Fic: Things That Go Bump: Chapter Two
Title: Things That Go Bump - Chapter Two
Author: Kaye
Pairing: House/Wilson - if you hold it just right.
PG
Yes, they're mine - which is why they're moving to Branson and opening a Country Music Showcase theatre next season. Really. Chase plays a mean banjo. Swear.
Wilson has nightmares; House begins to worry.
Chapter 1: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/497045.html#cutid1
Things That Go Bump - Chapter Two
The live ones, they come after him during the day. Molly. Five years old. Leukemia. Acute. Aggressive. Resistant. Her mother was 23 years old. Single. Scared. A child raising a child. They were a matched set. Blonde. Pretty. Petite. Sundresses and flip flops. Except that the little one had bruises all over her body and too many white blood cells and the bigger one had checks bouncing all over town and no coping skills. Perfect, really. He should just pack his stuff and move in tonight. Then House would be satisfied and he could finally ruin the one thing he had managed to hang onto. His career. His vocation. His albatross.
He flipped the chart over and laid his head on the desk, careful not to bump the bandage that House had insisted upon. What he really needed to do was to figure out why he had felt seared and branded when House’s fingers had pressed the butterfly against his skull, whispering, “Sorry, this may hurt a little,” his breath caressing Wilson’s eyelashes, his other hand squeezing he back of Wilson’s neck. He wondered when his relationship with House had crossed over from irritating to essential.
He had spent the rest of last night on the furthest six inches of mattress from House that he could manage. He tried not to move. He barely breathed. Watched the light filter through the cracks in the curtains and listened to House inhale and exhale, regular and soft. The sleep of the innocent. Well, relatively. Relative to not at all. He had the distinct feeling that he was missing some crucial piece to the puzzle that was Gregory House, RN. He had finally dozed off and woke up with House’s leg across his chest.
And now he was paying for it. He lifted his head and looked at his watch. Three o’clock. Thirty minutes before he had to tell Mrs. Thompson that her skin tags were indeed malignant. He rose from the chair, hoping the couch in the oncology lounge was vacant. He got to the door and remembered the file, but as he turned to retrieve it, the door burst open, catching his shoulder and he stumbled, twisting his ankle underneath him as he fell to the floor.
“Wilson, what the . . .” House stopped mid-sentence for the second time in 24 hours at the sight of Wilson sprawled on the floor.
“Can’t you knock?” Wilson groused and then he realized his foot hurt. And his ankle. He reached for it at the same time House was reaching down for him and he managed to knock House on the nose, which caused him to stumble back out into the hall, landing on his ass, shocked.
“Wilson, what’s the matter . . .”
“Sorry, I was just . . .”
“What the hell are you two doing?” Cuddy stood with hands on her hips. ‘Get off the floor.”
House, having recovered from the surprise of being upended, rolled over and looked up at her. “Why don’t you come down here and get me?”
Cuddy kicked House in the side with the toe of her shoe. “Stop acting like a juvenile and get up.”
Wilson had managed to pull himself up and was leaning on his desk, testing his foot. “Ouch!” He drew his leg up and fingered his ankle.
Cuddy walked over House and into Wilson’s office. “Are you two wrestling now? Is that what you do?”
Wilson turned to her and Cuddy’s lips curled in amusement. “Do you know that you and House have matching Scooby Do Band-Aids?”
Wilson reached for his forehead. “Yeah, I hit it on the coffee table.”
Cuddy turned back to House, who was limping through the door. “And are you the coffee table?”
House breezed by Cuddy, ignoring her comment, and laid his cane on the desk. He held out his hand. “Let me see it.” He stared pointedly at Wilson.
“See what?”
“Your foot. Ankle. Whatever.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then you won’t mind me taking a look at it.”
Cuddy crossed her arms. “What is going on with you two?”
House reached down and tugged on Wilson’s thigh. Wilson rolled his eyes and lifted his leg. “I’m fine.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
“And it still rings true. Fine then, fine now-ouch!”
House probed the ankle and frowned. “Probably need an x-ray.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” Wilson pulled his foot out of House’s hand and set it gingerly on the floor. “Go play Florence somewhere else.”
“You twisted it when you fell, I saw you.”
“That’s because you smacked me with the door.”
“That’s because . . .”
“Shut-up.” Cuddy shook her head and rolled her eyes. “House, leave Wilson alone. Wilson, sit down and let me look at your ankle.”
“It’s fine. And I’ve got an appointment.” Wilson shoved past House and limped out the door.
