Fic: Things That Go Bump - Chapter Four
Title: Things That Go Bump - Chapter Four
Author: Kaye
Pairing: House/Wilson - but not so much.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Yes, they're mine - which is why Hugh Jackman is joining the cast next season as Chase's brother.
Summary: Wilson's condition takes a tumble; Cuddy's not amused.
LS, you put the B in bomb - both of em.
thanks to everyone who's reading - encouragement is appreciated. Cease and desist orders are fine, too. I'm having so much fun writing it, though, I don't want it to end . . .
Ch 1: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/497045.html#cutid1
Ch 2: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/501279.html#cutid1
Ch 3: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/507091.html#cutid1
Things That Go Bump - Chapter Four
House tossed a chart into the middle of the table and limped over to the board. He uncapped a marker and stood poised, ready to write. The chart skipped across Foreman’s scrambled eggs, losing momentum through Chase’s herb cream cheese laden bagel, and finally settled against the edge of Cameron’s red cup, which sloshed over an exclamation point of hot coffee.
“Hey. What the . . .” Foreman pushed his chair back.
Chase covered his bagel with both hands and Cameron picked up the chart with two fingers, walked over to the cabinet, pulled out a napkin and wiped it off.
“Differential, people.” House tapped the marker on the edge of the board.
“On what?” Chase asked.
“On whom,” House corrected.
Cameron opened the folder. Empty. She looked at House and then showed the contents to the boys. Foreman just shook his head.
“Thirty-nine year old male. Sudden onset nightmares. Possible vertigo or inner ear complaint. Definite lack of appetite. Insomnia. Confusion. . .”
“Nightmares or night terrors?” Chase turned in his chair to face the board where House furiously scribbled.
“Don’t know.”
Foreman sighed and relented, turning in his chair. “What inner ear complaint?”
“Not sure. Patient falls down a lot.”
“Could be neurological. CAT scan? MRI?”
Cameron sat down in the chair and folded her arms. “It’s Wilson.”
House rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, it’s Wilson - now come on. What presents with nightmares and vertigo?”
“Living with you too long?” Foreman offered and Chase smirked.
“Oh yes, let’s mock the sick guy.”
“But you always mock the sick guy.” Chase leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, but it’s funny when I do it. Now tell me something that won’t make all the nurses weep.”
Cameron stood and walked over to House. “It could be a brain tumor.”
“Parkinson’s presents with nightmares.” Foreman offered.
“Sounds like adrenal - is he craving salt?”
House sighed and knocked his head against the board. Twice. Was Wilson craving salt? He ran his tongue over the cut on his lower lip. Wilson tasted like salt. He wondered if Cameron would faint if he mentioned that little factoid. With his luck, it’d be Chase who would faint, and then every fantasy he ever had involving the man and the storage closet would just disappear. It occurred to him that Chase may be more of a girl than Cameron . . .
“. . . tests for Dr. Wilson?”
House looked up, realizing they had scampered on ahead of him. “What?”
They all three shot him a look. Cameron frowned. “Have you talked to Wilson?”
“I live with Wilson - of course I talk to him.”
“What did he say?”
“He says he’s fine.”
“So, is he fine?”
Fine? House stared at Foreman. How should he put it? The man was so much more than fine. The eyes, the lips, the hands, the ass . . .
“House?” Cameron laid a hand on his arm. He shrugged her off and limped over to the coffee, to escape from the eyes of the inquisition.
“Okay, so I want Foreman to get an MRI, Chase, you go see if you can get his real chart. Check with Wyatt - he’s the last guy who saw him. Cameron . . .”
He finally looked up and saw that they all three stood facing him, staring at him.
“What? Did you all forget how to be doctors? Go heal and all that.” He waved his stir stick at them. They didn’t move. He crossed his arms and blinked. They didn’t disappear.
“We can’t do any of this if Wilson doesn’t want us to.”
“Doesn’t want you to what?” a voice came from the doorway.
The kids turned in unison to the door. House appreciated the choreography and then added his own as he casually moved in front of the board, blocking the incriminating differential. From Wilson, the man with impeccable timing.
“They won’t let me put sugar in your gas tank. Babies.” House took a drink of coffee, sneaking a good look at Wilson over the edge of the cup. He looked tired. Stressed. His bruise was better today. Then House got all involved in hollow of Wilson’s neck, barely showing under that properly pressed shirt.
