OH HI GUYS (ETA FUCK THIS SHIT, I CANNOT FORMAT TO SAVE MY LIFE, CLEARLY. GIVE ME A SECOND)
Ugh. I'm not writing at the moment, because if I get time to eat, sleep, read and wash then I'm having a good day, to be honest. What I WILL do for now is post the beginnings of stories that I haven't finished yet, and... um... you can, like, read them, or whatever. I don't know. I'm tired. Also, my flatmates are a shower of bastards and I want to move (not just because they're a shower of bastards, for more reasons). I feel like Peter Serafinowicz: "I've got to go to funking work in four funking hours!" "Prink."
Anyway, here's some shit you can read or not. THE CHOICE IS YOURS.
Departure Bay for
elicia8
Wilson wondered if he should be worried. House wasn't exactly one for vacations, and staying in a cabin didn't seem like his style at all. He decided to let it go for now. House was humming along happily to a Tom Waits track (sounded like something off of Raindogs, but he couldn't be sure), and he was driving like a normal person, and it was sunny, and, hell, he'd invited Wilson. The way things were going lately (not awful, just... not great), any gesture of friendship was better than nothing.
They stopped off at a diner (Lucille's, or so claimed the slightly faded sign) about an hour away. It was around seven, and the sun was beginning to sink, although it was still bright and warm. Wilson just had a coffee, but House ordered some kind of gooey-looking cake and ate it with his fingers. It fell apart, getting frosting on his shirt, but he didn't seem to mind. Wilson watched him, trying not to look as amused as he actually was. He aimed for resigned tolerance instead. Suddenly, Wild Thing came on the tinny radio and House started drumming the table in time. After a few seconds he stopped and looked at Wilson expactantly.
"What, don't I get your patented embarrassed glare? Aren't you going to glance apologetically at the waitress?"
Wilson just smiled beatifically at him. "Nope. You're going to have to try harder."
"Is that a challenge? You're going to regret that."
Wilson shrugged and started quietly singing along. House resumed his percussion and joined in the vocals. It soon devolved into a tacit competition to see who could sing "I think I love you" in the most melodramatic tone of voice, so that when the waitress arrived Wilson had his head in hands he was laughing so hard, and House had to kick him under the table so that he could pay. He caught House rolling his eyes at her, but it just made him laugh harder.
When they finally arrived the sun was low and golden, and everything was casting long shadows on the ground. There was something nostalgic and hazy about the quality of the light, and Wilson had to stop a second to take in the reflection of the trees in the lake, and how clean the air tasted. House poked his leg with the cane.
"I'll deal with the luggage, shall I?"
"Oh, sorry," said Wilson. "I was just... it's really beautiful, isn't it?"
House didn't make a sarcastic remark, which was probably his version of enthusiastic agreement. Wilson tried to pick up three suitcases at once, and promptly lost his balance.
"Smooth," said House.
Eleanor's Ring for
betteronvicodin
"Oh, that's it. That is it. I am never going along with one of your brilliant ideas ever again."
"I didn't plan this, you know."
"Oh, sure. Your finger just slipped onto that 'do not press' button."
"If a button says 'do not press', what am I supposed to do?"
"How about not press it?"
"Maybe that's what you would do, but you're not a normal person."
Wilson put his hands on his hips and glared at him.
"Fine," said House. "Fine. We could argue all day about whether a normal person would press the 'do not press' button or not, or we could work out how to fix this."
"What's in that bindle?"
House unwrapped it. A pile of clothes fell to the floor, and in their wake a small, yellowing piece of paper fluttered down. House sorted the clothes into two piles, and then looked at the note. In order to be reverse the polarity of neutron flow, it read, user must to locate Eleanor's ring and feeding it into chronology slot A. "Ugh," said House. "I hate it when these things are badly translated."
Wilson peered over his shoulder. "Eleanor's ring? Nice."
"Oh, your mind would go there, wouldn't it?"
Wilson flushed. "What? No. That's not what I... what's that, is it a cloak?"
House held it out. "Yep. And it's mine, you're not having it."
"What does that label say?"
House looked at it. "'This evil-looking cloak belongs to Prince Greggy the Indestructible'," he read. "Greggy? God, that's humiliating. Why couldn't I have had something like... I dunno... Ludwig?"
"Yeah, Ludwig is so much less gay," said Wilson, rolling his eyes. "Who am I?"
"It doesn't say. You can be my sidekick."
"Well, that's typical. Thank you so much."
