The Crazy Misadventures Of The Callaway Brothers Pt7
Title: The Crazy Misadventures of the Callaway Brothers Pt7
Genre: Drama/Adventure/Friendship/Humor/Angst and pretty much anything in between as the chapters progress.
Characters/Pairing(s): G. House, J. Wilson/ Extreme Friendship
Spoilers/Warnings: post-series finale. Mild cursing, drug-use and adult situations. (In some chapters)
Summary: A trip to the sand dunes forces Wilson to confront his illness and come to terms with it. House tries to be helpful.
-Pt 7-
"No news yet leading to the arrest of the arsonist who is responsible for over 40 deadly fires in residential and industrials areas in the past week. If you have any information we urge you to contact the sheriff's department at..."
House was staring at the old 14-inch television set that hung high over the bar. He grabbed another fry and dipped it in a revolting mixture of Thousand Island dressing and yellow mustard.
"How can you even light 40 fires in a week?" Wilson commented, "He'd literally have to never stop!"
House just shrugged and kept his eyes glued to the television.
"Or…" Wilson tapped his fingers on the sticky wooden bar surface as the wheels in his brain kept turning, "Maybe he isn't acting alone…" he turned back to House looking for a response-when he failed to receive one, he just nodded, "Yeah… There has to be more than one… It's the only logical explanation" fairly pleased with his conclusion, Wilson grabbed a fry and nibbled on it happily.
"He's on his own…" House noted and helped himself to some of the fries on Wilson's plate.
Wilson, noticing that House's own plate of food was now empty, guarded his own plate and pressed his eyebrows, "One person couldn't possibly… The time alone…"
"Amphetamines… Bath Salts, Et cetera… Et cetera… Are you going to finish that?" House asked nonchalantly, eyeing the elusive plate of fried goods.
"No…" Wilson rolled his eyes. "Have at it…" House greedily grabbed the plate.
"But why would you assume it's some psycho drug trip over a criminal partnership?" Wilson asked curiously.
House eyed Wilson as if he was a small, very stupid, child. "What group of people do you know go torch towns non stop for a week just for kicks? Not exactly the best group activity… Unless you want to…" House gestured toward himself and Wilson, then lit the invisible match that was his finger and pretended to throw it behind the bar, adding some "fiery" sound effects.
"So your only logical explanation is that there isn't a logical explanation?" Wilson grabbed another fry from the plate in front of House and dipped it in ranch sauce.
"Drug induced psychosis is a logical explanation. It explains everything."
Wilson chuckled, "No it's not… It's no explanation. Your theory is that a person who does something like this has no reason behind his actions? It's just the drugs?"
"And your theory is the burning is a physical manifestation of the metaphorical burning of what went wrong in his life… There's always some deeper meaning…" House mocked.
"Isn't there always a deeper meaning?" Wilson asked curiously, "Even to drug use?"
"No" House paused and got up to his feet, "It's late. Let's get out of here." He said and threw a 10-dollar bill on the greasy counter.
Wilson nodded and followed his limping friend.
...
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" House asked, squinting at the sun filled dunes in front of him.
"Pretty sure, yeah…" Wilson threw one leg over the rented green and purple dirt bike. "Getting pretty good at riding, thought I'd enjoy the more extreme approach…"
House sighed, hopping on a red and white bike, "It's not extreme to say it's extreme, Kyle…"
"Don't care…" Wilson replied coolly, putting on a pair of aviator shades. "Let's do this…"
Wilson took off in a green and purple blur. House stayed back for a few moments, watching his friend maneuver through the sandy hills with hardly any skill or accuracy. Wilson had to stump his feet on the thin wobbly sand a few times in order to keep his balance.
House smiled, fired up the engine and began riding towards Wilson. Unlike his inexperienced friend, House knew how to handle a bike off road pretty well, a skill that probably saved his life many times in the past. Wilson watched in awe as the red blur zigzagged and zoomed through and over the sand dunes-creating patterns that made the sand hills look more like soft serve ice cream or fluffy clouds.
House's bike then stopped abruptly inches from Wilson's, throwing sand in all directions.
"You've done this before…" Wilson said dryly, shaking sand off his jacket.
"What? No! Never…" House joked, "Come on, I'll show you how to keep your balance…"
Wilson nodded and placed his helmet back on.
