Crack ficlet: Untitled, With Showtunes
I'm moving this up (as nightdog_barks says), but I'm not posting it to any comms. It's just a little piece of crack for you guys to look at. I was inspired by a comment someone (well, me) made here over at nightdog_barks.
It's crack, will probably rot your brain, and I haven't posted it anywhere because I think it kind of missed the mark, joke-wise. It's too long to be a comment-fic (what I originally intended it to be). pwcorgigirl and nightdog_barks have already commented (and picked up a few typoes), but I've added a few lines since then.
So: Crack-fic, musical related, crazy, spoilers for the S6 finale. I have a very superficial knowledge of musicals, so I did some research for this. :)
Enjoy, I guess.
The first time Wilson hears the weird noises at the other end of the line, he assumes it's a wrong number. His home phone number is unlisted, and even though it could feasibly be a resourceful patient crank-calling him, Wilson doubts that they'd call him up to... do whatever that is.
The only person Wilson knows who is likely to prank call him is House, and he's more likely to trick Wilson into calling one of those five-dollar-a-minute phone sex lines. Besides, something makes Wilson think that House has a lot more on his mind at the moment.
Maybe Amber put him up to it, Wilson thinks, and that thought is morbid enough to make him return to his snow pea and mushroom stirfry with a dismissive sort of shudder. Someone mixed a couple of digits around. It happens all the time, right?
Wilson decides to put some sweet chilli sauce on the stirfry next time. It'll bring out the flavour of the hokkein noodles more.
...
The second time, Wilson is sitting in his office. It's a lot harder to shrug off a crank call when he's sitting at his desk, so when the almost-tuneless disembodied murmuring starts, Wilson clears his throat and firmly says "I can hear you there. Either speak up or hang up." He saw something like this on a PSA, once, and he feels just a little bit thrilled to be dealing with a real phone stalker.
The voice at the other end of the phone pauses for a second, then the noise returns. This time it has a tune. The cinnamon and nutmeg banana pancakes Wilson had for breakfast (a little dry, but the honey glaze and cultured Greek yoghurt finished them off nicely) seem to form a lump in Wilson's stomach. It's House.
And he's humming.
Wilson regrets not putting on the Full-Strength Nagging Face and grilling House for more details on what Amber looked like. The music sounds a little racy, and... Well, Wilson doesn't want to think about that. Was Amber wearing - No, Wilson really doesn't want to think about that. It's... wrong.
"House?"
A little more humming, and then "Show me long raven hair...
Wilson thinks of that scene from The Birds. He glances nervously through his office window, half-expecting to see a flock of crazy seagulls out there. This is... this is insane. This is above insane. This is ad-insane. Like House has a little gland of madness sitting above his delusions, pumping out extra bursts of insanity.
"House," Wilson says, panic rising in his voice (he tries to use the Serious Tone he keeps in reserve for such occasions, but his vocal cords don't seem to be cooperating, unlike House's). "What's wrong?"
"Flowing down bout to there..."
Wilson slams the receiver back down in the cradle. He gets up from behind his desk and exits his office, not quite able to resist taking another paranoid glance out the window for any errant birds of portent.
...
"They've already called me," Cuddy says. "It's more serious than we thought." She's twisting a rubber band around on her fingers, sitting behind her desk so the afternoon light catches her very becomingly. Wilson can see the remains of her lunch in the wastepaper basket. She had the vegetable and Swiss omelette. Not a good choice on a Tuesday. She'd be much better off with the Mediterranean chicken pasta with a French vinaigrette.
"Wait," Wilson says. "House's doctors called you? Isn't that breaking some privacy law or something?"
Cuddy stops twisting the rubber band for a second and gives Wilson her Gently Condescending Face. God, that face totally turns Wilson on. "Section 2 of the State Unethical Code states that private documents may be turned over to a) a woman who wears anything larger than a C cup or b) one member of a certified Complicated Relationship. House made me cry after we had sex on my office couch last year and Stacy kind of figuratively crippled his emotions, too, so I applied for CR status last year. It's been great -- we get an awesome tax break, which totally makes up for the fact that I'm required to turn up to work Subtextually Disheveled at least once a week."
