House fic: Ghosts of Christmas Past
Dec. 22nd, 2006 04:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jadesfireJust a little something more before I depart for Christmas ;)
Title: Ghosts of Christmas Past
Words: 600
Rating: Gen
Summary: Some things, you can't forget
With thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bironic for the quick beta
xposted here and there
Ghosts of Christmas Past
“House, what are you doing?” Looking into the darkened office, Wilson knew he didn’t really need to ask. House was leaning back in his chair, the only light coming from the desk lamp. In the halo of its glow, Wilson could see the glint of a glass.
“Come for the annual ritual?” House asked. “Bring your own, did you?”
“How many have you had?”
“Of which?” House lifted the glass in one hand and a file in the other. When Wilson didn’t answer, he put the glass down and opened the file. “Rachel Callings. Twenty-seven. Cause of death: Brain Hemorrhage.”
“House, don’t do this.” Wilson came over and leant against the visitor’s chair. “Please.”
“We shall remember them.” Exchanging the file for his glass again, House took a long drink.
Wilson shook his head. “Not like this.”
“Oh, come on.” House swirled the drink round in the glass, watching the light play across it. “You’re telling me you don’t need a good stiff drink when you’re compiling the annual scoreboard?”
“I don’t do it like this.” Giving in, Wilson sat down, folding his arms across his chest. “What is this meant to accomplish?”
“This,” House held up the glass, “is generally meant to accomplish inebriation. This,” he waved his free hand at the files, “is-”
“Penance?”
“A warning.” House shook his head. “A warning against the folly of man and his hubris.”
“And we all know how careful you are about seeming arrogant.”
“You know, the problem with always being right,” House said, as though he hadn’t heard, “is that sometimes, that’s all you can be.”
“Was there any grammar in that sentence at all?” Wilson asked, trying to replay it in his head.
“Take Rachel Callings.” House was still lost in his own world. “Young woman. Bright. Pretty. Blonde - well, when she was referred to us anyway. And all we could tell her is ‘nope, sorry, you’re gonna die, and we’re damn sure we’re right about it.’”
“And all the others?” Wilson asked.
“Other whats?”
“All the ones you got to be right about in a good way. All the ones who got to live. You don’t have them on your desk, do you?” Wilson leaned forwards. “You wouldn’t have room.”
House was silent for a long moment, staring into his glass. Then he drained it, sat forwards in his chair and put it down firmly on the desk. Still leaning over it, he looked sideways at the whisky bottle.
“Almost done.” Without lifting his head, he looked up at Wilson. “Got time for a drink?”
“I can make time.”
“You can drive.”
Wilson considered for a moment, holding House’s gaze. Then he nodded, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’ll get my coat.”
In fact, Wilson waited as House sat for a minute longer, looking at the pile of unopened files. Every name, every detail and every figure was held somewhere in House’s head, Wilson knew. He didn’t need to do this.
At last, grabbing his cane, House stood up a little shakily, getting his balance on the second step. He put Rachel Calling’s file on top of the others, arranging the pile as neatly as he could. Then he turned out the light, grabbed his coat and bag, and followed Wilson out of the door.
“Have you had any eggnog yet this year?” he asked as they made their way to the elevator.
“Julie hates it.”
“I’ve got a bottle at mine.”
“Always prepared.” Wilson smiled across at him and, by the time the elevator arrived, House was smiling back.
Title: Ghosts of Christmas Past
Words: 600
Rating: Gen
Summary: Some things, you can't forget
With thanks to
bironic for the quick betaxposted here and there
Ghosts of Christmas Past
“House, what are you doing?” Looking into the darkened office, Wilson knew he didn’t really need to ask. House was leaning back in his chair, the only light coming from the desk lamp. In the halo of its glow, Wilson could see the glint of a glass.
“Come for the annual ritual?” House asked. “Bring your own, did you?”
“How many have you had?”
“Of which?” House lifted the glass in one hand and a file in the other. When Wilson didn’t answer, he put the glass down and opened the file. “Rachel Callings. Twenty-seven. Cause of death: Brain Hemorrhage.”
“House, don’t do this.” Wilson came over and leant against the visitor’s chair. “Please.”
“We shall remember them.” Exchanging the file for his glass again, House took a long drink.
Wilson shook his head. “Not like this.”
“Oh, come on.” House swirled the drink round in the glass, watching the light play across it. “You’re telling me you don’t need a good stiff drink when you’re compiling the annual scoreboard?”
“I don’t do it like this.” Giving in, Wilson sat down, folding his arms across his chest. “What is this meant to accomplish?”
“This,” House held up the glass, “is generally meant to accomplish inebriation. This,” he waved his free hand at the files, “is-”
“Penance?”
“A warning.” House shook his head. “A warning against the folly of man and his hubris.”
“And we all know how careful you are about seeming arrogant.”
“You know, the problem with always being right,” House said, as though he hadn’t heard, “is that sometimes, that’s all you can be.”
“Was there any grammar in that sentence at all?” Wilson asked, trying to replay it in his head.
“Take Rachel Callings.” House was still lost in his own world. “Young woman. Bright. Pretty. Blonde - well, when she was referred to us anyway. And all we could tell her is ‘nope, sorry, you’re gonna die, and we’re damn sure we’re right about it.’”
“And all the others?” Wilson asked.
“Other whats?”
“All the ones you got to be right about in a good way. All the ones who got to live. You don’t have them on your desk, do you?” Wilson leaned forwards. “You wouldn’t have room.”
House was silent for a long moment, staring into his glass. Then he drained it, sat forwards in his chair and put it down firmly on the desk. Still leaning over it, he looked sideways at the whisky bottle.
“Almost done.” Without lifting his head, he looked up at Wilson. “Got time for a drink?”
“I can make time.”
“You can drive.”
Wilson considered for a moment, holding House’s gaze. Then he nodded, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’ll get my coat.”
In fact, Wilson waited as House sat for a minute longer, looking at the pile of unopened files. Every name, every detail and every figure was held somewhere in House’s head, Wilson knew. He didn’t need to do this.
At last, grabbing his cane, House stood up a little shakily, getting his balance on the second step. He put Rachel Calling’s file on top of the others, arranging the pile as neatly as he could. Then he turned out the light, grabbed his coat and bag, and followed Wilson out of the door.
“Have you had any eggnog yet this year?” he asked as they made their way to the elevator.
“Julie hates it.”
“I’ve got a bottle at mine.”
“Always prepared.” Wilson smiled across at him and, by the time the elevator arrived, House was smiling back.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-22 04:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-22 04:42 pm (UTC)That's a really good way of putting it. Glad it rang true for you.