Notes: This is the ever-popular book drabble challenge thing. Every drabble is based on the first complete sentence of every tenth page. The book used is How To Survive a Horror Movie by Seth Grahame-Smith. There are spoilers for Signs and The Happening.
Survivors
10. "Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter."
House squeezed the handle of his cane, and tried to ignore the stabbing, burning pain in his thigh. He knew it was psychosomatic; he knew it, Wilson knew it, hell, probably even that twitchy, truthful-Tourettes having dick Lucas knew it. Still, the white-hot pain radiated up and into his hip, turning his pelvis into molten hot lava.
He ground the heel of his palm into his thigh, trying to massage the pain away, but it didn't work. The very thought that Cuddy was with Lucas of all people bothered him; knowing that he probably was better for her made it worse.
He thought of an orange bottle of pills; he thought of Vicodin, and slowly drifting away on a narcotic haze; of slipping into a drug-induced fog, far away from thoughts of unrequited lust and teasing ice-blue eyes.
Then he thought of Amber; of her too-wide smile and clear eyes, surrounding him as he slept, and remembered what it was like to see her floating around in front of him.
He could almost hear her taunting voice now; "Subconscious desire to get Wilson into your bed, huh? Bet you never imagined him getting you into his home, watching you, feeding you, taking care of you like the pathetic, helpless child you are . . ."
Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes against the pain, and told himself that it wasn't real; it didn't make it any better, but the alternative was worse.
20. You're probably thinking, "Who cares?"
"I don't even know why I talk to you sometimes," Wilson says, putting his hands on his hips as he shakes his head at the floor.
"Because someone has to provide colourful commentary in your mundane life," House quips, walking into the kitchen.
Wilson rubs his face and lets out a huff of irritated air. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to tell himself that he has nothing to be irritated over--that this is just House, and he should expect this sort of behaviour, but really, knowing that House is being himself and that he should have expected this, well . . . It doesn't exactly make him feel better.
"For once in your life, could you at least pretend to care about me? Maybe as some sort of project," he calls into the kitchen, knowing that his lips are pursed in annoyance but he can't help it.
House walks out of the kitchen holding two bottles of beer. He presses one into Wilson's hand as he walks by. "That's too much effort to make as an ongoing project. How about I care about you sporadically and the rest of the time I act like a total ass?" he suggests as he plops onto the couch, tossing his bottle cap onto the coffee table as he turns on Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Wilson sighs, and gives up on his fruitless attempt at somehow giving House a soul. He sits beside him and keeps shaking his head. After a second of watching Shake trying to name a smaller, Shake-shaped shake, he sighs. "This is show is completely pointless," he states, as if it's some brand-new concept, as a way of saying he's over his descent into Hallmark channel invocation.
Shrugging, House replies; "Who cares?"
30. All of this information will help you choose the most promising escape route.
Wilson walked down the hallway, looking over the histories in the folder he had open in his hands. House, who was lounging against the wall, stood away from it when Wilson walked by. Wilson barely glanced at him, smiled in greeting, then walked past.
"Quick--pretend to make out with me," House ordered, grabbing his tie and yanking him so that he practically crashed into his chest.
"Wha--" he began, then caught himself by slapping his hand to the wall beside House, dropping his folder to the linoleum. House's nose was centimetres from his, and he went to pull away, but House yanked his tie again. He shoved away from the wall and tore the tie from House's grasp, glancing around to see if anybody was staring at them.
Thankfully, people hadn't noticed. Either that, or everyone was so used to House's strangeness that they just ignored him when he accosted his best friend in the hallway.
"What are you doing?!" Wilson stage-whispered dramatically, smoothing down his tie.
"I've got a stalker," he said, jutting his chin at someone past Wilson shoulder. Wilson habitually looked over his shoulder to see a teenaged girl peering through the crowds. She looked at House and her face split into a gleeful grin.
"And pretending to make out with me accomplishes what exactly?"
"Ruining her chance of ever wooing me into her frilly, pink, overly-stuffed-with-feathers bed. She'll think I'm gay."
"And so will everyone else in the clinic," Wilson pointed out.
House let out a huff of air and rolled his eyes. "Everybody already thinks that anyway."
"Everyone at our apartment thinks that, no thanks to you," he corrected with a raised eyebrow.
"Well, I'm sure people here suspect it, too," House retaliated, as if trying to convince him, although Wilson really had no idea why that would be convincing.
Wilson sighed. "Well, you know what they say--if you live in a glass house . . ."
"Don't walk around in the nude," House finished, grabbed his tie, then crushed their lips together.
Wilson stood there, hands flailing around in panic, while House continued to assault his mouth. After a few seconds that lasted an eternity, Wilson finally had the presence of mind to plant his hands on his friend's shoulders and push him away.
House smirked, then glanced at the girl who had apparently been stalking him. Wilson glanced over his shoulder curiously to see that she looked about ready to cry. "Ah, the sound of a heart breaking. It's like music to my misanthropic ears."
