit of things."
"House ... "
House ignored him and lowered his helmet onto his head. He buckled the strap and kicked his bike into gear.
"Come on, Wilson," he said. "Let's go get hitched."
"You know, you fellas coulda done this in New Jersey," the clerk said. Her name was Caroline, black letters on a white badge. She set aside their drivers' licenses and Social Security cards and picked up the license application.
"It's a long story," House said.
"Mm-hmm," Caroline said. "It usually is." She looked at their licenses and cards again, and Wilson's heart sank, but all she did was scoop them up and pass them back under the safety-glass barrier.
"There you go," Caroline said. "Come back in three days to be married by a judge, less you've already got a religious figure of your choice lined up."
"Three days?" House said.
Caroline regarded them with a steely eye. "Don't tell me," she said. "You wanna waive the waiting period."
"We do," House said. "Oh, wait, I say that later."
Caroline's expression said that she was not amused. "And I suppose there's a long story behind this, too."
Wilson started to open his mouth, to say come on, House, let's just forget this, let's go buy a couple of six-packs and get the hell out of Dodge. But House spoke first.
"Nope," he said. "Not that it's any of your business, but there's a really short story behind it. He's dying of cancer."
There was a silence that could only be described as horrific, before Caroline said at last, "Sir, that's not the least bit funny."
"It's not meant to be. Wilson, show her one of your scrips."
"House, I -- "
"Show her."
Silently, Wilson dug into his jacket pocket. Silently, he handed over the small amber vial to the clerk. He cleared his throat as she inspected the label.
"It's, uh ... phenergan," he said. "It's prescribed for -- "
"I know what it's prescribed for," Caroline said. Her expression had changed. She handed the pill bottle back and pulled another printed form from a separate stack.
"Waiver application," she said. "Additional fee of five dollars." She looked at them over the top rims of her glasses. "You fellas are still gonna need witnesses, though. One for the license, two for the ceremony."
House's eyes brightened and he smiled beseechingly. The corners of Caroline's mouth twitched, but she shook her head.
"Against the rules," she said. "Besides, you need a disinterested witness." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Really disinterested." She held their gaze, then looked deliberately away, beyond House and Wilson and to the left. As if hypnotized, they turned and followed her look.
A janitor was there, mopping the courthouse floor while talking to another guy dressed in blue coveralls. A business insignia was stitched on the chest; from this distance, all Wilson could make out was a bright red "G."
They looked back at Caroline. She smiled.
The Justice of the Peace was an enormous man, his eyes almost hidden in his face like raisins in a crescent bun. His hands, however, were small, the nails meticulously manicured, and he laid a finger on the marriage license before him with the delicate touch of a mouse.
"Everything in order here, Carol?" he said. His voice was deep, rumbling out of the depths, with an accent Wilson couldn't quite place. He reminded him a little of Sydney Greenstreet. "It had better be, since you've interrupted my lunch for this." A half-order of takeout salad sat on the judge's desk, off to the side, a plastic fork sticking desultorily out of a lonely tomato wedge.
"All ship-shape, Louis," Caroline said. "Sorry about your lunch, but this one's kind of an emergency."
The judge looked up. "Neither of them look pregnant," he observed.
Carol smiled. "A different sort of emergency, Louis."
The judge sighed. "Fine," he said. "You folks got anything written out? Anything you want to say?"
"I think they're just in a hurry, Louis."
The judge hitched his great bulk forward and stood up. "Witnesses?" He looked around. "Oh. Hello, Stanley. George."
The janitor and the copier-repair guy Caroline had dragooned into service nodded.
"Rings?"
Wilson was about to shake his head when House reached deep into an inner pocket and retrieved a tiny silk packet. He unfolded it, and two gold bands lay within.
"House," Wilson said, and had to stop and swallow. "House, when -- "
"Shhh," House said.
The judge glanced down at the marriage license.
"All right, then. Do you, Greg, take James, to be your spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"
"I do," House said, in a tone of such solemnity that Wilson could only stare at him.
"Do you, James, take Greg, to be your spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"
Wilson's mouth moved, but no sound came out. House kicked his ankle.
"Ah! I ... uh ... I do."
"Greg, place your ring on James' finger," the judge ordered. "Do you pledge your troth, now and from this day forward?"
