Fic: Things That Go Bump - Chapter One
Title: Things That Go Bump - Chapter One
Author: Kaye
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: Yeah they're mine - which is why they're moving to a little place at the beach next season.
Warning: None - this happens BEFORE No Reason.
For some reason.
LS is partially to blame. And you know why.
Summary: Wilson has nightmares; House gets a headache.
Things That Go Bump - Chapter One
The dead ones come at night. Not in the usual ghostly visage, the boneless moans, the vacant groans, the rattling shutters. No, they come demanding answers. Shouting for resolution - crying for relief. They always want to know the same thing. Why. Why them, why me, why now, why, why, why?
Of course he has no answers. All he knows is why they died. They died because he couldn't cure them. He couldn't save them. They died because he was too late, or too cautious, or too aggressive. The reasons change, but the outcome is always the same. They died because they had cancer. And there is no cure for cancer. There is no eleventh hour reprieve. There is no stay of execution. There is no outfield snatch over the fence. Ever.
And then he moved in with House and for a while, they stopped coming. At first he thought it was because there were enough demons swirling around House and that his bald and angry cancer kids couldn’t compete with rabies and leprosy and snarling misanthropes. Maybe House was enough to scare all the demons away.
And then they found him. On the couch. Even worse than before. Relentless. Tugging and crying and mad as hell. He didn’t even know he was screaming until he hit the floor. He had banged his head on the coffee table on the way down and he sat up slowly, rubbing his forehead. His was surprised to felt wetness. He pulled his hand away and it was covered in blood. As he struggled to get up, he heard House hobbling down the hall, cursing.
“Wilson, what the hell are you . . .” The rest of it died on his lips as he saw the blood.
“Sorry. Bad dream.” Wilson picked himself off the floor and immediately sat down on the couch, dizzy. He felt his head again, and had to close his eyes as a stream of blood poured down his chin and dripped on his leg.
“Jesus, what did you do?” House took a right limp into the kitchen, grabbed a tea towel, wadded it up and threw it at Wilson.
“Fell into the table I guess.” Wilson pressed the towel into his forehead. House stood in the kitchen doorway. “Go back to bed. I’m fine.”
“Yes, well I was in bed before you unleashed that scream. I thought the hounds of hell had finally found you. That or Susie from Starbucks.”
Wilson grimaced. “Same thing.”
House joined Wilson on the couch. He leaned over and lifted the towel to inspect. He fingered the area around the cut and Wilson winced. He took Wilson’s hand and placed it back on the towel.
“Nicely done. You need stitches.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I’ll do it.” He started to get up. “You got a kit here? I'm fresh out.”
“You’re not stitching me up. Head wounds bleed. First day of med school. Apply pressure.”
House ignored him and hobbled over to his jacket, pulled out the Vicodin bottle and returned. “Here, take these.” He shook out three pills into his hand. He swallowed one and held out his hand to Wilson.
“I don’t need that. Doesn’t hurt.”
“Okay, now you’re pissing me off.”
“I’m pissing you off?”
“Yes. I’m out here in the middle of the night, all full of Nightingale devotion, and you keep thwarting my ministrations. Take the damn pills and tell me where your kit is.”
“Nightingale devotion?” Wilson leaned back into the couch. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the pounding in his head. Which did hurt. Like hell. He felt House come closer and he held out his hand. House dropped the pills into them. He opened his eyes.
“Water?”
“What?”
“I need water to take these.”
“Why?”
“They’ll get stuck in my throat. Plus it says to drink a full glass of water with each dose.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does - do you ever read the bottle?”
House rolled his eyes and got up again, wincing when his leg forgot to come with him. He stumbled and fell into Wilson, who dropped the towel and tried to grab House’s shoulders, but all he managed to do was to shove him more off balance and House tumbled to the floor, hitting the corner of the coffee table on the way down.
“Owww. Fuck.”
“You okay?”
House lifted his leg up over Wilson’s and he turned to try to get up and Wilson saw a small gash over House’s left eyebrow. The blood oozed and House reached a hand up and then the curses began in earnest.
“Jesus hell goddamn it, Jimmy - couldn’t you have just swallowed the damn pills? Now look what you did.”
Wilson ignored the tirade and helped House back onto the couch and handed him the towel. House pressed it to his head and then held out his hand. Wilson dropped another pill into it and House tossed it in his mouth and swallowed.
“See? You just swallow.”
Wilson mimicked his actions and the pill got as far as the back of his throat before he choked. He coughed and spit and turned red. House cursed and reached over and patted his back. Hard. Very hard.
After the third pounding, Wilson caught House’s hand in mid-thump. “Stop it,” he rasped. He got to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water and drank. He grabbed another tea towel and pressed it to his head. He leaned against the sink for a minute, drinking and breathing.
