House and the P.L.O.T. Device 19/?
More P.L.O.T.! I haven't gotten back into the "Pencils" groove, but expect to see an update of that in the next day or two!
After striking out in the janitor’s closet, Wilson roams the hallways at random, hoping he’ll spot House. His feet are cold and he’s tired, and after a while he gives up and heads back to his room. It’s possible, he tells himself, that someone found House and now they’re trying to find him.
He’s not very optimistic about that, though, so he’s still surprised when he gets back and there’s House, curled up in the middle of the bed. “Hey, buddy, what’s--”
He doesn’t get to finish the question, because House leaps off the bed and throws himself at him. Wilson staggers back several steps from the impact. “I thought you were dead!” House says into his chest.
Wilson pats his back. “Uh…why did you think that?”
“You were gone!”
“You were gone first,” Wilson points out.
“Yeah, but I was coming right back!”
Of course he was. They climb back into the bed, House settling in his lap.
“Where did you go?” House demands.
“I was looking for you.”
House digests that. “Oh.”
“Where were you?”
“I went to my office,” he says. “To get something.” There’s a theory confirmed, anyway. “I was going to be back before you woke up, but I got captured.”
“I heard about that part.”
“Uh-huh. So I had to run away.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her who you were and where you belonged?” Wilson asks.
House looks as if that hadn’t even occurred to him. “I didn’t want to get in trouble!”
“Why would you be in trouble? You weren’t doing anything wrong, except making me worry about you.”
To Wilson’s surprise, House, who had almost stopped crying, starts up again. He wails something in which the words, “Don’t want” and “mad at me” are distinguishable.
“House.” Wilson pulls away enough that he can look at his face. “What did you do?” House is typically gleefully unrepentant even when he’s done something fairly heinous, so Wilson isn’t sure how to interpret his reaction.
He squirms before asking, “Are you mad at me?”
“That depends what you did.”
“I was borrowing it,” House mumbles. “I was gonna put it back.”
“Okay….” So they’re talking about some kind of stealing. That’s actually a relief, given some of the things House has gotten up to. As long as whatever it is isn’t broken, lost, or otherwise permanently harmed, this should be fixable. “Where is it now?”
House wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a handheld video game out of his pants, followed by two games.
Wilson’s tremendously relieved. It’s a Game Boy, and he can tell by the size of the thing--about twice that of House’s--that it can’t be at the height of technological sophistication. “Where did you get it? And why didn’t you just get yours?”
“My office was locked,” House says in a small voice.
“You could have asked your friend the night janitor to open it for you,” Wilson points out.
“Didn’t think of that,” House admits.
“So where did you get it?” Wilson asks again. He hopes whoever House stole it from is someone who can be intimidated by the adult House, or else a patient who’s been asleep the whole time it was missing.
House mumbles something into Wilson’s shirt.
“What?”
More mumbling.
“I still can’t hear you, honey,” Wilson tries again.
“I said I stole it from the oncology playroom!” House shouts.
“Okay,” Wilson says, defensively. Well, that’s a relief--since he’s in charge of soliciting donations for the playroom, House basically stole--borrowed--it from him. He can just add himself to the list of people he has to apologize to on House’s behalf, and he’s done. And, now that he knows he doesn’t have to protect House, he’s free to be angry with him. “You stole toys from pediatric cancer patients?!”
“You said you wouldn’t be mad!” House sobs.
While he knows perfectly well that he said no such thing, House is little and upset, and Wilson wants to reassure him. But House so far hasn’t said anything to suggest that he’s sorry about what he did--just that he’s sorry he got caught. “I did not. And we’re putting this--” he takes the Game Boy “--in here--” he puts it in the nightstand drawer and shuts it “and taking it back in the morning.”
House sniffles some more. “I was going to put it back in the morning anyway.”
“Yes, I know.” He gathers House against him and settles back into the pillows. As an afterthought, he puts his pulse-ox monitor back on, but skips the IV--the antihistamine will have to be discontinued in a few hours anyway, so that he can have a scratch test. “No more running away, okay?”
“Wasn’t running away,” House answers into his shirt.
“Well, whatever you want to call it.”
House doesn’t answer for a long time, and when he does, he just says, “Wasn’t running away,” again.
“Okay,” Wilson says, kissing the top of his head. “Let’s try to get back to sleep.”
#
Well, maybe Wilson doesn’t have a problem going back to sleep at a time like this, but House does. He shouldn’t have to be yelled at--Wilson was the one who went missing. And he was going to put it back. “You aren’t supposed to be mad at me,” he says.
“I’m allowed,” Wilson mumbles back. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t go to sleep until you stop being mad at me.” With any luck, Wilson won’t realize he’s serious.
“Okay, fine, I’m not mad.”
“Yes you are,” House points out. “I can tell.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Wilson says, “Yeah, maybe, but I’ll get over it. You never care about having people mad at you.”
Wilson’s right; it’s something he’s built up a tolerance to. Like poison. “It’s different now.”
Wilson’s sigh communicates as clearly as words could that he’s given up on that going back to sleep idea. “Why?”
“Just is,” House answers.
“Because of your father?” Wilson asks, in that way he has where he thinks he’s being all insightful or something. As if it’s not perfectly obvious.
“No,” House lies.
“I’m not going to hurt you, honey. Even if I am mad at you.”
“I know that.”
“Good.” Wilson kisses the top of his head. He’s been doing that a lot this week, even more than usual. And Wilson has some kind of weird thing about the top of his head. “Do you want to talk about…”
“No.” He snuggles in and shuts his eyes. “I thought we were going to sleep now.”
Wilson laughs a little. “Okay. Back to sleep.”
#
In the morning, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and orange juice--House refuses to eat it, instead demanding Oreos from the vending machine--Chase comes to do Wilson’s allergy scratch test.
“He might stop breathing again,” House points out as Chase puts on gloves and gets out the baggie of samples. “When you put the elephant particles on.”
Wilson has noticed that House really likes saying “elephant particles.”
“Did you bring any epi?” House continues.
“Yes.” Chase takes an epi-pen out of his pocket. “Do you want to be in charge of it?”
“Yes.” House takes the epi-pen and stands next to Wilson, pointing it at him.
Observing House’s gleeful expression, Wilson warns him, “You only get to jab me with that if I actually have an anaphylactic reaction.”
“I know,” House says scornfully. “I just want to be ready.”
Chase carefully places the scrapings of elephant dander on Wilson’s forearm. He uses another spot to apply a sample of the sawdust from the elephant area. “Okay, I’m doing the scratches now.” He makes two small scratches in Wilson’s skin with a plastic probe.
“Does it hurt?” House asks, peering at the scratches.
“No.”
“I hope it starts to swell up soon so we don’t have to wait the whole time,” House continues.
“Gee, thanks,” Wilson says.
“Well, it’s gonna,” House points out. “And I don’t like waiting.”
House gets his wish--within a few minutes, the scratch with the elephant dander has gone red and puffy. “Damn,” House says. “Good thing I never got that pet elephant I wanted. We’d’ve had to take her to the animal shelter.”
“I don’t think our condo association allows elephants, anyway,” Wilson says.
On to Chapter 20!