House-fic: None Here But Us Chickens
None Here But Us Chickens
Rating: MH for Mostly Harmless. Also rated BC for Borderline Crack (and possibly NMP for Not Much Plot).
Disclaimer: House is owned by Fox and Bad Hat - not me. I'd have thought that'd be obvious.
A/N: Written for the Sick!House!Character Birthday Bonanza, beta'ed by my longsuffering flist and cross-posted liek woah! No phones, journals, reading glasses, ceilings, bedside tables or chickens were harmed during the production of this story - but the parmesan did go lovely with my dinner.
Summary: Does exactly what it says on the tin.
A phone blared far too loudly for six a.m. on a Saturday; too loudly for any day come to think of it.
A hand groped blindly for the offender. Moments later, a body crashed to the floor dragging with it the phone, finally localized beneath a light covering of dust, two copies of Journal of Pediatric Oncology/Hematology and a pair of reading glasses (now on the floor too, squashed thoroughly flat by a shoulder blade).
"Whuzit?"
"I hate you," said the voice at the other end of the phone cable. Wherever that was.
"Wha?!"
"I really hate you."
"House?" Wilson's right eye cracked open slightly. A chorus of power drills, chain saws and something that sounded vaguely like a sander went off inside his skull. The world was far too bright to face full on at the moment.
"I hate you with the fiery intensity of a thousand glowing supernovas."
If he had to hazard a guess, the thousand fiery supernovas were currently parked outside his bedroom window. It was the only explanation for the blinding glare beaming through the blinds. The construction tool chorus continued its merry serenade as an air hammer joined in. He was fairly sure his brain usually fit inside his skull.
"House, what -"
"Hate, we're talking pure hatred here."
"- the hell are you talking about?"
"Are you being deliberately dense?"
"No, it's a gift. Comes naturally to me when people call me at -" He craned his neck to look at the alarm."- Two minutes past six on a…what's today?"
"The day after the day before today. Ring any bells?"
A couple of stray neurons tried to work that one out while the rest of his brain devoted its meager resources to imploring the bedroom ceiling for some sort of grand explanation. The ceiling remained stubbornly silent. Damnit.
He realized that the line had gone suspiciously silent. House hadn't declared his undying hatred for at least a couple of minutes. He listened more carefully. It sounded almost as if a small whale was dying somewhere in the background. Strange.
He might have been flat on his back but still managed an impressive jolt when House's voice came back.
"Did I mention I hate you?" House rasped in a terminally distressed sort of way.
"Are you all right? You sound a little..." Wilson gestured vaguely in the direction of his bedside table. The bedside table, probably and justifiably not understanding why it was being gestured at, was as little help as the ceiling.
"Yeah, I was just busy turning myself inside out. It's sort of a new hobby I've taken up."
"You're sick?" He sat up abruptly and promptly regretted it as his brain tried to flee out his left nostril. He sniffed a few times. Escape thwarted.
"Yes, Sherlock. Thanks to you, I'm currently worshipping the porcelain goddess," House groaned down the line.
"How is that my fault?"
"Yesterday. Your chicken parmesan."
"Oh, your birthd -"
"Don't -"
"Your not-a-birthday dinner. So what? It wasn't the food. I feel fine. Perhaps you shouldn't have inhaled three beers on top of the -"
"If the next words out of your mouth are 'Vicodin' and not, say, 'don't worry House, I'm coming straight over bringing ginger ale and crackers and I'll clean up your bathroom while I'm there because I feel terribly guilty about poisoning you with putrid chicken', I'll personally make sure you get stuck with every hemorrhoid, abscess and anal fissure that crawls into the clinic until you're too old to crawl there yourself!"
Wilson's small, mortal brain shorted out in honest but utterly futile outrage. It checked back in for a moment before realizing what the words 'cleaning up' and 'bathroom' meant in the grand scheme of things. It promptly went on strike again.
"Wilson!"
Wilson blinked. It felt good so he did it again. And a third time. Oh, right. He tried a few replies on for size before settling on a snarled I'm on my way.
"Good," House barked before the line went dead.
As he climbed to his feet, Wilson finally pinpointed the vague unease he'd felt since falling out of bed and realized three things in quick succession: He was running a fever, his stomach had just started rolling and it was going to be a very long day.
