House Ficlet: The Awakening of Wils-Ankh-Amun, Royal Concubine
The Awakening of Wils-Ankh-Amun, Royal Concubine
Authors:
blackmare ,
nightdog_barks ,
pwcorgigirl
Characters: House, Wilson
Warnings: nah
Summary: It was an unusual morning after. ~1,100 words.
“You got wasted, that’s what happened. So wasted. And as for why I did it: because you asked me to.”
“I doubt that. But now I’m asking you to get me out before I die of ... dehydration, or heat stroke.” He was sweating so heavily he’d probably lost five pounds, like an old-fashioned quack spa treatment.
“Or before you pee on my sofa again?” House said. He looked strangely unperturbed by the possibility.
“The first time was your fault, too. I mean it, you ass. Get me out of this.”
House walked away, leaving a pair of scissors shining and useless on the coffee table. Kill him with my bare hands, Wilson thought, but his arms and hands were bound to his sides, feet and legs lashed firmly together. It began to feel as if the plastic around his chest was getting tighter, and tighter. Ridiculous, getting claustrophobic over something this stupid, being tied up and at the mercy of a guy who could and just might leave you there for hours, if that notion amused him, and no. Don’t think that, don’t mention it, you’ll give him ideas. It was best to stay calm.
“House?”
House returned, cane in one hand, something small and metallic in the other. He pushed aside the scissors and the collection of plastic spice jars, and took a seat on the coffee table himself.
“I’ll un-mummify you,” he said, “but you gotta hold still. Very still.” He smiled, holding up his hand, letting the morning sunlight flash across the scalpel blade. “Think I’ll start with the feet.” That smile flashed again, brighter than the steel. “Don’t wiggle those painted toenails, Hatshepsut.”
“Hurry up, you bastard.” He didn’t dare add that he really did have to pee, or that his feet were ticklish, or that something fucking itched. Well, okay. He could probably admit that, so he did.
“You don’t remember?” House was moving at an infuriating pace, only up to the bindings around the knees, delicately slicing one layer at a time. Savoring the moments like he’d sip a good whiskey. “There was a ceremony. Sacred herbs.” He paused the scalpel in mid-stroke, scowling. “In fairness, you might have been dead by then. That’s supposed to be required.” The scalpel stroked up, parting the plastic like gossamer.
"Of course," House continued, "if you'd really been dead, I could have removed your brain. Through your nose."
"House."
House frowned at him. "Well, I obviously didn't, did I?" Another swath of plastic wrap fell away, curled and empty like a shed snakeskin. "Wouldn't have been hard, though. Seeing as how your brain is a tiny little thing." He paused, seeming to admire his slicing skills. "Like an extra-large booger, you might say."
Wilson couldn't help it. He laughed. A vague and gelatinous memory began to form in his aching head. “There was ... an Egyptian ... thing. On TV?”
House smiled. He was pleased with himself, which would spell trouble later. Wilson didn't care. He just wanted this clingy, greasy ... wait.
Greasy?
His fingers could move beneath their plastic cocoon, so as a test he rubbed one thumb against his thigh, and then against the index finger.
"House," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "Why. Why am I covered in oil?"
"Oil?" For a distressingly long moment House looked perplexed. Then --
"Oh!" House said. "Yeah, the anointing." He looked around. “Huh,” he said, picking up the slippery bottle of Wesson and noting the ring of oil it left on the floor. “I totally forgot we did this.” He set the bottle back down and resumed slicing. "It was when you were babbling about the black sarcophagus."
"The ... black sarcophagus,” Wilson repeated, while his mind scrambled for an answer as to what we did that involved him being oiled up and, he realized with dawning horror, stripped down to his boxers.
"In Egypt," House said. “Some new tomb they discovered. ‘I wanna be remembered, Housh,’” he said, with a plaintive tone and a drunken slur. “‘Wrapped up safe like that.’ At least I think that’s what you said. It’s possible you wanted to be dinner. You were really fucked up.”
