56; Past, Present (and Never); PG-13

Title: Past, Present (and Never)
Author: nieded
Fandom, Pairing: House MD, House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13 (for minute swearing)
Words: 1,285
Prompt: 56. House wanted kids.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Whoo!
Notes: For the first round at hw_fest because it's a party indeedy.

x-posted in nieded, hw_fest, housefic, and house_wilson. Whew, that's a lot!




×1: Past×

He wanted kids.

The thought dawned on him during a dry, sunny, Californian heat spell as he stood outside in the backyard. Sweat beaded down his face, streaking from his forehead to soak the cotton collar of his shirt. It stuck to the back of his burnt neck and chest. The heat sweltered as he picked up his glass of lemonade and contemplated it momentarily, watching the ice cubes swirl and melt into nothingness. Coveting the cool condensation of the glass, Greg lifted the cup and dumped the entire sugary sweet fluid over his head. The heat sizzled on his skin and rivulets of lemonade trickled to his tongue – no longer sweet but salty from the sweat of his skin.

Yes, Greg wanted kids.

He chucked the glass across the yard, watching it hit a freshly cut patch of grass with a fwump before tugging on the starter of the lawnmower. The machine roared to life, permeating the air with the sick smell of gasoline and mulch as he shoved the lawnmower halfheartedly, all the while thinking about adulthood and college and perhaps even being a musician.

He didn’t want kids this instant, nor did he want them for their cute button noses and rosy red cheeks. He wanted them to do lawn work. He wanted them to sweat and burn and peel and wake up at six o’clock in the morning to beat the hottest part of the day. He wanted to make his children do what his dad made him do once a week at the most inopportune times.

No, he thought, changing his mind. Instead, he wanted his father to take care of the grass. Screw the possible help of some future fetus. Kids were idiots anyway.

He pushed the lawnmower to the edge of the fence, breathing heavily as he peered into the sky. Just over the fence line, he could see the shore between the neighbor’s yard, teenagers just like him playing in the sand. (Girls playing in the sand.) Probably those classmates who called him at seven in the morning, trying to make friends.

But what had his dad said? “Lawn work: it builds character, makes you appreciate a hard day’s work. Maybe you’ll understand what I go through to bring food on the table every damn night.”

“Besides, we’re moving in the fall. Maybe you can make friends at your new school,” his mother had suggested.

Right.

Sighing, he started the engine of the lawnmower again, arms aching and calves burning. He wished he could just chop off his leg to get out of mowing.

If I had kids... he thought, If I had kids, I’d stay in one damn spot. They’d go to one damn school. They’d have the same damn friends. They’d have a fucking home.

That night, his mother made dinner, and they sat around the fancy dining room table. Greg pushed his food in circles on his plate, fingers sore from gripping too tightly to the handle of the mower. They made small, pointless talk that he easily droned out about marine life, about being a stay-at-home mom (who never really stayed at home. What was the point if she was just going to ignore him?)

His father downed the last of his beer and said, “We’re moving again, son. I think you’ll like this place.”

Instead, Greg ignored him and asked, “Why am I an only child?”

×2: Present×

Wilson sips hot tea with his legs crisscrossed on House’s couch and looks as if he’ll have a mid-life crisis. This latest drama probably spawned from his ex-wife (one, two, or three?), but House doesn’t really want to know, regardless of if he’ll find out eventually.

“House...” Wilson starts, untangling his limbs until his feet press flatly against the carpet. “Will you listen?”

Nonchalantly, the diagnostician flips another page of the medical journal resting in his lap. He hopes he looks busy enough that Wilson will get the hint (even if he’s read this article six times. It’s worthless, pointless, and has a million flaws.

What House really thinks about is California and how the blacktop burned the bottoms of his feet. The kids could run around in safe suburbia where there were no kidnappers or molesters, just that jackass teenager, Gregory, who had no friends and scared all the kindergartners. Perhaps the Uzi water gun hadn’t helped his reputation, but it doesn’t matter. This is all he wants to think about.)

“... House?”

He doesn’t answer, only glances over another sentence and makes a hmph! noise at some obscenity. Wilson sighs and rises. From the corner of House’s eye, it looks as if there are bricks over his shoulders, weighing his entire body down as he stumbles towards the bedroom.

“I’m off to bed. Try not to wake me, please,” Wilson asks, knowing his request is futile. House will stumble in, flush the toilet with the door open and toss in turn in bed for hours. At any other time, House would make fun of his optimism.

Instead, the diagnostician grunts something in return and chucks the journal to where Wilson had been sitting. As the sound of shuffling feet grows distant, he leans back into the couch and closes his eyes, returning to his thoughts. For the briefest moments, he’s sixteen and happy.

The next morning, Wilson’s gone.

×3: Never×


At one in the morning, House stumbles into his bedroom and flops down on the bed. The springs creak warily under his added weight and the lump next to him shifts over.

For an hour, House lies awake in the silence. He can hear cars whiz by in the street as he watches streetlights make shadows on his wall. Finally, he turns to one side and jabs Wilson in the stomach.

“You wanted to tell me something. What was it?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

Wilson grunts. “House, I was asleep. What did I ask you not to do?” His voice sounds thick behind a cloud of sleepiness.

“You said, ‘try not to wake me,’ and I did try. I just couldn’t resist.”

“I’m going to back to bed.”

House shrugs in the dark, eyes blinking wearily. “Fine, but not until you tell me what you wanted to say.”

“Can’t we do this tomorrow? Or... later today when it’s actually a reasonable time to be up and functioning?” Wilson retorts, burying his nose into his pillow.

“Tomorrow, I may not be willing to listen,” House reasons, trapping the oncologist. “I’m here now. Take advantage of it.”

“Bastard. You just can’t fall asleep so you’re harassing me.”

House smirks. “Well? I’m giving you six minutes and thirty-two seconds of free speech starting... now.”

Wilson sighs, turning over in a feeble attempt to fall back asleep.

“You’re wasting minutes, and no, there is no rollover plan.”

“Fine. I want kids.”

House stops breathing, turning his head away from Wilson. Slowly, he answers, “That’s not biologically reasonable, unless you have more to tell me.”

“No, I don’t. See? Pointless. It could have waited until tomorrow.” Wilson issues another grunt before rolling over and shoving the pillow over his head in mild frustration.

House lies perfectly still until he can hear the soft snores from the other side of the bed once more. Wilson shifts to the far end of the bed and it makes House contemplate whether or not this is just another divorce. (If this is where all the others have gone wrong).

That night he dreams of white picket fences, suburbia, and two-point-five kids mowing the lawn under the blistering hot sun. For a moment, he forgets that it’s all a dream.

(But neither of them wakes up.)

×End×