The two spent the entire afternoon riding the dunes. At first Wilson was a bit wobbly, but with a few pointers from House, he managed to work out a way to keep his balance and keep the bike from tipping over. The key was mostly speed and feeling out your next move-a mix between speed, accuracy and fast thinking, sort of like walking a tightrope.
As the sun began to set, the dunes turned from light beige to deep red-lighting up like a fire against the purple and orange sky. And between the deep velvety clouds and the smooth dunes, it was hard to tell which way was up and which was down. It was almost like heaven and earth have collided-though Wilson wouldn't dare voicing that metaphor out loud in front of House.
"Had enough?" House asked, taking off his helmet and ruffling his newly formed helmet-hair.
Wilson took a deep breath, "Yeah…" He looked at House sincerely, "Thanks, it was fun."
House eyed Wilson, noticing his friend's breaths were beginning to sound tighter and shallower. He gave it a second to see if Wilson would say anything, but when he didn't House decided he wouldn't point it out either-it was probably just irritation from all the sand and dust.
They rode the dirt bikes back to the small rental shack and picked up their own bikes. Their motel was only 5 miles away, but half way through the ride, House noticed Wilson was lagging further and further behind. He pulled the brakes and waited on the side of the road for Wilson to catch up. He watched the other bike wobble slightly, as Wilson struggled to position himself.
"Why'd you stop?" Wilson asked when he finally caught up, his bike still roaring and ready to go.
"Get off the bike…" House ordered dryly.
"Wha…" Wilson croaked. It was only then he noticed how heavily he was leaning on the front of the bike.
House's blue eyes conveyed an emotion not short of heartbreak as he watched Wilson cough heavily for a moment before catching an incredibly shaky breath and crawling off the bike, one hand still hanging on to the handle.
Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, when he opened them; House's hand was extended toward him.
"Squeeze my hand…" House ordered. Wilson complied and said nothing-truth was he was kind of pissed off at his body's sudden lack of cooperation.
"Strong enough to ride on the back of mine… Hop on…" House climbed on his bike and waited for Wilson to follow, but the other man remained where he stood at the side of the road, eyeing his own bike.
"Fuck the bike Wilson… Lets go…"
But he didn't budge, and the increasing pallor of his face was beginning to worry House.
"WILSON!" House over annunciated each syllable to convey his urgency, "We'll call Triple-A and they'll get the damn bike… Now climb up here or I'll duct-tape you to the back…"
"I can ride it back…" Wilson argued.
"No you can't…" House painfully watched Wilson struggle with the reality of the situation.
Wilson bit his lip and filled his aching chest with as much fresh air as he possibly could. He then proceeded to kick the wheel of his own bike, and looking up to the now deep purple sky-he threw his middle finger to the air.
"Save it for someone who cares…" House interrupted, "Or for someone who actually exists…"
Wilson nodded, his face painted with obvious agitation. Still a bit out of breath, he climbed on the back of House's bike and they sped away.
...
"How many miles does it have on it?"
"A lot… It's a 40-year-old car…"
House circled the beat-up automobile-a 1970's Dodge Challenger, original parts, the original interior was ripped to shreds and the original two-tone black and orange paint job showed clear signs of age and rust.
"Does it run?" House asked the overweight old man named Earl. Earl had a barn chalked-full of classic and old junk cars, which he sold mostly to collectors. He was somewhat of a legend in the area, making a decent living off of the abandoned cars for over 50 years now.
Earl let out a pig-like snort, "Maybe... Haven't driven the damn thing in 30 years…"
"I'll take it." House decided, "How much?"
Earl wrote down the sum on a piece of paper.
"Hmm…" House growled, gesturing a "so-so" motion with his hand.
Earl shrugged, "That clown, D-bag, back there already gave me a good offer on the car, take it or leave it." He pointed to a skinny tattooed smiley young man who stood in the corner inspecting a 1967 Impala, obviously a collector and a regular customer.
House contemplated his next move, wishing he had his big tennis ball to swirl around and help him think.
"Think fast old man…" Earl warned, "I can see D-bag wrapping up back there and to be honest, I would much rather see the car go to you than him and his crap-sack monkey show."
"What?" House wasn't sure he was following Earl's colorful choice of words.
