sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-11 01:10 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-11 01:10 am
Entry tags:
Synchronicity, 1 of 3. R.
Title: Synchronicity
Rating: R for graphic sexual situations, as if canes and cigars weren't symbolic enough.
Summary: Dead patients, car wrecks, drug overdoses, journalists, Comatose Charlie, and orange chicken. Must be love. House/Wilson.
Warnings: None.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
simon, setissma, and juniper200 for betaz, and for not making fun of the whole surfing-instructor thing. Rad, man.
Originally posted 4.14.2006
Now available at AO3!
***
"It was stupid. And preventable."
Late spring rain was running down the glass window of the diner, blurring and refracting the headlights of cars passing along the nearby street. House was bent in what couldn't be a comfortable posture, elbows on the table, both hands on one shoulder, head bowed and tilted towards the window. His plate, with most of the french fries and almost all of his hamburger still on it, sat at the edge, a tacit hint for the waitress to come take it away. Wilson dumped the fries onto his own plate.
"What was it?" he asked.
"Vitamins."
"Hm?"
"Vitamins," House said.
"Your patient died of vitamins?"
"Reaction to the binders in the pills combined with the virus, masking the fever -- misdirected us. Stupid mistake," House said. "Gimme my damn fries back."
Wilson pushed his plate carefully into the middle of the table. House dipped one of the french fries in gravy left over from Wilson's mashed potatoes and ate it, still staring out the window.
"This is really weird," Wilson said. House looked up long enough to scowl and take a sip of his beer.
"What's that?"
"You, caring. It's freaking me out, frankly," Wilson continued. "You solved the puzzle, and yet you're...well, woeful. Full of woe."
"I am not full of woe, I'm full of beer. Cheap beer."
"You have so much woe it's practically your cologne. Eau de woe. You're like some fifteen year old who just got dumped by her boyfriend."
"Well, I wouldn't put out," House muttered.
"You must have really liked that patient."
"I did."
Wilson stared at him, startled. "You liked him?"
"Sure. He was cool, for a nineteen-year-old. He liked the blues. He was weird. He didn't lie to me."
"Everybody lies. What about the vitamins?"
House sighed. "His mother was grinding them up and sprinkling them on his food."
"Wow. Mom killed him. How Greek."
"Can I get a Coke over here?" House called. The waitress gave him a look and flounced off. "The service sucks."
"You're an asshole."
"Yeah, but I tip well."
"Oh, not a cheap asshole, that's heartening," Wilson said. "Seriously, you liked a patient?"
"Yeah. And it sucks, because he's dead. He was unpredictable. It was challenging," House said. He accepted the glass of Coke from the waitress and ate another french fry.
"You like unpredictable?"
"Keeps me on my toes. I like you, don't I?"
Wilson gawped outright this time. "How were those two thoughts linked?"
"Now you're just being coy," House said, setting his drink down and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "You don't really think I admire your caring personality or your way with the ladies."
"The thought had crossed my mind that my good example might have been one reason you keep slinking around," Wilson retorted.
"Yang to my yin?" House asked. "Nope. You're unpredictable. Thus, tolerable."
He popped another gravy-laden fry into his mouth.
"I'm sorry, have you met me? I'm the one who wears the same tie every Tuesday," Wilson said.
"Candystripe. Yeah, I noticed."
"Not unpredictable."
"Fuck ties," House said, rather more loudly than was warranted. Wilson hissed at him and he rolled his eyes before dropping his voice. "Are you really going to make me break out the reasons-I-like-you speech?"
"You tested our friendship by borrowing five grand from me. I think I'm owed," Wilson said.
"Fine." House held up a hand and ticked points off on his fingers. "You're the goody-two-shoes doctor right up to the point where you make fun of Cameron in fantastically insensitive fashion. That blew me out of the water, in case you didn't notice."
"You didn't say."
"I was in drama club in high school. Your sense of humor is just bizarre enough to be amusing, you act remarkably stupid for a man your age, your marital drama is unending, it's better than the soaps..."
Wilson gave him a martyred look.
"And you never go above the speed limit, but you buy pot and roll joints for terminal cancer patients." House slumped over again, all the way this time, folding his arms on the table and resting his chin on his crossed wrists. Wilson leaned back, tapping a fry on the edge of the plate.
"So, what, you're trying to figure me out?" he asked finally. "I know you, House. People are just puzzles until you find out which part to tug to make the whole thing unravel."
House studied him warily. "It's not a hobby, you know."
"Sure looks like one."
"It's just what I do. I can't help it."
Silence. Finally, House drew a breath.
"You're not easy," he said. "You're not simple. You change. I don't know what's going on in your head, I don't know what you're going to say next. It's a fucking relief, not having to fake being interested when I know everything everyone's going to say."
"Your ego certainly isn't suffering," Wilson replied, but his heart wasn't in it.
"I'm crying on the inside," House answered. He turned his head to stare out the window again. "People suck. They think there's this way they're supposed to act, and they do, and then they're miserable."
"Common courtesy isn't -- "
"I'm not talking about saying thank you and holding doors," House snarled. Wilson lifted an eyebrow. "It's this stupid -- like everything's a game of what the right thing to say is, except an idiot invented the rules -- mmh." He sat up and drank the last of his Coke. "It's not worth the time it would take to explain."
He took a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket, smoothed out a twenty, and set it under one of the empty beer bottles. Wilson added fifteen overly-crisp dollars and stopped House as he started past on the way to the door.
"You're not taking the bike," he said, physically blocking him. House smacked him in the shin with his cane, but Wilson just winced and stood his ground.
"I had two beers, over the course of two hours, and a Coke. Trust me, if I die in a horrible fiery crash I promise not to blame you," he said.
