New Fic: The Great Escape
Title: The Great Escape
Author: Namaste
Summary: I killed Steve McQueen. Sorry about that. House copes and Wilson digs.
Author’s Notes: I guess this counts as my first deathfic, huh?
“So let me get this straight,” Wilson said, “you don’t believe in the afterlife, but for some reason it matters that you find just the perfect place to bury your rat?”
Wilson knocked twice, softly, then forced himself to wait and listen. He had his keys in his hand, ready to unlock the door and walk in, not sure what he’d find on the other side.
Late night phone calls never brought good news: dying patients, family emergencies, House.
House hadn’t said why he needed him, just blurted out a few words over the phone as Wilson fumbled for the light, “Get over here, now,” he’d said, then hung up.
Maybe he was sick. Or maybe he was in pain. Or maybe ...
The door swung open.
“About time,” House said. He turned and walked away, moving steadily across the room.
Or maybe he was just bored. Wilson sighed, both in relief and frustration.
“Jesus, House, it’s 2 a.m.”
“Yep.” House paused and looked back at Wilson. “You coming in or not?”
Wilson stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “So ... did you need something or was this just a test to see if I’d show up whenever you called?”
“No test this time, which is unfortunate, because you would have passed.”
Wilson shook his head. House turned on the kitchen light and stepped inside.
“So, why the emergency call?”
House picked up a shoe box from the counter next to the refrigerator. “Because there was an emergency,” he said.
“It’s not a patient, because you just sent your latest one home today.”
“Nope.”
“And it’s not pharmaceutical because I just wrote you a refill two days ago.”
“It’s rodent,” House said, and handed Wilson the box.
Wilson stared at House, then took the box. He lifted one corner, peeked inside, then took off the lid. “Steve’s dead?”
“Found him when I got home.”
Wilson looked at the rat, lying still on top of a folded sheet of newspaper. He was on his side, his legs curled beneath him, his tail stretched out flat across the paper. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why? You didn’t kill him. He was nearly four years old. That’s old, for a rat.”
“Still, he was your ... pet.”
“He was a rat.”
“A rat which you named. And fed.”
“I took pity on him.”
“And yet you have no pity for clinic patients.”
“That’s because they don’t deserve it.”
House took the box from Wilson’s hand. He stared down at Steve, his face unreadable, then put the lid back on.
Wilson looked down at the box and shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t autopsy him.”
“Necropsy,” House corrected, “and what makes you think I didn’t?”
House took the lid off the box again. He tilted it to the left. Steve’s body rolled onto his back and Wilson saw a neat line of stitches along the rat’s belly.
“Heart attack,” House said. “He had clogged arteries.”
Infarction, Wilson thought. He stared at the box in House’s hand.
“Wait,” Wilson said, and looked up. “Please say you didn’t use my knives.”
“You said I could use them when you stored them here with the rest of your crap.”
“To cook with, not ... eviscerate Steve.”
“Then you should have said so,” House said.
Wilson covered his eyes with his hands.
“Oh, relax. I went to the lab and picked up a dissection kit,” House said. “Besides, your knives were too big.”
Wilson sighed. Bleach, he thought to himself. Bring bleach next time. Just in case.
House put the box on his desk and walked to the hall closet. Wilson leaned against the couch and watched as House shoved coats to one side, then reached into the back corner.
Wilson yawned. “I’m sorry about Steve,” he repeated, “but why couldn’t this wait until morning?”
“Because we need to do this in the dark,” House said.
“Do what?”
House grabbed something and stepped back from the closet. He held out a shovel. “Burial detail.”
------
“What about here?” Wilson pointed to a spot under the trees, the grass hidden by a layer of freshly fallen leaves.
“There’s a better spot up there.” House pointed further up the walk with his flashlight and kept walking.
Wilson shook his head and jogged a few steps until he caught up with House. “So let me get this straight,” he said, “you don’t believe in the afterlife, but for some reason it matters that you find just the perfect place to bury your rat?”
House stopped and pointed up at the street light with his cane. “There is no afterlife,” he said, “but I’d rather not spend the next three years of this life at Guantanamo answering questions about why we were burying unmarked packages within three miles of a federal building.”