"D-bag back there is a regular customer of mine. He has one of those so called 'reality shows'… He buys cars from my garage, throws some shiny paint on them in front of the camera and then sells them to morons for 5 times more money than what he bought them for right here." Earl paused, rolling his eyes. "It has an entertainment value I guess, and I can't say no to him, pays my bills… But the whole practice just rubs me the wrong way…"
Earl looked back once more at the so-called "D-bag", who was now eying an old 1955 Porsche. Once again Earl let out a pig-like snort, and spit to the ground with an air of irritation to his action.
"Hey Earl…" House got the heavy-set man's attention, "Would you consider a trade?"
...
"Where've you been?" an incredibly disheveled Wilson asked as House crept back into the motel room.
"Good to have you back in the land of the living…" House smiled, signing Wilson to scooch-over so he can take a seat next to him on the couch.
"How long have I been out of it?" Wilson asked stretching and wrapping the throw around him more tightly.
"Three days… On and off…" House replied, inspecting Wilson carefully. He tried to reach to check Wilson's vitals but he quickly pulled away.
"It's okay… House…" Wilson said rather coldly, "It's fine… I'm a doctor too…" he lowered his gaze and let three deep coughs escape into the palm of his hand.
"You look like you're still running a fever and that cough…"
"House…" Wilson warned, "Stop hovering…"
House never thought it was even humanly possible to use the word "hovering" to describe him, but Wilson seemed keen on having his own space, so he complied and just nodded.
"I want to head down south…" Wilson said in a determined yet slightly shaky voice.
"Sounds like a plan…" House agreed.
"No…" Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated at just how sick he sounded, "I mean now… We wasted three days…"
"You're still too sick…"
"I'm sick ALL the time!" Wilson blurted.
"You know what I mean…" House tried to remain calm, "Just let your immune system pick up for a few more days and…"
"You don't get to decide! And stop hovering… This whole you taking care of me thing is getting too close for comfort…"
"Too close for comfort?" House snorted, "I changed your damn adult diaper during your little chemo escapade and this is too close for comfort?"
Wilson said nothing, but by the way he was clenching his fists and biting his lower lip, House could tell that little remark pissed his friend off.
"Too soon? That's too bad because I got some really sweet cancer jokes if you feel me being nice to you is too close to comfort…" House retorted.
Wilson shot up to his feet and stormed out of the room.
"Hey!" House limped after him, "Where' you going?"
"I need some air…" Wilson said with a great deal of urgency, "Where's my bike?"
"About that…" House tried to explain.
"Hou…James!" Wilson corrected himself, "Where did you park the damn bike?"
House knew there was no use in even trying to explain so he decided he would just show Wilson. "Come on…" He said and Wilson followed.
They walked for half a block down the main street of the small town, before taking a left into an industrial looking area. House pulled out a key and opened the lock on one of the many garage doors-revealing the fixed-up Dodge Challenger.
"What's this?" Wilson asked.
"Our new ride… I've been fixing her up while your cancer was giving you the middle finger."
House waited for Wilson to smile, laugh, scream-have any sort of reaction. But he didn't.
"Did your sense of humor shrink instead of your tumor?" He tried again. But when Wilson didn't react this time, House knew this idea wasn't going down well with Wilson.
"Where's my bike?" Wilson asked, his patience reaching its limit.
"I traded the bikes for the car…" House replied.
Wilson huffed in irritation, "You traded MY bike?"
"It's an awesome car!" House yelped defensively.
Wilson glared at House angrily, "You had no right…"
"It's a 1970's…"
"It was MY bike… My money!"
"Original engine…"
"It was MINE! You had no right to just give it away!"
"You can't ride the bike anymore, Wilson!" House finally spit out, putting an end to the storm.
Wilson seemed to have run out of words.
"Car is safer…" House continued, his gaze lowered to the ground, "Considering your…." He looked up and met Wilson's gaze, "Situation…"
"Yeah…" Wilson huffed ironically, "Situation…"
"So…" House growled, "Are we cool?"
Wilson thought for a moment, he then walked toward House and gave him the mother of all right-hooks straight to the cheekbone. House fell to the ground and looked up to his friend.
"Nice hook… Much improved since the last time you punched me…" House commented shakily as he nursed his right cheek.
Wilson caught his breath; "If you pull something like this without telling me one more time, I'll make sure next time I use an adult diaper it will somehow get dumped on your head…"
Wilson could see House's blue-eyes widen in shock.
"Relax it's a joke…" Wilson said as he walked away, "Where's your sense of tumor?"
House grabbed the side of the car and helped himself up to his feet, hiding his smile as Wilson walked away.
...