House watched from the couch. He felt his forehead and cursed. “This is perfect. We’re now a matched set.”
Wilson walked into the living room. “You don’t need stitches, either.”
“I don’t, but you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Just a couple to keep it closed. You can’t have a scar on that angelic head of yours. Scare your patients.”
“I won’t have a scar. I heal fast.”
House watched Wilson walk past him into the bathroom. He sat silent for a moment. Wilson came back and joined him again on the couch. Two men holding two tea towels to their heads, both dressed in t-shirts and pajama bottoms.
“So, what was the nightmare about?”
Wilson closed his eyes briefly as a ghost of the dream flickered through his mind. “Just stuff. You know.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked. Must have been a doozy. Were you being chased by all your ex-wives? Cuddy with a whip - no wait, that’s my dream.”
“You know - just nightmare stuff.”
“Quit saying I know.”
“Don’t you have nightmares?”
“Not since Mr. Vicodin came to live with me.”
“I think it’s Mr. Scotch and Mr. Whiskey that should take the credit for that.”
“Avoiding the question won’t make me stop. I mean it was bad enough to send you hurtling into the coffee table.”
Wilson sighed. “That was an accident.”
“No, really? You weren’t trying to split your head wide open in the middle of the night? Just to wake me up?”
“Shut-up. My head hurts.”
“So does mine, thanks to you. You owe me. My blood has been spilled for you.”
“Go back to bed.” Wilson started to get up, but House laid a hand across his chest.
“I can’t - what if you have another nightmare?”
“I won’t.”
“You will. And then this delicious cycle will start all over again.”
“Yes, because it’s my ultimate plan to keep you awake all night.”
House didn’t answer, but got up and limped toward the bedroom. He stopped for a moment, tapped his cane on the floor. Then he turned back. “You can sleep in here with me.”
“What?” Wilson almost slipped off the couch again.
“Come sleep in here. Where I can wake you up before you leap out the window.”
“But you said you hate sleeping with . . .”
“Wilson, get the hell in here. Before I rescind the offer and toss you out in the street on that pretty little ass of yours.”
Wilson rose and headed for the bedroom.
“And bring your kit. At least you’ll let me butterfly us, won’t you?”
Wilson wondered if that was some kind of euphemism he didn’t understand. He wondered why he felt like a lamb headed for the slaughterhouse. He wondered if he was still dreaming.
TBC. . . .
Author: Kaye
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: Yeah they're mine - which is why they're moving to a little place at the beach next season.
Warning: None - this happens BEFORE No Reason.
For some reason.
LS is partially to blame. And you know why.
Summary: Wilson has nightmares; House gets a headache.
Things That Go Bump - Chapter One
The dead ones come at night. Not in the usual ghostly visage, the boneless moans, the vacant groans, the rattling shutters. No, they come demanding answers. Shouting for resolution - crying for relief. They always want to know the same thing. Why. Why them, why me, why now, why, why, why?
Of course he has no answers. All he knows is why they died. They died because he couldn't cure them. He couldn't save them. They died because he was too late, or too cautious, or too aggressive. The reasons change, but the outcome is always the same. They died because they had cancer. And there is no cure for cancer. There is no eleventh hour reprieve. There is no stay of execution. There is no outfield snatch over the fence. Ever.
And then he moved in with House and for a while, they stopped coming. At first he thought it was because there were enough demons swirling around House and that his bald and angry cancer kids couldn’t compete with rabies and leprosy and snarling misanthropes. Maybe House was enough to scare all the demons away.
And then they found him. On the couch. Even worse than before. Relentless. Tugging and crying and mad as hell. He didn’t even know he was screaming until he hit the floor. He had banged his head on the coffee table on the way down and he sat up slowly, rubbing his forehead. His was surprised to felt wetness. He pulled his hand away and it was covered in blood. As he struggled to get up, he heard House hobbling down the hall, cursing.
“Wilson, what the hell are you . . .” The rest of it died on his lips as he saw the blood.
“Sorry. Bad dream.” Wilson picked himself off the floor and immediately sat down on the couch, dizzy. He felt his head again, and had to close his eyes as a stream of blood poured down his chin and dripped on his leg.
“Jesus, what did you do?” House took a right limp into the kitchen, grabbed a tea towel, wadded it up and threw it at Wilson.
“Fell into the table I guess.” Wilson pressed the towel into his forehead. House stood in the kitchen doorway. “Go back to bed. I’m fine.”
“Yes, well I was in bed before you unleashed that scream. I thought the hounds of hell had finally found you. That or Susie from Starbucks.”
Wilson grimaced. “Same thing.”
House joined Wilson on the couch. He leaned over and lifted the towel to inspect. He fingered the area around the cut and Wilson winced. He took Wilson’s hand and placed it back on the towel.