“You’re not wearing a tie.” The realization rolled off his tongue almost before it hit his brain.
Wilson took two steps into the room and put his hands on his hips. “Why do you want to put sugar in my gas tank?”
Foreman and Chase turned and quickly sat at the table, and Cameron ducked her head and moved to the desk. Answered House’s fight or flight question. Flight. Definitely flight. Should fire the whole lot of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing a tie?”
Wilson frowned and took a step toward the table, but he tripped over Chase’s legs and instead went hurtling into House. His head rammed into the coffee cup House was holding, tipping House backward into the board. Wilson’s momentum took all three of them to the floor with a loud crash and a louder yelp from House when the hot coffee spilled all over his chest.
“Fuck. Off. Off.” He tried to push Wilson up and away from him, but Wilson was already struggling to get away from the hot liquid that had soaked through his own shirt. Chase got to the tangle first and grabbed one of Wilson’s arms and pulled, which just threw Wilson more off-balance, forcing him to press his arm harder into House’s chest, his knee grinding into House’s thigh. House hissed in pain.
He felt the edges of the board tearing into his back, heard the frame crack. The coffee cup was pressed against his ribs by Wilson’s weight, and the fingers that were still wrapped around the handle scraped against the hard ceramic.
“Get off.” House struggled to pull his hand out from between them, and finally Foreman joined Chase and managed to get Wilson up and into a chair.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow.” Wilson clawed at his shirt, ripping off buttons, trying to get away from the heat of the coffee.
Cameron knelt down and gently pulled the cup off House’s fingers and he winced, cradling them to his chest. Not broken. He rolled off the board, and Cameron reached down and helped him to stand. He rubbed his thigh with his good hand, and examined his knuckles, which were scraped and bloody.
“Nicely done . . .” he started, but his voice trailed off as he watched Chase drop to a knee in front of Wilson. What the hell? Chase helped Wilson unbutton his shirt, and pulled it down off Wilson’s shoulder to expose an angry red splotch on Wilson’s smooth, hairless chest.
House felt dizzy, took a stumbling step forward and found himself battling three separate urges: the urge to lean down and rip Chase’s heart out of his chest; the urge to scream, “Get your hands off. He’s mine,” and the urge to cradle Wilson in his arms and blow softly on the burned skin. He valiantly fought them all and instead swayed into Cameron, who led him into a chair.
“House, sit down. Are you okay?” She reached for his hand.
House allowed her to probe his fingers, but kept his eyes on Wilson, who was frowning and rubbing his head. A raised red spot had joined the bandage on his forehead. He looked like hell.
And then Foreman walked over with a cold pack and handed it to Chase, who pressed it gently on Wilson’s burns and House realized that the piercing pain he felt in his chest had nothing to do with biology.
It was into this Marx Brothers movie that Cuddy entered, her hands full of unfinished charts. The reprimand she had practiced all the way from the elevator was quickly forgotten, though, at the sight the fallen board, the overturned chair, Chase kneeling in front of a half-dressed Wilson, Cameron holding House’s hand, rubbing his arm. She opened her mouth, but the look on House’s face shocked her silent. House was staring at Wilson and he looked . . . stricken. Cuddy
shook her head to make sure it wasn't a dream. Then she looked back at Wilson, who was now staring at House with the exact same look.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
“Wilson tripped.” Cameron dropped House’s hand and moved to pick up the board, whose frame was bent and twisted.
Wilson quickly shrugged his shirt back over his shoulders and Chase stood. Foreman just leaned against the desk, his arms folded.
“Tuesday is orgy day, Cuddy. Did you forget to sign up?” House wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“It’s not Tuesday.”
“I fell.” Wilson smiled weakly as he held the edges of his shirt away from the burn. “House had coffee - spilled it.”
Cuddy ignored him and turned to the board, reading the smudged words, the board sloping sharply to the left. Wilson did the same and House popped three Vicodin in anticipation of the fallout.
“You did a diagnostic on me?” Wilson looked at House, who was staring at the ceiling.
“This is you?” Cuddy turned to Wilson. “You have vertigo? Why didn’t you tell . . .?”
House pushed himself from the table and stood. And crumpled back down as his thigh reminded him who the real boss was. “Fuck.” He stayed still for a moment, letting the first wave pass.
“Are you okay?” Cuddy demanded.