It was the middle of the night, and while House was fast asleep with an icepack on his bruised cheekbone, Wilson found himself wide-awake and in deep thought.
It was around 3am when the faint smell of smoke began to creep in the room. Wilson pulled himself to sitting position and looked out the window only to see the dancing flicker of what looked like flames.
Confused, and now very curious, Wilson got up, threw a sweatshirt on and stepped outside. He walked to the back of the motel row to where he knew the window was directed, and that's when he saw him.
"The arsonist…" Wilson mumbled under his breath. He couldn't believe his eyes; a young man, in his early 30's stood in front of him. He had a heavy beard for his age and moved very fast, but Wilson noticed something.
"Your pupils aren't dilated…"
The young man yelped and froze in his spot, W…what?" he choked; confused by the odd choice of words considering he was caught dead hand in the act.
"Your pupils…" Wilson came closer, "You're not on drugs…"
"So…?" The young man asked.
Wilson shrugged, "Nothing… My friend said that…" He sighed, "Forget it… Long story…"
The arsonist was in shock, and now extremely curious, when he noticed Wilson was rubbing his hands together in front of the fire he had created in the most casual of matters.
"Are you… okay, sir?" the arsonist asked.
"Me? Oh…" Wilson laughed when he realized what he was doing, "Yeah… Well, I mean, no not really, I have cancer…"
"I'm…Sorry…" The young man said, scratching his beard.
"It's fine… Well, it's not… My friend traded my bike for a car behind my back…"
"That's a crappy move…" The arsonist pointed out.
"No…" Wilson proceeded, "He's right, I can't ride it, I can barely breath on it…"
"I'm sorry…"
Wilson chuckled nervously, "Stop it…I wish everyone would stop being sorry"
The arsonist just looked back and forth between the fire and Wilson, at a complete loss of words.
"He's too nice to me…" Wilson said softly, now sitting on an empty tank of gas in front of the growing fire.
"Who?"
"My frie… my brother… James…" Wilson corrected, "He used to be an ass but now… He watches over me, he cares too much-he changed…"
"Change is good…"
Wilson nodded, staring into the flickering flames, "Yeah…" He snuck a cough into his fist, "I thought so too but…"
Wilson's trail of thought suddenly refocused.
"Why are you doing this?" He asked the arsonist.
The young bearded man shrugged, "Reasons…"
"So there is a reason?" Wilson pondered.
"Isn't there always?" The arsonist asked, "Is there a reason why you're out here talking to me in the middle of the night?" he retorted.
"I don't want my brother to change and be a better person… Only so he can fall apart after I die…" Wilson's voice saddened, "He would've been better off staying an ass, going to prison and not watching me die…"
"He's your brother… He loves you…"
Wilson chuckled, "No… You don't know him… Love is not a part of his game… loyalty maybe… Dependence? Habit perhaps… But no… He doesn't love."
The arsonist fidgeted in his spot before Wilson turned to face him again.
"I'm going to… I'm gonna have to call…" Wilson pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.
"Oh…" the arsonist nodded, "Yeah sure… I understand…"
Wilson took a few steps back, "I'll give you a 3 minute head start so…"
The arsonist nodded and licked his lips nervously.
"Thanks for listening…" Wilson added as he walked away and dialed 911.
...
The infamous arsonist was caught in the early hours of the morning after lighting what seemed to be a small bonfire behind an Interstate 25 motel. It is not clear if his intentions were to light up a bigger fire as the 911 call was made anonymously and there were no other witnesses…
"We're lucky…" House pointed out as he took a sip of coffee, making a face when he realized how bitter it was.
"Yup…" Wilson replied, "Is the car ready?"
"Good to go…" House said as he poured another sugar packet into the coffee mug, "Whenever you're ready… At least we know there's no chance of anyone burning us down on the way now…"
"Remind me again what we're the circumstances of your death?" Wilson asked dryly.
"Touché…" House said. He was glad to see Wilson's sense of irony and humor were back. "Well, I'm done here. Ready to roll?"
"Only if I drive…" Wilson said, grabbing his jacket.
"Come on… I've worked on this car, we've bonded-I deserve the first round…" House argued.
"We'll flip a coin for it…" Wilson said as the two stepped out of the diner, "Hey, did I tell you about the crazy dream I had last night?"
"Nope…"
"Well, I looked out the window and saw this red flickering light…"
That day Wilson decided, that no matter what will happen next, he was fine with House sticking by his side- he was now sure that House had his reasons.
