Like Lament or Rain
A/N: Not mine, playing. Set post-3.24, and contains spoilers through S3. Title from Pablo Neruda's Death Alone. This is a writing exercise; your thoughts would be cherished. One-shot.
i.
The streets are quiet in the morning.
It's the first thing that occurs to Wilson as he steps onto the sidewalk, trying to rein in an overenthusiastic old mutt that refuses to act its age.
In a few hours it will be smoke; engines droning, and Wilson will join in the cacophony of blaring horns and swearing office-goers, hoping to beat the mad morning rush and be in time for work. Now, however, it's quiet; populated only by health-freaks and dog-owners. It's peaceful -
- 'It's peaceful,' Cuddy said, reaching for her wine. Red, against the red of her dress. 'Only time of the day I have to myself.'
Wilson watched the lines of her neck as she drank; the strong set of her jaw. 'You certainly deserve it,' he said, lightly, and she smiled, as he knew she would.
The air smells fresh. The air smells of rain. Giant grey clouds hang overhead and Wilson wonders if he should've brought his umbrella.
The first time House saw the umbrella, he claimed it was 'girly'. Stripes, apparently, weren't 'manly' enough. Or umbrellas, for that matter, because House evidently wasn't carrying one.
It was one of those rain-drenched days, greygreygrey everywhere, and Wilson said,
'Real men prefer pneumonia?' fixing a pointed stare at House's tousled head.
'Gotta maintain my reputation,' House said, with a shrug. His eyes were very blue against the grey.
Wilson ended up giving him a lift.
- The road is still wet from last night's rain. Hector trails happily through every puddle; Wilson follows awkwardly, keeping a tight grip on his leash.
He's never wanted pets; was never particularly interested in Hector's doings even when he was married to Bonnie and was, technically, his owner.
'Just a few days, James,' Bonnie had pleaded. 'I can't keep him in a kennel.'
He has an apartment now; no credible reason for refusal. And so here he is, trying to match his pace with this curious creature which, for reasons unknown and unknowable to mankind, is actually fond of Wilson – if Bonnie is to be believed. Wilson can't really tell, with animals.
Hector spots a fellow canine; barks in acknowledgement.
Wilson takes a deep breath. The air smells of rain.
ii.
The glass door opens with a crash.
'I've been thinking,' House announces.
Wilson glances at his unfortunate patient on the couch – who, justifiably, looks rather taken aback – and says,
'I would pretend I care, but since I'm busy with a patient, you're just going to have to pretend that I'm pretending to care. Preferably somewhere outside my office.'
'Is she dying?' House says, loudly, making Wilson cringe. Which, he supposes, was the intention to begin with.
He sighs, and hoists himself from his seat. 'Andy, you'll have to excuse me for a moment,' he says, flashing a reassuring smile at his patient, and walks outside to the balcony.
House follows, smirking all the time.
'What do you want, House?'
The balcony is slightly wet. It's drizzling now, and windy, the sky a shade of dark slate grey. They stand under the shade, and House says,
'I've been thinking,' tapping his cane on the floor. 'My new team would be so incomplete without a nutritionist, don't you think?'
'A nutritionist.' Wilson narrows his eyes. 'The nutritionist, you mean. The one you drank tea with.'
'It was good tea,' House tells him. The air is chilly out here. The air smells of rain.
'You hate tea,' Wilson points out. 'And Cuddy would never agree.'
House makes a face, and Wilson says, 'Have you even started looking at the resumes?'
'They're all incompetent,' House says.
'What, every single one of them? That sounds familiar.'
He could stand here all day, watching it drizzle on the parking lot; the wind ruffling his hair and listening to House speak.
'My place at eight,' he tells House, sparing one last glance backwards at the sky.
'You're buying beer,' he hears House yell.
iii.
'Now that's what I call wrestling,' House says, nodding appreciatively at the TV screen where the scantily-clad female wrester is currently busy choking her equally scantily-clothed opponent. 'Drink up.'
He tips back his head and takes a long swig from the bottle in his hand. Wilson follows suite, feeling the warmth travel down his throat and to his stomach.
House raps him on the shin with his cane. Wilson passes him the chips, observing, mildly,
'You could just ask.'
'Now, where's the fun in that?' House says.
Hector whines from somewhere beneath them, on the floor.
'No, you can't have any,' House tells him. 'Go chew a bone or something.'
Hector merely whines some more.
'God you're annoying,' House says, but he does drop a couple of chips in Hector's direction.
He's still not used to his new place. On most days it feels too large; foreign, leaving him longing for the familiarity of his hotel room. Now, with House sitting on his couch and talking to his – Bonnie's – dog, it feels comfortable. Almost familiar; like a home.
Later, Wilson walks him to his bike. Lamplight glistens on the still-wet asphalt, casting strange shadows, and Wilson thinks, House always drives fast, too fast.
'Goodnight, House,' is what Wilson says. The air smells like rain.
'Goodnight, Wilson,' House says, over the roar of his engine.
Wilson watches him disappear across the bend, tail-lamp flickering in the dark.
Hector welcomes him inside, vigorously wagging his tail. Wilson surveys the mess they've made in the past hour; beer spills on his coffee table and crumpled chips packets everywhere.
'Don't chew that,' he tells Hector, who has picked up the butt-end of one of House's obnoxious cigars. Sighs, and sets to clean.
He's still not used to his new place.
When Wilson finally makes it to bed, Hector is already there, settled comfortably against Wilson's pillow.
'No, Hector,' Wilson says, firmly, 'You have your own bed.'
Hector's look is full of reproach. 'I'm not going to fall for that,' Wilson tells him.
Bonnie occasionally allows him on her bed, Wilson knows. He has no intention of doing the same.
Outside, he can hear the rain again. Wilson lies on his bed and wonders if Cuddy ever got her roof fixed, and why he never asked. Wonders if House is asleep, or he's still awake; pacing; playing the piano. On his bed, clutching his thigh.
A low whimper; warm, soft fur against his feet. Hector, he realises, has decided to take matters into his own paws again.
Stubborn bastard, Wilson thinks, and does not bother getting up.
The rain keeps falling, falling, dripdrop against the roof and the window panes.
-