Wilson edges forward on the couch cushions and stands up. He pretends he's studying the bland Victorian print on Cuddy's office wall, surreptitiously brushing off the ass of his trousers.
"Anyway," Cuddy says. "The intense musical therapy didn't work. House is suffering from some sort of Severe Pop Culture Shock reaction." She goes back to twisting the rubber band, Gently Condescending replaced by plain old worried.
"Oh my God," Wilson says. "Isn't SPCS incurable?"
"We don't know," Cuddy says. "We're just going to have to wait and see." The drama of that moment is kind of undercut by the fact that the rubber band snaps back and hits her on the face.
"Shit," Cuddy says. "That happens to me a lot. Stupid Irony Month always bites me on the ass."
Wilson doesn't say anything. He's trying not to think of what usually happens to oncologists during Irony Month.
...
House comes home in October. There's nothing more they can do.
Wilson's credit card bills mount. First there's the backcombed wig and tight leather pants. House's Spinal Tap phase is short, though, compared to the Grease mania. It's almost impossible to get him to take off his tight t-shirt and jeans (it may even be possible that they're too tight to come off), and when Wilson puts House to bed he often sits up all night. When Wilson asks him why he doesn't want to sleep, he mumbles something about the Chief and a pillow. The night when Wilson resorts to slipping House a sleeping pill is the worst. He staggers around the apartment all night singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow, slurring his words and occasionally forgetting the lyrics.
Wilson has to pay the insurance excess when House dents the bonnet of his neighbor's car. "I know the guy's a bit soft in the head," he says, "But if he keeps me up all night singin' Greased Lightning again, I'll call the police."
Wilson has to drag House away from the guy. He knows the signs by now. House has his comb out of his pocket and he's dragging it through his absurdly short hair, taming a quiff that doesn't exist. He's in West Side Story mode.
"My sister wears a mustache," House begins.
"Yeah, whatever," Wilson's neighbor says.
"My brother wears a dress!!!" House's voice is louder. People are looking.
Wilson's reflexes are too slow. The trouble is, he's used to House in "When You're Good To Mama" mode. He's a lot faster when he's not wearing high heels.
Before Wilson can do anything, House has speed-sidestepped down the sidewalk and across the road. For a guy with a cane he's sure pretty speedy at that.
"Goodness gracious, that's why I'm a mess!!" is the last thing Wilson hears.
...
Wilson falters when he gets to the "Description" section of the Standard Missing Person form. He's already ticked circled "No" next to "Is this person's disappearance likely to make you revert to old drug habits or sleep with people you shouldn't?" and then another "No" next to "Will you be requiring Deep Brain Stimulation?"
He writes "Transylvanian transvestite, gang member, Austrian nun, good guy, tough guy". Then he goes home to drink heavily and fret.
...
Wilson's not as practiced as House is at drinking heavily, and he's asleep on the couch after his second Scotch and water. His head is still fuzzy when he wakes up at 1.30 to a knock on the door and a rumble of thunder outside.
"Wilson," House says. "Can't you let me in? I've been knocking for ages. It's raining. I'm cured, by the way."
Wilson staggers toward the door and opens it.
"Thank God," House says. "Did you hear that? That thunder was an actual peal. Hold on while I drop my cane to the floor and get changed."
Wilson stares at House, dumbfounded. "You're... cured?"
"Yeah," House says with a shrug. "I just woke up suddenly. Kind of anticlimactic, right?"
Then some mysterious force acts in Wilson, and he moves closer to House, his entire being focused on the translucent t-shirt sticking suggestively to House's back.
"I could help you with that." Wilson moves closer to House, moving to gently lift the shirt over his head. House staggers back as if Wilson has sprouted an extra head. The Clatter Quotient of his cane is exceedingly high.
"Jesus, Wilson, get the fuck away from me!"