Genre: Drama/Adventure/Friendship/Humor/Angst and pretty much anything in between as the chapters progress.
Characters/Pairing(s): G. House, J. Wilson/ Extreme Friendship
Spoilers/Warnings: post-series finale. Mild cursing, drug-use and adult situations. (In some chapters)
Summary: A trip to the sand dunes forces Wilson to confront his illness and come to terms with it. House tries to be helpful.
-Pt 7-
"No news yet leading to the arrest of the arsonist who is responsible for over 40 deadly fires in residential and industrials areas in the past week. If you have any information we urge you to contact the sheriff's department at..."
House was staring at the old 14-inch television set that hung high over the bar. He grabbed another fry and dipped it in a revolting mixture of Thousand Island dressing and yellow mustard.
"How can you even light 40 fires in a week?" Wilson commented, "He'd literally have to never stop!"
House just shrugged and kept his eyes glued to the television.
"Or…" Wilson tapped his fingers on the sticky wooden bar surface as the wheels in his brain kept turning, "Maybe he isn't acting alone…" he turned back to House looking for a response-when he failed to receive one, he just nodded, "Yeah… There has to be more than one… It's the only logical explanation" fairly pleased with his conclusion, Wilson grabbed a fry and nibbled on it happily.
"He's on his own…" House noted and helped himself to some of the fries on Wilson's plate.
Wilson, noticing that House's own plate of food was now empty, guarded his own plate and pressed his eyebrows, "One person couldn't possibly… The time alone…"
"Amphetamines… Bath Salts, Et cetera… Et cetera… Are you going to finish that?" House asked nonchalantly, eyeing the elusive plate of fried goods.
"No…" Wilson rolled his eyes. "Have at it…" House greedily grabbed the plate.
"But why would you assume it's some psycho drug trip over a criminal partnership?" Wilson asked curiously.
House eyed Wilson as if he was a small, very stupid, child. "What group of people do you know go torch towns non stop for a week just for kicks? Not exactly the best group activity… Unless you want to…" House gestured toward himself and Wilson, then lit the invisible match that was his finger and pretended to throw it behind the bar, adding some "fiery" sound effects.
"So your only logical explanation is that there isn't a logical explanation?" Wilson grabbed another fry from the plate in front of House and dipped it in ranch sauce.
"Drug induced psychosis is a logical explanation. It explains everything."
Wilson chuckled, "No it's not… It's no explanation. Your theory is that a person who does something like this has no reason behind his actions? It's just the drugs?"
"And your theory is the burning is a physical manifestation of the metaphorical burning of what went wrong in his life… There's always some deeper meaning…" House mocked.
"Isn't there always a deeper meaning?" Wilson asked curiously, "Even to drug use?"
"No" House paused and got up to his feet, "It's late. Let's get out of here." He said and threw a 10-dollar bill on the greasy counter.
Wilson nodded and followed his limping friend.
...
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" House asked, squinting at the sun filled dunes in front of him.
"Pretty sure, yeah…" Wilson threw one leg over the rented green and purple dirt bike. "Getting pretty good at riding, thought I'd enjoy the more extreme approach…"
House sighed, hopping on a red and white bike, "It's not extreme to say it's extreme, Kyle…"
"Don't care…" Wilson replied coolly, putting on a pair of aviator shades. "Let's do this…"
Wilson took off in a green and purple blur. House stayed back for a few moments, watching his friend maneuver through the sandy hills with hardly any skill or accuracy. Wilson had to stump his feet on the thin wobbly sand a few times in order to keep his balance.
House smiled, fired up the engine and began riding towards Wilson. Unlike his inexperienced friend, House knew how to handle a bike off road pretty well, a skill that probably saved his life many times in the past. Wilson watched in awe as the red blur zigzagged and zoomed through and over the sand dunes-creating patterns that made the sand hills look more like soft serve ice cream or fluffy clouds.
House's bike then stopped abruptly inches from Wilson's, throwing sand in all directions.
"You've done this before…" Wilson said dryly, shaking sand off his jacket.
"What? No! Never…" House joked, "Come on, I'll show you how to keep your balance…"
Wilson nodded and placed his helmet back on.
The two spent the entire afternoon riding the dunes. At first Wilson was a bit wobbly, but with a few pointers from House, he managed to work out a way to keep his balance and keep the bike from tipping over. The key was mostly speed and feeling out your next move-a mix between speed, accuracy and fast thinking, sort of like walking a tightrope.