Rating: MH for Mostly Harmless. Also rated BC for Borderline Crack (and possibly NMP for Not Much Plot).
Disclaimer: House is owned by Fox and Bad Hat - not me. I'd have thought that'd be obvious.
A/N: Written for the Sick!House!Character Birthday Bonanza, beta'ed by my longsuffering flist and cross-posted liek woah! No phones, journals, reading glasses, ceilings, bedside tables or chickens were harmed during the production of this story - but the parmesan did go lovely with my dinner.
Summary: Does exactly what it says on the tin.
A phone blared far too loudly for six a.m. on a Saturday; too loudly for any day come to think of it.
A hand groped blindly for the offender. Moments later, a body crashed to the floor dragging with it the phone, finally localized beneath a light covering of dust, two copies of Journal of Pediatric Oncology/Hematology and a pair of reading glasses (now on the floor too, squashed thoroughly flat by a shoulder blade).
"Whuzit?"
"I hate you," said the voice at the other end of the phone cable. Wherever that was.
"Wha?!"
"I really hate you."
"House?" Wilson's right eye cracked open slightly. A chorus of power drills, chain saws and something that sounded vaguely like a sander went off inside his skull. The world was far too bright to face full on at the moment.
"I hate you with the fiery intensity of a thousand glowing supernovas."
If he had to hazard a guess, the thousand fiery supernovas were currently parked outside his bedroom window. It was the only explanation for the blinding glare beaming through the blinds. The construction tool chorus continued its merry serenade as an air hammer joined in. He was fairly sure his brain usually fit inside his skull.
"House, what -"
"Hate, we're talking pure hatred here."
"- the hell are you talking about?"
"Are you being deliberately dense?"
"No, it's a gift. Comes naturally to me when people call me at -" He craned his neck to look at the alarm."- Two minutes past six on a…what's today?"
"The day after the day before today. Ring any bells?"
A couple of stray neurons tried to work that one out while the rest of his brain devoted its meager resources to imploring the bedroom ceiling for some sort of grand explanation. The ceiling remained stubbornly silent. Damnit.
He realized that the line had gone suspiciously silent. House hadn't declared his undying hatred for at least a couple of minutes. He listened more carefully. It sounded almost as if a small whale was dying somewhere in the background. Strange.
He might have been flat on his back but still managed an impressive jolt when House's voice came back.
"Did I mention I hate you?" House rasped in a terminally distressed sort of way.
"Are you all right? You sound a little..." Wilson gestured vaguely in the direction of his bedside table. The bedside table, probably and justifiably not understanding why it was being gestured at, was as little help as the ceiling.
"Yeah, I was just busy turning myself inside out. It's sort of a new hobby I've taken up."
"You're sick?" He sat up abruptly and promptly regretted it as his brain tried to flee out his left nostril. He sniffed a few times. Escape thwarted.
"Yes, Sherlock. Thanks to you, I'm currently worshipping the porcelain goddess," House groaned down the line.
"How is that my fault?"
"Yesterday. Your chicken parmesan."
"Oh, your birthd -"
"Don't -"
"Your not-a-birthday dinner. So what? It wasn't the food. I feel fine. Perhaps you shouldn't have inhaled three beers on top of the -"
"If the next words out of your mouth are 'Vicodin' and not, say, 'don't worry House, I'm coming straight over bringing ginger ale and crackers and I'll clean up your bathroom while I'm there because I feel terribly guilty about poisoning you with putrid chicken', I'll personally make sure you get stuck with every hemorrhoid, abscess and anal fissure that crawls into the clinic until you're too old to crawl there yourself!"
Wilson's small, mortal brain shorted out in honest but utterly futile outrage. It checked back in for a moment before realizing what the words 'cleaning up' and 'bathroom' meant in the grand scheme of things. It promptly went on strike again.
"Wilson!"
Wilson blinked. It felt good so he did it again. And a third time. Oh, right. He tried a few replies on for size before settling on a snarled I'm on my way.
"Good," House barked before the line went dead.
As he climbed to his feet, Wilson finally pinpointed the vague unease he'd felt since falling out of bed and realized three things in quick succession: He was running a fever, his stomach had just started rolling and it was going to be a very long day.