Wilson sighed, picked up his folder, and left as quickly as possible, before House could rope him into anything else.
40. Un-clique yourself.
You watch as House swirls the scotch in his glass, staring at a crowd of young college students, all dressed in cardigans and khakis, with their hair perfectly coifed and smelling like over-priced cologne and perfume.
He stares at them like he's never seen people in their early twenties before. "Rich daddy kids," he states, and his blue eyes flick to you, as if awaiting your opinion on the matter. "What were you?"
"Uh . . . I don't really know," you lie, shifting uncomfortably on the barstool.
"Nerd," he decides, and you cluck your tongue, nodding with acceptance.
You sigh and look down at your own glass. "Yeah. High school wasn't exactly the highlight of my life. What about you?"
He scoffs and takes a sip of his scotch, and then looks back at the crowd of merrily drinking and laughing young adults. "I didn't belong to a clique," he mutters after a second, then scowls at the kids as if it is somehow their fault. "I didn't belong anywhere," he adds ruefully, then grimaces at his drink before downing the rest.
You stare at him, and it's one of those moments where you realize he's showing himself to you. He's open and laid bare, and it's obviously something he cares about. You lean closer to him, teetering on the edge of your stool, and barely press your hand to his knee. His eyes slide to meet yours, and after a second you remove your hand, simply because you're not sure that he's comfortable with that much contact.
"Or maybe you belong everywhere," you tell him.
He smiles, and you don't think you've ever said anything truer.
50. If you're looking for a weapon in the Terrorverse, you can't go wrong raiding the nearest toolshed (or garage.)
He awoke with a jolt, and had no idea why.
Until he heard an unfamiliar voice in the living room and something breaking, and his heart double-hit his chest in fear. Wilson swung his legs off of the bed and bolted to his closet and yanked it open, looking for a baseball bat he knew wasn't there. Of course it wasn't--Wilson didn't own a baseball bat. Hell, he didn't own a gun, or any sort of weapon, really . . . Well, he owned large, heavy objects, but he doubted he could really put up a fight against--
He heard a yell that definitely belonged to House, and weapons be damned--he burst out of his bedroom and bolted into the living room, heart hammering in his chest and thoughts of his best friend in a pool of blood, clutching a bullet wound in his chest, filled his mind.
He saw House staring down a lanky man with a knife (and nylons over his head.) Wilson shouted out House's name, tears brimming the lids, and they both turned to stare at him. A second later, House swung his cane in a wide arc and whacked it upside the intruder's head.
He fell to the floor, clutching his temple, and then he brought the cane down on his ribs, before kicking the knife out of his hand. The guy reached for his weapon, but House hit him across the knuckles, then brought the cane down against his head again with a sickening thwack, and the intruder stopped moving.
"You know, you really should lock that thing," House commented, gesturing at the half-open door vaguely.
Wilson stared at the unconscious body, watching him breathe for a moment. The next second, Wilson was across the living room and forcing House into a tight hug, burying his face into his shoulder and squeezing him.
After a second, House returned the hug. It was brief, but Wilson could feel the meaning behind it.
House stepped away, then lifted his cane. "Knew there was a reason I kept this thing around."
60. When babysitting, you must transform your client's pleasant suburban home into an impregnable fortress.
"Take off your shoes," House commanded the second Wilson set foot in their place.
Wilson didn't take his shoes off; instead, he stared at what used to be the living room. The television was gone; the couch was gone; all of the furniture . . . It looked like a large, empty room, padded with every blanket he owned. There was a child-proof gate blocking the living room from the kitchen, and House sat in the middle, surrounded by stuffed animals, with Rachel, babbling and chewing on a stuffed red devil.
"Wha . . . ?"
"Lucas is dicking around so he couldn't baby-sit, and Cuddy's nanny was sick," he explained, then eyed Wilson's shoes pointedly. "And while you're at it, you should probably put your keys in the kitchen. Anything that can fit in a toilet paper roll cannot be in the living room."
Rachel let out a squeal followed by a laugh, and Wilson finally gathered up his brain from the floor and placed it back into his head. "Where's my furniture?"
"I swiped your card and paid for a storage unit."
Wilson sighed. "I thought you were just groping my ass."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
"Because I was talking to Debbie from Accounting and you were trying to embarrass me."
He shrugged. "Two birds, one stone."
Wilson stared at the red devil that Rachel was currently slobbering all over, and he let out a long sigh. "Amber gave me that for Valentine's Day," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I figured it would remind her of her mommy," he said cheerfully as Wilson toed off his shoes.
70. You know, some places are like people.
Wilson's home was difficult to get used to. Back when House had his own place, cleaning up was best left for when he was in the mood, and leaving dirty clothes on the floor for a few days wasn't a horrible offence. The place wasn't a total mess, but it had been cluttered. His guitars were laid against the wall, relaxing there, ready to be picked up and plucked at a moment's notice.
