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wisdomeagleTitle: "This Goddamaned Marriage"
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: House/ducklings.
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Timeline: A moment that never actually happened during the Vogler arc.
Notes: For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
houserareathon. Prompt below the cut.
Summary: A thing that stinks.
Words: 1010
This Goddamned Marriage
A speck of light filters through the crystal etchings on this last, best glass, one of three remaining after years and years of life following the goddamned wedding. -- Kris Radish
They did not really mean to fall in love with House. (And, conversely, he did not mean to fall in love with them.)
They didn't realize that the vows would be quite so literal, that residency would be so much like a marriage. They did not realize, getting into this, that they would be dragged screaming from it, that they would spend the rest of their lives waking up in cold sweats from nightmares in which House told them the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth...
They came straggling in one after another, refusing to look each other in the eye. They were, suddenly, not quite bright enough, not quite good enough. House is a man who demands -- but you know what House demands of them.
It stinks of loyalty, and that upsets Chase, who wants none of it. He does not want to be married when he's still got wild oats to sow, does not want to be committed till he's -- till he's got more of whatever it is House has, that nameless quality of invulnerability that means he's not the one who gets beaten down time and time again, chafed with injustices. He doesn't want to commit until he's sure he'll be strong enough not to lose himself to the overwhelming force of a stronger personality.
This thing, this marriage, it stinks.
Of illogic, of irrationality, of meanness. Dr. Cameron thought they would be a lovely story, the four of them together. Every time House says, "Gather 'round, children, while Daddy tells you about the big mean bacterium," she flinches a little, because she thought that's who they'd be. She thought she'd be Allison. She thought she'd hold hands with dying patients and tell them there was still a chance while House worked far into the night, saving them.
She didn't think that, really. She didn't. House may think she was naive, but Allison Cameron's got gallons of strength. She was married before. She can do it again. She knows marriage isn't roses and pretty crocheted slipcovers. She knows it's work. She knows it hurts.
She knows that marriage stinks.
It stinks of class, and for Foreman it's the worst, because whatever deal House made with them, whatever game he thinks he's playing, Foreman doesn't want any part of it and has no idea how to extricate himself. He signed a contract, made a deal. He's been dealt a hand and now what?
Now they sit and watch him toss a ball high into the air, catch it, toss it up again.
"So," he says.
(This stinks, always has. He knows that. But now that he's playing by someone else's rules, it suddenly stinks a whole lot worse.)
Cameron sits and presses the tips of her fingers together so hard they turn white; Chase leans back with a practiced look of nonchalance that fools no one.
"So who's it gonna be?" House asks, thoughtfully, like he's their Socrates and they -- they are disciples, Plato and all the rest, sitting with him in jail and absorbing his wisdom the night before he dies. The right questions are on the tip of everyone's tongue. They are ready to ask him so he can tell them what he's been meaning to say the whole time. House adores the Socratic method.
Foreman finally asks because the silence merely bores him, while it's killing Cameron. "You done toying with us?"
"Done?" House smirks. "Never. I particularly enjoy toying with Chase. His face is so pretty when I toy."
(House wouldn't really take Chase to bed any more than he'd take Cameron or Foreman. He's worse than a bigamist, worse than Wilson. He'd like to think he's got a harem but really he cares far too much for that to be true. He doesn't love them because they're loyal; he loves them because they're his.)
"Yeah, I'll bet," says Foreman, who's tired of it but knows, like the long-suffering Mrs. Wilsons, that when your husband has a bad habit like harassing your colleagues or having affairs, you just can't break him of it. Ever. Put up or get out, but don't you dare complain. "So who's it gonna be?"
"Funny, does anyone else hear an echo?"
Chase rolls his eyes too elaborately. He's nervous, but he knows that divorce is inevitable. When you're chosen for your looks, well.... looks fade. Cameron blinks widely. She's not afraid; she can't believe that anyone could ever not want her.
None of them thinks House can actually do it. He could do lots of cruel things, and has, to all of them. But he wouldn't kill someone in cold blood. He wouldn't take one of them and say, "You. I like you the least." He wouldn't mean it.
House says everything, the things that no one else will say, the things no one else even dares to think too loudly. Because he says everything, any one thing he says is never truly true, not in the sense that they want it to be.
He wants them all to grovel in brutal honesty, to stare at themselves head-on in the mirror, to scrub themselves with sandpaper and wash away the layers of pride and foolishness and avarice that make them vulnerable, susceptible to failure.
If they had only done this one small thing, they wouldn't be watching House playing catch, wouldn't be holding their breaths with more fear than they'd like to admit. They wouldn't wallow in might-have-beens or wish for safer, greener, flatter pastures. If they had only been honest. Or if they'd only gotten out.
Chase pours a glass of water for Cameron, forcing his hand not to tremble. Cameron forces herself to take it with a smile, and Foreman forces a smile. This is like any other morning when they're facing House's wrath, but he's less wrathful and thus more potent this morning than ever before in their experience.
House grits his teeth and looks at them, and he must -- and therefore will -- force himself to choose.
