| |
What's Up, Doc?
by gena
What's Up, Doc?
James Wilson sat beside the phone, gaze torn between it and the sweeping second hand of the clock on the wall. His heart beat fast, drying his throat but leaving his palms sweaty, and had to fight down a rising tide of panic, telling himself that if he could face death every day he could - and he would - face this. Seconds passed, and Wilson counted each agonizing one, praying the phone would not ring again just as it had every fifteen minutes for the past three and a half hours. Five seconds to go - four - he swallowed nervously - three - two - it rang one second early. Wilson yelped, his left hand darting out to shakily snatch up the receiver. "Y-yes?"
"Knock-knock."
"Stop this," he begged, nearly sobbing. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"The correct response is Who's there?," he was informed by the voice on the other end.
"House, please, for the love of all that is holy, stop calling me!"
"Oh come on, just say it," House whined.
"If I do, will you let me go back to sleep?"
"Yes, of course," House said with an audible roll of his eyes, "I'm not a sadist."
Wilson was too exhausted to dispute that claim. "Who's there?" He said in a broken whisper.
"Waddle."
"W-waddle who?"
"Waddle you give me if I go away?" House's cackling laugh ended abruptly as Wilson slammed down the phone. He regretted it, really he did, deep down he knew House's insomnia was torturing his friend just as much as it was him but at that moment - which happened to be 3:47 AM - all he wanted was to fall over on his bed and sleep. He did - fall over, sleep, of course did not come because he kept expecting the phone to ring. At 3:59 Wilson's eyelids sprang open of their own accord and he sat, pillow clutched to his chest, once again staring at the phone. Every muscle was locked with tension, his concentration so tight that he had practically mind-melded with the damn thing.
It didn't ring.
Each second then minute then quarter hour that it didn't ring seemed to last longer but at 5:12 Am Wilson finally passed out from exhaustion only to toss in fevered dreams where giant phones clubbed him with canes until his alarm went off at 7:30. He cursed all the way through his shower, muttered profanities while blow drying his hair and mentally drew up a list of ways to kill House without causing suspicion as he drove to his office.
"Wilson!"
Wilson flinched at the sound of his name being bellowed through the lobby and hurried towards the elevator - to no avail. House appeared at his side so quickly Wilson wondered if he'd somehow learned to pole vault using his cane. "Leave me alone, House," he hissed. "I'm tired and I have work to do."
"You're also rather bitchy this morning," House said and stepped into the elevator beside him, "Bad phone sex?" Wilson glared at him, but House merely began to whistle a disjointed melody, cane thumping, shoulders twitching. Wilson sighed. He knew House in this mood, it didn't happen often but when it did he was the one who suffered.
"You promised me the last time this happened you'd listen to that tape I bought you," Wilson reminded his friend.
"I did," House said. "Most enlightening. Did you know that my Personal Happiness Center actually has cherry filling?"
"House," Wilson sighed and shook his head. "Dr. Reggie Guptah is a recognized leader in relaxation techniques."
"Sure he is. And the fact he got his medical license with boxtops has nothing to do with my skepticism." He lifted his cane and pressed the stop button. "Jimmy, I need you to come by when you get done tonight."
Wilson eyed him. "House, you're wound up. You haven't slept in over 24 hours and you need to relax."
"Exactly!" From his close proximity, Wilson could practically feel House vibrating with excitement, something that never boded well for either of them. "I found these cool slingshots on the internet," House said and his eyes were shining as he described his plan to shoot different food stuffs from the roof of his townhouse at his party prone neighbors. He hit the button and the elevator lurched into motion again. "Be there at 6 and bring pizza," he said getting out on the fourth floor, "frozen and fresh - and maybe those bagel bite things. You think they're aerodynamic?" Wilson stared after him, so stunned he failed to get off the elevator and ended up back down at the lobby.
"Are you all right?"
Wilson blinked. Cuddy stood in front of him, her gray eyes filled with concern. "I just- House is - If House and I don't come in for a few days, don't be worried. I think we're going to need some time off."
"What's he done now?"
"He can't sleep," Wilson admitted. "You know how manic he gets when his mind won't shut off."
"Maybe you could get a kill switch?"
"Don't joke," Wilson said softly. Cuddy touched his arm in silent apology. "It's not his fault. He has this incredible gift, his brain absorbs everything he sees or hears and he begins to obsess over the most bizarre things."