"It's not the beers, House. It's the rain." Wilson nodded at the window. "It's dark, the roads are slick, and triage calls your bike a donorcycle for a reason. Not happening."
"What, you want to toss it in the back of your two-door Porsche?" House asked.
"Leave the bike here. We're both going to your place anyway, I'll drive."
House opened his mouth to speak, but Wilson cut him off.
"Or you drive. At least in a car you're not going to skid out and lose a leg."
"Gee, yeah, that'd be horrible. I might never walk normally again," House said.
"It's the Porsche or we stand here and if you hit my other leg with your cane I'm going to take it and beat you into submission with it and then take your keys," Wilson said firmly. House narrowed his eyes.
"I'll drive," he said, holding out his hand for Wilson's keys.
"Swap," Wilson insisted.
"You don't trust me?"
"No."
House took his keyring out of his pocket and held it up by two fingers. Wilson took out his own keys and held them up. They each grasped the other's keys and warily let go of their own. The waitresses watched, fascinated.
"What, you've never seen a hostage exchange before?" House asked them. Wilson stood aside and they made their way out of the diner, to the top-up Porsche parked next to the bike in the handicapped spot. House patted the handlebars.
"Be good while papa's gone," he said sweetly. "Don't let any other nasty cripples into this spot."
***
It wasn't immediately obvious whether House's excessively safe driving on the way from the diner to his apartment was the result of actually caring what the road conditions were or annoyance over Wilson's lack of faith in his abilities. Either way, they were approaching the intersection for their turn at a near-crawl when they saw it happen.
An SUV was coming down House's street, faster than it should have, and something at the last minute made it swerve; it swung wildly across the oncoming-traffic lane, spun back into its own as it entered the intersection, collided with the front of a car in the next lane over from House, and crashed over the curb opposite, rolling onto its side -- but not before the windshield shattered as a body went through it. House hit the brakes so fast the Porsche almost spun too, then flicked the emergency blinkers on and leaned over the steering wheel.
"Awesome," he said. Wilson stared.
"Call 911," he said.
"What, no OnStar?"
"House!"
"Fine, Christ." House dug out his cellphone and dialled.
"And then come help!"
"I'm on hold!" House shouted, as Wilson got out of the car and was immediately drenched in the pouring rain.
"You're a doctor!"
House pulled the lever on the door, but he told himself it was only because there was no way Wilson was getting the last word. "I'm a diagnostician! What do you want me to do, look at them and say yep, they're dead?"
The people in the car that the SUV clipped on its headlong flight were climbing out, looking shaken but whole; a baby was screaming in the backseat. House made his way to where the driver, apparently Father Of Annoying Child, was standing.
"Oh god -- is that a phone? Are you calling for help?" the man asked. House held up a finger. "Tell them we're okay -- "
"Can I tell them I assaulted you in order to shut you up?" House asked. The man took the hint and went to see about his baby. Wilson was crouching by a dark shape near the sideways SUV, which was still rocking back and forth slightly as it settled.
"Nine One One, what is your emergency?"
House sighed. "This is Dr. Gregory House, I'm standing at the intersection of South Fifth and Baker, near the Hudson apartment complex. I'm reporting an automobile accident."
"Are there injuries at the scene?"
"Uh...yeah. So I'm going to go give aid or something. Nice talking to you."
He hung up the phone and walked past Wilson to the SUV. He crouched, stiffly, and gazed into the wrecked car through the shattered driver's-side door.
"This is a Kodak moment," he said.
"House, shut up and help me," Wilson called.
"Can't," House said.
"Is this really the time to be a dickhead?"
"Such witty repartee," House said, wiping wet hair out of his eyes. "Leave him, he's a moron."
He grasped the rear door and tugged; when it didn't open, he took precise aim and shattered the window with a single good jab, then reached inside and unlocked the door. Wilson stood up slowly.
"Kids?" he asked.
"I can't get in there," House said, opening the door. "You can."
"Driver's bleeding," Wilson said, hoisting himself up onto the runnerboard and looking down in. "Carseats."
"They come pre-backboarded these days."
"I'll get them out."
"There better be a cash reward in this," House grumbled as he stood and limped to where Wilson had deposited the driver. The man was coming round, moaning and rubbing his head, where a huge gash was bleeding.
"No touching," House said, slapping the man's hand away. "No moving, and hopefully no talking."
"What happened?"
"You're a lousy driver. Hold still, or your scalp's going to kill you," House said, pressing the wound closed. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and took out a pill bottle, flipping the cap off.
"Are you a paramedic? What are those?" the driver asked confusedly.
"They're mine, get your own," House retorted, tipping two into his mouth. "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll have some for you soon."
His last words were lost in the shriek of the ambulance as Wilson climbed back out, carefully lowering two car-seats onto the damp grass. He picked them up and began to carry them to the paramedics; House turned back to their father, who was still stupidly trying to move.
There was a warm breath of air across the back of his neck, like a foreshock, and then the SUV exploded in flames.
House slid down until he was sitting in the mud, one hand still holding the man firmly on the ground and keeping the gaping slash in his scalp from bleeding too much.
"Your kids are fine," he said. "Now please shut up until someone who's paid to do this kind of thing comes around."
***
Relief for the father didn't take long to arrive, but the night was far from over; Wilson, having made sure the kids were safe and called the ER to ask one of his pals there to treat them, found House arguing furiously with a police officer.
"Twenty feet!" House was saying, in that really loud voice that made Cuddy's nervous eyebrow twitch start up. "Twenty feet from here to my warm, dry sofa."
"I'm sorry, sir," the policeman said patiently, "But until you've given your statement -- "
"You know what this is?" House said, holding out his hand. The policeman stared at it. "It's rain. Falling on me."