House turned to follow. Cuddy just stood and watched them. And wondered if all hospital administrators felt like they were running a giant daycare center.
**********
Wilson was lying on the couch, his ankle wrapped and iced, when House came through the door.
They didn’t speak for a few minutes. House busied himself with putting his jacket away and tossing his mail in the trash, and Wilson chose that very moment to become absorbed in the absurd mechanics of Sandy the Squirrel’s air bubble home.
He had gone to Wyatt in Orthopedics for his ankle. Sprained. Bruised. Elevation and ice. Wyatt had offered him a cane, which he firmly refused, but then wondered for a moment if it was all part of House’s evil plan. Get him in pain, limping, and in his bed. Well, the in his bed part was really his own fault. He should be able to tell by now when the nightmares were coming. He’d lost three patients already this week. Plus Molly. Plus the fact that Dr. Meridian, his best and brightest resident, had decided to switch to Neonatal, where he could “save lives, not extend them,” to quote his resignation letter. Idealist. Probably for the best.
He felt House’s cane against his thigh and looked up. House’s nose had a long red scratch and his eye was starting to turn purple - from the coffee table or the door, who could tell at this point? Another week and they’d kill each other.
“Broken?”
“Is that a question?”
“Sprained?”
“Are you just guessing, or did you already check my chart?”
“Wyatt’s an ass.”
“Yes, well, you’ll be happy to know he thinks just as highly of you.”
House limped into the kitchen. “You eat?”
Wilson smiled. He had won that round. He flipped off the TV and sat up, careful not to knock his ankle. “Not really hungry. There’s leftover chicken, though.”
“You need to eat.” House opened the fridge door and peered in. “You’re holding out on me, Jimmy. You didn’t mention the cake.”
“It’s from Grace - you won’t want it. Macrobiotic.”
House made a face. Wilson wasn’t sure if it was Grace or the cake, but got up and joined House. “We could call somebody.”
“To get rid of the cake?” House pulled out a beer.
“Chinese - pizza. I don’t care.” Wilson rubbed his face and leaned against the counter. “I’m going to bed, I think.”
“Wyatt give you anything?” House found the chicken, reached around Wilson for a fork, and shut the door with his hip. He popped open the lid and stuck his fork in.
“He told me to take some Aleve.”
“See, he’s an ass. I’ll get you a pill.”
Wilson opened the fridge with House still leaning on it, snaked his hand in and pulled out a bottle of water. He closed the door and House settled back against it. “No, really, don’t move, it’s fine.”
House shoved himself off the door and headed into the living room. He plopped down on the couch, swung his legs up on the coffee table, and switched the channel. Wilson took two limping steps, noting that he walked just like House now, wondering if the cane refusal had been premature and vanity-induced. He could have used the support.
“Go to bed,” House mumbled through a mouthful of chicken and rice. “And get that ankle up. And take a pill.”
“You’re sitting on my bed. And on my pillows. And I don’t need a pill.”
House sighed, pulled out a pillow and tossed it in Wilson’s direction. “My bed. Your pillow. Left jacket pocket.”
Wilson opened his mouth to say something, but exhaustion stopped him. He bent down to retrieve his pillow and limped down the hallway.
“And stay on your own side. I hate hot sheets.”
************
He couldn’t breathe. They were pressing on his neck, squeezing the life right out of him. Whispering and clawing at his chest. He tried to push them off, but he couldn’t touch them. He kicked his legs and swung his arms up in front of his face. And then he saw Molly. Standing all alone at the foot of his bed. Smiling. Waving. Fuck. Not Molly. No, she had at least another month. Why hadn’t anyone told him about Molly? No, he wouldn’t allow it. He tried to reach for her, but his hands were batted away by a man whose entire jaw was gone, the tongue hanging loose from his neck. He made one last attempt to save Molly and then darkness descended.
“Wilson. Wilson. Wake up.”
He felt hands around his neck again, but when he touched them, they were solid. His eyes flew open and he saw House’s face hovering over him, could feel House’s body across his own. Oh fuck. Not House . . .
“No, no, no.” He thrashed against the weight, and felt a sting as House slapped him across the face.
“Dammit, wake up.” House began digging his knuckle into Wilson’s chest and the fog lifted for good.
Wilson stared up at House for a moment, panting. Noticed that House was panting as well. And frowning. And then wincing as it became apparent that House was holding himself up by his arms and his bad leg, the other straddled across Wilson’s body. Damn. It had been a dream. Again.
