THE LIGHTS ARE SHINING (ANY PLACE BUT THERE) by cellista_in_c (R)

[flywoman.livejournal.com]

Fandom: HOUSE M.D.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Length: ~6000 words
Author on LJ: cellista_in_c
Author Website: Author's tagged fic on LJ

Why this must be read:

Only a very special kind of fan could watch "The Dig," an episode that doesn't even feature James Wilson, and be inspired to write a glorious exploration of almost fifteen years of his friendship with Greg House and its eventual transition into something more. cellista_in_c is that kind of special. It's just too bad that we didn't get to see many more fics from this author, although she did make some wonderful contributions to the collaborative pieces on h_w_chainfic.

Her first major House/Wilson story, "The Lights Are Shining (Any Place But There)" features terrific in-character banter as well as evocative little details that really make the reader feel like she's right there with the two men as they tramp around muddy fairgrounds and encounter their first spud gun competition. The way that the author weaves in the unexpected events that prevent House and Wilson from pursuing their plans to win the next one together is nothing short of brilliant. And the last section is lovely and poetic and hot as hell.

It never failed to amaze Wilson how excited House got over county fairs. He usually managed to drag Wilson along to at least one fair a year, and some years more if Wilson was feeling particularly indulgent that season. House claimed that it sucked going to fairs alone, and Stacy flat-out refused to go with him since that time three years ago when House had insisted on entering the pie eating contest and then been sick all over the inside of her new car.

And so here they were again, tramping around muddy fairgrounds, doing their standard fair-going routine – Wilson sedately snacking on peanuts while House ate cotton candy and caramel apples and popcorn and funnel cake and two slices of peach pie, topping it all off with a full third of Wilson's peanuts. They played the games, House mocking him for lousy pitches and “accidentally” jostling Wilson's arm when he took the lead in the water gun race.

Cheap prize bear or duck or whatever in hand, House would then drag Wilson off to see the animal and produce judging, where he would stroll the aisles, loudly remarking on the inferiority of the sheep or getting into a name-calling match with a twelve year old 4-H kid over whether her pig was really the biggest swine there or not. Wilson usually missed these parts, since he would veer off into the crafts section to see if there was anything he could buy for the wife or girlfriend du jour. They would meet up again about a half hour later, and from there go watch the tractor pulls before heading home.

Except this year, after Wilson managed to drag House away from a heated discussion with a glowering judge on the adequacy of the color of some kid's pumpkin, they were distracted by what sounded like a cannon and a cheering crowd. House elbowed his way into the crowd, Wilson trailing behind with muttered apologies, and it was then that they took in their first spud gun competition.

Wilson watched for a while, but quickly grew bored – it was a very impressive way of catapulting potatoes, true, but it had been a long time since lunch and he would rather be having one on a plate just now.

“House,” he said, nudging him.

“Mm.”

“House. C'mon, let's go get some dinner and go home.”

For perhaps the first time in their long friendship, the promise of food had absolutely no effect on House and Wilson turned to look at him, surprised. And was further surprised to see that the man was absolutely rapt. It was rare that Wilson ever saw him standing completely still, but House was completely absorbed in watching the arcs of falling potatoes.

So Wilson waited, shifting from foot to foot with growing impatience until the competition finally ended. When they stopped for dinner on the way home, House talked of nothing other than than the spud gun competition, on how to best achieve loft and distance. Wilson kept up with the conversation as well as he could, drawing on dim memories of college Physics 101 while House covered an array of napkins with sketches of flight paths and half done equations, drawing out a weird new map of obsession.

By the time they got back to House's place and thrown themselves down on the couch with beers, House dumping a fistful of napkins on the side table, the conversation had moved into discussion of what a well-fired potato might do to the human body, with vivid and graphic speculation on the likely effects of shots to the kidneys, head, jaw and so on.

Whiskey replaced beer as the evening turned into early morning, and they slowly lapsed into an easy silence, broken only by snickers at the predicaments of the protagonists in whatever crap horror movie was on.

A soft sigh drew Wilson's attention away from the TV. House was dozing, head lolling awkwardly to the side facing Wilson. Wilson was in that pleasant state of intoxication where everything seemed clearer, sharper, colors and textures richer. He took in House's face, dreamily appreciating the play of light across cheek and nose, catching in his eyelashes and just highlighting the curve of lips at the corner of his mouth.

Wilson shook his head bemusedly. Whiskey at two in the morning always brought out a poetic side in him. A curly tuft of hair was sticking up behind House's left ear. Wilson itched to smooth it back down. House was starting to get the odd gray hair here and there, and Wilson contemplated for a minute what an older House might look like. Perhaps his hair would go to a distinguished silver, and he'd find it necessary to wear glasses all the time instead of just for reading. It was an appealing picture.

“'Cha lookin' at?” House asked sleepily, one eye slitting open to peer at him.

“You. With the light, and the shadow, you're a...” Wilson twittered his fingers, tried to think. “Yin and yang,” he came up triumphantly.

“And you're drunk,” said House, rolling his eyes. He stood up and immediately toppled back down. “Oh,” he said mildly. “And I am too.”

Wilson snickered at that and pushed himself up, unduly smug that he at least could stay on his feet, and hauled House to his.

“C'mon, bed.”

“Why Wilson – just because Stacy's in DC for the week doesn't mean I'm desperate. You'd have to buy me dinner first.”

“I did buy you dinner. I have in fact bought you so many dinners that I should be pretty much guaranteed a blowjob whenever I want it for the rest of my life.”

“If I was that kind of girl,” said House, leaning a bit more into him with what was apparently meant to be a coquettish bat of his eyelashes, except he forgot to reopen the one eye.

“You're completely that kind of girl,” and with that Wilson dumped him onto bed, though House forgot to let go of his shirt and Wilson almost crushed him as he toppled over.

House snorted and tugged affectionately at his ear. “Klutz.”

“Old man,” retorted Wilson, disentangling himself. “Getting too old to stay on your feet after a couple of drinks anymore.”

“Shut up.”

“Gonna have to get you an old man cane soon.”

“For that you're sleeping on the couch.”

“If you really wanted to punish me you'd make me sleep here with you.”

“There are thousands of women who'd kill to be in your position right now.”

“They'd be standing in line to kill you, you mean.”

“Stacy would protect me. Have you seen her collection of high heels? I swore I'd never keep weapons in this house but...”

“Just as long as you don't piss her off enough so that she's at the head of the line.”

“Heh heh...you said head.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep House.”

“No good-night kiss?”

Wilson snorted and started to push himself off the bed, but House latched on to his arm, trying again for one of those eyelash bats. “C'mon, you get me into bed and tease me with talk of murderous women and now you're just gonna walk away?” House exaggeratedly pursed his lips, looking expectantly at Wilson.

Wilson rolled his eyes again, then leaned in to give House a quick peck on the forehead. “There.” He stood up and tossed the covers over him. “Sleep now.”

“Your seduction technique sucks.”

“If I ever actually try to seduce you, you'll scream something different soon enough.” Wilson patted House on the shoulder. “Sleep.”

Wilson stumbled towards the door, almost out of the room when House spoke up again. “Hey Wilson.”

“What now?”

“Want to try entering a spud gun competition someday?”

“We'll see.”

“Maybe next summer.”

“Why not?”

“We'll start drawing up blueprints this winter.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Except a couple of months later, Wilson left behind a New England autumnal vacation to race home to where House lay screaming with a dying leg. And the next summer they didn't go to a single fair.

The Lights Are Shining (Any Place But There)