"I'll -- just -- " Wilson said, shoving House away slightly. "Listen, our place is just across the street. Can't he give his statement there? I've got to move the car anyway," he added, jerking his thumb at the Porsche. "Besides, there's probably hot coffee and towels..."
The last came out rather more wistfully than he intended, but it must have struck a chord with the equally drenched cop, who tucked his notebook in the inside pocket of his coat.
"Fine," he said. "But you, keep your smart mouth shut."
House made a face as the man walked past towards the street, but at Wilson's warning look, he followed the cop. Wilson climbed into the car, sighed at the mud he was getting all over the upholstery, and pulled it the half-block to the turn, carefully crunching across broken glass and into the designated GUEST parking spot.
Inside, House was undressing. The cop was trying not to be annoyed by this. At least he was doing it in the bedroom, and shouting his replies down the hallway.
"Is he always like this?" the man asked Wilson in an undertone.
"No. Usually he's worse."
House came out of the bedroom in a white shirt and shapeless black trousers, glaring angrily at the man who was intruding on his evening. He dumped his muddy clothes in a heap by the door. Wilson longed to do the same, but he made do with taking off his tie and walking into the kitchen to wash his hands and face. He listened as House continued to give his only mildly sarcastic statement, standing in the living room and tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. At one point, his pillbottle rattled as he shook a painkiller out and swallowed it. Wilson, because he was that kind of person, dried off his hands and went about making some decaf coffee and a nice plate of snacks.
"And this is your residence?" the man asked. "221, Apartment B, Baker Avenue?"
"No, this is just my pad on the DL, away from the wife," House said with an exaggerated wink. The cop glanced at Wilson and took the coffee he offered with a nod.
"And you live here too?" he asked Wilson, who glanced at House.
"I'm staying here. My house is being fumigated," he said, fumbling a little on the lie.
"So you both live here," the cop said.
"Yes," Wilson confirmed.
"Together?"
"Is he implying something?" House asked Wilson, who felt sudden horror rising in the back of his mind.
"Hey, it's none of my business," the cop continued. "I think that's all I need -- we'll call if there's anything else. Your...friend has the number of the hospital they were taken to."
He touched his hat, gulped the coffee, said thank-you and showed himself out. House all but collapsed on the couch.
"Well, that was exciting," Wilson said, digging some clean clothes out of his suitcase and walking into the bathroom to change. He didn't bother closing the door; it wasn't like House was going to look.
"Sure," House answered, and Wilson heard the tap of his cane against the floor, idle, like fingers tapping on a table.
"Sorry I called you a dickhead."
"You really need to stop apologising for stuff."
"Fire's out," Wilson said, looking out the bathroom window at the crash-scene across the street. "I think I'll go down in the morning and make sure everyone got taken care of."
"Sure," House said absently. Wilson did up the drawstring on his pyjama trousers and returned, tossing his soaking-wet clothes on top of House's.
"Nother beer?" he asked, passing the couch again and walking into the kitchen.
"No, thanks," House answered, still in a distracted tone of voice. Wilson could tell, because House didn't use words like "thanks" unless his brain was on autopilot. Oddly enough, House was much more polite when he was ignoring people completely.
"Coffee?"
House didn't even answer, that time. Wilson poured him a cup and brought it back, along with his bottle of beer. House reached automatically for the beer, so Wilson sat down next to him and propped his legs on the coffee table, setting the mug nearby.
"Are you okay?" he asked. House tapped the mouth of the beer bottle against his lips, not drinking.
"Jung invented synchronicity when he saw a scarab beetle fly through a window at the same time one of his patients was telling him that she'd had a dream about a scarab beetle," he said. His voice sounded distant, like when he was turning over a case in his head.
"I hate bugs," Wilson said adamantly. House glanced at him.
"What?"
"Bugs. Spiders, beetles, flies...ugh." Wilson sipped his coffee. House continued to stare. "What? Like you're the king of relevant statements all of a sudden? Did you have a dream about seeing an SUV crash into a tree or something?"
House blinked at him, then turned back to his contemplation of the black TV screen and took a sip of the beer.
"How well do you think a Kawasaki sport oh-five would stand up against the front bumper of a hydroplaning oh-four Ford Explorer?"
Wilson felt a slow chill start at the base of his spine and slide upwards. "What?"
"Theoretically speaking."
"Why do you ask?"
"It clipped that car in front of us, the station wagon. If that car had been the bike, do you think I would have actually died, or just spent the rest of my life doing a Christopher Reeve?"
"That's a morbid thing to say," Wilson blurted.
"You're right." House drank thoughtfully. Wilson found himself unable to resist considering it.
"Depends on where it hit," he said finally. "I mean, if it had hit the Porsche, you'd be looking at multiple fractures, punctured eardrum, broken nose from the airbag, and I'd probably have a cracked rib or eight..."
"Yeah."
"Bike...my bet would be organ donor."
House grunted.
"Listen, the point is, it didn't hit you on the bike, or in the Porsche, but you could get hit by a car tomorrow or the next day or shot by an annoyed patient, which I think is far more likely, and you've already had one flatline in this lifetime, so there's no real point in brooding on it," Wilson said. "Besides, you're more maneuverable on a bike. You might have been able to swerve around it completely."
"I didn't ask for a dissertation on the subject," House said irritably, finishing off the beer.
"Well, then I'll give you a moral instead. Next time I tell you not to take your motorcycle joyriding on wet streets, don't hit me in the shin," Wilson replied. "Now, I'm kicking you out because I want some sleep. You should sleep too. You'll be sore tomorrow."
"Yes, mom," House said, but he didn't move. His fingers tightened on his cane.
