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Entry tags:
Five Seven Five
Title: Five Seven Five
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: A wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. I own nothing.
Author's note: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
purridot, because she asked for something House/Wilson featuring Japan, and because I love her to pieces.
Curiosity killed the cat, and it at least gnawed at the soul of the oncologist. However Wilson wasn't foolish enough to think he could just ask House things - that sort of behavior was far too normal for their alarmingly functional dysfunctional life, so he was left to pick his battles. He asked questions in stolen moments, after sex, during coffee and just on the edges of sleep.
"So, when you were in Japan, did you learn their writing?"
"I went to an international military school." House evaded sleepily. "Most of my classes were in English."
Wilson ran his hands across House's bare chest, tracing the warm curves of abductors and adductors and pectorals, waiting and listening.
"I'm not teaching you." House mumbled after a long moment. "You can barely write legibly in English. The Japanese alphabets rely too much on placement and precision, and besides, I don't want your inky hands all over my eight-hundred-thread-count sheets."
"I understand." Wilson shrugged. "I just wanted to know if you knew."
"I know everything." And he was asleep.
Three days later, Wilson found a small scroll on his desk, sealed with a dribble of red wax. The paper was soft under his fingers, textured and pliable: when unrolled it revealed delicate brushwork, the letters dark on their background of ivory.
A small note fell out.
Friday evening
it's six months since our first time
you bring the condoms.
Wilson grinned, rolled up the paper and went online to see about frames.
Love letters from House needed to be immortalized, after all.
Author:
phinniaRating: PG-13
Disclaimer: A wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. I own nothing.
Author's note: for
purridot, because she asked for something House/Wilson featuring Japan, and because I love her to pieces.Curiosity killed the cat, and it at least gnawed at the soul of the oncologist. However Wilson wasn't foolish enough to think he could just ask House things - that sort of behavior was far too normal for their alarmingly functional dysfunctional life, so he was left to pick his battles. He asked questions in stolen moments, after sex, during coffee and just on the edges of sleep.
"So, when you were in Japan, did you learn their writing?"
"I went to an international military school." House evaded sleepily. "Most of my classes were in English."
Wilson ran his hands across House's bare chest, tracing the warm curves of abductors and adductors and pectorals, waiting and listening.
"I'm not teaching you." House mumbled after a long moment. "You can barely write legibly in English. The Japanese alphabets rely too much on placement and precision, and besides, I don't want your inky hands all over my eight-hundred-thread-count sheets."
"I understand." Wilson shrugged. "I just wanted to know if you knew."
"I know everything." And he was asleep.
Three days later, Wilson found a small scroll on his desk, sealed with a dribble of red wax. The paper was soft under his fingers, textured and pliable: when unrolled it revealed delicate brushwork, the letters dark on their background of ivory.
A small note fell out.
Friday evening
it's six months since our first time
you bring the condoms.
Wilson grinned, rolled up the paper and went online to see about frames.
Love letters from House needed to be immortalized, after all.