New crack-fic for nightdog_barks: Matisse Is Turning In His Grave
A crazy little crackfic inspired by something nightdog_barks said here. No beta or warnings. House/Wilson friendship/crazy.
Usually Wilson was more helpful than this, and that should've been House's first warning. He was busy trying to wrestle the pizza boxes and the two six-packs of Guinness through the door with his cane hand on the doorknob and his cane between two fingers, though, so all he said was "Hello? Don't bother helping any."
There was Wilsonish snort in answer, and he didn't come forward to close the door behind House, either. It was weird. As House's eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the apartment (and that was strange in itself, Wilson usually had the lights on, as well as some annoying classic-hits-from-the-eighties-you-didn't-like-the-first-time station), he realised Wilson wasn't in the room. He had been when House called to see what Wilson wanted on his pizza, half an hour ago. He had said he just felt like a quiet night in. House should have known that would be trouble.
House smelled something sweet and oily, linseed oil. He thought in dismay of the awful anxiety dreams he had, being smothered by endless flowing canvases of frolicking swimmers and women with parasols. He knew in his heart of hearts, the heart that wasn't currently halfway to a nice mellow Vicodin-and-beer high, that Wilson was sick again. He heaved a heavy sigh and dumped the food on the coffee table. He was sure Wilson wouldn't want to eat. He'd say his pizza wasn't impressionist enough again, and then House would have to get all Jackson Pollock with the Cheese Whiz to create something passably abstract.
"Wilson, I've been calling you," House began, and then he saw it. Wilson turned his face towards House, his eyes wide, his face guilty.
It was worse than House feared. Wilson was sitting by the window in the spare room, thrown into sharp relief by the afternoon sun streaming into the room. House saw more than he wanted to: Wilson's knitted brow, the brush in his hand feverishly dabbing at the paint, the way he loomed birdlike over the canvas, as if it were about to fly away. He had the easel turned slightly towards the window, so House couldn't see it.
"Wilson," House said softly. "You said you were going to stop." This was madness, and he wanted no more part in it. Where had Wilson gotten the stuff? Had he called up his sleazy buddies at Artworks again?
House hated most of Wilson's friends now, people who wore paint-smeared smocks and whispered in each other's ears about the "kickass acrylics" they could get their hands on if they could cadge more money off House. He was sick of bailing Wilson out of jail, too: last time he'd pawned a television to buy a canvas and some primer, and more oils. "C'mon House, you know how it is," he'd said. Wilson was on a downward spiral. Soon it would be absinthe and fast women, and that would be the end.
"Please, House." Tears glistened in Wilson's eyes. "Please. Just one more time."
House deliberated. The doctors at the Centre for Fauvism had told him to go along if Wilson seemed agitated, and the doses of FaberCastellAmide IM were three rooms away, in the back of the bathroom cabinet.
"Okay," House said. "I'll model for you."
This was the last time, he told himself. After that he'd get Wilson into the Centre again. If he could just be weaned off the oils and back onto watercolours, everything would be okay. If he was only on graphite, he could go back to work again, his illness only expressing itself in crazy margin-swirls and the occasional bald head daubed with face paint.
When House saw the green silky dress hanging on the back of the door, the bottle of Guinness dropped to the carpet, the ale burbling away.
Wilson smiled lopsidedly, madly, and House unbuttoned his shirt with all the enthusiasm of a fat kid in PE class.
Please no frolicking, he thought.
Usually Wilson was more helpful than this, and that should've been House's first warning. He was busy trying to wrestle the pizza boxes and the two six-packs of Guinness through the door with his cane hand on the doorknob and his cane between two fingers, though, so all he said was "Hello? Don't bother helping any."
There was Wilsonish snort in answer, and he didn't come forward to close the door behind House, either. It was weird. As House's eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the apartment (and that was strange in itself, Wilson usually had the lights on, as well as some annoying classic-hits-from-the-eighties-you-didn't-like-the-first-time station), he realised Wilson wasn't in the room. He had been when House called to see what Wilson wanted on his pizza, half an hour ago. He had said he just felt like a quiet night in. House should have known that would be trouble.
House smelled something sweet and oily, linseed oil. He thought in dismay of the awful anxiety dreams he had, being smothered by endless flowing canvases of frolicking swimmers and women with parasols. He knew in his heart of hearts, the heart that wasn't currently halfway to a nice mellow Vicodin-and-beer high, that Wilson was sick again. He heaved a heavy sigh and dumped the food on the coffee table. He was sure Wilson wouldn't want to eat. He'd say his pizza wasn't impressionist enough again, and then House would have to get all Jackson Pollock with the Cheese Whiz to create something passably abstract.
"Wilson, I've been calling you," House began, and then he saw it. Wilson turned his face towards House, his eyes wide, his face guilty.
It was worse than House feared. Wilson was sitting by the window in the spare room, thrown into sharp relief by the afternoon sun streaming into the room. House saw more than he wanted to: Wilson's knitted brow, the brush in his hand feverishly dabbing at the paint, the way he loomed birdlike over the canvas, as if it were about to fly away. He had the easel turned slightly towards the window, so House couldn't see it.
"Wilson," House said softly. "You said you were going to stop." This was madness, and he wanted no more part in it. Where had Wilson gotten the stuff? Had he called up his sleazy buddies at Artworks again?
House hated most of Wilson's friends now, people who wore paint-smeared smocks and whispered in each other's ears about the "kickass acrylics" they could get their hands on if they could cadge more money off House. He was sick of bailing Wilson out of jail, too: last time he'd pawned a television to buy a canvas and some primer, and more oils. "C'mon House, you know how it is," he'd said. Wilson was on a downward spiral. Soon it would be absinthe and fast women, and that would be the end.
"Please, House." Tears glistened in Wilson's eyes. "Please. Just one more time."
House deliberated. The doctors at the Centre for Fauvism had told him to go along if Wilson seemed agitated, and the doses of FaberCastellAmide IM were three rooms away, in the back of the bathroom cabinet.
"Okay," House said. "I'll model for you."
This was the last time, he told himself. After that he'd get Wilson into the Centre again. If he could just be weaned off the oils and back onto watercolours, everything would be okay. If he was only on graphite, he could go back to work again, his illness only expressing itself in crazy margin-swirls and the occasional bald head daubed with face paint.
When House saw the green silky dress hanging on the back of the door, the bottle of Guinness dropped to the carpet, the ale burbling away.
Wilson smiled lopsidedly, madly, and House unbuttoned his shirt with all the enthusiasm of a fat kid in PE class.
Please no frolicking, he thought.