"Any time now," Wilson said. "Unless you have some other existential crisis that needs dealing with. The doctor is in."
House grimaced. Wilson could feel the tension from three feet away.
"You can't get up, can you?" he asked.
"Fuck you, I'll get up when I'm ready," House answered. Wilson groaned and leaned over, shoving his shoulder under House's arm.
"On three, and fuck you back," he said. "One, two, three -- "
House didn't pull punches, once help was offered; Wilson almost fell back down as his shoulder was used as leverage by muscles that were considerably stronger than they looked. House twisted his hand around deftly and caught his arm, underbalancing them both for just a second, until they found themselves gripping each other for balance, unsteady on the slick wooden floor.
House was breathing heavy. The doctor in Wilson noted that his pupils were dilated, too, and wondered briefly if he wasn't having some kind of attack, but the sensible human being in Wilson got the better of him, because he was breathing heavily too.
"Okay?" House asked. and for once the bite wasn't in his voice.
"Dunno. Are you?"
"No."
Typical.
Wilson leaned forward, smelled grass and mud and antiseptic soap, sweat and scorched metal.
"Unpredictable enough for you?" he asked. House's hand tightened on his arm. He took the hint and inclined his head just so, a little too close for either of them to quite focus on the other's face. When House didn't pull back or flinch or say something stupid and cruel, he kissed him.
It wasn't swelling orchestras or love's true dream or anything, and somewhat to his disappointment there wasn't any tongue, but when he leaned back House's eyes were closed, which he figured was a pretty big accomplishment.
"Don't let go of me," House said. "I'm going to fall over."
Wilson grinned.
"No, seriously -- alcohol and Vicodin..."
"Oh, shit," Wilson said, catching House as he made good on his statement. "How many did you take?"
"Annually, or do you want it broken down by hour?" House asked. Wilson got them both upright and took the much less romantic role of extra crutch as House lurched down the hall to his bedroom.
"You know how to kill a mood," he muttered under his breath. House chuckled.
"Put me to bed, Romeo," he replied. "I promise I'll make it up to you."
"Cute."
"You just kissed me."
"I didn't notice you screaming and running."
"I'm past the whole cooties thing," House answered as he was deposited rather unceremoniously on the bed. He managed to sit up and stare, wide-eyed, at Wilson. "Why?"
"Cooties? I think it's some kind of childhood psych -- "
"Why'd you do that?"
Wilson crossed his arms. "Why do you think I've had three wives?"
House looked down, then almost fell down. He caught himself on the edge of the bed. "Oh."
"Sleep it off, House. With any luck neither of us will remember it in the morning."
Wilson turned to leave, because House could get under his own damn blankets, but there was a sharp tug as House grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him down, kissing him with a lot less friendly intent and a lot more tongue. There might even have been orchestras, but Wilson couldn't hear them over the ringing in his ears and the creak of the bedsprings as he toppled over on top of House, who was now lying on the bed, feet dangling off the side.
"Surprise," House muttered. Wilson managed to prop himself on his elbows, but that really only gave him a better vantage point from which to stare down in shock.
"Why'd you do that?" he asked. House laughed drily and struggled up on his own elbows, kissing Wilson's throat just below the jawline.
"Because I'm not going to get to do much more," he said.
Then he passed out.
Wilson watched, counted the barely-visible pulsebeats in his jugular, then lowered his head slowly and let it rest on House's shoulder.
"You're sharing the bed tonight, you bastard," he said.
***
There was a buzzing noise, as of a telephone, somewhere in the foggy distance.
There was movement, as of someone's arm reaching across his shoulder to the nightstand.
Then there was another noise, as of a small, buzzing electronic object hitting a large object made primarily of drywall.
"Cammon?" Wilson asked sleepily.
"No," House's voice answered, slightly more lucid-sounding than his own. "Cuddy."
"Mmh."
James Wilson went back to sleep.
Chapter 2
Rating: R for graphic sexual situations, as if canes and cigars weren't symbolic enough.
Summary: Dead patients, car wrecks, drug overdoses, journalists, Comatose Charlie, and orange chicken. Must be love. House/Wilson.
Warnings: None.
Notes: Thanks to
simon, setissma, and juniper200 for betaz, and for not making fun of the whole surfing-instructor thing. Rad, man. Originally posted 4.14.2006
Now available at AO3!
***
"It was stupid. And preventable."
Late spring rain was running down the glass window of the diner, blurring and refracting the headlights of cars passing along the nearby street. House was bent in what couldn't be a comfortable posture, elbows on the table, both hands on one shoulder, head bowed and tilted towards the window. His plate, with most of the french fries and almost all of his hamburger still on it, sat at the edge, a tacit hint for the waitress to come take it away. Wilson dumped the fries onto his own plate.
"What was it?" he asked.
"Vitamins."
"Hm?"
"Vitamins," House said.
"Your patient died of vitamins?"
"Reaction to the binders in the pills combined with the virus, masking the fever -- misdirected us. Stupid mistake," House said. "Gimme my damn fries back."
Wilson pushed his plate carefully into the middle of the table. House dipped one of the french fries in gravy left over from Wilson's mashed potatoes and ate it, still staring out the window.
"This is really weird," Wilson said. House looked up long enough to scowl and take a sip of his beer.
"What's that?"
"You, caring. It's freaking me out, frankly," Wilson continued. "You solved the puzzle, and yet you're...well, woeful. Full of woe."
"I am not full of woe, I'm full of beer. Cheap beer."
"You have so much woe it's practically your cologne. Eau de woe. You're like some fifteen year old who just got dumped by her boyfriend."
"Well, I wouldn't put out," House muttered.
"You must have really liked that patient."
"I did."