"Oh, I know," Cuddy said and her expression twisted to one of abject horror tinged with seething rage. Wilson had a fleeting curiosity as to what personal information House had confronted her with but then he remembered his friend's eerie recitation of Cuddy's menstrual cycle and decided he really didn't want to know. "Take a few days," Cuddy said with a weary sigh. "Take as long as you need, just make sure he doesn't do anything that can be photographed - we're nearly over budget in legal fees."
Wilson promised to keep an eye on him, he would have promised to dance naked at the Christmas party - and wasn't sure he hadn't - to get away from her and retreat to the relative safety of his office and the chance at a few minutes solitude. He was glad it was Friday, if he were lucky an amazing plan to keep House from causing havoc would come to him and if that didn't happen maybe he'd just lapse into a coma and not have to worry. As it turned out Wilson didn't get time to formulate much more than "1) tranquilizer darts 2) big mallet" because he fell asleep at his desk, coat still on, and woke up with a report stuck to his cheek, the imprint of a paperclip on the side of his nose and his assistant staring at him.
The rest of the day passed in a kind of fractured blur, leaving Wilson feeling as if he'd attempted to juggle glass balls with hands thickly slathered in grease and very disturbed by the fact he'd even thought of that simile. By the time he'd finished every crisis which popped up in the normal course of his day and come up with a plausible, yet fictional, explanation for Cuddy as to why the Heads of Diagnostic Medicine and Oncology had absolutely needed to race gurneys in the morgue corridors in order to save lives, it was 5:38 and House was standing in his doorway ready to leave. "Wait until you see the range this thing has," House enthused. Wilson willed himself not to cry, it would only fuel House's actions, and followed him to his car. There was a side trip to Whole Foods for supper or ammunition as House liked to call it, and before he knew it Wilson found himself standing on the roof of House's townhouse with a frozen bagel melting in one hand.
"This is probably illegal," he said, "and immoral."
"But it'll be fun." House loaded a wonton into his slingshot, drew back and fired. There was a whistling sound and the lingering odor of spiced pork and then a very faint splat. Wilson had to admit the distance was impressive, and the sight of frozen food flying into the night proved to be intoxicatingly amusing. He promised himself once they finished off the wontons and the pizza bites he would talk House into going inside and getting some sleep but then they discovered the aerodynamic qualities of mini tacos. For several hours the adrenaline rush of flinging foodstuffs kept him going but around 4:30 Wilson found himself numb with exhaustion. He talked House into finally calling it a night and sank gratefully onto the sofa, eyes already closing. "Up and at `em, Jimmy-boy," House shouted. "The night is young."
"House, please. Is it money?" Wilson asked. "I can pay you." He fumbled for his wallet, saying, "let me sleep just for a while." He turned bloodshot eyes on his friend, knowing all the while that showing House a sign of weakness was like waving a red flag at a bull. House surprised him.
"It'll cost you two hundred."
"Done."
Wilson scrawled the check and handed it over, eyes already closing. He knew it was risky but he'd reached the end of his endurance. The next morning when he woke up with whipped cream in his undershorts, his shoe laces tied together and his hair styled with grape jelly, Wilson still considered it a bargain.
Day three of what Wilson had mentally begun calling Hyper-House Hell Week officially began around 10AM - after his shower and a shampoo and conditioner routine that had to be performed twice. It included pancakes, bacon, mindless violence and casual sex, the former Wilson provided while the latter two were supplied by House's endless stream of videogames. They moved on to board games in the afternoon and predictably House cheated at Mastermind, stole Monopoly money while Wilson wasn't looking, changed the rules halfway through Yahtzee and refused to admit defeat even when all his Battleships had been sunk. House looked tired, his face more drawn than normal and his eyes were bloodshot but he grinned like a kid. Wilson smiled in return, knowing there was no way to change House and not really wanting to. That evening they called for pizza and watched movies. Wilson felt his eyelids beginning to droop and sometime between Armageddon and Transporter 2 he toppled sideways face down on the cushions and House used his ass as a tray for his chips and soda.
He woke to the sound of elephants crashing through the townhouse, destroying everything in their path. Turned out to be crap in House's hall closet falling but for a few tense minutes Wilson thought the circus had taken a shortcut through the townhouse. "What're you doin'?"