As the sun began to set, the dunes turned from light beige to deep red-lighting up like a fire against the purple and orange sky. And between the deep velvety clouds and the smooth dunes, it was hard to tell which way was up and which was down. It was almost like heaven and earth have collided-though Wilson wouldn't dare voicing that metaphor out loud in front of House.
"Had enough?" House asked, taking off his helmet and ruffling his newly formed helmet-hair.
Wilson took a deep breath, "Yeah…" He looked at House sincerely, "Thanks, it was fun."
House eyed Wilson, noticing his friend's breaths were beginning to sound tighter and shallower. He gave it a second to see if Wilson would say anything, but when he didn't House decided he wouldn't point it out either-it was probably just irritation from all the sand and dust.
They rode the dirt bikes back to the small rental shack and picked up their own bikes. Their motel was only 5 miles away, but half way through the ride, House noticed Wilson was lagging further and further behind. He pulled the brakes and waited on the side of the road for Wilson to catch up. He watched the other bike wobble slightly, as Wilson struggled to position himself.
"Why'd you stop?" Wilson asked when he finally caught up, his bike still roaring and ready to go.
"Get off the bike…" House ordered dryly.
"Wha…" Wilson croaked. It was only then he noticed how heavily he was leaning on the front of the bike.
House's blue eyes conveyed an emotion not short of heartbreak as he watched Wilson cough heavily for a moment before catching an incredibly shaky breath and crawling off the bike, one hand still hanging on to the handle.
Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, when he opened them; House's hand was extended toward him.
"Squeeze my hand…" House ordered. Wilson complied and said nothing-truth was he was kind of pissed off at his body's sudden lack of cooperation.
"Strong enough to ride on the back of mine… Hop on…" House climbed on his bike and waited for Wilson to follow, but the other man remained where he stood at the side of the road, eyeing his own bike.
"Fuck the bike Wilson… Lets go…"
But he didn't budge, and the increasing pallor of his face was beginning to worry House.
"WILSON!" House over annunciated each syllable to convey his urgency, "We'll call Triple-A and they'll get the damn bike… Now climb up here or I'll duct-tape you to the back…"
"I can ride it back…" Wilson argued.
"No you can't…" House painfully watched Wilson struggle with the reality of the situation.
Wilson bit his lip and filled his aching chest with as much fresh air as he possibly could. He then proceeded to kick the wheel of his own bike, and looking up to the now deep purple sky-he threw his middle finger to the air.
"Save it for someone who cares…" House interrupted, "Or for someone who actually exists…"
Wilson nodded, his face painted with obvious agitation. Still a bit out of breath, he climbed on the back of House's bike and they sped away.
...
"How many miles does it have on it?"
"A lot… It's a 40-year-old car…"
House circled the beat-up automobile-a 1970's Dodge Challenger, original parts, the original interior was ripped to shreds and the original two-tone black and orange paint job showed clear signs of age and rust.
"Does it run?" House asked the overweight old man named Earl. Earl had a barn chalked-full of classic and old junk cars, which he sold mostly to collectors. He was somewhat of a legend in the area, making a decent living off of the abandoned cars for over 50 years now.
Earl let out a pig-like snort, "Maybe... Haven't driven the damn thing in 30 years…"
"I'll take it." House decided, "How much?"
Earl wrote down the sum on a piece of paper.
"Hmm…" House growled, gesturing a "so-so" motion with his hand.
Earl shrugged, "That clown, D-bag, back there already gave me a good offer on the car, take it or leave it." He pointed to a skinny tattooed smiley young man who stood in the corner inspecting a 1967 Impala, obviously a collector and a regular customer.
House contemplated his next move, wishing he had his big tennis ball to swirl around and help him think.
"Think fast old man…" Earl warned, "I can see D-bag wrapping up back there and to be honest, I would much rather see the car go to you than him and his crap-sack monkey show."
"What?" House wasn't sure he was following Earl's colorful choice of words.
"D-bag back there is a regular customer of mine. He has one of those so called 'reality shows'… He buys cars from my garage, throws some shiny paint on them in front of the camera and then sells them to morons for 5 times more money than what he bought them for right here." Earl paused, rolling his eyes. "It has an entertainment value I guess, and I can't say no to him, pays my bills… But the whole practice just rubs me the wrong way…"
Earl looked back once more at the so-called "D-bag", who was now eying an old 1955 Porsche. Once again Earl let out a pig-like snort, and spit to the ground with an air of irritation to his action.