But with Wilson, everything had to be clean. Beer bottles had to be thrown away the night they were drank, and dirty clothes had to be put in the hamper once shed. Pictures were never askew, and the house was vacuumed at least once a week. It wasn't that Wilson was OCD or anything--he just always picked up after himself, so that there wouldn't be a mess to pick up later. Everything had its place, and it never strayed from it.
At first glance, Wilson's apartment lacked personality. It could belong to anyone, and the only sign of life it had were the pictures he put up of his dead girlfriend in his shrine, locked away from prying eyes. Looking through his home, one would assume that the man who lived here was boring; mundane. A white-collar zombie living his day one routine at a time. Everything was as it should be, but nothing really stuck out as interesting.
But once someone started looking closer, they'd notice the fact Wilson didn't always make his bed--and he didn't always pick up his towels from the bathroom floor. Dirty pots and pans would stay on the oven for hours, until Wilson forced himself to do the dishes. Change and little bits of garbage were stuffed in between the cushions, and most importantly of all, his couch was curved to House's butt-cheeks, forever branded as part of the apartment.
Wilson may have kept his pictures of Amber in the study (re: House's bedroom) but he very rarely went in there, unless it was to drag House's ass out of bed. At any given moment, though, Wilson could pull out his photo album, which never stayed in the same spot--sometimes, it was on the coffee table; sometimes, it was in his closet; most of the time, it was in a drawer in his nightstand beside his bed. Pictures of his family and more than half of House were stuffed in there, and Wilson would never admit it, but he looked through them quite often.
He may have had books lined up alphabetically on his bookshelf, but every now and then House would find a joke book, or a book on pranks, or a tiny book on trivial information stuffed on top. His magazines were all medical--except for the ones that weren't. Sometimes, an old issue of Seventeen would pop out; probably bought because it had an article that had caught Wilson interest in the aisle, or because a really hot actress he liked was on the cover.
When House had searched through the apartment one evening out of sheer boredom, he found every single one of Wilson's wedding rings. Wilson hadn't pawned them, like any self-respecting divorcee would have, and he kept them on his dresser in a plain jewellery box, with tie clips and lapel pins. Which meant every single morning he looked at them; every single morning, he reminded himself of his failures.
Wilson kept a drawer full of candy in the kitchen, full of cherry suckers that House knew Wilson didn't really like, and he kept a bottle of shampoo he never used but House liked in the shower--and he had before he moved in, too.
At first glance, the house seemed boring and everything it should be; it was upon closer inspection one could see the flaws, and what was really important to its character.
80. Other vehicles.
"Nothing says 'ultra-sexy' like arriving in a Volvo," House whined as they walked up to Wilson's car, fixing their bow-ties and smoothing down their tuxes.
Wilson sighed. "It's an oncology benefit, not a Swinger's Club."
"You never seemed to know the difference," House commented, staring at the car in distaste. "Oh come on, can't we take my car for once?" he asked, pleading blue eyes meeting Wilson's, and he very nearly caved.
"Nothing says mid-life crisis like two men on the wrong side of forty showing up together in a cherry-red Corvette," Wilson replied sarcastically, pressing the button on his key chain to unlock his Volvo.
"How can you ever expect to get laid riding around in this? People see two guys in tuxes riding around in a Volvo and they think 'civil union.'"
"This is not a gay car," Wilson defended, looking down at his tux, and imagining what it would look like to other drivers to see them sitting beside each other--more importantly, what it would look like to people at the benefit watching them get out of the car at the same time.
"Well it's not a straight one. I think Brokeback Weekly has ads for it every third page."
Wilson stared at House, who stared back. Slowly, he grinned, and Wilson deflated. After an annoyed glare at House, he locked his Volvo again and shook his head. "Fine, we'll take your Corvette," he grumbled. "But I get to drive."
90. Sniff sniff bark bark bark bark yipe!
"One of your cancer kiddies code?"
"No. That was just Bonnie."
"Bonnie? Calling you? What the hell for?"
"Oh, um . . . It's just, uh, Hector. He . . . Well, he died."
"What? But--well, why?"
"Old age, I guess. I don't know--she just said that he was lying on the couch when she got home. She just thought I'd like to know."
". . . oh."
"She seemed pretty upset. I didn't even think she liked . . . Are you crying?"
"No."
"Yes you are."
"No I'm not! I just . . . have something. In my eye."
"In both of them?"
". . . shut up, Wilson."
100. Drive in.
I felt like a total idiot. After all, it wasn't every day a random stranger bailed me out of jail. How could I ever repay something like that? This went beyond just a random act of kindness; this wasn't him buying me a candy bar or offering me a free drink because my wife had left me. This was something beyond what even I would have ever considered doing. I'd only see him once or twice over the weekend, and usually because he was being an ass to someone nearby.
To think, I had actually rolled my eyes at him and inwardly insulted his attire and personality. And yet, he'd sprung me out of jail because . . .
Actually, I really didn't have any idea why.