Wilson stared at him, startled. "You liked him?"
"Sure. He was cool, for a nineteen-year-old. He liked the blues. He was weird. He didn't lie to me."
"Everybody lies. What about the vitamins?"
House sighed. "His mother was grinding them up and sprinkling them on his food."
"Wow. Mom killed him. How Greek."
"Can I get a Coke over here?" House called. The waitress gave him a look and flounced off. "The service sucks."
"You're an asshole."
"Yeah, but I tip well."
"Oh, not a cheap asshole, that's heartening," Wilson said. "Seriously, you liked a patient?"
"Yeah. And it sucks, because he's dead. He was unpredictable. It was challenging," House said. He accepted the glass of Coke from the waitress and ate another french fry.
"You like unpredictable?"
"Keeps me on my toes. I like you, don't I?"
Wilson gawped outright this time. "How were those two thoughts linked?"
"Now you're just being coy," House said, setting his drink down and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "You don't really think I admire your caring personality or your way with the ladies."
"The thought had crossed my mind that my good example might have been one reason you keep slinking around," Wilson retorted.
"Yang to my yin?" House asked. "Nope. You're unpredictable. Thus, tolerable."
He popped another gravy-laden fry into his mouth.
"I'm sorry, have you met me? I'm the one who wears the same tie every Tuesday," Wilson said.
"Candystripe. Yeah, I noticed."
"Not unpredictable."
"Fuck ties," House said, rather more loudly than was warranted. Wilson hissed at him and he rolled his eyes before dropping his voice. "Are you really going to make me break out the reasons-I-like-you speech?"
"You tested our friendship by borrowing five grand from me. I think I'm owed," Wilson said.
"Fine." House held up a hand and ticked points off on his fingers. "You're the goody-two-shoes doctor right up to the point where you make fun of Cameron in fantastically insensitive fashion. That blew me out of the water, in case you didn't notice."
"You didn't say."
"I was in drama club in high school. Your sense of humor is just bizarre enough to be amusing, you act remarkably stupid for a man your age, your marital drama is unending, it's better than the soaps..."
Wilson gave him a martyred look.
"And you never go above the speed limit, but you buy pot and roll joints for terminal cancer patients." House slumped over again, all the way this time, folding his arms on the table and resting his chin on his crossed wrists. Wilson leaned back, tapping a fry on the edge of the plate.
"So, what, you're trying to figure me out?" he asked finally. "I know you, House. People are just puzzles until you find out which part to tug to make the whole thing unravel."
House studied him warily. "It's not a hobby, you know."
"Sure looks like one."
"It's just what I do. I can't help it."
Silence. Finally, House drew a breath.
"You're not easy," he said. "You're not simple. You change. I don't know what's going on in your head, I don't know what you're going to say next. It's a fucking relief, not having to fake being interested when I know everything everyone's going to say."
"Your ego certainly isn't suffering," Wilson replied, but his heart wasn't in it.
"I'm crying on the inside," House answered. He turned his head to stare out the window again. "People suck. They think there's this way they're supposed to act, and they do, and then they're miserable."
"Common courtesy isn't -- "
"I'm not talking about saying thank you and holding doors," House snarled. Wilson lifted an eyebrow. "It's this stupid -- like everything's a game of what the right thing to say is, except an idiot invented the rules -- mmh." He sat up and drank the last of his Coke. "It's not worth the time it would take to explain."
He took a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket, smoothed out a twenty, and set it under one of the empty beer bottles. Wilson added fifteen overly-crisp dollars and stopped House as he started past on the way to the door.
"You're not taking the bike," he said, physically blocking him. House smacked him in the shin with his cane, but Wilson just winced and stood his ground.
"I had two beers, over the course of two hours, and a Coke. Trust me, if I die in a horrible fiery crash I promise not to blame you," he said.
"It's not the beers, House. It's the rain." Wilson nodded at the window. "It's dark, the roads are slick, and triage calls your bike a donorcycle for a reason. Not happening."
"What, you want to toss it in the back of your two-door Porsche?" House asked.
"Leave the bike here. We're both going to your place anyway, I'll drive."
House opened his mouth to speak, but Wilson cut him off.
"Or you drive. At least in a car you're not going to skid out and lose a leg."
"Gee, yeah, that'd be horrible. I might never walk normally again," House said.
"It's the Porsche or we stand here and if you hit my other leg with your cane I'm going to take it and beat you into submission with it and then take your keys," Wilson said firmly. House narrowed his eyes.
"I'll drive," he said, holding out his hand for Wilson's keys.
"Swap," Wilson insisted.
"You don't trust me?"
"No."
House took his keyring out of his pocket and held it up by two fingers. Wilson took out his own keys and held them up. They each grasped the other's keys and warily let go of their own. The waitresses watched, fascinated.
"What, you've never seen a hostage exchange before?" House asked them. Wilson stood aside and they made their way out of the diner, to the top-up Porsche parked next to the bike in the handicapped spot. House patted the handlebars.
"Be good while papa's gone," he said sweetly. "Don't let any other nasty cripples into this spot."
***
It wasn't immediately obvious whether House's excessively safe driving on the way from the diner to his apartment was the result of actually caring what the road conditions were or annoyance over Wilson's lack of faith in his abilities. Either way, they were approaching the intersection for their turn at a near-crawl when they saw it happen.
An SUV was coming down House's street, faster than it should have, and something at the last minute made it swerve; it swung wildly across the oncoming-traffic lane, spun back into its own as it entered the intersection, collided with the front of a car in the next lane over from House, and crashed over the curb opposite, rolling onto its side -- but not before the windshield shattered as a body went through it. House hit the brakes so fast the Porsche almost spun too, then flicked the emergency blinkers on and leaned over the steering wheel.
