Title: Take Me To The River
Fandom: House MD
Challenge/Prompt: 100moods, 065. Morose
Summary: Fragments of three different marriages.
Author’s Notes: Crack to write. Don't know how you guys will feel about it, but I promise no more Wilson/wives things for a while.
…And it was like a dream in this large unfurnished room with the candles flickering and this red-eyed wild-haired stranger who was my wife shouting obscenities at me.
Laura was wide green eyes, maroon-painted fingernails tapping impatiently on a desk, chewing pens and pencils indefinitely, smoking between lectures, REM t-shirts and shocking pink legwarmers, sex with the lights out, tattoos and hair dye, scratches on his back and his parents hating his wife, a wedding in Vegas and a proper one at home where they both got very, very drunk and hid under a table for half the reception. She was dancing in the rain and cordon bleu cookery and driving over the speedlimit, tic tacs and British swear words, vinyl records, constant arguments, barefaced lies, the whitest teeth imaginable, long legs and love bites and Doc Marten boots, whistling, bass guitars and Levi 501s. She was giggles and the dirtiest smile he’d ever seen and summer afternoons, tequila and burnt toast (“the charcoal is good for you Jimmy”), tears smudged with mascara, black and white movies, dirty converse allstars, dark purple lingerie, screaming at each other until the sobs lost the words their meanings, high heels and divorce papers and nameless, faceless nurses, the discovery his best friend had betrayed him, broken vases and silence at the breakfast table and an empty apartment that felt all the more empty because she was no longer in it.
Rose was magnolia paint and dark hair and milky coffee and pale pink lipstick and floral-smelling washing powder and ironing and peppermints and her head resting against his shoulder, driving for hours, old-fashioned type-writers, brown eyeliner, pink carnations and a soft cream silk dress and not getting drunk at the reception at all. She was dinner parties with actual food, and French manicures, vanilla bath essence, lilac candles, aromatherapy, and a wife who got on with his parents and who took charge of things like Christmas card lists. She was sensible shoes, and pretty vases, making love in the missionary position, Laura Ashley skirts, tasteful furnishings, cream drapes, nervous smiles, freckles, such blue eyes, late nights, the violin, Billy Joel CDs, sheet music and Breakfast At Tiffany’s. She was romance novels and fountain pens and actual weekends away where they didn’t end up screwing in the car halfway there and then going home. She was someone to escape from, hospital accountants and women he met in bars and shattered smiles and guilt and those blue eyes filling up with tears and shouts of I don’t know what you want from me, James and even louder shouts of I don’t want anything that he never actually managed to say, and realising that that perhaps was the problem.
Julie was a convenient civil ceremony, hazel eyes, House staring at his watch, generally wondering what it was his wife did for a living, more hours at the hospital than ever before, neat business suits, carefully ironed shirts (with scorch marks across the back when she was angry- he didn’t just wear those sweater vests because they looked good), cookery when she could be bothered, dinner parties he was mostly not at, shouting matches that could and did go on for hours, people who muttered third time lucky, and white wine. She was catalogue furnishings and sleeping on the couch and sex when they remembered and his secretary smirking in a knowing way and this big thing about the colour green, sensible intellectual books, opera CDs, silver cars, blatant ignoring of his religion, the occasional wicked smile that made him think that perhaps there was something behind that. She was tasteful interior decorating and a distinct lack of naïveté and beige paint and high heels and pale pink lipstick and brown eyeliner and hairspray and the brush of lips against his cheek in an imitation of a kiss as she hurried out the door for another business meeting. She was a speech he’d given so many times before turned around on him, and more relief than anything else that it was over.
And James Wilson has married each of these women, and lost them, and now all he has left are pieces, fragments of what he used to have, a crushing load of guilt, and many hours to lie around feeling generally sorry for himself. And then, of course, he’ll start looking for the next link in the chain.
And she will be…