"Hey Earl…" House got the heavy-set man's attention, "Would you consider a trade?"
...
"Where've you been?" an incredibly disheveled Wilson asked as House crept back into the motel room.
"Good to have you back in the land of the living…" House smiled, signing Wilson to scooch-over so he can take a seat next to him on the couch.
"How long have I been out of it?" Wilson asked stretching and wrapping the throw around him more tightly.
"Three days… On and off…" House replied, inspecting Wilson carefully. He tried to reach to check Wilson's vitals but he quickly pulled away.
"It's okay… House…" Wilson said rather coldly, "It's fine… I'm a doctor too…" he lowered his gaze and let three deep coughs escape into the palm of his hand.
"You look like you're still running a fever and that cough…"
"House…" Wilson warned, "Stop hovering…"
House never thought it was even humanly possible to use the word "hovering" to describe him, but Wilson seemed keen on having his own space, so he complied and just nodded.
"I want to head down south…" Wilson said in a determined yet slightly shaky voice.
"Sounds like a plan…" House agreed.
"No…" Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated at just how sick he sounded, "I mean now… We wasted three days…"
"You're still too sick…"
"I'm sick ALL the time!" Wilson blurted.
"You know what I mean…" House tried to remain calm, "Just let your immune system pick up for a few more days and…"
"You don't get to decide! And stop hovering… This whole you taking care of me thing is getting too close for comfort…"
"Too close for comfort?" House snorted, "I changed your damn adult diaper during your little chemo escapade and this is too close for comfort?"
Wilson said nothing, but by the way he was clenching his fists and biting his lower lip, House could tell that little remark pissed his friend off.
"Too soon? That's too bad because I got some really sweet cancer jokes if you feel me being nice to you is too close to comfort…" House retorted.
Wilson shot up to his feet and stormed out of the room.
"Hey!" House limped after him, "Where' you going?"
"I need some air…" Wilson said with a great deal of urgency, "Where's my bike?"
"About that…" House tried to explain.
"Hou…James!" Wilson corrected himself, "Where did you park the damn bike?"
House knew there was no use in even trying to explain so he decided he would just show Wilson. "Come on…" He said and Wilson followed.
They walked for half a block down the main street of the small town, before taking a left into an industrial looking area. House pulled out a key and opened the lock on one of the many garage doors-revealing the fixed-up Dodge Challenger.
"What's this?" Wilson asked.
"Our new ride… I've been fixing her up while your cancer was giving you the middle finger."
House waited for Wilson to smile, laugh, scream-have any sort of reaction. But he didn't.
"Did your sense of humor shrink instead of your tumor?" He tried again. But when Wilson didn't react this time, House knew this idea wasn't going down well with Wilson.
"Where's my bike?" Wilson asked, his patience reaching its limit.
"I traded the bikes for the car…" House replied.
Wilson huffed in irritation, "You traded MY bike?"
"It's an awesome car!" House yelped defensively.
Wilson glared at House angrily, "You had no right…"
"It's a 1970's…"
"It was MY bike… My money!"
"Original engine…"
"It was MINE! You had no right to just give it away!"
"You can't ride the bike anymore, Wilson!" House finally spit out, putting an end to the storm.
Wilson seemed to have run out of words.
"Car is safer…" House continued, his gaze lowered to the ground, "Considering your…." He looked up and met Wilson's gaze, "Situation…"
"Yeah…" Wilson huffed ironically, "Situation…"
"So…" House growled, "Are we cool?"
Wilson thought for a moment, he then walked toward House and gave him the mother of all right-hooks straight to the cheekbone. House fell to the ground and looked up to his friend.
"Nice hook… Much improved since the last time you punched me…" House commented shakily as he nursed his right cheek.
Wilson caught his breath; "If you pull something like this without telling me one more time, I'll make sure next time I use an adult diaper it will somehow get dumped on your head…"
Wilson could see House's blue-eyes widen in shock.
"Relax it's a joke…" Wilson said as he walked away, "Where's your sense of tumor?"
House grabbed the side of the car and helped himself up to his feet, hiding his smile as Wilson walked away.
...
It was the middle of the night, and while House was fast asleep with an icepack on his bruised cheekbone, Wilson found himself wide-awake and in deep thought.