“I’m okay,” he rasped and held up his hands. “Sorry.”
House looked hard into Wilson’s face for another moment and then collapsed into his pillows. “Fuck. What the hell was that?”
“Bad dream.”
“Really?”
“Sorry.”
“What the hell were you dreaming? You scared the shit out of me. Not to mention kicking the hell out of me - I was afraid you were going to hurt your ankle again.”
“Must have been the vicodin.” Wilson flung his arm across his eyes. To dispel the rest of the lingering images and to dissuade the interrogation. “I’ll go back to the couch.”
“Why? So I have to travel to save your life from the boogey man? No way - you are staying here.”
“Damn.” Wilson could feel his ankle start to throb. He peered out from under his eye and saw House rubbing his thigh. He turned and sat up on an elbow. “Did I hurt you?’
“No, I stopped you.” House turned and mirrored Wilson’s position. “So, Jimmy, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, here we are, the middle of the night, you obviously have some serious demons after you, I’m certainly not going to close my eyes again after that wrestling match, and it’s only . . .” He turned to peer at the clock on the bedside table, “. . . three o’clock.” He turned back. “Wanna play a game?” He wiggled his eyebrows and sneered.
“A game?” Wilson wondered what kind of game House had in mind. And what kind of game they were already playing.
“How about I Never.”
“I Never?”
“Or Spin the Bottle.”
“Go back to sleep.” Wilson turned onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. He felt House’s thigh against his. Warm. Oddly comforting. Then he felt House’s hand on his chest.
“Or you could tell me what’s going on,” House murmured and started rubbing Wilson’s chest.
Wilson sat up. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out.” He rolled over and sat up. “I’m going the couch.”
House sighed and rolled onto his back. “Seeking solace in the demons. Take it from me; it’s not a good idea.”
“I just need some sleep.” Wilson limped out the door.
“You forgot your pillow.” House held it out and Wilson turned back. When he went to reach for it, House pulled it back.
“You can’t deal with your reality. So it comes to get you in your sleep. You better figure out which part of your fucked up life is the real problem. Because until you do, those demons are not going anywhere. Learn from the master.” House hit Wilson in the chest with the pillow and turned away. “Fortunately for you, though, I’m not going anywhere, either.”
No one slept the rest of the night.
tbc . . .
Author: Kaye
Pairing: House/Wilson - if you hold it just right.
PG
Yes, they're mine - which is why they're moving to Branson and opening a Country Music Showcase theatre next season. Really. Chase plays a mean banjo. Swear.
Wilson has nightmares; House begins to worry.
Chapter 1: http://community.livejournal.com/housefic/497045.html#cutid1
Things That Go Bump - Chapter Two
The live ones, they come after him during the day. Molly. Five years old. Leukemia. Acute. Aggressive. Resistant. Her mother was 23 years old. Single. Scared. A child raising a child. They were a matched set. Blonde. Pretty. Petite. Sundresses and flip flops. Except that the little one had bruises all over her body and too many white blood cells and the bigger one had checks bouncing all over town and no coping skills. Perfect, really. He should just pack his stuff and move in tonight. Then House would be satisfied and he could finally ruin the one thing he had managed to hang onto. His career. His vocation. His albatross.
He flipped the chart over and laid his head on the desk, careful not to bump the bandage that House had insisted upon. What he really needed to do was to figure out why he had felt seared and branded when House’s fingers had pressed the butterfly against his skull, whispering, “Sorry, this may hurt a little,” his breath caressing Wilson’s eyelashes, his other hand squeezing he back of Wilson’s neck. He wondered when his relationship with House had crossed over from irritating to essential.
He had spent the rest of last night on the furthest six inches of mattress from House that he could manage. He tried not to move. He barely breathed. Watched the light filter through the cracks in the curtains and listened to House inhale and exhale, regular and soft. The sleep of the innocent. Well, relatively. Relative to not at all. He had the distinct feeling that he was missing some crucial piece to the puzzle that was Gregory House, RN. He had finally dozed off and woke up with House’s leg across his chest.
And now he was paying for it. He lifted his head and looked at his watch. Three o’clock. Thirty minutes before he had to tell Mrs. Thompson that her skin tags were indeed malignant. He rose from the chair, hoping the couch in the oncology lounge was vacant. He got to the door and remembered the file, but as he turned to retrieve it, the door burst open, catching his shoulder and he stumbled, twisting his ankle underneath him as he fell to the floor.