He had been, but when he tried, he could recall, vaguely, being happy and warm while House ... performed the anointing, such as it was. House's hands moving across his chest, down his arms, probably down his thighs as well, though that part was a blank. And then the wrapping, which probably did feel safe at the time, because lots of dumb things feel safe when you’re four sheets to the wind.
“All coming back to you?” House said. Another coil of plastic, gone. Wilson could bend his legs now. He luxuriated in the feeling.
"Hold still," House grumbled, but instead of continuing to slice, he got up, turning toward the kitchen, and Wilson realized he could smell coffee brewing. “Cream and sugar in yours, or black as the mummy’s tomb?”
“You’re torturing me on purpose.”
“Some sappy idiot told me to take life’s little joys where I could find them.”
“Hot coffee is one such joy.” Wilson managed to swing his legs off the couch and sit up, stiffly. How many rolls of Saran Wrap had House used? “I’d like to drink mine before it gets cold.”
"We're late for breakfast," House said.
"Shut the door. You're letting cold air in." Wilson could feel the draft despite the steam of the shower, and he wanted it to stop. House walking in at such moments was hardly a surprise, but Wilson did have his limits.
"Smells like someone's making spaghetti Bolognese." It probably did -- Wilson was so immersed in the fragrance he'd fail to notice it by now.
"It wasn't my idea to use oregano as 'frankincense.'" Probably not, anyway. He doubted House would remember clearly either. "You even got it in my hair." His skin, patches of which had been dry from the winter air, was in better shape now, but he chose not to mention that to House, who had already moved on to whether they should hit Mickey's for Breakfast Anytime, or go straight to lunch at Ali Baba's Falafel Good Cafe.
"Waffles," Wilson said. "The reign of the Pharaohs has ended."
"You're no fun," House griped, but his hand thrust a towel through the gap in the shower curtain. "I looked it up. Tonight's History Channel special is The Real Concubines of Nebuchadnezzar."
"Waffles," Wilson insisted, toweling off before he stepped out of the shower and discovered he was talking to the steam-filled air. House had somehow slipped out without creating another draft.
He was probably looking for his car keys. Either that, Wilson thought, or pondering whether the sheer living room curtains could be fashioned into harem pants. Wilson girded the towel around his waist and stepped forth to find out which it was.
~*~
Authors:
blackmare ,
nightdog_barks ,
pwcorgigirl
Characters: House, Wilson
Warnings: nah
Summary: It was an unusual morning after. ~1,100 words.
“You got wasted, that’s what happened. So wasted. And as for why I did it: because you asked me to.”
“I doubt that. But now I’m asking you to get me out before I die of ... dehydration, or heat stroke.” He was sweating so heavily he’d probably lost five pounds, like an old-fashioned quack spa treatment.
“Or before you pee on my sofa again?” House said. He looked strangely unperturbed by the possibility.
“The first time was your fault, too. I mean it, you ass. Get me out of this.”
House walked away, leaving a pair of scissors shining and useless on the coffee table. Kill him with my bare hands, Wilson thought, but his arms and hands were bound to his sides, feet and legs lashed firmly together. It began to feel as if the plastic around his chest was getting tighter, and tighter. Ridiculous, getting claustrophobic over something this stupid, being tied up and at the mercy of a guy who could and just might leave you there for hours, if that notion amused him, and no. Don’t think that, don’t mention it, you’ll give him ideas. It was best to stay calm.
“House?”
House returned, cane in one hand, something small and metallic in the other. He pushed aside the scissors and the collection of plastic spice jars, and took a seat on the coffee table himself.
“I’ll un-mummify you,” he said, “but you gotta hold still. Very still.” He smiled, holding up his hand, letting the morning sunlight flash across the scalpel blade. “Think I’ll start with the feet.” That smile flashed again, brighter than the steel. “Don’t wiggle those painted toenails, Hatshepsut.”
“Hurry up, you bastard.” He didn’t dare add that he really did have to pee, or that his feet were ticklish, or that something fucking itched. Well, okay. He could probably admit that, so he did.
“You don’t remember?” House was moving at an infuriating pace, only up to the bindings around the knees, delicately slicing one layer at a time. Savoring the moments like he’d sip a good whiskey. “There was a ceremony. Sacred herbs.” He paused the scalpel in mid-stroke, scowling. “In fairness, you might have been dead by then. That’s supposed to be required.” The scalpel stroked up, parting the plastic like gossamer.