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: House/ducklings.
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Timeline: A moment that never actually happened during the Vogler arc.
Notes: For the
houserareathon. Prompt below the cut.Summary: A thing that stinks.
Words: 1010
This Goddamned Marriage
A speck of light filters through the crystal etchings on this last, best glass, one of three remaining after years and years of life following the goddamned wedding. -- Kris Radish
They did not really mean to fall in love with House. (And, conversely, he did not mean to fall in love with them.)
They didn't realize that the vows would be quite so literal, that residency would be so much like a marriage. They did not realize, getting into this, that they would be dragged screaming from it, that they would spend the rest of their lives waking up in cold sweats from nightmares in which House told them the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth...
They came straggling in one after another, refusing to look each other in the eye. They were, suddenly, not quite bright enough, not quite good enough. House is a man who demands -- but you know what House demands of them.
It stinks of loyalty, and that upsets Chase, who wants none of it. He does not want to be married when he's still got wild oats to sow, does not want to be committed till he's -- till he's got more of whatever it is House has, that nameless quality of invulnerability that means he's not the one who gets beaten down time and time again, chafed with injustices. He doesn't want to commit until he's sure he'll be strong enough not to lose himself to the overwhelming force of a stronger personality.
This thing, this marriage, it stinks.
Of illogic, of irrationality, of meanness. Dr. Cameron thought they would be a lovely story, the four of them together. Every time House says, "Gather 'round, children, while Daddy tells you about the big mean bacterium," she flinches a little, because she thought that's who they'd be. She thought she'd be Allison. She thought she'd hold hands with dying patients and tell them there was still a chance while House worked far into the night, saving them.
She didn't think that, really. She didn't. House may think she was naive, but Allison Cameron's got gallons of strength. She was married before. She can do it again. She knows marriage isn't roses and pretty crocheted slipcovers. She knows it's work. She knows it hurts.
She knows that marriage stinks.
It stinks of class, and for Foreman it's the worst, because whatever deal House made with them, whatever game he thinks he's playing, Foreman doesn't want any part of it and has no idea how to extricate himself. He signed a contract, made a deal. He's been dealt a hand and now what?
Now they sit and watch him toss a ball high into the air, catch it, toss it up again.
"So," he says.
(This stinks, always has. He knows that. But now that he's playing by someone else's rules, it suddenly stinks a whole lot worse.)
Cameron sits and presses the tips of her fingers together so hard they turn white; Chase leans back with a practiced look of nonchalance that fools no one.
"So who's it gonna be?" House asks, thoughtfully, like he's their Socrates and they -- they are disciples, Plato and all the rest, sitting with him in jail and absorbing his wisdom the night before he dies. The right questions are on the tip of everyone's tongue. They are ready to ask him so he can tell them what he's been meaning to say the whole time. House adores the Socratic method.
Foreman finally asks because the silence merely bores him, while it's killing Cameron. "You done toying with us?"
"Done?" House smirks. "Never. I particularly enjoy toying with Chase. His face is so pretty when I toy."
(House wouldn't really take Chase to bed any more than he'd take Cameron or Foreman. He's worse than a bigamist, worse than Wilson. He'd like to think he's got a harem but really he cares far too much for that to be true. He doesn't love them because they're loyal; he loves them because they're his.)
"Yeah, I'll bet," says Foreman, who's tired of it but knows, like the long-suffering Mrs. Wilsons, that when your husband has a bad habit like harassing your colleagues or having affairs, you just can't break him of it. Ever. Put up or get out, but don't you dare complain. "So who's it gonna be?"
"Funny, does anyone else hear an echo?"
Chase rolls his eyes too elaborately. He's nervous, but he knows that divorce is inevitable. When you're chosen for your looks, well.... looks fade. Cameron blinks widely. She's not afraid; she can't believe that anyone could ever not want her.
None of them thinks House can actually do it. He could do lots of cruel things, and has, to all of them. But he wouldn't kill someone in cold blood. He wouldn't take one of them and say, "You. I like you the least." He wouldn't mean it.
House says everything, the things that no one else will say, the things no one else even dares to think too loudly. Because he says everything, any one thing he says is never truly true, not in the sense that they want it to be.
He wants them all to grovel in brutal honesty, to stare at themselves head-on in the mirror, to scrub themselves with sandpaper and wash away the layers of pride and foolishness and avarice that make them vulnerable, susceptible to failure.
If they had only done this one small thing, they wouldn't be watching House playing catch, wouldn't be holding their breaths with more fear than they'd like to admit. They wouldn't wallow in might-have-beens or wish for safer, greener, flatter pastures. If they had only been honest. Or if they'd only gotten out.
Chase pours a glass of water for Cameron, forcing his hand not to tremble. Cameron forces herself to take it with a smile, and Foreman forces a smile. This is like any other morning when they're facing House's wrath, but he's less wrathful and thus more potent this morning than ever before in their experience.
House grits his teeth and looks at them, and he must -- and therefore will -- force himself to choose.