Wilson shakes his head, trying to will away the strange feeling he has. "Sorry," he says. "Don't you ever get that feeling that some sort of mysterious power is willing us to have sex?"
"Not really, no." House slams the bedroom door in Wilson's face. Then he opens it again.
"I guess we're going to have to get rid of all these wigs and stuff."
"I'll give it all to Chase," Wilson says. "He's trying to get the Hospital Musical Society off the ground. He wants to do a General Hospital thing." Then he reflects, in a somewhat sentimental fashion, on his current situation. "I guess now that you're cured you won't have to live with me any longer, either."
"Well," House says. "You've got a pretty good cable package."
...
It had all started so innocently. House had turned up to group therapy as usual, to find that instead of a circle of crazies ready to hold each other and cry, the room was empty. Well, almost. A small, neat man wearing a black turtleneck sweater under a charcoal suit was sitting on one of the plastic Mayfield chairs, his legs primly crossed.
As House stepped into the room the man rolled back the sleeve of his turtleneck to glance at a small gold watch. As he crossed the threshold, House noticed that the guy had small monogram embroidered on the breast of his blazer. It was two overlapping letter Ps.
House should have known not to trust a guy who wore a turtleneck sweater under a suit.
"Dr. House," the man said, "You're right on time."
"I'm supposed to be here for group," House said.
"Never mind that," the man says. "I'm your new therapist."
House definitely wasn't expecting the door to slam shut behind him, and he wasn't expecting for the room to suddenly be thrown into dramatic, dim lighting, either. He opened his mouth to speak, suddenly horrified that he could think of nothing even remotely witty to say. Shit. He settled for a piercing blue stare, but the lighting in the room didn't really work to his favour, either.
"You might be surprised to discover that you've been in our notice for some time now, Dr. House."
"Who's this we?" House squinted and tried to see into the darkness, but the lighting threw the man into harsh lighting and everything else into a sort of murky blackness. He was definitely creeped out now. "Is there anybody else here? Can you see Amber, too?"
Creepy Man faltered for a second. "No... No, I mean, Christ, haven't you ever heard of drama? I mean my Associates and I."
Okay, House thinks. This guy is delusional. That's okay.
"No, Dr. House, I'm not delusional. We know everything about you. We know that you actually liked the Rocky Horror Picture Show, despite the fact that you complained bitterly every time someone put the record on at a party. We are the Plot Police, House, and we are everywhere."
This was like Room 101. House felt suddenly sick. This shouldn't be happening. He behaved the way he should. He pretended to take his meds. He acted like an utter ass. Why? Why him? The dramatic lighting was boring into his skull. Not literally, but still. How did they know what he liked? How did they know that?
"No," House said. "That's not true! I know what I like! You can't arbitrarily decide stuff like that! I've got a first US pressing of Sticky Fingers!" House hardly registered the noise of the door opening behind him, and then there were hands on his arms and legs. Hands everywhere. He was forced back onto a table, and someone quickly bound his arms and legs. This... this couldn't be happening. House struggled against his bonds of plotting.
"You'll never be able to take Who's Next away from me!"
"Are you willing to bet?" The creepy guy took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on menacingly. He was actually pretty good at that. House made a note to ask him for pointers. It was all in the wrist. "It's astounding."
"What are you going to do?" House can feel his pulse speeding up. The lighting in the room started to flicker in a vaguely postmodern way.
"I think you know, House. Time is fleeting."
"No," House whimpered, and he struggled against the bonds of characterisation that were holding him down, too.
"Yes," creepy guy says, his voice booming. How did he even do that? "Madness takes its toll. You see, House, we had two options here. You could be plain old batshit crazy. But that's boring. Everybody already knew you were crazy. So we've got to go for something a little more... Entertaining."
"I'll do anything! Anything but this!" House didn't like the tone of this guy's voice. At all. "A threesome! Another infarction!! A motorcycle accident! Oh, God, even an illegitimate child!"
Creepy Guy furrows his brow. "An illegitimate child with piercing blue eyes?"
"Yes! Make her a fifteen-year-old medical genius with a troubling emo boyfriend! Anything!!!"