It was around 3am when the faint smell of smoke began to creep in the room. Wilson pulled himself to sitting position and looked out the window only to see the dancing flicker of what looked like flames.
Confused, and now very curious, Wilson got up, threw a sweatshirt on and stepped outside. He walked to the back of the motel row to where he knew the window was directed, and that's when he saw him.
"The arsonist…" Wilson mumbled under his breath. He couldn't believe his eyes; a young man, in his early 30's stood in front of him. He had a heavy beard for his age and moved very fast, but Wilson noticed something.
"Your pupils aren't dilated…"
The young man yelped and froze in his spot, W…what?" he choked; confused by the odd choice of words considering he was caught dead hand in the act.
"Your pupils…" Wilson came closer, "You're not on drugs…"
"So…?" The young man asked.
Wilson shrugged, "Nothing… My friend said that…" He sighed, "Forget it… Long story…"
The arsonist was in shock, and now extremely curious, when he noticed Wilson was rubbing his hands together in front of the fire he had created in the most casual of matters.
"Are you… okay, sir?" the arsonist asked.
"Me? Oh…" Wilson laughed when he realized what he was doing, "Yeah… Well, I mean, no not really, I have cancer…"
"I'm…Sorry…" The young man said, scratching his beard.
"It's fine… Well, it's not… My friend traded my bike for a car behind my back…"
"That's a crappy move…" The arsonist pointed out.
"No…" Wilson proceeded, "He's right, I can't ride it, I can barely breath on it…"
"I'm sorry…"
Wilson chuckled nervously, "Stop it…I wish everyone would stop being sorry"
The arsonist just looked back and forth between the fire and Wilson, at a complete loss of words.
"He's too nice to me…" Wilson said softly, now sitting on an empty tank of gas in front of the growing fire.
"Who?"
"My frie… my brother… James…" Wilson corrected, "He used to be an ass but now… He watches over me, he cares too much-he changed…"
"Change is good…"
Wilson nodded, staring into the flickering flames, "Yeah…" He snuck a cough into his fist, "I thought so too but…"
Wilson's trail of thought suddenly refocused.
"Why are you doing this?" He asked the arsonist.
The young bearded man shrugged, "Reasons…"
"So there is a reason?" Wilson pondered.
"Isn't there always?" The arsonist asked, "Is there a reason why you're out here talking to me in the middle of the night?" he retorted.
"I don't want my brother to change and be a better person… Only so he can fall apart after I die…" Wilson's voice saddened, "He would've been better off staying an ass, going to prison and not watching me die…"
"He's your brother… He loves you…"
Wilson chuckled, "No… You don't know him… Love is not a part of his game… loyalty maybe… Dependence? Habit perhaps… But no… He doesn't love."
The arsonist fidgeted in his spot before Wilson turned to face him again.
"I'm going to… I'm gonna have to call…" Wilson pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.
"Oh…" the arsonist nodded, "Yeah sure… I understand…"
Wilson took a few steps back, "I'll give you a 3 minute head start so…"
The arsonist nodded and licked his lips nervously.
"Thanks for listening…" Wilson added as he walked away and dialed 911.
...
The infamous arsonist was caught in the early hours of the morning after lighting what seemed to be a small bonfire behind an Interstate 25 motel. It is not clear if his intentions were to light up a bigger fire as the 911 call was made anonymously and there were no other witnesses…
"We're lucky…" House pointed out as he took a sip of coffee, making a face when he realized how bitter it was.
"Yup…" Wilson replied, "Is the car ready?"
"Good to go…" House said as he poured another sugar packet into the coffee mug, "Whenever you're ready… At least we know there's no chance of anyone burning us down on the way now…"
"Remind me again what we're the circumstances of your death?" Wilson asked dryly.
"Touché…" House said. He was glad to see Wilson's sense of irony and humor were back. "Well, I'm done here. Ready to roll?"
"Only if I drive…" Wilson said, grabbing his jacket.
"Come on… I've worked on this car, we've bonded-I deserve the first round…" House argued.
"We'll flip a coin for it…" Wilson said as the two stepped out of the diner, "Hey, did I tell you about the crazy dream I had last night?"
"Nope…"
"Well, I looked out the window and saw this red flickering light…"
That day Wilson decided, that no matter what will happen next, he was fine with House sticking by his side- he was now sure that House had his reasons.