Twenty-four hours ago, a complete stranger had bailed me out of jail, took me to a bar, and offered to let me sleep in a cot in his hotel room.
A total stranger.
Being entirely grateful and needing to pay him back, I'd insisted on doing something in return--I mean, that sort of thing cannot go unpaid, can it? At least he didn't pretend like he didn't want anything. When I offered to do something, he didn't even think about it. He said; "Take me to the drive-in" and that was that.
The last time I'd been in a drive-in theatre, I'd been eighteen, fresh out of high school, and I couldn't remember a damn line of the movie I'd gone to see, but I remembered the colour of Sally Henderson's panties. Sitting in a cramped, piece-of-crap used car beside a man I didn't know was awkward at best, unnerving at worst, but at least his colourful commentary kept me laughing.
He was a bit of an ass, but he was damn funny, and he managed to keep my mind off of the fact my wife wanted a divorce.
All was fine, until I'd tried to drive off after the credits. I regretted buying the hunk of garbage immediately when it sputtered and died, and pinched the bridge of my nose in shame, knowing that my car had been showing signs of giving out for the past month but I hadn't bothered with it because I'd been more focused on my marital problems. I should've paid more attention to the car, since all my attention to my wife hadn't done anything, anyway.
Stepping out of the car, House opened the hood and stared at the engine, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "When the hell did you buy this thing? 1947?"
"The dealer insists it's a model from the mid-eighties."
"Well there's your first problem. Car salesmen are pricks. They always lie."
I stared at him, watching as he looked at the engine. "So . . . What are we gonna do?"
His eyes lit up as the last car (besides mine, obviously) drove out of the drive-in, leaving me alone with a guy I didn't know in the pitch black with only a few workers left, even though I couldn't see them, and a car that didn't work. Thinking on it, I suddenly didn't like my situation at all. Especially since he was staring at me with a positively evil gleam in his eye and a shark-like grin on his face.
"Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a mechanic," he quipped.
One second passed with me staring at him like he was an idiot.
The next four minutes were filled with laughter.
110. Teeth.
It took three full days for it to happen, and in all honesty, it was over something incredibly stupid.
He hadn't thought that living in the loft together would've been all that different. After all, Wilson had stayed with him for a few weeks before, and House had been shacking up with him ever since he'd gotten out of Mayfield, and so logically, it really shouldn't have been. But it was. Apparently, buying a place specifically for the two of them to live in was something else entirely compared to showing up at a friend's house who already lived there and needing a place to stay for an indeterminate amount of time.
They'd both had the day off. Unlike House, Wilson was really picky about his grooming habits. House would sometimes forget to brush his teeth; Wilson never did. And since brushing one's teeth didn't necessarily require privacy (not that House would've cared if it did) he felt no qualms about walking in and taking a piss.
They'd peed in the same room hundreds of times over. He'd seen Wilson naked before. Wilson had seen him bare, too. They'd sat beside one another, drank beer together, watched porn not inches from one another on the same couch, and have even joked about each other's sexuality several times, and still, nothing changed.
So why then? Why did watching Wilson brush his teeth in their bathroom while he peed, neither of them finding it awkward, make everything change? Was it the sudden realization of how domestic they were? Did it really matter?
House had managed to flush the toilet and walk over to the sink before it hit him. And even then, it wasn't so much as being hit as it was just realizing something. Like looking up and noticing a random bird was flying through the air.
Huh, he thought as Wilson moved aside to allow him room to wash his hands, I'm in love with Wilson.
He stared at Wilson, left hand working the toothbrush furiously, toothpaste frothing around the corners of his mouth, hair sticking up in all directions, standing there in his pyjamas, and it only took about five seconds for his friend to register that House was blatantly looking at him. He spat the toothpaste into the sink basin, wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, and then asked; "What?"
They were only a few inches from each other. House could still see bits of paste sticking to Wilson's teeth, and smell the mint on his breath, and see just how white his teeth were. There was a small stain of Aquafresh on the left corner of his mouth that randomly caught his attention.
"You missed some," House said.
Wilson tried to lick the small patch of drying paste away, but only succeeded in barely touching it. "Is it gone?"
"I'll get it," he promised, held the side of Wilson face, and with a deliberate swipe of his tongue, did just that.
120. Listen, Sam. . . . I know I haven't exactly been the world's best brother, but I just want you to know.
Hanging up on Danny, in retrospect, probably wasn't the worst thing he'd ever done, but it certainly had affected him like it was. House wasn't wrong when he said that hanging up the phone wasn't really anything to get worked up over, but just because he knew House was right didn't mean he believed it.
He really didn't know what he expected when he walked into Danny's room. Declarations of hate, resentful silence, maybe even a slight physical altercation, or hell, even Danny rushing to meet him and crying tears of gratitude while they hugged. Something dramatic. Something epic. It felt like something worthy of a Oscar-winning film. The guilt of hanging up on him had certainly taken up a huge chunk of Wilson's life--it just felt right that their meeting would be something worth writing Kenneth Branagh about.