"Of course," House continued, "if you'd really been dead, I could have removed your brain. Through your nose."
"House."
House frowned at him. "Well, I obviously didn't, did I?" Another swath of plastic wrap fell away, curled and empty like a shed snakeskin. "Wouldn't have been hard, though. Seeing as how your brain is a tiny little thing." He paused, seeming to admire his slicing skills. "Like an extra-large booger, you might say."
Wilson couldn't help it. He laughed. A vague and gelatinous memory began to form in his aching head. “There was ... an Egyptian ... thing. On TV?”
House smiled. He was pleased with himself, which would spell trouble later. Wilson didn't care. He just wanted this clingy, greasy ... wait.
Greasy?
His fingers could move beneath their plastic cocoon, so as a test he rubbed one thumb against his thigh, and then against the index finger.
"House," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "Why. Why am I covered in oil?"
"Oil?" For a distressingly long moment House looked perplexed. Then --
"Oh!" House said. "Yeah, the anointing." He looked around. “Huh,” he said, picking up the slippery bottle of Wesson and noting the ring of oil it left on the floor. “I totally forgot we did this.” He set the bottle back down and resumed slicing. "It was when you were babbling about the black sarcophagus."
"The ... black sarcophagus,” Wilson repeated, while his mind scrambled for an answer as to what we did that involved him being oiled up and, he realized with dawning horror, stripped down to his boxers.
"In Egypt," House said. “Some new tomb they discovered. ‘I wanna be remembered, Housh,’” he said, with a plaintive tone and a drunken slur. “‘Wrapped up safe like that.’ At least I think that’s what you said. It’s possible you wanted to be dinner. You were really fucked up.”
He had been, but when he tried, he could recall, vaguely, being happy and warm while House ... performed the anointing, such as it was. House's hands moving across his chest, down his arms, probably down his thighs as well, though that part was a blank. And then the wrapping, which probably did feel safe at the time, because lots of dumb things feel safe when you’re four sheets to the wind.
“All coming back to you?” House said. Another coil of plastic, gone. Wilson could bend his legs now. He luxuriated in the feeling.
"Hold still," House grumbled, but instead of continuing to slice, he got up, turning toward the kitchen, and Wilson realized he could smell coffee brewing. “Cream and sugar in yours, or black as the mummy’s tomb?”
“You’re torturing me on purpose.”
“Some sappy idiot told me to take life’s little joys where I could find them.”
“Hot coffee is one such joy.” Wilson managed to swing his legs off the couch and sit up, stiffly. How many rolls of Saran Wrap had House used? “I’d like to drink mine before it gets cold.”
"We're late for breakfast," House said.
"Shut the door. You're letting cold air in." Wilson could feel the draft despite the steam of the shower, and he wanted it to stop. House walking in at such moments was hardly a surprise, but Wilson did have his limits.
"Smells like someone's making spaghetti Bolognese." It probably did -- Wilson was so immersed in the fragrance he'd fail to notice it by now.
"It wasn't my idea to use oregano as 'frankincense.'" Probably not, anyway. He doubted House would remember clearly either. "You even got it in my hair." His skin, patches of which had been dry from the winter air, was in better shape now, but he chose not to mention that to House, who had already moved on to whether they should hit Mickey's for Breakfast Anytime, or go straight to lunch at Ali Baba's Falafel Good Cafe.
"Waffles," Wilson said. "The reign of the Pharaohs has ended."
"You're no fun," House griped, but his hand thrust a towel through the gap in the shower curtain. "I looked it up. Tonight's History Channel special is The Real Concubines of Nebuchadnezzar."
"Waffles," Wilson insisted, toweling off before he stepped out of the shower and discovered he was talking to the steam-filled air. House had somehow slipped out without creating another draft.
He was probably looking for his car keys. Either that, Wilson thought, or pondering whether the sheer living room curtains could be fashioned into harem pants. Wilson girded the towel around his waist and stepped forth to find out which it was.
~*~