Wilson followed the line of the cane up, and nodded when he saw the surveillance camera pointed toward toward them. “Right,” he said. “Somewhere else sounds like the perfect place.”
House finally stopped at a spot where the path curved left into the woods and pointed the beam of light at the roots of an oak tree. “Somewhere near there,” he said.
Wilson gave him the box and stepped off the path. He pushed the shovel down into the soil at the spot lit up by the flashlight. The blade sank down through a layer of leaves and past the thin covering of grass. He turned the shovel and piled dark earth next to the soil. He dug in again, and again.
“Make it deep enough so some dog won’t dig him up,” House said.
Wilson paused, looked over at him, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m not being sentimental,” House said. “Someone finds a half-rotted rat carcass and they’re going to start panicking about some new health crises, and then they -- and all of their friends -- will end up in the clinic with the sniffles telling me that they’re convinced that they’ve contracted some new rat flu.”
“Right,” Wilson said. “That’s the only reason.”
“Shut up and keep digging. I don’t want to be out here all night.”
Wilson smiled and pushed the shovel back into the ground.
It didn’t take long to make the hole. Within fifteen minutes House stepped over, leaned down and put the box down into the ground. He crouched next to the hole for a minute, then reached over and pushed soil down on top of the box. Wilson packed down the dirt, then spread leaves over the mound to hide it.
They both stood there, looking down at the spot.
“You want to say anything?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah,” House said. “Let’s go. It’s getting cold.” He turned and walked away.
House didn’t say anything on the walk back to Wilson’s car, or on the drive home, but motioned Wilson to follow him inside.
He walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Wilson leaned against the wall and watched as House paused for just a few seconds in front of the empty cage, then reached into the cupboard above it and took out two glasses.
House put the glasses on the table, then took two steps to another cabinet and took out a bottle of Glenfiddich. “It’s not a funeral without a wake,” he said and poured a couple of ounces into each glass.
Wilson pushed himself away from the wall and picked up a glass. House picked up the other.
“To Steve,” he said.
Wilson nodded and tilted his glass toward House, then at the cage. “To Steve.”
Author: Namaste
Summary: I killed Steve McQueen. Sorry about that. House copes and Wilson digs.
Author’s Notes: I guess this counts as my first deathfic, huh?
“So let me get this straight,” Wilson said, “you don’t believe in the afterlife, but for some reason it matters that you find just the perfect place to bury your rat?”
Wilson knocked twice, softly, then forced himself to wait and listen. He had his keys in his hand, ready to unlock the door and walk in, not sure what he’d find on the other side.
Late night phone calls never brought good news: dying patients, family emergencies, House.
House hadn’t said why he needed him, just blurted out a few words over the phone as Wilson fumbled for the light, “Get over here, now,” he’d said, then hung up.
Maybe he was sick. Or maybe he was in pain. Or maybe ...
The door swung open.
“About time,” House said. He turned and walked away, moving steadily across the room.
Or maybe he was just bored. Wilson sighed, both in relief and frustration.
“Jesus, House, it’s 2 a.m.”
“Yep.” House paused and looked back at Wilson. “You coming in or not?”
Wilson stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “So ... did you need something or was this just a test to see if I’d show up whenever you called?”
“No test this time, which is unfortunate, because you would have passed.”
Wilson shook his head. House turned on the kitchen light and stepped inside.
“So, why the emergency call?”
House picked up a shoe box from the counter next to the refrigerator. “Because there was an emergency,” he said.
“It’s not a patient, because you just sent your latest one home today.”
“Nope.”
“And it’s not pharmaceutical because I just wrote you a refill two days ago.”
“It’s rodent,” House said, and handed Wilson the box.
Wilson stared at House, then took the box. He lifted one corner, peeked inside, then took off the lid. “Steve’s dead?”
“Found him when I got home.”
Wilson looked at the rat, lying still on top of a folded sheet of newspaper. He was on his side, his legs curled beneath him, his tail stretched out flat across the paper. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why? You didn’t kill him. He was nearly four years old. That’s old, for a rat.”
“Still, he was your ... pet.”
“He was a rat.”
“A rat which you named. And fed.”