"How do I look?" asked House, wrapping the cape around his shoulders.
"Like Boris Karloff. I'm not wearing the small codpiece, so you can forget that."
***
"My lord, news!" said the messenger.
"Yes, out with it?" snapped Edmund, engrossed in polishing his goblet.
"The Evil Prince Greggy has arrived in the kingdom."
"Never heard of him. Who is he?"
"I don't know, 'Evil Prince Greggy' is all I was given, my lord."
"Right, thank you, you can sod off now." As the messenger did so, Edmund turned to his faithful manservant, S Baldrick. "So, we have a newcomer in the kingdom, do we? 'The Evil Prince Greggy' - I like the sound of him, I must say. What do you know of him?"
"I've heard he's a bloodthirsty tyrant, my lord. He'll stop at nothing to conquer any kingdom he sets foot in."
"Well, we can't have that! We'll have to have him killed, I suppose."
"Or... we could make friends with him, allow him to dispose of the obstacles to the throne, and then get him to stick his head down a cannon."
"No, wait, Baldrick - I have a better idea. We'll make friends with him, allow him to dispose of the obstacles to the throne, and then get him to stick his head down a cannon!"
"Bravo, my lord!" said Baldrick.
***
"So who is this chick, and how do we get hold of her bling?" mused House, glancing back at the Anachronism Machine to check where they'd parked - by a tree. That narrowed it down.
"Probably Eleanor of Aquitaine," posited Wilson.
"Why's that?"
"Because... I've heard of her."
"Great. Got to be. It could only be somebody you've heard of, of course."
"You have any better ideas?"
House looked at him for a second, and then started walking again, stabbing his cane into the ground slightly more ferociously than before. "Fine. We'll go to the palace, or castle, or whatever, and see if they can tell us where her jewelry is. She's dead by now, right?"
"This is late fifteenth century?"
"I'm pretty sure that's what it said."
"She's been dead for almost three centuries, then."
"Cool. So she won't mind if we borrow her ring."
"Uh... she won't. I wouldn't count on the King being quite so understanding, though. It's probably valuable."
"Who's the King?"
"Should be Henry the seventh."
"I could take that pussy. How come you know so much about medieval history, by the way?"
"Some of us read."
House looked at him.
"Fine. Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I watch the History Channel."
"That's so sad."
"Oh, I know."
***
When they got to the castle, the King was waiting for them in the entrance hall.
"That dude looks nothing like Henry VII," AND THEN IT STOPS MID-SENTENCE FOR... UM... SUSPENSE. NOT BECAUSE I CAN'T EVEN FINISH A DAMN SENTENCE. OH NO.
Untitled thing what I wrote for
get_house_laid
Wilson was tired. Nobody had died today, which was nice, but he'd had to skip lunch, and that always made him feel lethargic. Not to mention the guy in the clinic who kept drooling and then wiping it on the back of his gloves - he'd been a handful. So, being tired, when the too-wholesome-looking girl at reception handed him his mail with a vaguely conspiratorial expression, he thanked her with a weary smile and didn't even glance at it. It was only later that he sifted through the pile and realised he had apparently subscribed to Playgirl magazine.
***
Wilson stuck his head around the door. House hoped he would make a scene right now and liven up the differential, but Wilson wasn't biting.
"Thanks for the gift," he said, with a very convincing show of sincerity.
"It wasn't a gift exactly," House pointed out. "I checked 'bill me later'."
Wilson nodded slowly. "Well, it was very thoughtful, anyway. That Angela woman has completely stopped flirting with me, would you believe?"
"That must be a relief for you." House didn't even attempt to hide his smirk. That bitch had been sniffing around Wilson as though she were on heat for about a fortnight.
"I had no interest in her, House. Sorry to disappoint you and everything, but I'm not really into women who look like they just got into town from Pleasantville."
"Other than your first two wives, you mean?"
"Please. Sally was a closet case from Sif and Bonnie was a Valium addict."
"Valium. What a cliché. Lunch later?"
"Nope. I got an errand."
Batshit insane AU where Wilson is a gay actor for no reason, I don't know
"I'm too gay? It's a gay character!"
A hoarse voice mumbled something at the end of the line.
"Alec," he replied reasonably, "I've slept with, with several women. I was engaged, for God's sake! I can play closeted!"
Another mumble.
"I don't see why it matters if my surname is the same... well, I'll change it. I'll use a pseudonym. I'll be butch. Whatever you want."
The mumble became accusatory.
