| [ | Tags | | | h/w, house | ] |
| [ | Music in my Head |
| | Desert Rose, Sting | ] |
Alrighty, serious need of constructive criticism peoples. I've never written House before, but I've gotten so bloody addicted these past few days, I can't help myself. I need to watch more House before I can write more. House's snark and Snape's snark are entirely different matters, writing-wise. Humbug. Anyway, at least I've finally written something.
Title: Untitled Length: Double drabble exactly Rating: G Summary: Comfort. Yay! Cut isn't working, so I'm just gonna post it here.
The first clue was that Wilson just used his damn key, instead of knocking. The second was that he was not a little drunk. House twisted to look over the back of the couch at his best friend. Wilson looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes, the set of his lips, the pained set of his shoulders— all Wilson-speak for the kind of day when nothing goes right, when he’s spent hours being shouted at by patients in denial, sentencing small children to death. House stops, the snarky comment dying unsaid on his tongue. Instead, he gestures to the box on the coffee table. “Pizza?” Wilson looks at it blankly, then nods, slumping down on the couch next to him, brushing shoulders. They sink into the white noise of the soap on TV and Wilson quietly leans his head on House’s shoulder. House, putting in all the appearance of not noticing, glances down at the man on his shoulder. The furrows around his eyebrows are slowly uncreasing and the tension in his spine is draining. He casually rests his head on Wilson’s, not really watching the outcome of Monique’s torrid affair anymore. It’ll be okay, he thinks. It always is. Much love! |