House stood there, helmet in hand. "I'm going for a ride."
"It's 2 o'clock in the morning," Wilson pointed out, already putting his shoes on.
"Thank you Captain Obvious," House snapped, "your powers of deduction never fail to astound." Wilson's head shot up, the note of frustration and anger in House's voice meant he was starting to fray around the edges. House's eyes were burning, the blue so bright and intense it could have powered a laser and Wilson knew House would start to snap and bite like a caged animal if he didn't do something. The mental image of House at the end of a long leash, nearly foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, made Wilson hide a smile. House needed a chance to burn off some of the excess energy his mind was creating on overdrive and if he had to face a near death experience on the back of that motorcycle to help he'd do it.
"Let's go," Wilson said and grabbed his jacket. "What? I can't let you have all the fun and you know how much I like spending a night in jail."
"They don't have hairdryers," House chided, "barely have indoor plumbing, and unless you've suddenly developed a fetish for watching strangers pee, I'm choosing not to believe that." Wilson didn't even bother to glare at him, just headed outside and climbed on the back of the bike. Contrary to popular belief, Wilson liked House's motorcycle. He never told anyone why because admitting you like to slid up close to your best friend and then wrap both arms around him as a thousand pound machine throbbed between your legs wouldn't be the best thing for keeping a heterosexual image.
And though there was some question in his mind if he blacked out at some point or merely suffered a kind of aneurism caused by excessive speed, Wilson found himself enjoying the fresh air. It seemed to wipe away a bit of the fatigue which had been building and gave him a second wind - unfortunately it has the same effect on House. By the time they returned to the townhouse around noon, House was ready to keep going. Wilson placated him with fast food and several hours of mindless TV but as night fell again, he knew House hadn't reached the point of shutdown yet. Knowing his friend had a secret stash of drugs somewhere, Wilson considered hunting them out so he could at least keep up with House through the night but finally decided one impaired doctors was enough.
"I've been thinking about something for a long time," House said seriously. Wilson , slumped beside him, dredged up enough energy to turn and stare at him. "I think it's time for a panty raid on Cuddy's house!"
"Haha," Wilson said. "I bet you kill in Vegas."
"I've been known to kill closer to home," House said.
"I need another beer, how `bout you?" He didn't wait for an answer just got up and headed for the kitchen. They'd had soup and sandwiches for supper and he took the time for a quick cleanup never thinking that it could be a mistake. That was his first mistake because leaving House alone after he'd announced something like a desire to torment and humiliate Cuddy was just stupid. He blamed it on the aneurism. The sound of the bike revving shook him out of his stupor and into action; he was on the back of the motorcycle before House even had time to put up the kickstand.
"This is going to get us killed!" Wilson hissed. Standing in the bushes outside Cuddy home, Wilson found himself praying some Hispanic handyman might crash from the sky and put him out of his misery but no such luck. He would appear in the Princeton Prattler with a number plate held under his chin and desperation in his eyes. Only the thought of what House might do with Cuddy's underwear kept him there and then the thought of what House might do with Cuddy's underwear kind of turned him on - so he made a grab for House's arm. "Come on, let's go terrorize Cameron."
"Show up at Cameron's window in the middle of the night! Are you completely insane?" House asked. "She'd have me stripped naked and tied to the bed before I even had a chance to laugh maniacally. Now shut up and help me get this window up." Wilson gave up arguing and helped House silently pry the window up enough for them to get through it. He wondered briefly how House knew this particular window led into Cuddy's bedroom but then they were inside. Moonlight streamed through the window behind them, illuminating surprisingly girlish dcor. Fluffy bedspread, frilly pillows, billowy drapes, stainless steel frying - pan. What the hell? Wilson had only an instant to register the fact a figure was rushing towards him, shrieking like a banshee and then the frying pan hit him and he went down.
"Wilson!" He longed to keep his eyes shut, just lie there and let his body rot on the spot. Despite the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the way it radiated up to his skull, sounding just like House's laughter, he was so damn tired even being dead felt good. "Wilson! What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?" When he opened his eyes, Wilson thought maybe death could still be achieved because lying on the floor of his boss's bedroom with his best friend lounging on said boss's pouffy looking bed, made him want to slit his wrists. "Answer me!"
