Early, late. [07 Oct 2009|05:48pm] It was dawn in the Wilson, House and ghost household. Wilson was making notes in one of his many well-organised files (filled with forms and his scribbly handwriting) and House was enjoying the way the light filtered into the room. He’d woken up for this - perhaps he was growing old. He rubbed his eyes, then his forehead, and made the final-feeling decision to have this out. "You tried to kick me out." "No, House -" Wilson cocked his head up instantly; he'd been waiting for the tension to break. "And you said that you'd tell Nolan that you were kicking me out. Tell a therapist that you, for a garden, are going to make their patient live alone -" "I like this apartment. It's Amber's apartment." "Bullshit. It's lonely here. And you don't like living with ghosts." "I -" Wilson sighed. "You knew - which means you wanted one or both of two things. You wanted to prove to me I could still fix things, still get things right. On my own terms. Or was it just that you wanted me to prove how much I wanted to stay?" "Maybe I just really want the garden." Wilson was a bitch when his defenses came up. "Maybe I want the privacy." "If you wanted someone else to move in, you'd move." And you'd find a way that seemed less selfish to do it. "Unless you're planning on moving wife number four into Amber's old place?" "It's mine now." "It's both of yours." "So where does that leave you?" "I'm the missing link." Think about it, House thought. I haven't. The pause after his words grew, as did the tension in their shoulders, and House tried to figure out what came next. Wilson obliged. "That doesn't make sense." "So answer the question!" "I will. Just give me time." And House thought about a million ways to push, primarily by pointing to the general location of his liver and informing the bastard that time has a nasty habit of running out, but if he wanted a scared Wilson slobbering over him until all remaining boundaries simply collapsed and they were wrestling in the mud - he'd have gotten it already. They'd grown so very old, and far too tired to pick up the pieces. They either morphed or did nothing at all. House had learned early that avoidance rarely worked, so he fought. Over the years, he'd been shown that sometimes submission was the only way. But this wasn't something to submit to alone. Death was soon a'coming, an almost, almost, almost - gone. He'd allow this to slide though. To count it towards some distant hope. Someday, maybe, he'd be allowed to submit. He hobbled out of the living room and back to his side of the bed, resigned to fight another day. concrit is love. Also, points for catching the Colbert quote. 6 comments|Sing it

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