Fandom: House MD
Characters: House-Wilson (House/Wilson?)
Challenge/Prompt: 100moods, 036. Enthralled
Genre: Gen (pre-slash?)
Copyright: Title taken from Tori Amos’ song “Angels”. I love that song.
Summary: You don’t know me yet. You will, and soon, but right now, you don’t know me. The first meeting of our boys.
Author’s Notes: This fic is begging to have the piss taken out of it on house_mst. And that tells you exactly how I feel about it, because I may complain about how crappy my characterisation and shit is, but I never, never say MST. But I had to write it and I don’t regret writing it.
You don’t know me yet. You will, and soon, but right now, you don’t know me. It’s your first year of medical school and you’re all young and metaphorically wet-behind-the-ears and I haven’t come along to surgically remove half your beliefs in human nature yet and you- you have no idea what’s coming, do you?
There’s a woman sitting a few seats over and one row in front of you in the lecture hall, her dyed black hair tumbling over her shoulders, dressed in torn Levi’s and a loose-fitting white sweater, pulled down over her hands. Hands which are currently tangled in another guy’s hair, because the lecture hasn’t started yet and making out with her current boyfriend is apparently her idea of preparation. We’ll both get to know her intimately in the next couple of years; you’ll marry her and she’ll cheat on you with me. But right now you don’t know her and neither do I.
In the back row of the hall, there’s another woman that I vaguely know but you don’t. She has dark, curly hair and she’s in her first year of residency. But she knows that I lost a bet and that is why I’m here and she wants to see this and possibly take incriminating photographs. Her mouth is twisted into a smile but it’s also a jealous smile, to a certain degree. I was finishing up medical school when she arrived and she still wants to hear from me, to see what she can learn. She admires me and she wishes she didn’t. Later on, she’ll be my boss. Your boss too. Right now, though, she looks just like the rest of you- white coat, slightly bloodshot eyes, caffeine-trembling hands.
You’ve heard of me. I’m already a legend. I don’t care about it, but you think it’ll be cool to see what you can learn. You’re not interested in the field of diagnostics, but you’ve heard so much that you want to know what’s so amazing about me. I’ve got a reputation and you want to explore it. You’re fascinated. You don’t know me yet but you’re fascinated by me and in times to come you will be even more fascinated. Because that’s what will keep us together.
(Maybe as something more, if you want to believe the rumours and the-)
Laptop computers aren’t the norm yet; you’ve got a notebook with pale blue lines and three biro pens in case you run out. You like having pens with you and you always will. And I will always enjoy stealing the pens out of your pocket and ‘borrowing’ them and losing them. But I don’t know that I will enjoy that yet, and neither do you. Anyway, enough of the paradox. You’re ready to write down every word I’ve got to say for myself, in messy doctor shorthand, so you can read it back and work out whether you like it.
The thing is, in a few minutes, your life will change forever. And you might think that’s funny or melodramatic or a downright lie, but it isn’t. It isn’t at all.
You see, Lisa Cuddy, at the back of the hall unwrapping a lollipop and steadying her own notebook on her lap, ready to at least keep half an ear open to what I’m going to say, won’t matter to you for years. And even then she’ll be your boss and kind of your friend, but why will she be your friend? You’ll bond over me and what I do to you both. And then she’ll start trying to work out if you’re a potential father to her children and the world will become all kinds of complicated. Not to scare you off or anything.
And Laura Ramsey, in the row in front of you, easing her converse allstars off to tuck her feet under her, biting the lid of her fountain pen, well, she’ll be your wife for a couple of years and leave your heart broken for a year longer, but then she’ll cease to matter. She won’t be your last wife.
Besides, none of the personal relationships you’ll form with the people in this room- your fellow students, your teachers, your future girlfriends- will last half as long as the relationship you’re about to form with me.
Not to sound ominous at all.
Anyway, you hear bickering and coughing and a soft muttering of I wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t lost that bet and then there’s a lot of applause and you look up as a man in his thirties with dark hair and a hint of stubble and wearing a pair of loose black jeans- me, in other words- walks onto the podium. I cough and rub my hand over my face and look at you all in your white coats and your nervous twitches and I inwardly groan because I don’t want to be here today.
I have no idea what’s going to happen either. I came here today because I lost a bet and now I have to give a lecture and I will. I’m not planning on meeting a friend today. I’m not planning on getting my Wilson today. And I swear you’re not betting on getting a House.
(Perhaps I got the better end of the deal. Perhaps I didn’t.)
Anyway, my eyes travel bleakly over the lot of you, and catch momentarily on you. You stare back and you don’t blink, not once, and I like that. I wink. I smile. You smile back, and it’s tentative. But it’s real.
A wink. A smile. A moment. No one else even notices and no one is even aware that something monumental has happened. Neither are we.
But I’m Greg House. And you’re James Wilson.
This is how it all starts.