"Uuflshp," he said and blinked. Cuddy glared at him and Wilson knew he had to get his mouth working and fast if both he and House were to survive this ordeal with their careers and their lives intact. "T-thought we saw a prowler," he sputtered. He put out an experimental hand and pushed himself upright, when his head didn't fall off, Wilson got slowly to his feet. "House and I were driving by and I thought I saw something."
"Like thongs," House said in a sing-song from his perch on the bed. "Fluffy, fuzzy, covered with lace - thongs are best worn on the face," he sang. Over Cuddy's shoulder, Wilson saw House slip off the bed and begin rummaging through the dresser drawers.
"He's exhausted," Wilson hissed to Cuddy, grabbing her by the shoulders to prevent her from witnessing the sight of her undergarments being flung into the air and especially to keep her from seeing House pull out a pair of leopard print panties and put them on his head.
"Ahoy me maites!" House called, striking a manly pose.
"I swear as soon as I get him home, I'll lock him in his bedroom," Wilson vowed. "Just promise me, Cuddy, you won't kill House. Please."
"All right, I promise," Cuddy said, "just this once." Wilson let go of her, smiled his most charming smile and dashed around her. Before Cuddy had a chance to turn around he took House by the arm and began dragging him from the room. Just not fast enough.
"HOUSE! GET MY PANTIES OFF YOUR HEAD!"
"I'm driving," Wilson declared. They were standing beside the motorcycle, House singing "things are better in thongs because bloomers just cause rumors" and him tapping his foot like an irritated parent.
"My bike," House pointed out.
"House," Wilson said in his patent-pending exasperated voice, "You have underwear on your head."
"And you play with dolls," House spit, "The rubber ones with that nasty surprised expression." He shook his head, lips stretched wide in an "O" of disgust.
"You are completely insane," Wilson said and calmly slipped his hand into House's front pocket.
"Jimmy!" House squeaked, wriggling so much that anyone passing would have thought they were rehearsing a lewd act. "If you wanted to fondle my balls you could have just asked." Startled, Wilson froze and the silence that fell between them when their eyes met was deafening. He knew he was tired but for a second he could have sworn House looked hopeful then embarrassed. House was never embarrassed or at a loss for words unless it meant something. Wilson dismissed the thought as a product of an exhausted mind and climbed onto the bike.
"Get on."
"Get on. Stop singing. Go to sleep. Stop doing drugs. You're just full of words to live by, aren't you?" House got on behind him, cane strapped into its holder, his arms tight around Wilson's waist. He leaned in, his mouth close to Wilson ear, "Home James!"
Wilson gunned the engine, popped the clutch and killed it. "Damnit!" He swore. Two more attempts resulted in two jackrabbit starts but eventually, and despite House's shrieking death threats, Wilson managed to ease the clutch out as he gently twisted the throttle. They made it back to Baker Street as the sun was coming up and staggered inside with silly grins on both their faces.
"That was fun," House said. He slumped onto the couch and yawned. Wilson gaped at him. "What?"
"You - you yawned," he said.
"So?"
"You're tired?" Wilson tried not to sound too hopeful. He'd seen it happen before; House would be up for days and just when it looked like he would crash he would take off again undaunted, leaving Wilson in the dust.
"I'm exhausted," House admitted. He gave Wilson a sleepy smile and got to his feet. He stood leaning on his cane. "Come on," House said and poked Wilson with his cane. "Couch is too lumpy, you can share the bed." Wilson followed him to the bedroom and watched House strip down to shorts and a t-shirt before following suit. House's bed felt like heaven - like the wings of angels stroking his back and murmuring softly in his ear.
For several minutes they lay quietly beside each other then House breathed out a deep sigh and turned onto his side. Wilson looked over at him. "Thanks," House said, lifting one hand to his forehead, "It's quiet now." Wilson nodded in understanding. House closed his eyes, hooked one finger over Wilson's thumb and seemed to immediately fall into an untroubled sleep.
Watching House sleep, a peaceful expression on his tired face, brought an overwhelming sense of accomplishment to Wilson's heart. He'd promised to always be there for House, to protect him as best he could, and he had. It had cost him sleep and probably taken a few years off his life, but it had been worth it. With a contented sigh, Wilson closed his eyes and -
Found he couldn't sleep.
12072006
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|