“Wilson, what the . . .” House stopped mid-sentence for the second time in 24 hours at the sight of Wilson sprawled on the floor.
“Can’t you knock?” Wilson groused and then he realized his foot hurt. And his ankle. He reached for it at the same time House was reaching down for him and he managed to knock House on the nose, which caused him to stumble back out into the hall, landing on his ass, shocked.
“Wilson, what’s the matter . . .”
“Sorry, I was just . . .”
“What the hell are you two doing?” Cuddy stood with hands on her hips. ‘Get off the floor.”
House, having recovered from the surprise of being upended, rolled over and looked up at her. “Why don’t you come down here and get me?”
Cuddy kicked House in the side with the toe of her shoe. “Stop acting like a juvenile and get up.”
Wilson had managed to pull himself up and was leaning on his desk, testing his foot. “Ouch!” He drew his leg up and fingered his ankle.
Cuddy walked over House and into Wilson’s office. “Are you two wrestling now? Is that what you do?”
Wilson turned to her and Cuddy’s lips curled in amusement. “Do you know that you and House have matching Scooby Do Band-Aids?”
Wilson reached for his forehead. “Yeah, I hit it on the coffee table.”
Cuddy turned back to House, who was limping through the door. “And are you the coffee table?”
House breezed by Cuddy, ignoring her comment, and laid his cane on the desk. He held out his hand. “Let me see it.” He stared pointedly at Wilson.
“See what?”
“Your foot. Ankle. Whatever.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then you won’t mind me taking a look at it.”
Cuddy crossed her arms. “What is going on with you two?”
House reached down and tugged on Wilson’s thigh. Wilson rolled his eyes and lifted his leg. “I’m fine.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
“And it still rings true. Fine then, fine now-ouch!”
House probed the ankle and frowned. “Probably need an x-ray.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” Wilson pulled his foot out of House’s hand and set it gingerly on the floor. “Go play Florence somewhere else.”
“You twisted it when you fell, I saw you.”
“That’s because you smacked me with the door.”
“That’s because . . .”
“Shut-up.” Cuddy shook her head and rolled her eyes. “House, leave Wilson alone. Wilson, sit down and let me look at your ankle.”
“It’s fine. And I’ve got an appointment.” Wilson shoved past House and limped out the door.
House turned to follow. Cuddy just stood and watched them. And wondered if all hospital administrators felt like they were running a giant daycare center.
**********
Wilson was lying on the couch, his ankle wrapped and iced, when House came through the door.
They didn’t speak for a few minutes. House busied himself with putting his jacket away and tossing his mail in the trash, and Wilson chose that very moment to become absorbed in the absurd mechanics of Sandy the Squirrel’s air bubble home.
He had gone to Wyatt in Orthopedics for his ankle. Sprained. Bruised. Elevation and ice. Wyatt had offered him a cane, which he firmly refused, but then wondered for a moment if it was all part of House’s evil plan. Get him in pain, limping, and in his bed. Well, the in his bed part was really his own fault. He should be able to tell by now when the nightmares were coming. He’d lost three patients already this week. Plus Molly. Plus the fact that Dr. Meridian, his best and brightest resident, had decided to switch to Neonatal, where he could “save lives, not extend them,” to quote his resignation letter. Idealist. Probably for the best.
He felt House’s cane against his thigh and looked up. House’s nose had a long red scratch and his eye was starting to turn purple - from the coffee table or the door, who could tell at this point? Another week and they’d kill each other.
“Broken?”
“Is that a question?”
“Sprained?”
“Are you just guessing, or did you already check my chart?”
“Wyatt’s an ass.”
“Yes, well, you’ll be happy to know he thinks just as highly of you.”
House limped into the kitchen. “You eat?”
Wilson smiled. He had won that round. He flipped off the TV and sat up, careful not to knock his ankle. “Not really hungry. There’s leftover chicken, though.”
“You need to eat.” House opened the fridge door and peered in. “You’re holding out on me, Jimmy. You didn’t mention the cake.”
“It’s from Grace - you won’t want it. Macrobiotic.”
House made a face. Wilson wasn’t sure if it was Grace or the cake, but got up and joined House. “We could call somebody.”
“To get rid of the cake?” House pulled out a beer.
“Chinese - pizza. I don’t care.” Wilson rubbed his face and leaned against the counter. “I’m going to bed, I think.”
“Wyatt give you anything?” House found the chicken, reached around Wilson for a fork, and shut the door with his hip. He popped open the lid and stuck his fork in.
“He told me to take some Aleve.”