"Awesome," he said. Wilson stared.
"Call 911," he said.
"What, no OnStar?"
"House!"
"Fine, Christ." House dug out his cellphone and dialled.
"And then come help!"
"I'm on hold!" House shouted, as Wilson got out of the car and was immediately drenched in the pouring rain.
"You're a doctor!"
House pulled the lever on the door, but he told himself it was only because there was no way Wilson was getting the last word. "I'm a diagnostician! What do you want me to do, look at them and say yep, they're dead?"
The people in the car that the SUV clipped on its headlong flight were climbing out, looking shaken but whole; a baby was screaming in the backseat. House made his way to where the driver, apparently Father Of Annoying Child, was standing.
"Oh god -- is that a phone? Are you calling for help?" the man asked. House held up a finger. "Tell them we're okay -- "
"Can I tell them I assaulted you in order to shut you up?" House asked. The man took the hint and went to see about his baby. Wilson was crouching by a dark shape near the sideways SUV, which was still rocking back and forth slightly as it settled.
"Nine One One, what is your emergency?"
House sighed. "This is Dr. Gregory House, I'm standing at the intersection of South Fifth and Baker, near the Hudson apartment complex. I'm reporting an automobile accident."
"Are there injuries at the scene?"
"Uh...yeah. So I'm going to go give aid or something. Nice talking to you."
He hung up the phone and walked past Wilson to the SUV. He crouched, stiffly, and gazed into the wrecked car through the shattered driver's-side door.
"This is a Kodak moment," he said.
"House, shut up and help me," Wilson called.
"Can't," House said.
"Is this really the time to be a dickhead?"
"Such witty repartee," House said, wiping wet hair out of his eyes. "Leave him, he's a moron."
He grasped the rear door and tugged; when it didn't open, he took precise aim and shattered the window with a single good jab, then reached inside and unlocked the door. Wilson stood up slowly.
"Kids?" he asked.
"I can't get in there," House said, opening the door. "You can."
"Driver's bleeding," Wilson said, hoisting himself up onto the runnerboard and looking down in. "Carseats."
"They come pre-backboarded these days."
"I'll get them out."
"There better be a cash reward in this," House grumbled as he stood and limped to where Wilson had deposited the driver. The man was coming round, moaning and rubbing his head, where a huge gash was bleeding.
"No touching," House said, slapping the man's hand away. "No moving, and hopefully no talking."
"What happened?"
"You're a lousy driver. Hold still, or your scalp's going to kill you," House said, pressing the wound closed. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and took out a pill bottle, flipping the cap off.
"Are you a paramedic? What are those?" the driver asked confusedly.
"They're mine, get your own," House retorted, tipping two into his mouth. "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll have some for you soon."
His last words were lost in the shriek of the ambulance as Wilson climbed back out, carefully lowering two car-seats onto the damp grass. He picked them up and began to carry them to the paramedics; House turned back to their father, who was still stupidly trying to move.
There was a warm breath of air across the back of his neck, like a foreshock, and then the SUV exploded in flames.
House slid down until he was sitting in the mud, one hand still holding the man firmly on the ground and keeping the gaping slash in his scalp from bleeding too much.
"Your kids are fine," he said. "Now please shut up until someone who's paid to do this kind of thing comes around."
***
Relief for the father didn't take long to arrive, but the night was far from over; Wilson, having made sure the kids were safe and called the ER to ask one of his pals there to treat them, found House arguing furiously with a police officer.
"Twenty feet!" House was saying, in that really loud voice that made Cuddy's nervous eyebrow twitch start up. "Twenty feet from here to my warm, dry sofa."
"I'm sorry, sir," the policeman said patiently, "But until you've given your statement -- "
"You know what this is?" House said, holding out his hand. The policeman stared at it. "It's rain. Falling on me."
"I'll -- just -- " Wilson said, shoving House away slightly. "Listen, our place is just across the street. Can't he give his statement there? I've got to move the car anyway," he added, jerking his thumb at the Porsche. "Besides, there's probably hot coffee and towels..."
The last came out rather more wistfully than he intended, but it must have struck a chord with the equally drenched cop, who tucked his notebook in the inside pocket of his coat.
"Fine," he said. "But you, keep your smart mouth shut."
House made a face as the man walked past towards the street, but at Wilson's warning look, he followed the cop. Wilson climbed into the car, sighed at the mud he was getting all over the upholstery, and pulled it the half-block to the turn, carefully crunching across broken glass and into the designated GUEST parking spot.
Inside, House was undressing. The cop was trying not to be annoyed by this. At least he was doing it in the bedroom, and shouting his replies down the hallway.
"Is he always like this?" the man asked Wilson in an undertone.
"No. Usually he's worse."
House came out of the bedroom in a white shirt and shapeless black trousers, glaring angrily at the man who was intruding on his evening. He dumped his muddy clothes in a heap by the door. Wilson longed to do the same, but he made do with taking off his tie and walking into the kitchen to wash his hands and face. He listened as House continued to give his only mildly sarcastic statement, standing in the living room and tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. At one point, his pillbottle rattled as he shook a painkiller out and swallowed it. Wilson, because he was that kind of person, dried off his hands and went about making some decaf coffee and a nice plate of snacks.
"And this is your residence?" the man asked. "221, Apartment B, Baker Avenue?"
"No, this is just my pad on the DL, away from the wife," House said with an exaggerated wink. The cop glanced at Wilson and took the coffee he offered with a nod.
"And you live here too?" he asked Wilson, who glanced at House.
"I'm staying here. My house is being fumigated," he said, fumbling a little on the lie.
"So you both live here," the cop said.
"Yes," Wilson confirmed.