“Right as rain, boss.” He dug his fingers into the palm of his hand, tried not to whimper.
Cuddy tossed the pile of charts on the table and turned. “Cameron, you and Chase finish these. They go to Billing - tonight. Foreman, go requisition a new board and schedule an MRI for this afternoon. For Wilson.”
Wilson and House both opened their mouths to protest, but Cuddy raised a finger, silencing them. “And as soon as you can walk, I want to see the both of you in my office.”
She marched over to the door and stopped. “And that board is coming out of somebody’s paycheck.”
*********
“What’s going on with you?” Cuddy didn’t even try to hide the worry in her voice.
House sat in the chair next to Cuddy’s desk, twirling his cane. The vicodin had kicked in and the pain had eased off.
“You know, there are better ways to wait for Wilson, Cuddy.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes out of habit. “Gosh, if it weren’t for your sore leg . . . where is he?”
“How do I know? He had to change his shirt. God forbid there be something amiss in the wardrobe of Dr. Fussy.”
“Did you have a fight?”
“Is that relevant?”
“You tell me.”
“It’s not.”
“You did!”
“It wasn’t exactly a fight.” House wondered if Wilson had skipped out.
“What exactly does that mean?”
House was saved from answering by the arrival of Wilson, freshly showered and pressed.
“Got a date?” House asked as Wilson joined him in the other chair.
“Writing a book?” Wilson shot back and crossed his arms.
“Taking notes?” House sneered.
“Fuck off.”
“You wish.”
“I wish?” Wilson laughed. “Right. I wish.”
Cuddy waved her hand. “Hey, guys . . .”
“Sorry.” Wilson sighed and crossed his legs. House snorted and Wilson saw that he was sitting exactly like House and they both uncrossed their legs at the same time. House crossed his arms and Wilson pulled at his tie.
“Wilson needs an MRI.” House decided to move things along.
“I do not.”
“You could have a brain tumor.”
“Brain tumor?” Cuddy looked at Wilson. “Are you having headaches, dizziness?”
“No. House is overreacting. I miss dinner and he goes right to brain tumor.”
“He’s dizzy, complains of insomnia and night terrors, he wakes up screaming. Screaming, Cuddy. He’s had a marked loss of appetite, confusion-“
“Confusion? The only thing I’m confused about is why I thought you were my friend.”
“See, confusion.” House pointed at Wilson and Wilson swatted his finger away. “And aggression. Look at him. He’s a mess.”
“I’ve had trouble sleeping.” Wilson held out his hands to Cuddy. “Makes me clumsy, that’s all. House is just mad about his board.”
“And so to get back at you, I make you get an MRI? What kind of logic is that?’
“House logic. Which is an oxymoron, come to think of it.”
“Did you just call me a moron?”
“Shut up,” Cuddy interrupted. “Jesus, you two are giving me a headache.” She grabbed a pad and a pen and scribbled a note. “I am scheduling you for counseling.”
“Sure, it might be psychological, but he still needs an MRI.” House stood.
Wilson stood and turned to House. “It’s not psychological. And I don’t need an MRI and I certainly don’t need to go to a counselor. It’s just stress.”
“Yes, the stress of a serious underlying condition. Like a brain tumor. Which we would know if you’d just let me do an MRI!”
“House, you’re going, too. God knows you could use it.” Cuddy ripped the note off the pad and held it out. “Might even get a two-for-one deal.” House snatched it from her fingers. Read it. Crumpled it in his fist.
“Oh, no. Not me. He’s the weeble who wobbles and does fall down. I’m just the innocent bystander. Collateral damage.”
Cuddy shook her head. “This is not open for debate. Go see Dr. Haynes. I can make it mandatory to employment if I have to.”
House mulled over for a minute the idea of storming out the door, hopping on his motorcycle, and riding far, far away. But then he realized that if the problem with Wilson was psychological, he’d have a front row seat for the big reveal. “Okay.” He smiled sweetly.
“Okay?” Cuddy raised an eyebrow.
“Okay. We’ll go.”
“We’ll go? We will go? We?” Wilson sputtered.
“Excellent contraction subtraction there, Jimmy.” House limped toward the door. “Come on. Prove me wrong. Show me how much you don’t need an MRI.”
“I don’t need an MRI.” Wilson turned and followed House out the door.
Cuddy laid her head on her desk and wondered if it was too late to become a flight attendant.
tbc . . .