“See, he’s an ass. I’ll get you a pill.”
Wilson opened the fridge with House still leaning on it, snaked his hand in and pulled out a bottle of water. He closed the door and House settled back against it. “No, really, don’t move, it’s fine.”
House shoved himself off the door and headed into the living room. He plopped down on the couch, swung his legs up on the coffee table, and switched the channel. Wilson took two limping steps, noting that he walked just like House now, wondering if the cane refusal had been premature and vanity-induced. He could have used the support.
“Go to bed,” House mumbled through a mouthful of chicken and rice. “And get that ankle up. And take a pill.”
“You’re sitting on my bed. And on my pillows. And I don’t need a pill.”
House sighed, pulled out a pillow and tossed it in Wilson’s direction. “My bed. Your pillow. Left jacket pocket.”
Wilson opened his mouth to say something, but exhaustion stopped him. He bent down to retrieve his pillow and limped down the hallway.
“And stay on your own side. I hate hot sheets.”
************
He couldn’t breathe. They were pressing on his neck, squeezing the life right out of him. Whispering and clawing at his chest. He tried to push them off, but he couldn’t touch them. He kicked his legs and swung his arms up in front of his face. And then he saw Molly. Standing all alone at the foot of his bed. Smiling. Waving. Fuck. Not Molly. No, she had at least another month. Why hadn’t anyone told him about Molly? No, he wouldn’t allow it. He tried to reach for her, but his hands were batted away by a man whose entire jaw was gone, the tongue hanging loose from his neck. He made one last attempt to save Molly and then darkness descended.
“Wilson. Wilson. Wake up.”
He felt hands around his neck again, but when he touched them, they were solid. His eyes flew open and he saw House’s face hovering over him, could feel House’s body across his own. Oh fuck. Not House . . .
“No, no, no.” He thrashed against the weight, and felt a sting as House slapped him across the face.
“Dammit, wake up.” House began digging his knuckle into Wilson’s chest and the fog lifted for good.
Wilson stared up at House for a moment, panting. Noticed that House was panting as well. And frowning. And then wincing as it became apparent that House was holding himself up by his arms and his bad leg, the other straddled across Wilson’s body. Damn. It had been a dream. Again.
“I’m okay,” he rasped and held up his hands. “Sorry.”
House looked hard into Wilson’s face for another moment and then collapsed into his pillows. “Fuck. What the hell was that?”
“Bad dream.”
“Really?”
“Sorry.”
“What the hell were you dreaming? You scared the shit out of me. Not to mention kicking the hell out of me - I was afraid you were going to hurt your ankle again.”
“Must have been the vicodin.” Wilson flung his arm across his eyes. To dispel the rest of the lingering images and to dissuade the interrogation. “I’ll go back to the couch.”
“Why? So I have to travel to save your life from the boogey man? No way - you are staying here.”
“Damn.” Wilson could feel his ankle start to throb. He peered out from under his eye and saw House rubbing his thigh. He turned and sat up on an elbow. “Did I hurt you?’
“No, I stopped you.” House turned and mirrored Wilson’s position. “So, Jimmy, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, here we are, the middle of the night, you obviously have some serious demons after you, I’m certainly not going to close my eyes again after that wrestling match, and it’s only . . .” He turned to peer at the clock on the bedside table, “. . . three o’clock.” He turned back. “Wanna play a game?” He wiggled his eyebrows and sneered.
“A game?” Wilson wondered what kind of game House had in mind. And what kind of game they were already playing.
“How about I Never.”
“I Never?”
“Or Spin the Bottle.”
“Go back to sleep.” Wilson turned onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. He felt House’s thigh against his. Warm. Oddly comforting. Then he felt House’s hand on his chest.
“Or you could tell me what’s going on,” House murmured and started rubbing Wilson’s chest.
Wilson sat up. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out.” He rolled over and sat up. “I’m going the couch.”
House sighed and rolled onto his back. “Seeking solace in the demons. Take it from me; it’s not a good idea.”
“I just need some sleep.” Wilson limped out the door.
“You forgot your pillow.” House held it out and Wilson turned back. When he went to reach for it, House pulled it back.
“You can’t deal with your reality. So it comes to get you in your sleep. You better figure out which part of your fucked up life is the real problem. Because until you do, those demons are not going anywhere. Learn from the master.” House hit Wilson in the chest with the pillow and turned away. “Fortunately for you, though, I’m not going anywhere, either.”
No one slept the rest of the night.
tbc . . .