When the door shut behind him, Danny looked up. He looked different, which made sense, but it knocked Wilson off-kilter slightly. His eyes were like an old man's, and his face was weathered more than it should've been at his age. He'd spent so many years looking after his brother, taking care of him, making sure he'd taken his meds and comforting him over all of his crises that were mostly made up, and all because of one stupid mistake, he almost didn't even recognize the man before him as the boy who had crawled into his bed beside him, in tears because he worried that something the government put in his brain would cause him to haemorrhage to death.
"Uh--hey," Wilson short-stopped over his sentence, and chastised himself for feeling so awkward. He was a grown man, after all--he could handle this.
Danny smiled at him, and it looked genuine. "They have chairs," he suggested with a slight toss of his head, almost like he was girl trying to get her bangs out of her eyes, even though his hair was short. Shorter and more groomed than he had expected it to be. Wilson figured a nurse had taken care of him.
Wilson sat in the chair closest to Danny, and emotion bubbled in his throat suddenly. "Danny, listen, about what happened--when you called and I . . . and I didn't, uh--when I hung up, I didn't mean for it to--"
"So, you're a doctor, huh?" Danny asked, louder than what was necessary, and he looked away from Wilson.
Wilson opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a few seconds, recognizing an evasion when he saw one. There was so much he wanted to say to him; so many things he wanted to explain. All of the nights he spent scouring the streets of the place he last saw him; all of the homeless shelters he stopped by, hoping to find him; all of the hours and days and years he'd spent hating himself for that one mistake; the fact that he never missed a call if he could take it.
But he knew that it wasn't the time for that discussion, and didn't know if it ever would be.
"Yeah. An oncologist."
Danny met his eyes. "How's that workin' out for ya?"
130. Stay close to water.
"That's the dumbest excuse for flobottunum I've ever seen," House complained, glaring at the television as Joaquin Phoenix promptly smashed the glasses of half-drunk water with a baseball bat.
"Flobottawhat?" Wilson asked, staring at House as if he'd spouted off in a different language. Which, theoretically, was plausible.
"Fluh-bott-uh-num," House pronounced slowly, as if speaking to an idiot child. "It means 'plot device.'"
Wilson furrowed his brows, not remembering that term from any of his literary courses in college. That had been years ago, though, so it was possible he'd just forgotten. Or House was just babbling incoherently, which was another possible excuse. "And in what language would that be?"
"The same as 'wiggins,' I assume," he answered cryptically, then pointed at the screen again. "I mean, come on. It builds up this epic ending, all this cryptic talk about swinging away and half-retarded children refusing to drink water, all for what? Oh my God the aliens are allergic to water!"
"It's just a movie, House."
"'It's just a movie, House,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice and an obvious eye-roll. "You have to agree with me. I mean, water, okay, I understand--but the fact the daughter just magically knew that her father wouldn't pick up after her and just magically knew where to put the half-empty glasses and magically knew he'd be 'swinging away' because of some dying words uttered from her mom? Oh, please. I crap better explanations than that."
Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. "I think the movie is perfectly fine."
"Well, you would."
"I'm not the one who insisted on having an M. Night Shyamalan marathon," he countered.
"What better way is there to christen our new home?"
"Other than you waking me up in the middle of the night, standing above me, and telling me you see dead people? Let me think about that . . ."
"Hey, man. I have seen dead people."
"You hallucinated dead people. There's a difference."
House scoffed. "Semantics. But if you love this movie so much, why do you always get so annoyed when I leave my unfinished glasses of water around the house?"
"I didn't realize you were actually preparing for an alien invasion."
"I wasn't. I was just doing it to annoy you."
"You know, just for that, I'm making you watch The Happening next," Wilson threatened, although it was stupid to do so since House had been the one to rent the damn movie.
House glared good-naturedly. "I lied earlier," he admitted.
"About what? Leaving around the glasses of water to annoy me?"
"No, that's true," House said, smirking at him. Wilson rolled his eyes. "I lied about the water being the worst plot device. That hippie, tree-hugging, Al Gore worshipping piece of crap film you love so much using plants as flobottunum is the lamest use of a plot device ever."
Wilson agreed.
140. And yet horror movie characters continue to ask, sometimes in the most demanding terms:
"What's in the box?"
"What's in the box?" House demanded, holding his door open, with Wilson standing in the doorframe, scarf wrapped around his neck, and thick coat dotted with snow. He eyed the green box warily, as if it were a bomb.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. "It's a present, House. I can't tell you what it is."
"Sure you can."
"Just take it," Wilson ordered in an exasperated eye-roll.
House jerked it out of his friends hands. "I hope you're not expecting anything Christmassy from me," he snapped, although really, he was inwardly pleased that Wilson had given him a gift. Normally, he just handed it over without the wrapping or the little note taped on top, but he always gave him something.
"I'm Jewish. I don't receive Christmas gifts," he explained with a half-smile.
"Lucky for me," House quipped, testing the weight of the present. "Why'd you wrap it? You never wrap it."