"Yes, yes, of course I am. I'm going to the gym, I've lost... at least... well, I haven't checked yet, but my watch is definitely looser." He guiltily eyed the remains of his fried breakfast, and trapped the phone between ear and shoulder while he put on his coat and stood up. "Well, screw him! That prissy old queen can blow me. I doubt he'd complain, actually, he's been tr- oh, shit!" He collided with something tall and bony, which went flying. "Alec, I have to call you back." He knelt down over the body of his victim. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Uh, don't move. Are you okay?"
"Are you a doctor?" asked the tall guy, doubtfully.
"I once played a nurse on General Hospital," James replied.
"Okay. Are you a moron?"
"It would certainly appear that way, wouldn't it? I'm really, really sorry. Do you want me to call you a-"
"It's fine. I am a doctor. I should probably just... sit for a minute..."
Wilson helped him into his own now-vacant chair, and sat down opposite. "Did I hurt your leg?"
"Yeah, you've really fucked it up. I only carry this cane to beat children with, but now I might have to actually start using it to walk..."
"Okay, great. I meant did I hurt it more, and you don't have to get pissy with me, it was an accident. You can sue me if you want; all I have is debt anyway."
"Oh, yeah. You can't get acting work because you're too fat and gay."
"You heard that?"
"Nope."
James grinned. He always grinned when anyone insulted him. It didn't stop them doing it, but at least he got a reputation for being laid-back. That was the idea, anyway. All that actually ended up happening was that they'd carry on until it went too far, and then when he got annoyed they'd say he was touchy. James hated actors sometimes. The tall guy, who was kind of hot except for the weak chin, looked exaggeratedly bored. Well, screw him.
"Okay, well, if you're sure you're all right, I'd better be going. I have to call my agent back. Good to meet you. James Wilson." He held out his hand. The guy stared at it, then met his eyes with an expression of disdain. James raised his eyebrows, but didn't move his hand. Eventually, the guy shook it with surprising firmness.
"Doctor House."
James headed for the door, and raised a hand in goodbye as he left. Once he got around the corner he leaned against the wall and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Christ, that was embarrassing. What an asshole.
***
He didn't go back to the diner for a couple of days, partly because of the tall guy, but also because he really did need to drop a few pounds. On Thursday afternoon, though, he had an audition for an off-off-Broadway play about race relations in South Africa, and decided to get a coffee before he set off. He sat at a table in the corner and picked up yesterday's New York Times, which had been left on the seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw somebody moving with a loping gait. Murphy's law. He opened the paper and hid behind it, trying to appear engrossed in an article about lichen. Suddenly a hand appeared in his line of vision. It rested on the top of the paper and pressed down, scrunching it into a rough concertina. James concentrated harder on the (now unreadable) lichen article. He eventually decided, however, that he couldn't pretend to be oblivious for very much longer, so he slowly, slowly looked up. Doctor House was staring down at him with a slightly bemused expression, which didn't look especially comfortable on his face. James got the impression that the look didn't visit very often, and still felt awkward trying to make conversation with his nose.
"How did you know it was me?"
"You're wearing the same shoes, and you have a distinctive scar on the ring finger of your right hand, so..."
"You saw me before I opened the paper?"
"Yeah. You're a bad hider."
"Oh, I... wasn't hiding. I was just sitting here, trying to read about... this... fungus thing... can I help you at all?"
House sat opposite him. He didn't seem to have shaved for a couple of days. He said nothing - just stared at James.
"It suits you."
"What, fungus?"
"The stubble, it makes you look... like... two points hotter."
House's eyebrow twitched, but he kept his expression neutral. "So where do I stand now?"
"Where do you think?" asked James, wishing he hadn't wandered down this conversational avenue.
"I'm guessing two."
James laughed. "Not even close. But you knew that. Seriously, what can I do, are you recovered from yesterday?"
House rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Because I need to get into New York for three, so I should probably get going. Don't want to miss this audition."
"I could give you a ride, if you want."
James paused. He had no idea where this was going, or why this guy had come over to his table, or what the hell he wanted. He weighed up the chances of the guy being a psycho, bent on taking his revenge for being knocked over, against the benefits of being driven to his audition in a vehicle that (hopefully) didn't smell of vomit and stale urine. Tough call.
"Uh... don't you have to work?"
"Got no case at the moment. You'd be doing me a favour, saving me from clinic duty."
WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? TIME TO GO BACK IN THE CUPBOARD? YES MOTHER DEAR