falling in another direction
title: falling in another direction
author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
phinnia
rating: pg
pairing: house/wilson (technicallly established relationship in the context of the 'verse, but it could just as easily be gen/friendship in the fic itself)
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: forhannah, who sponsored me for write-o-rama and requested 'house/wilson' with 'water' as the prompt: since she's been kind enough to let me play in her sandbox before, i decided to do so again. The superpowers' 'verse is hers. this fic comes at some point after i am superman (and i know what's happening) but you don't need to read it to know what's going on. (you should probably read at least something in the superpowers' 'verse first to be familiar with it, however) there are links to the rest of her superpowers' 'verse fic in the author's note there. you should read it, because it's very good. title taken from 'accelerate' by r.e.m. it kind of veered drastically away from the original prompt; sorry about that. i hope this is okay. The lake in question is a fictional place but there are many like it in north-central Ontario, where (in my mind) this is set.
House would have been perfectly content to lie to the float plane pilot, but Wilson had buckled at the last second and bought a couple of fishing rods and a box of lures so he could truthfully say that yes, they had heard how good the fishing was at Muskellunge Lake, and yes, they might just decide to fish in the four weeks they were there. House was privately horrified and mentally edited every single 'we' out of the sentences coming out of Wilson's mouth. Fishing. Perish the fucking thought.
He could see the wistful frustration in Wilson's eyes as their little float plane climbed higher and higher, spiralling up through the clouds.
"You'd die out there." he murmured, briefly resting one cautious hand on Wilson's shoulder.
"I know." Wilson's fidgeting slowed, at least, but his eyes never left the window and the milky clouds beyond it.
They both had their crosses to bear for this. The airports had been like walking straight through hell, a million mental midgets screaming pointless bullshit at the top of their metaphorical lungs. He'd known it was going to be bad and it was three times worse than he'd been expecting, and he took a petty pleasure in being a complete asshole to as many other travellers as he could. The rush of silence as the float plane climbed higher and further away was a better release than morphine.
*
That was two days ago.
Without the yoke of responsibility weighing him down, it was easier to get up with the sun: especially since Wilson had taken to his equivalent of an early morning jog. So House was waiting with his favorite jeans and his coffee and the great expanse of cooled quiet, and he watched Wilson bank and wheel in lazy rolls over the lake and thought about birds.
It was hard to think about much else at this point in the morning, because they wouldn't shut up. It was mating season and every thrush and warbler and sparrow had a one-track mind, desperately trying to impress bird-babes with their studly displays of song and dance. He was able to pick up a kind of low-level 'chatter' if they got close enough, but it was pleasant, not too dissimilar to the audible birdsong. Squirrels were far more interesting - turns out they were conniving little bastards, not unlike cats, which made him inexplicably gleeful.
Wilson was coming in low, playing with the updrafts over the mottled silver mists of the lake. He skimmed a little too close to a small marshy island and a loon erupted from the rushes, nearly knocking him into a spin, and this time House couldn't help but laugh; the echoes rang across the water.
Asshole, Wilson thought at him - but not entirely unkindly, and House caught sight of a wave out of the corner of his eye.
He drank the rest of his coffee and waited for Wilson to land.
author:
phinniarating: pg
pairing: house/wilson (technicallly established relationship in the context of the 'verse, but it could just as easily be gen/friendship in the fic itself)
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
author's note: for
hannah, who sponsored me for write-o-rama and requested 'house/wilson' with 'water' as the prompt: since she's been kind enough to let me play in her sandbox before, i decided to do so again. The superpowers' 'verse is hers. this fic comes at some point after i am superman (and i know what's happening) but you don't need to read it to know what's going on. (you should probably read at least something in the superpowers' 'verse first to be familiar with it, however) there are links to the rest of her superpowers' 'verse fic in the author's note there. you should read it, because it's very good. title taken from 'accelerate' by r.e.m. it kind of veered drastically away from the original prompt; sorry about that. i hope this is okay. The lake in question is a fictional place but there are many like it in north-central Ontario, where (in my mind) this is set.House would have been perfectly content to lie to the float plane pilot, but Wilson had buckled at the last second and bought a couple of fishing rods and a box of lures so he could truthfully say that yes, they had heard how good the fishing was at Muskellunge Lake, and yes, they might just decide to fish in the four weeks they were there. House was privately horrified and mentally edited every single 'we' out of the sentences coming out of Wilson's mouth. Fishing. Perish the fucking thought.
He could see the wistful frustration in Wilson's eyes as their little float plane climbed higher and higher, spiralling up through the clouds.
"You'd die out there." he murmured, briefly resting one cautious hand on Wilson's shoulder.
"I know." Wilson's fidgeting slowed, at least, but his eyes never left the window and the milky clouds beyond it.
They both had their crosses to bear for this. The airports had been like walking straight through hell, a million mental midgets screaming pointless bullshit at the top of their metaphorical lungs. He'd known it was going to be bad and it was three times worse than he'd been expecting, and he took a petty pleasure in being a complete asshole to as many other travellers as he could. The rush of silence as the float plane climbed higher and further away was a better release than morphine.
*
That was two days ago.
Without the yoke of responsibility weighing him down, it was easier to get up with the sun: especially since Wilson had taken to his equivalent of an early morning jog. So House was waiting with his favorite jeans and his coffee and the great expanse of cooled quiet, and he watched Wilson bank and wheel in lazy rolls over the lake and thought about birds.
It was hard to think about much else at this point in the morning, because they wouldn't shut up. It was mating season and every thrush and warbler and sparrow had a one-track mind, desperately trying to impress bird-babes with their studly displays of song and dance. He was able to pick up a kind of low-level 'chatter' if they got close enough, but it was pleasant, not too dissimilar to the audible birdsong. Squirrels were far more interesting - turns out they were conniving little bastards, not unlike cats, which made him inexplicably gleeful.
Wilson was coming in low, playing with the updrafts over the mottled silver mists of the lake. He skimmed a little too close to a small marshy island and a loon erupted from the rushes, nearly knocking him into a spin, and this time House couldn't help but laugh; the echoes rang across the water.
Asshole, Wilson thought at him - but not entirely unkindly, and House caught sight of a wave out of the corner of his eye.
He drank the rest of his coffee and waited for Wilson to land.