"Together?"
"Is he implying something?" House asked Wilson, who felt sudden horror rising in the back of his mind.
"Hey, it's none of my business," the cop continued. "I think that's all I need -- we'll call if there's anything else. Your...friend has the number of the hospital they were taken to."
He touched his hat, gulped the coffee, said thank-you and showed himself out. House all but collapsed on the couch.
"Well, that was exciting," Wilson said, digging some clean clothes out of his suitcase and walking into the bathroom to change. He didn't bother closing the door; it wasn't like House was going to look.
"Sure," House answered, and Wilson heard the tap of his cane against the floor, idle, like fingers tapping on a table.
"Sorry I called you a dickhead."
"You really need to stop apologising for stuff."
"Fire's out," Wilson said, looking out the bathroom window at the crash-scene across the street. "I think I'll go down in the morning and make sure everyone got taken care of."
"Sure," House said absently. Wilson did up the drawstring on his pyjama trousers and returned, tossing his soaking-wet clothes on top of House's.
"Nother beer?" he asked, passing the couch again and walking into the kitchen.
"No, thanks," House answered, still in a distracted tone of voice. Wilson could tell, because House didn't use words like "thanks" unless his brain was on autopilot. Oddly enough, House was much more polite when he was ignoring people completely.
"Coffee?"
House didn't even answer, that time. Wilson poured him a cup and brought it back, along with his bottle of beer. House reached automatically for the beer, so Wilson sat down next to him and propped his legs on the coffee table, setting the mug nearby.
"Are you okay?" he asked. House tapped the mouth of the beer bottle against his lips, not drinking.
"Jung invented synchronicity when he saw a scarab beetle fly through a window at the same time one of his patients was telling him that she'd had a dream about a scarab beetle," he said. His voice sounded distant, like when he was turning over a case in his head.
"I hate bugs," Wilson said adamantly. House glanced at him.
"What?"
"Bugs. Spiders, beetles, flies...ugh." Wilson sipped his coffee. House continued to stare. "What? Like you're the king of relevant statements all of a sudden? Did you have a dream about seeing an SUV crash into a tree or something?"
House blinked at him, then turned back to his contemplation of the black TV screen and took a sip of the beer.
"How well do you think a Kawasaki sport oh-five would stand up against the front bumper of a hydroplaning oh-four Ford Explorer?"
Wilson felt a slow chill start at the base of his spine and slide upwards. "What?"
"Theoretically speaking."
"Why do you ask?"
"It clipped that car in front of us, the station wagon. If that car had been the bike, do you think I would have actually died, or just spent the rest of my life doing a Christopher Reeve?"
"That's a morbid thing to say," Wilson blurted.
"You're right." House drank thoughtfully. Wilson found himself unable to resist considering it.
"Depends on where it hit," he said finally. "I mean, if it had hit the Porsche, you'd be looking at multiple fractures, punctured eardrum, broken nose from the airbag, and I'd probably have a cracked rib or eight..."
"Yeah."
"Bike...my bet would be organ donor."
House grunted.
"Listen, the point is, it didn't hit you on the bike, or in the Porsche, but you could get hit by a car tomorrow or the next day or shot by an annoyed patient, which I think is far more likely, and you've already had one flatline in this lifetime, so there's no real point in brooding on it," Wilson said. "Besides, you're more maneuverable on a bike. You might have been able to swerve around it completely."
"I didn't ask for a dissertation on the subject," House said irritably, finishing off the beer.
"Well, then I'll give you a moral instead. Next time I tell you not to take your motorcycle joyriding on wet streets, don't hit me in the shin," Wilson replied. "Now, I'm kicking you out because I want some sleep. You should sleep too. You'll be sore tomorrow."
"Yes, mom," House said, but he didn't move. His fingers tightened on his cane.
"Any time now," Wilson said. "Unless you have some other existential crisis that needs dealing with. The doctor is in."
House grimaced. Wilson could feel the tension from three feet away.
"You can't get up, can you?" he asked.
"Fuck you, I'll get up when I'm ready," House answered. Wilson groaned and leaned over, shoving his shoulder under House's arm.
"On three, and fuck you back," he said. "One, two, three -- "
House didn't pull punches, once help was offered; Wilson almost fell back down as his shoulder was used as leverage by muscles that were considerably stronger than they looked. House twisted his hand around deftly and caught his arm, underbalancing them both for just a second, until they found themselves gripping each other for balance, unsteady on the slick wooden floor.
House was breathing heavy. The doctor in Wilson noted that his pupils were dilated, too, and wondered briefly if he wasn't having some kind of attack, but the sensible human being in Wilson got the better of him, because he was breathing heavily too.
"Okay?" House asked. and for once the bite wasn't in his voice.
"Dunno. Are you?"
"No."
Typical.
Wilson leaned forward, smelled grass and mud and antiseptic soap, sweat and scorched metal.
"Unpredictable enough for you?" he asked. House's hand tightened on his arm. He took the hint and inclined his head just so, a little too close for either of them to quite focus on the other's face. When House didn't pull back or flinch or say something stupid and cruel, he kissed him.
It wasn't swelling orchestras or love's true dream or anything, and somewhat to his disappointment there wasn't any tongue, but when he leaned back House's eyes were closed, which he figured was a pretty big accomplishment.
"Don't let go of me," House said. "I'm going to fall over."
Wilson grinned.
"No, seriously -- alcohol and Vicodin..."
"Oh, shit," Wilson said, catching House as he made good on his statement. "How many did you take?"
"Annually, or do you want it broken down by hour?" House asked. Wilson got them both upright and took the much less romantic role of extra crutch as House lurched down the hall to his bedroom.