Wilson shrugged. "First time for everything, I guess. You can't open that until tomorrow."
"I'm going to open it as soon as you leave," House told him bluntly, blinking at him. Wilson rolled his eyes, but did not move to come inside when House stepped back and opened the door wider. House waited for him to come in for a few seconds, unnerved at the way Wilson was smiling softly at him. He'd been in a chipper mood lately, but that didn't really explain why he wasn't coming inside. "You gonna stand in the hall all night?" House asked, raising his eyebrows in question.
"Oh, no--I'm on call. I just got a page; decided to drop this off on my way there." Wilson grinned briefly, probably as some sort of apology for not being able to hang out, and House would never admit to the fact he was disappointed. With the exception of last year (thanks to Tritter) they always hung out on Christmas.
"You'll be by after midnight though, right? We've got our post-Christmas food fest to look forward to," he reminded, although he was sure that Wilson hadn't forgotten. They always ate at their favourite diner at the wee, early morning hour of way-before-dawn on the twenty-sixth. It was tradition. And Jewish people had a thing about tradition.
Wilson grinned wider, showing off all of his white teeth. House could smell the Listerine and his cologne from here and surely, his hair didn't need to be that perfect for one of his cancer patients, right? Well, unless he was boinking said patient. "Of course. How does two sound?"
"Sounds great."
They stood, separated by the doorframe, heavy gift in hand and eyes locked. Wilson's eyes slid past House's and into the apartment, as if tempted to go inside, then met House's eyes again. "Well, I really oughta . . ." Wilson trailed off, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
House nodded, did a half-smile in parting, then shut the door in Wilson's face, perhaps a little harder than he'd intended. He turned around and limped towards the couch, eyeing the green package curiously. He looked at the note taped on top, and his chest tightened at the girly letters scrawled there.
Greg--
Made me think of you.
His stomach clenched and his throat dried. Whatever was inside the wrapping paper reminded him of House. Wilson knew him better than anyone else, so it was a fair assessment that whatever was inside would be an accurate representation of who he was. And House knew damn well what he was--an ass, a dick, a loser, an emotional and physical cripple who pushed everyone away . . .
The idea of seeing inside Wilson's head, knowing what he really thought of him, did not appeal to House suddenly, and he shoved the package into the back of his closet.
150. The O'Reilly Factor for Kids audiobook.
It wasn't until Wilson had gotten fully situated on the orange monstrosity that House called a couch, had opened his beer, and had turned on their new flat-screen that he realized House was listening to his Walkman. Not his iPod--his walkman. His head was leaned back against the couch, eyes closed, a slight frown marring his features.
Wilson tried to remember the last time House had actually had a need for his Walkman, let alone a CD. He couldn't really remember--House had been obsessed with his new iPod, and he tended to get new ones often, switching his songs over to the newer, improved version, and he spent an obscene amount of money on iTunes. Usually Wilson's money, too. He sighed every time he opened his inbox to see a new iTunes receipt that he knew nothing about. He wasn't worried about running out of money, though--House probably kept better tabs on Wilson's bank account than he did.
Something he was listening to made him grimace in a cartoonish way, then he let out a few chuckles, which turned into very loud laughter. Wilson really had no idea what was so funny, but seeing House sit up, open his eyes, and start laughing made him smile, a warmth spreading through him he refused to name. House met his eyes, grin wide and small bubbles of laughter passing, and the warmth intensified, moving into his chest and making his heart pump harder than necessary.
After a second, though, when it was obvious their eyes had met for longer than necessary, House's smile faded from his face, and Wilson quickly averted his gaze to the television. That had been awkward, and he did not want to give House reason to start wondering what had happened, since Wilson didn't want to think about it.
"What are you listening to?" Wilson asked, keeping his eye on the television.
"The O'Reilly Factor for Kids," House answered. There was brief silence, and Wilson realized House had had an odd tone when he spoke. He could feel his eyes on him, trying to figure out something, and Wilson swallowed. He really didn't want House staring at him like that. "I bought it for Cuddy."
"You bought--"
"Technically, you bought it. It's also going to be from you."
"Why?"
"Because it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. O'Reilly knows nothing about kids, it's a waste of a gift, and I know Cuddy and Lucas are going to listen to it, bored out of their minds, and they can't bitch because they'll think you gave it to them."
Wilson finally managed to turn his head and look at House, who was sitting next to him, their little arm rest removed for the moment. House eyed him suspiciously. Wilson kept his face impassive. "So your grand scheme of revenge is to bore them."
"And in turn, making Cuddy think you are boring, too," House said with a smile, taking off his headphones. "See, my theory is that either they will last forever, or they won't. If Lucas comes to the realization the being a parent is boring and leaves, she might be looking for some other reliable, good-looking man to snack on and bleed dry. And you, being the needy-addict you are, would not be able to resist a good-looking single mother just out of a relationship. But if she thinks this," he gestured at the walkman, "is the sort of taste you have, she'll think you're too boring for her to pounce on."
