Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Wilson (Mentions of others.)
Wordcount: 1000 exactly
Notes: Dedicated to genagirl after I discovered we both liked Billy Fury. The drabble titles come from ten of his songs, which can be found HERE, but the drabbles aren't songfics. Some angst, some humor and a bit of hope.
One major 4th season spoiler.
Thanks to Beta Goddess Carol
Halfway To Paradise
Leave it to you to fall in love with the person least capable of accepting it. The man who would viciously mock you for any attempt to express an emotion deeper than tolerance.
You’ve tried to ignore it, deny it, walk away. Yet here you are.
He gives you that look, gets a little too close and asks something completely inappropriate, making you think he does care. You can practically feel the kiss coming, and fight the temptation to close your eyes.
Then he reminds you that it’s your turn to pay for the pizza.
You’re always paying for something.
House had never considered drug addiction as a career choice until the day his leg exploded in agony and a hypodermic needle’s worth of Demerol had provided nearly instantaneous, blissful relief.
Round two of the pain led to an IV pumping morphine into his bloodstream with an Ativan chaser, and an all-expenses-paid vacation to Coma-land, where he’d lolled in the warm surf and seriously debated the merits of never coming back. Within seconds of waking up to find that the pain had taken up permanent residence, he knew he’d spend the rest of his life trying to get back there.
Mrs. Wilson Number One used to have a name.
Wilson likes to protest that the marriage to Colette wasn’t a bad one, just out of control, sexed up to the eyeballs, and scary as hell when he found himself laughing his way into another woman’s bed and unable to lie about it for more than two hours after the fact.
He was brooding into a beer, a slap still fresh on his cheek, when the doctor he knew by reputation as the terror of Princeton-Plainsboro sat down next to him.
“You’re an idiot.”
For some reason, he started to smile.
Give Me Your Word
Wilson used to be impressed with House’s ostentatious cynicism. He almost wished he could distrust the human race like that, shutting himself off from the feelings of his patients, his parents and his lovers simply by repeating one brutal mantra until everyone around you lives down to your worst expectations. Maybe life was easier that way.
Now he sees House for the miserable bastard he really is: the man who’s driven away every person who tried to care about him, and Wilson doesn’t envy him at all.
No matter how much his limp looks like a swagger, he’s still alone.
I’d Never Find Another You
If Wilson wanted House to take his marriage seriously, he should have found someone with a more grown-up name than “Bonnie,” preferably a woman who didn’t seem to be perpetually slipping through life on a banana peel and waiting for Wilson to pick her up again.
Wilson’s faith in his own ability to maintain a relationship was sweet, as in saccharine, nauseating, and likely to cause tooth decay.
House had no such illusions, just an extensive porn collection and Elite Escorts on speed-dial. He toasted the couple and started counting days to the breakup.
It was a long two years.
“Don’t tell me. She has five breasts. Her bra fits like a glove.”
“She’s funny and smart. And she’s tough.”
“You mean she’s like Stacy. Watch out for your limbs, ‘cause it looks like you’ve already given up your most important appendage.”
“At least I didn’t meet her in a strip club.”
“No, you got drunk in a karaoke bar and ended up singing Bobby Sherman songs.”
“And it was the best night of my life.”
“Better than the riot when the Eagles lost?”
“Why can’t you just be happy for me?”
“Because I know you.”
Once Upon a Dream
House dreams of revenge, of foes vanquished, puzzles solved, pain gone, and always, always, his leg restored. Dreams, as he knows, are untrustworthy bastards, seeking to compound his misery with their false hope. He dreamed of ketamine and ended up betrayed, again.
Wilson dreams of healthy patients, happy families, love undying and, more often than he wants to admit, House. In his life, in his arms, in his bed. Dreams keep him going through the day, when everything seems hopeless. He clings to the dreams, because they’re all he’s got and one of them has to come true some day.
Last Night Was Made For Love
There was pot roast for dinner, but he was too wound up inside to eat more than a few bites. Three glasses of wine went down like fruit punch as he tried to forget about House and Stacy.
“James, is everything all right?”
Julie knew his moods and tried to massage some of the tension away. He stood and turned to kiss her, gently nudging away the dog with one foot. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing back hungrily. House would show up at the hospital with a certain smug look on his face.
Well, so would he.
Like I’ve Never Been Gone
He wasn’t surprised to see Cameron by his bed when he woke up. He’d been just enough of a bastard to keep her hoping, and too much of one to give Wilson any reason to hang around, because playing with people’s emotions kept him amused.
His game, his rules, and now he had to play it out, he thought, as he fought for clarity only to discover that his unconscious was a seriously weird place full of robots and taco stands.
At the end of the hallucination, he fell back into darkness wondering who’d be waiting this time.
He’d never planned to say it again.
The last time had been to Cameron to get a sample for an AIDS test, and even that hurt a little, although it wasn’t completely a lie.
Before that, Stacy. For all the pain and rage that had followed, he couldn’t deny that he’d meant it.
House remembered saying it to his mother, although less and less often as it became clear that she couldn’t protect him from Dad’s addiction to the truth.
On this day of exceeding stupidity, he’d uttered the three words again, to Wilson of all people.
He did, too