"Sorry," Creepy Guy said, "I was only kidding."
Then the music started, and House didn't remember anything after that.
It's crack, will probably rot your brain, and I haven't posted it anywhere because I think it kind of missed the mark, joke-wise. It's too long to be a comment-fic (what I originally intended it to be). pwcorgigirl and nightdog_barks have already commented (and picked up a few typoes), but I've added a few lines since then.
So: Crack-fic, musical related, crazy, spoilers for the S6 finale. I have a very superficial knowledge of musicals, so I did some research for this. :)
Enjoy, I guess.
The first time Wilson hears the weird noises at the other end of the line, he assumes it's a wrong number. His home phone number is unlisted, and even though it could feasibly be a resourceful patient crank-calling him, Wilson doubts that they'd call him up to... do whatever that is.
The only person Wilson knows who is likely to prank call him is House, and he's more likely to trick Wilson into calling one of those five-dollar-a-minute phone sex lines. Besides, something makes Wilson think that House has a lot more on his mind at the moment.
Maybe Amber put him up to it, Wilson thinks, and that thought is morbid enough to make him return to his snow pea and mushroom stirfry with a dismissive sort of shudder. Someone mixed a couple of digits around. It happens all the time, right?
Wilson decides to put some sweet chilli sauce on the stirfry next time. It'll bring out the flavour of the hokkein noodles more.
...
The second time, Wilson is sitting in his office. It's a lot harder to shrug off a crank call when he's sitting at his desk, so when the almost-tuneless disembodied murmuring starts, Wilson clears his throat and firmly says "I can hear you there. Either speak up or hang up." He saw something like this on a PSA, once, and he feels just a little bit thrilled to be dealing with a real phone stalker.
The voice at the other end of the phone pauses for a second, then the noise returns. This time it has a tune. The cinnamon and nutmeg banana pancakes Wilson had for breakfast (a little dry, but the honey glaze and cultured Greek yoghurt finished them off nicely) seem to form a lump in Wilson's stomach. It's House.
And he's humming.
Wilson regrets not putting on the Full-Strength Nagging Face and grilling House for more details on what Amber looked like. The music sounds a little racy, and... Well, Wilson doesn't want to think about that. Was Amber wearing - No, Wilson really doesn't want to think about that. It's... wrong.
"House?"
A little more humming, and then "Show me long raven hair...
Wilson thinks of that scene from The Birds. He glances nervously through his office window, half-expecting to see a flock of crazy seagulls out there. This is... this is insane. This is above insane. This is ad-insane. Like House has a little gland of madness sitting above his delusions, pumping out extra bursts of insanity.
"House," Wilson says, panic rising in his voice (he tries to use the Serious Tone he keeps in reserve for such occasions, but his vocal cords don't seem to be cooperating, unlike House's). "What's wrong?"
"Flowing down bout to there..."
Wilson slams the receiver back down in the cradle. He gets up from behind his desk and exits his office, not quite able to resist taking another paranoid glance out the window for any errant birds of portent.
...
"They've already called me," Cuddy says. "It's more serious than we thought." She's twisting a rubber band around on her fingers, sitting behind her desk so the afternoon light catches her very becomingly. Wilson can see the remains of her lunch in the wastepaper basket. She had the vegetable and Swiss omelette. Not a good choice on a Tuesday. She'd be much better off with the Mediterranean chicken pasta with a French vinaigrette.
"Wait," Wilson says. "House's doctors called you? Isn't that breaking some privacy law or something?"
Cuddy stops twisting the rubber band for a second and gives Wilson her Gently Condescending Face. God, that face totally turns Wilson on. "Section 2 of the State Unethical Code states that private documents may be turned over to a) a woman who wears anything larger than a C cup or b) one member of a certified Complicated Relationship. House made me cry after we had sex on my office couch last year and Stacy kind of figuratively crippled his emotions, too, so I applied for CR status last year. It's been great -- we get an awesome tax break, which totally makes up for the fact that I'm required to turn up to work Subtextually Disheveled at least once a week."