Wilson blinked, and let out a sigh. "So, not only are you boring them and trying to inadvertently ruin their relationship, you're also trying to sabotage a relationship that is likely to never happen."
"You two dated before," House stated with an eyebrow lift.
"Those weren't dates, House, they were--"
"Well, it doesn't matter," he interrupted, "because with my new plan, I'll be the only one who knows you're not boring." Then he leaned forward, grabbed Wilson's jaw, and kissed him.
Wilson blinked rapidly, stunned that House was actually kissing him, then he shrugged and pushed back, closing his eyes and feeling House's pliant lips beneath his. House grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him closer, until he was practically on House's lap. This encouraged Wilson, who deepened the kiss with a swipe of his tongue, and House made a tiny noise before attacking his tongue with vigour. When Wilson whimpered, House pulled away and laughed.
"What?" Wilson asked, hating himself for sounding paranoid.
"I knew it," he said, smirking at him. "You know, you really can't hide something like this with your puppy dog eyes and wistful glances you think I don't notice."
"Well, you don't seem too unhappy with the whole situation," Wilson replied, smiling that thin, flirty smile that always worked with his wives.
Judging by the fact the spent the next half-hour making out on that hideous couch, it worked with House, too.
160. Set your affairs in order.
It wasn't that he was trying to invade Wilson's personal space but--
Okay, so he was.
But they were best friends, and best friends didn't hide stuff from each other. Maybe if Wilson didn't keep everything bottled up and actually shared his secrets, he wouldn't need to suck down depression medication and blab to some stranger about his problems. Wilson wasn't as transparent as most people were, and it had been difficult to figure anything out about his little therapy sessions.
Wilson must have gotten his prescriptions filled from someplace other than the hospital, because the log in the pharmacy was free of any clues. Wilson never wrote his appointments in his lodger, or in his computer, or his email, either. If the therapist made calls, it wasn't to the house phone, and if she called Wilson's cell, he always deleted her number, and he didn't have any number in his phonebook that House hadn't already called or recognized.
He'd followed Wilson several times, sure that he'd been on his way to his psychiatrist, but every time, he'd been doing something mind-numbingly boring, like getting coffee, or getting something for one of his cancer kids. There had a been a few times he'd visited Danny, but House never had figured out when Wilson left to see his psychiatrist.
Apparently, the downside of knowing Wilson as well as he did was that Wilson knew House that much, too. Probably more, since House didn't hide every. Damn. Thing. Wilson knew where House would look, and apparently where he wouldn't look, too, and had managed to hide everything involving psychiatric prescriptions and scheduled appointment in said areas.
House wasn't always obsessed with Wilson's therapy. He'd go through bouts where it was all he'd think about, but then he'd get a case or he'd find something else to obsess over. For awhile, he wouldn't care. But then Wilson would return from "the store" with a frown on his face and no groceries, and he wouldn't say anything, but House would just know that he'd gotten back from a therapy session because Wilson would shack up in his office the next day, rubbing his temples and looking for all the world like a failure. And why wouldn't he? He had to take pills in order to function, after all the railing he'd done against the Vicodin, and everybody but House thought he was the picture-perfect version of health and happiness, and no matter what he tried, he wasn't.
And it would send House into a frenzy, wanting to know where he was going. See, if he knew where he was going, he could sneak in, photocopy Wilson's files--all of them--which might take weeks--and then . . . Well. What happened then wasn't an issue. House just needed to know what bummed his best friend so much he couldn't talk to him about it. That he felt he needed to hide it. That he needed to take medication that he hated in order to fix.
It had come to him, like so many things, in a seemingly unrelated event. The thing was, he hadn't even been thinking about it. He'd been in Wilson's room, talking to him as Wilson put away his clothes. He'd been talking about Angelina Jolie and Girl, Interrupted, saying that he'd wished their girl-on-girl action had been more explicit than a cute little kiss, and Wilson had been muttering about how there were more important things like 'good writing' that he should've been focusing on, and when he'd folded his underwear and stuck it in the top drawer, he'd pushed aside a small box, pulled a paper out, and stuffed it in his pocket.
"What's that?" he'd asked. Wilson hadn't seemed to know what he meant, so he'd elaborated with; "The paper you stuck in you back pocket."
Wilson had shut his underwear drawer firmly before responding; "A phone number."
House had almost said; "Looked like a scrip to me," but then realized that had been what it was, which meant that had been his depression medication--with his prescribing doctor's name on it.
Of course, the one place House would never look would be in his pants pocket, right next to his ass. Wilson probably threw the prescription paper away after refilling it.
As soon as Wilson left (probably to get the prescription) House had jumped to the underwear drawer, sifted through it, and found the box Wilson had moved--the box he'd been hiding the prescription in. The box that held his tie-clips and lapel pins and wedding rings. He'd never really searched through it that much, though--once he saw the wedding rings, he'd figured it was something schmoopy and left it.