“I took pity on him.”
“And yet you have no pity for clinic patients.”
“That’s because they don’t deserve it.”
House took the box from Wilson’s hand. He stared down at Steve, his face unreadable, then put the lid back on.
Wilson looked down at the box and shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t autopsy him.”
“Necropsy,” House corrected, “and what makes you think I didn’t?”
House took the lid off the box again. He tilted it to the left. Steve’s body rolled onto his back and Wilson saw a neat line of stitches along the rat’s belly.
“Heart attack,” House said. “He had clogged arteries.”
Infarction, Wilson thought. He stared at the box in House’s hand.
“Wait,” Wilson said, and looked up. “Please say you didn’t use my knives.”
“You said I could use them when you stored them here with the rest of your crap.”
“To cook with, not ... eviscerate Steve.”
“Then you should have said so,” House said.
Wilson covered his eyes with his hands.
“Oh, relax. I went to the lab and picked up a dissection kit,” House said. “Besides, your knives were too big.”
Wilson sighed. Bleach, he thought to himself. Bring bleach next time. Just in case.
House put the box on his desk and walked to the hall closet. Wilson leaned against the couch and watched as House shoved coats to one side, then reached into the back corner.
Wilson yawned. “I’m sorry about Steve,” he repeated, “but why couldn’t this wait until morning?”
“Because we need to do this in the dark,” House said.
“Do what?”
House grabbed something and stepped back from the closet. He held out a shovel. “Burial detail.”
------
“What about here?” Wilson pointed to a spot under the trees, the grass hidden by a layer of freshly fallen leaves.
“There’s a better spot up there.” House pointed further up the walk with his flashlight and kept walking.
Wilson shook his head and jogged a few steps until he caught up with House. “So let me get this straight,” he said, “you don’t believe in the afterlife, but for some reason it matters that you find just the perfect place to bury your rat?”
House stopped and pointed up at the street light with his cane. “There is no afterlife,” he said, “but I’d rather not spend the next three years of this life at Guantanamo answering questions about why we were burying unmarked packages within three miles of a federal building.”
Wilson followed the line of the cane up, and nodded when he saw the surveillance camera pointed toward toward them. “Right,” he said. “Somewhere else sounds like the perfect place.”
House finally stopped at a spot where the path curved left into the woods and pointed the beam of light at the roots of an oak tree. “Somewhere near there,” he said.
Wilson gave him the box and stepped off the path. He pushed the shovel down into the soil at the spot lit up by the flashlight. The blade sank down through a layer of leaves and past the thin covering of grass. He turned the shovel and piled dark earth next to the soil. He dug in again, and again.
“Make it deep enough so some dog won’t dig him up,” House said.
Wilson paused, looked over at him, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m not being sentimental,” House said. “Someone finds a half-rotted rat carcass and they’re going to start panicking about some new health crises, and then they -- and all of their friends -- will end up in the clinic with the sniffles telling me that they’re convinced that they’ve contracted some new rat flu.”
“Right,” Wilson said. “That’s the only reason.”
“Shut up and keep digging. I don’t want to be out here all night.”
Wilson smiled and pushed the shovel back into the ground.
It didn’t take long to make the hole. Within fifteen minutes House stepped over, leaned down and put the box down into the ground. He crouched next to the hole for a minute, then reached over and pushed soil down on top of the box. Wilson packed down the dirt, then spread leaves over the mound to hide it.
They both stood there, looking down at the spot.
“You want to say anything?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah,” House said. “Let’s go. It’s getting cold.” He turned and walked away.
House didn’t say anything on the walk back to Wilson’s car, or on the drive home, but motioned Wilson to follow him inside.
He walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Wilson leaned against the wall and watched as House paused for just a few seconds in front of the empty cage, then reached into the cupboard above it and took out two glasses.
House put the glasses on the table, then took two steps to another cabinet and took out a bottle of Glenfiddich. “It’s not a funeral without a wake,” he said and poured a couple of ounces into each glass.
Wilson pushed himself away from the wall and picked up a glass. House picked up the other.
“To Steve,” he said.
Wilson nodded and tilted his glass toward House, then at the cage. “To Steve.”