"You know how to kill a mood," he muttered under his breath. House chuckled.
"Put me to bed, Romeo," he replied. "I promise I'll make it up to you."
"Cute."
"You just kissed me."
"I didn't notice you screaming and running."
"I'm past the whole cooties thing," House answered as he was deposited rather unceremoniously on the bed. He managed to sit up and stare, wide-eyed, at Wilson. "Why?"
"Cooties? I think it's some kind of childhood psych -- "
"Why'd you do that?"
Wilson crossed his arms. "Why do you think I've had three wives?"
House looked down, then almost fell down. He caught himself on the edge of the bed. "Oh."
"Sleep it off, House. With any luck neither of us will remember it in the morning."
Wilson turned to leave, because House could get under his own damn blankets, but there was a sharp tug as House grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him down, kissing him with a lot less friendly intent and a lot more tongue. There might even have been orchestras, but Wilson couldn't hear them over the ringing in his ears and the creak of the bedsprings as he toppled over on top of House, who was now lying on the bed, feet dangling off the side.
"Surprise," House muttered. Wilson managed to prop himself on his elbows, but that really only gave him a better vantage point from which to stare down in shock.
"Why'd you do that?" he asked. House laughed drily and struggled up on his own elbows, kissing Wilson's throat just below the jawline.
"Because I'm not going to get to do much more," he said.
Then he passed out.
Wilson watched, counted the barely-visible pulsebeats in his jugular, then lowered his head slowly and let it rest on House's shoulder.
"You're sharing the bed tonight, you bastard," he said.
***
There was a buzzing noise, as of a telephone, somewhere in the foggy distance.
There was movement, as of someone's arm reaching across his shoulder to the nightstand.
Then there was another noise, as of a small, buzzing electronic object hitting a large object made primarily of drywall.
"Cammon?" Wilson asked sleepily.
"No," House's voice answered, slightly more lucid-sounding than his own. "Cuddy."
"Mmh."
James Wilson went back to sleep.
Chapter 2
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"What, you've never seen a hostage exchange before?" House asked them.
This made me laugh out loud. *grins*
I can hear them both so clearly in my head, it's uncanny. Awesome.
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I cracked up. I mean, seriously. Wilson so totally is that kind of person.
Gothic Author
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This chapter is already awesome, and I can't wait to reward myself with the next after I accomplish a little more homework. :)
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I was a Holmes geek way before I was a House geek, and then I was a House geek before I realised it was like this ultra-AU Holmes fanfic, and now I'm just....a really big geek.
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Doyle had the habit of turning any Holmes novel from a detective novel -- which to be fair did not exist as a genre then -- into an adventure story. So you get holmeswatsonetc for half of the story, and then halfway through the story SUDDENLY YOU'RE IN UTAH.
So yeah, I'd read five or six short stories first, then go back and dig the novels. :D
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Oh, so true. ^___^ STUD is not exactly the best, but it serves its purpose in showing us how the two of them meet. Valley of Fear, on the other hand, stands as one of the best short novels I've read in its particular genre. One of the only ones that completely blindsided me, too.
I've functioned mainly by buying a bunch of different comprehensive editions of all of the short stories/novels and then just reading whatever story my book happens to fall open to whenever I get bored.
... you know, yeah. House really is sorta like an uber-AU Holmes fanfic. I like your references, too.
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This is brilliant. *runs off to read the rest*
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The reason that House is a step up from just a show about a man who shouts a lot, however, is that House always has a reason. He's incredibly intelligent and part of the time it's just that he amuses himself at other peoples' expense because they're being morons. Most of the time, however, he's either trying to teach a lesson or elicit an honest response.
In the first ten episodes or so, for example, he often needles or pesters Cameron about being bad at telling people bad news. He thinks it's because she's lost someone and he finally finds out she's right. Once he finds out WHY she's damaged, he's not interested anymore, and he stops being such an asshole about it.
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I am sure glad I stumbled across this, and you. I enjoy your writing style, and your attention to detail. You showcase Greg's sarcasm without overdoing it.
*skips off to chappy two*
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*squees aloud*
*roommate looks at me funny*
*loves you for Holmesian references*
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I am loving this but I will have better comments at the end of the next chapter.
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Heh. Butch Wilson. Me likee.
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(Anonymous) 2006-06-18 11:01 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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House pulled the lever on the door, but he told himself it was only because there was no way Wilson was getting the last word. "I'm a diagnostician! What do you want me to do, look at them and say yep, they're dead?"
*dies*
That was the best part! Well, one of the best parts....excuse me as I go and read the rest.....so good....SO good....
Loh123
(Anonymous) 2007-02-22 07:32 am (UTC)(link)[url=http://bk-magazin.com][/url]
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Awesome.
.. reading on!
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http://raveninthewind.livejournal.com/755413.html
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(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 07:52 pm (UTC)(link)"Your ego certainly isn't suffering," Wilson replied, but his heart wasn't in it.
"I'm crying on the inside," House answered. He turned his head to stare out the window again. "People suck. They think there's this way they're supposed to act, and they do, and then they're miserable."
"Common courtesy isn't -- "
"I'm not talking about saying thank you and holding doors," House snarled. Wilson lifted an eyebrow. "It's this stupid -- like everything's a game of what the right thing to say is, except an idiot invented the rules -- mmh." He sat up and drank the last of his Coke. "It's not worth the time it would take to explain."
Thank you for expressing what's extremely frustrating about people in general. It's blasted well next to impossible to live a day and encounter more than 2 real people. I suppose that makes the ones we do find all the more priceless. And how like House to recognize this and recognize Wilson's genuineness - and how like Wilson to be ignorant of his own realness. :) Thank you, Sam.
-an appreciative reader
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