Wilson had to have known House wouldn't want to touch anything schmoopy.
Underneath the velvety bottom (which was removable, apparently) there was a key. It wasn't Wilson's storage key because House had already found that and searched the storage shed top to bottom.
Once he'd found the key, it had been a frenzy of searching. He knew he only had as long as it took for Wilson to go wherever it was he got his prescription filled and drive back, and he searched through the man's closet, trying to find anything the key would unlock. In the box labelled "special interest," which House knew meant "freaky German porn I don't want anyone to know about" because House had raided it once before, there was another box--it was like a jewellery box, but there was a lock on it. House had never found it before, because it was stuffed underneath all the DVDs and naughty magazines.
When he'd opened it, he'd thought he was going to find everything he needed--a lodger where he kept his appointments, all his old scrips, and hell, maybe even the address of his psychiatrist. What he hadn't been expecting to find was Wilson's Last Will and Testament.
Oh, sure, there was the normal stuff, like should he be in a vegetative state or a coma, blah, blah, blah, and his mother, father, and brothers had gotten a fair share amount of his money.
But everything else--everything--the rest of the money, the loft (which meant it had been amended recently,) his car, his movies, his everything--went to one person.
Three guesses on who.
170. Rob Reiner bats .1000 when it comes to Stephen King adaptations.
When it came to books, House really had horrible taste. Sure, his taste in movies was strange at times, but he liked pretty much everything, and although Wilson wouldn't admit it, he usually ended up liking the television shows House would randomly obsess over. They'd go months, watching every episode of a television series and nothing else, and Wilson would make fun of him because that was what he did, but normally, he didn't mind.
But when it came to the crap House read, well . . .
He read the Twilight saga, and badly written lesbian prison smut, and an obscene amount of romance novels. It was like he purposely set out to read stuff that was crap, and whenever Wilson hounded him, he'd just shrug and say; "I don't have to think to read it."
Wilson assumed that, with a mind like House's, it was probably nice to take a break from thinking. Or maybe it was like watching a horrible B movie with horrible acting and worse writing--it was so terrible, it was funny. He knew that, when they'd gone to see the Twilight movie they'd both laughed at how crappy it was, so maybe it was the same principle. House never really seemed to care for what he read--he did it to pass the time between cases and he literally had nothing to do.
Unless it was medically related, the stuff he read was completely pathetic. He read teeny-bopper magazines, pop-up books, badly written fanfiction (he once told Wilson he stayed away from anything that had anything resembling plot, and preferred to stick with the ones that pottersues flamed, whatever the hell that meant) and books that Wilson could just tell weren't really anything special.
He never really seemed to like any of the books he read, much like Wilson didn't really like The L Word and just tolerated it because the women were hot. Because of the fact he never really seemed to care about what he read unless it was medical, Wilson strayed from giving him reading materiel, unless it was related to medicine or diagnostics or strange diseases.
Sure, there were some books that House actually seemed to like--he usually stayed up all night reading those ones--but in most cases, Wilson honestly believed it was something he did to let his brain rest from all the constant, never-ending thinking he must be doing.
One of those books House loved was Misery by Stephen King. Personally, Wilson didn't like Stephen King's novels all the much. Perhaps it was because they were too dark for him, or maybe he found him a little too long-winded or the plots too unbelievable or contrived--he didn't know. He just never really took to them. Wilson preferred the classics whenever he did find a chance to read; something that House mocked him for. Still, even though House refused to admit it, saying that he only read it because he was bored and to mock the writing, there were times Wilson caught House staying up all night, rereading it for the umpteenth time, or cleverly hiding it behind a Seventeen magazine in his office.
Wilson had tried reading it, but had found it too disturbing to finish. Maybe that was what bothered him about Stephen King's work. His novels were often disturbing. What House liked about it--and he knew that he did, because he read it multiple times--Wilson didn't know, but it didn't really matter.
The spine of his book had been worn out from use, and the edges of the papers had frayed. House had taped it and super-glued it in some parts, and yet, he refused to admit he liked it. One night, a few weeks after they'd moved into the loft, House had swore loudly and when Wilson investigated, he'd found that several of the pages had fallen out. When Wilson offered his condolences, House had angrily insulted him, gathered up the book, and threw it in the trash can, saying he didn't care anyway.
He'd been in a snit for three days after, and Wilson caught him staring at the DVD in the store one night when they'd been shopping, only to shake his head and mutter; "It's not the same."
So he hadn't thought twice about searching online for a first edition, hardcover copy. And when he'd given it to House, he knew he hadn't meant it when he rolled his eyes and made some off-hand insult about both Wilson and the book.
Even though he hated every word and had nightmares for at least a month, he let House read it to him every night for two weeks, in a makeshift fort in the living room, a flashlight their only source of illumination.
And when he saw the way House's blue eyes lit up and how he grinned, Wilson figured Misery wasn't that bad after all.
A/N--The "What's in the box?" drabble can be seen as a prequel to A New Divide.