Wilson edges forward on the couch cushions and stands up. He pretends he's studying the bland Victorian print on Cuddy's office wall, surreptitiously brushing off the ass of his trousers.
"Anyway," Cuddy says. "The intense musical therapy didn't work. House is suffering from some sort of Severe Pop Culture Shock reaction." She goes back to twisting the rubber band, Gently Condescending replaced by plain old worried.
"Oh my God," Wilson says. "Isn't SPCS incurable?"
"We don't know," Cuddy says. "We're just going to have to wait and see." The drama of that moment is kind of undercut by the fact that the rubber band snaps back and hits her on the face.
"Shit," Cuddy says. "That happens to me a lot. Stupid Irony Month always bites me on the ass."
Wilson doesn't say anything. He's trying not to think of what usually happens to oncologists during Irony Month.
...
House comes home in October. There's nothing more they can do.
Wilson's credit card bills mount. First there's the backcombed wig and tight leather pants. House's Spinal Tap phase is short, though, compared to the Grease mania. It's almost impossible to get him to take off his tight t-shirt and jeans (it may even be possible that they're too tight to come off), and when Wilson puts House to bed he often sits up all night. When Wilson asks him why he doesn't want to sleep, he mumbles something about the Chief and a pillow. The night when Wilson resorts to slipping House a sleeping pill is the worst. He staggers around the apartment all night singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow, slurring his words and occasionally forgetting the lyrics.
Wilson has to pay the insurance excess when House dents the bonnet of his neighbor's car. "I know the guy's a bit soft in the head," he says, "But if he keeps me up all night singin' Greased Lightning again, I'll call the police."
Wilson has to drag House away from the guy. He knows the signs by now. House has his comb out of his pocket and he's dragging it through his absurdly short hair, taming a quiff that doesn't exist. He's in West Side Story mode.
"My sister wears a mustache," House begins.
"Yeah, whatever," Wilson's neighbor says.
"My brother wears a dress!!!" House's voice is louder. People are looking.
Wilson's reflexes are too slow. The trouble is, he's used to House in "When You're Good To Mama" mode. He's a lot faster when he's not wearing high heels.
Before Wilson can do anything, House has speed-sidestepped down the sidewalk and across the road. For a guy with a cane he's sure pretty speedy at that.
"Goodness gracious, that's why I'm a mess!!" is the last thing Wilson hears.
...
Wilson falters when he gets to the "Description" section of the Standard Missing Person form. He's already ticked circled "No" next to "Is this person's disappearance likely to make you revert to old drug habits or sleep with people you shouldn't?" and then another "No" next to "Will you be requiring Deep Brain Stimulation?"
He writes "Transylvanian transvestite, gang member, Austrian nun, good guy, tough guy". Then he goes home to drink heavily and fret.
...
Wilson's not as practiced as House is at drinking heavily, and he's asleep on the couch after his second Scotch and water. His head is still fuzzy when he wakes up at 1.30 to a knock on the door and a rumble of thunder outside.
"Wilson," House says. "Can't you let me in? I've been knocking for ages. It's raining. I'm cured, by the way."
Wilson staggers toward the door and opens it.
"Thank God," House says. "Did you hear that? That thunder was an actual peal. Hold on while I drop my cane to the floor and get changed."
Wilson stares at House, dumbfounded. "You're... cured?"
"Yeah," House says with a shrug. "I just woke up suddenly. Kind of anticlimactic, right?"
Then some mysterious force acts in Wilson, and he moves closer to House, his entire being focused on the translucent t-shirt sticking suggestively to House's back.
"I could help you with that." Wilson moves closer to House, moving to gently lift the shirt over his head. House staggers back as if Wilson has sprouted an extra head. The Clatter Quotient of his cane is exceedingly high.
"Jesus, Wilson, get the fuck away from me!"
Wilson shakes his head, trying to will away the strange feeling he has. "Sorry," he says. "Don't you ever get that feeling that some sort of mysterious power is willing us to have sex?"
