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Histories
by leiascully
Mermaid (Stuart Davis)
"You've really got to stop reading the tabloids," Wilson said, looking at House with that special Wilson brand of exasperation. House shook out the lurid pages for better perusal, almost smudging the print against Wilson's nose as Wilson leaned toward his lunch.
"A mermaid baby," House insisted in tones of manufactured rapture. "How many generations of inces would it take to result in the congenital birth defects that created that miracle?"
"More like prosthetics and photoediting to fool the gullible," Wilson said. "Stop eating my fries."
"You coming by tonight?"
"Can't. Family stuff."
House scowled behind his stupid tabloid.
Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, and Wives (Voxtrot)
Wilson always felt out of place at these gatherings: his wife, her sisters, her mother, and two nearly grown stepdaughters whom he saw almost never. None of whom had any interesting in him beyond reassuring themselves that he was still a doctor. He accepted a glass of wine from his wife, did rounds kissing indifferent cheeks, and then retreated to his study, Miles Davis on the stereo and the new issue of JAMA on his desk. He wasn't some manly man, never had been, but with all these women, he felt displaced. House would be eating takeout, watching tv.
Someone's Going to Break Your Heart (Jill Sobule)
He had been wrong about the tv. House was playing piano: jazz seeped under the door mingled with the smell of curry from that place downtown that could be coaxed into delivering. Wilson hesitated. He shouldn't have left his wife's thing, claiming an evening consult, making his apologies. He shouldn't be on House's doorstep feeling much giddier and dizzier than half a glass of wine accounted for. He knocked anyway.
"Key!" said House from within, imperious. "Wilson, you heartbreaker. You left your wife?"
For you, Wilson wanted to say, but the taste of the words was terrifying. He shrugged instead.
Resistansen (Kaizers Orchestra)
"Why are you here?" asked House, that interrogative glint in his eyes, his hands still moving over the piano.
"You asked me," said Wilson, trying to keep his voice mild, poking House's fork into the curry. "Remember? Those happy hours in your office?"
"You had a thing." House stopped playing. "Is that it? Are you leaving her?"
Wilson let his head fall back. He wanted not to answer. His mouth was burning but his heart, which should have clenched or revolted or beat funny or something, anything, did nothing at all. "I don't know."
Car on a Hill (Joni Mitchell)
A car went by in the parking lot and Wilson flinched and stared after it, his shoulders tensing. Not his wife's car (soon to be ex, soon to be out of his garage), not her lawyer's car (soon to be someone whom Wilson's next wife would accidentally send Christmas cards, because the name and address would be in the "frequently contacted" section of Wilson's Rolodex). He tried to relax. The papers would be served. He would spend nights on House's couch.
Entropy was inevitable. His sins followed him like a pack of hounds, belling the end of another hopeless marriage.
Every Day I Have The Blues (John Mayer Trio)
"You remember eating?" House grunted, slapping a bowl of cereal down on Wilson's stomach and sitting down on the end of the couch with a sigh of effort. "You know, vitamins, minerals, calories. Seem to remember something about them being important."
"I'm not hungry," said Wilson, staring at the ceiling.
"I will never understand why you pine the way you do. You cheated on her. You cheated on all of them. And we still have to go through this funk. You are not a martyr. Eat your cereal."
Wilson sat up reluctantly. "Are there bananas?"
New (No Doubt)
It was always the same: he saw a new woman and something sparked in his stomach and got into his blood and spread to his groin and his brain. His hands danced as he talked, his hips and shoulders canted toward her, and even his eyebrows got eloquent, arching, giving his forehead those perfect creases of concern and interest. Wilson had been attractive to women, attracted to women, as long as he could remember.
House diagnosed it at a word. The timbre of Wilson's flirting voice rattled irritatingly in his ears, Wilson listing toward the blonde like a sinking ship.
Simple Soul (Julian Rhind-Tutt)
"It's complicated," said Wilson, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"Uh uh," said House, chin on cane, "I'm the complicated one. It's in our friendship contract. You're supposed to be the nice guy."
"What do you want from me, House?"
"Stop fucking up. Stop fucking around."
"Since when is my sex life any of your business? Do you want me out of the apartment? Fine! I'll go."
"Keep your pants on," House said cooly. "Nothing's that simple. Nothing's ever just stay or go."
"Is that the argument you used on Stacy?"
Mojo Pin (Jeff Buckley)
Cuddy's voice was somewhere between mellifluous and grating as it came over the answering machine. "House. House. Pick up the damn phone, I know you're there. You've got nowhere else to be." A pause, as she gathered herself. "Fine. Don't pick up the phone. Just get your ass in here. Wilson didn't show up for his shift and I could use you in the clinic. I don't know what you said to him, but fix it. Now."
House reached for his cane, concentrating. His hand knocked the open pill bottle, tablets pinging against the half-empty bottle of Scotch.
I'll Find A Way (Rachael Yamagata)
House took a taxi in to the hospital and sent the new one, Chase, to the clinic to deal with Cuddy. He sat at his desk with his head in his hands, trying to get the room to stop floating. Wilson was gone, just like Stacy was gone, and the only thing that got the venom and sorrow out of his veins was Vicodin washed down with whiskey, but it did nothing for his detective skills.
A long shadow fell across his desk and he turned in his chair to see Wilson standing on the balcony. "You found me."
Histories
"So what happens now?" asked Wilson, one hand on the back of House's chair. House stood up, awkwardly, nearly falling against Wilson, who steadied him. "Jesus. Are you going to do this every time we have a fight?"
"You were lost but now are found. I had a drink and you had a fling. Which one of us is more socially acceptable?"
"I am," said Wilson. "Aside from the fact that it's apparently in some kind of contract about our friendship, extramarital sex doesn't affect my driving or judgement, generally, nor does it leave me unable to walk."
"Clearly you're not having the right kind of sex," muttered House, levering himself around the desk with the cane. Wilson let out what was almost a laugh, his smile wry. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Cafeteria," House said over his shoulder. "After all that emotional distress, you owe me lunch."
"Usually my relationships aren't quite this abusive," said Wilson, following along.
"Just to your bank account after all that alimony. Those who don't study history are doomed to repeat it," said House. "I'm a whole new deal."
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A/N: Written for the housefic_pens drabble challenge.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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