“Nicely done. You need stitches.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I’ll do it.” He started to get up. “You got a kit here? I'm fresh out.”
“You’re not stitching me up. Head wounds bleed. First day of med school. Apply pressure.”
House ignored him and hobbled over to his jacket, pulled out the Vicodin bottle and returned. “Here, take these.” He shook out three pills into his hand. He swallowed one and held out his hand to Wilson.
“I don’t need that. Doesn’t hurt.”
“Okay, now you’re pissing me off.”
“I’m pissing you off?”
“Yes. I’m out here in the middle of the night, all full of Nightingale devotion, and you keep thwarting my ministrations. Take the damn pills and tell me where your kit is.”
“Nightingale devotion?” Wilson leaned back into the couch. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the pounding in his head. Which did hurt. Like hell. He felt House come closer and he held out his hand. House dropped the pills into them. He opened his eyes.
“Water?”
“What?”
“I need water to take these.”
“Why?”
“They’ll get stuck in my throat. Plus it says to drink a full glass of water with each dose.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does - do you ever read the bottle?”
House rolled his eyes and got up again, wincing when his leg forgot to come with him. He stumbled and fell into Wilson, who dropped the towel and tried to grab House’s shoulders, but all he managed to do was to shove him more off balance and House tumbled to the floor, hitting the corner of the coffee table on the way down.
“Owww. Fuck.”
“You okay?”
House lifted his leg up over Wilson’s and he turned to try to get up and Wilson saw a small gash over House’s left eyebrow. The blood oozed and House reached a hand up and then the curses began in earnest.
“Jesus hell goddamn it, Jimmy - couldn’t you have just swallowed the damn pills? Now look what you did.”
Wilson ignored the tirade and helped House back onto the couch and handed him the towel. House pressed it to his head and then held out his hand. Wilson dropped another pill into it and House tossed it in his mouth and swallowed.
“See? You just swallow.”
Wilson mimicked his actions and the pill got as far as the back of his throat before he choked. He coughed and spit and turned red. House cursed and reached over and patted his back. Hard. Very hard.
After the third pounding, Wilson caught House’s hand in mid-thump. “Stop it,” he rasped. He got to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water and drank. He grabbed another tea towel and pressed it to his head. He leaned against the sink for a minute, drinking and breathing.
House watched from the couch. He felt his forehead and cursed. “This is perfect. We’re now a matched set.”
Wilson walked into the living room. “You don’t need stitches, either.”
“I don’t, but you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Just a couple to keep it closed. You can’t have a scar on that angelic head of yours. Scare your patients.”
“I won’t have a scar. I heal fast.”
House watched Wilson walk past him into the bathroom. He sat silent for a moment. Wilson came back and joined him again on the couch. Two men holding two tea towels to their heads, both dressed in t-shirts and pajama bottoms.
“So, what was the nightmare about?”
Wilson closed his eyes briefly as a ghost of the dream flickered through his mind. “Just stuff. You know.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked. Must have been a doozy. Were you being chased by all your ex-wives? Cuddy with a whip - no wait, that’s my dream.”
“You know - just nightmare stuff.”
“Quit saying I know.”
“Don’t you have nightmares?”
“Not since Mr. Vicodin came to live with me.”
“I think it’s Mr. Scotch and Mr. Whiskey that should take the credit for that.”
“Avoiding the question won’t make me stop. I mean it was bad enough to send you hurtling into the coffee table.”
Wilson sighed. “That was an accident.”
“No, really? You weren’t trying to split your head wide open in the middle of the night? Just to wake me up?”
“Shut-up. My head hurts.”
“So does mine, thanks to you. You owe me. My blood has been spilled for you.”
“Go back to bed.” Wilson started to get up, but House laid a hand across his chest.
“I can’t - what if you have another nightmare?”
“I won’t.”
“You will. And then this delicious cycle will start all over again.”
“Yes, because it’s my ultimate plan to keep you awake all night.”
House didn’t answer, but got up and limped toward the bedroom. He stopped for a moment, tapped his cane on the floor. Then he turned back. “You can sleep in here with me.”
“What?” Wilson almost slipped off the couch again.
“Come sleep in here. Where I can wake you up before you leap out the window.”
“But you said you hate sleeping with . . .”
“Wilson, get the hell in here. Before I rescind the offer and toss you out in the street on that pretty little ass of yours.”
Wilson rose and headed for the bedroom.
“And bring your kit. At least you’ll let me butterfly us, won’t you?”
Wilson wondered if that was some kind of euphemism he didn’t understand. He wondered why he felt like a lamb headed for the slaughterhouse. He wondered if he was still dreaming.
TBC. . . .