"Not really, no." House slams the bedroom door in Wilson's face. Then he opens it again.
"I guess we're going to have to get rid of all these wigs and stuff."
"I'll give it all to Chase," Wilson says. "He's trying to get the Hospital Musical Society off the ground. He wants to do a General Hospital thing." Then he reflects, in a somewhat sentimental fashion, on his current situation. "I guess now that you're cured you won't have to live with me any longer, either."
"Well," House says. "You've got a pretty good cable package."
...
It had all started so innocently. House had turned up to group therapy as usual, to find that instead of a circle of crazies ready to hold each other and cry, the room was empty. Well, almost. A small, neat man wearing a black turtleneck sweater under a charcoal suit was sitting on one of the plastic Mayfield chairs, his legs primly crossed.
As House stepped into the room the man rolled back the sleeve of his turtleneck to glance at a small gold watch. As he crossed the threshold, House noticed that the guy had small monogram embroidered on the breast of his blazer. It was two overlapping letter Ps.
House should have known not to trust a guy who wore a turtleneck sweater under a suit.
"Dr. House," the man said, "You're right on time."
"I'm supposed to be here for group," House said.
"Never mind that," the man says. "I'm your new therapist."
House definitely wasn't expecting the door to slam shut behind him, and he wasn't expecting for the room to suddenly be thrown into dramatic, dim lighting, either. He opened his mouth to speak, suddenly horrified that he could think of nothing even remotely witty to say. Shit. He settled for a piercing blue stare, but the lighting in the room didn't really work to his favour, either.
"You might be surprised to discover that you've been in our notice for some time now, Dr. House."
"Who's this we?" House squinted and tried to see into the darkness, but the lighting threw the man into harsh lighting and everything else into a sort of murky blackness. He was definitely creeped out now. "Is there anybody else here? Can you see Amber, too?"
Creepy Man faltered for a second. "No... No, I mean, Christ, haven't you ever heard of drama? I mean my Associates and I."
Okay, House thinks. This guy is delusional. That's okay.
"No, Dr. House, I'm not delusional. We know everything about you. We know that you actually liked the Rocky Horror Picture Show, despite the fact that you complained bitterly every time someone put the record on at a party. We are the Plot Police, House, and we are everywhere."
This was like Room 101. House felt suddenly sick. This shouldn't be happening. He behaved the way he should. He pretended to take his meds. He acted like an utter ass. Why? Why him? The dramatic lighting was boring into his skull. Not literally, but still. How did they know what he liked? How did they know that?
"No," House said. "That's not true! I know what I like! You can't arbitrarily decide stuff like that! I've got a first US pressing of Sticky Fingers!" House hardly registered the noise of the door opening behind him, and then there were hands on his arms and legs. Hands everywhere. He was forced back onto a table, and someone quickly bound his arms and legs. This... this couldn't be happening. House struggled against his bonds of plotting.
"You'll never be able to take Who's Next away from me!"
"Are you willing to bet?" The creepy guy took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on menacingly. He was actually pretty good at that. House made a note to ask him for pointers. It was all in the wrist. "It's astounding."
"What are you going to do?" House can feel his pulse speeding up. The lighting in the room started to flicker in a vaguely postmodern way.
"I think you know, House. Time is fleeting."
"No," House whimpered, and he struggled against the bonds of characterisation that were holding him down, too.
"Yes," creepy guy says, his voice booming. How did he even do that? "Madness takes its toll. You see, House, we had two options here. You could be plain old batshit crazy. But that's boring. Everybody already knew you were crazy. So we've got to go for something a little more... Entertaining."
"I'll do anything! Anything but this!" House didn't like the tone of this guy's voice. At all. "A threesome! Another infarction!! A motorcycle accident! Oh, God, even an illegitimate child!"
Creepy Guy furrows his brow. "An illegitimate child with piercing blue eyes?"
"Yes! Make her a fifteen-year-old medical genius with a troubling emo boyfriend! Anything!!!"
"Sorry," Creepy Guy said, "I was only kidding."
Then the music started, and House didn't remember anything after that.