Wilson half-expected House to ask what the hell troth was, but House simply slid the ring onto Wilson's finger.
"I do," he said again.
"James, place your ring on Greg's finger. Do you pledge your troth, now and from this day forward?"
Wilson clasped House's hand in his own. As if in a trance, he slid the ring over House's knuckle and onto his finger.
"I do," he said.
"Then by the authority vested in me by the laws of the great state of Iowa, I now pronounce the two of you spouses for life -- legally married with all the privileges, immunities, rights and obligations as provided for under Iowa law. Congratulations."
House nodded. "There's just one more thing," he said. "Actually, two more things, but this is part of Wilson's ceremony." He turned away and unzipped his backpack. He lifted out a small bundle, an unidentifiable object wrapped in a food-stained cloth napkin, and set it on the floor.
"Mazel tov, Wilson," he said, and brought down one booted foot on the bundle. There was the sound, muffled but unmistakable, of shattering glass.
Caroline clapped her hands in delight, then regained her official composure and stepped back, smoothing her skirt as if she'd meant to do that all along.
The judge held out the license. "Take it to the Recorder's office, gentlemen," he said. "Makes it official."
Wilson took it. "Thank you, Judge," he said. "Thank you. I -- "
"Skipped a step there, didn't you, Your Honor?" House said
"House -- "
"I seem to recall there being something about kissing the ... whatever." He raised an eyebrow. "Life's short, Wilson."
"Fine," the judge said. "Kiss him. I'm going to finish my lunch."
House glanced at Caroline.
"Don't mind me," she said.
He looked at Wilson, and cocked his head in a silent question.
"Okay," Wilson said, and, "okay," again.
House's lips were dry, and the slightest bit chapped from the wind. They touched Wilson's lips gently, then pressed a little harder for the briefest of moments, and then they were gone. House looked deep into Wilson's eyes.
"Any fireworks?" he said. "Explosions? Eclipses? Meteors?"
Wilson licked at his own dry lips, and caught the faintest trace of House's ChapStick.
"No," he said.
"Good," House said. "Otherwise it would mean you had a brain tumor in addition to the thymoma." He took Wilson's hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's get back on the road."
"Recorder's office first," Caroline reminded. "It's right down the hall. I'll let Lucille know you're an expedited case." She started to lead them out, then paused to let George and Stanley go by. Behind them, the judge was looking with resignation at his salad.
"Thank you," Wilson said to her. "Really, we -- "
"Just doing my job," Caroline said briskly. "Congratulations, and good luck. And you -- " She looked at House, who didn't look away. "You, don't play that cancer card too often now. Might bring you trouble one day." And with that she was gone, bustling away down the corridor. They watched her go, until Wilson felt a touch at his elbow.
"Let's go," House said. "Recorder's office, then let's get out of here."
"Where to now?"
"Vegas," House said. "We can renew our vows in one of those Elvis Chapels of Love."
Every time they stopped -- every time he took off his gloves -- Wilson kept looking from his left hand, to House's hand, and back.
"When did you buy these?" he asked, over dinner. Steaks in some quiet place where they barely met the dress code, because it was what they found and because Wilson wanted a real glass of wine, even if he could only safely drink half. They'd stay in the adjacent Marriott that night. No one had pursued them; there had been no flashing lights in their rearview mirrors. "It ... looked like you'd been carrying them a while."
"Couple days after your diagnosis. I'd just signed my divorce papers."
"But ... we thought I'd live."
"I thought you'd live. You didn't. Does it matter?"
It might, Wilson thought. It was true there'd been no fireworks, no sparks, not much of anything from that weird, chaste kiss House asked for. But it had been two nights since then and Wilson's thoughts kept bouncing back there. Kiss, ring, hand, House. The look on House's face.
"You wanted this. Either way."
"Or I was preparing for the worst, just in case."
"You're a complicated guy. I'm guessing both."
Something went still about House, something quiet looking out at him, and Wilson made a choice.
"Dessert?" he said.
And while that should have been the end of it, it wasn't. House and Wilson had many more adventures on the road; most of them were good, but there were a few that were not. Still, there was one true thing out of all the other things that did come of it.
It was James Wilson's only marriage that didn't end in divorce.
~ fin