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A Dark And Stormy Night
by Housepiglet
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
There was a knock at the door, and House paused in his playing and looked down at his watch. 11pm. At that time of night it could only be Wilson.
"Busy here. Use your key!" he barked, eyes dropping to the keyboard again as he continued with his tune.
The familiar scrape of Wilson's key in the lock didn't materialise, though, and House heard a second, and slightly louder, knock. He looked up in mild surprise. Was Wilson deaf all of a sudden?
"Are you deaf all of a sudden, Wilson?" he shouted, towards the door. "I said I'm busy here. Use your key!"
The sound of Wilson's voice drifted back to him across the apartment, slightly muffled after its journey through the door.
"I can't, House. I haven't got it. Let me in."
House stopped playing again. "Whaddya mean, you haven't got your key? What have you done with it?"
House wasn't sure, but he thought he detected the sound of a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door. It was muted, but he thought it was there.
"House. For once, stop arguing, and just get over here and open the door!"
Curiosity finally overcoming irritation, House swung his legs over the piano stool and reached for his cane. He limped stiffly across to the door and opened it, to find Wilson standing in the hallway with a plastic carrier bag in one hand and a worried expression in his cool, green eyes.
House gazed at Wilson for a moment, sure that something wasn't right, but it wasn't until Wilson was pushing past him into the apartment that realisation dawned and he spun round and stared over at Wilson in amazement. Wilson's cool, green eyes? What the hell was going on?
"What the hell's going on, Wilson?" House demanded, as he pushed the door closed behind him. He was just in time to see Wilson stop suddenly in his journey towards the couch, and rub his hand distractedly across the bridge of his nose. No sooner had Wilson done that, though, than he jumped, jerking his hand away from his face as though his nose was on fire, and jamming his fist deep into his pocket. Wilson glanced around the room for a moment, then, and finally turned to his left. He made his way to an armchair by the window, and then he sat down.
"They're onto us, House," said Wilson, then. His arm twitched, and it looked to House as though he was fighting the temptation to extract his hand from his pocket and massage the back of his neck. "They've made a list!"
"Made a list?" parroted House in increasing confusion, his large, blue eyes widening in amazement. "Who's made a list? A list of what? What the fuck are you talking about, and what the hell happened to your eyes?"
"It's the writers," said Wilson, despairingly. "I've just come from the studio. They've been having a meeting, and they say we're getting stale around here. You know..." he said, twisting slightly in his seat as he struggled to keep his hands down. "Boring. Cliched. Same old Same Old!" He took a deep breath. "All our favorite... stuff! They're writing it out!"
Wilson ducked his head for a moment, and then he looked up and stared across at House, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Our stuff, House! You at the piano; me letting myself in with my key; beer and takeaway on the couch; my soft, brown eyes; your hiss of pain; me rubbing my nose; you toying with your cane; my... expressive gestures; the balcony scenes; my lost brother; the iPod and the yo-yo; the rolling eyes; the whole..." Wilson's voice cracked a little, but he struggled bravely on: "...the whole sub-text thing. Even..." Wilson could barely continue. "Even the sick!Wilson!" Wilson's throat contracted, and he began to roll his eyes, but remembering his instructions he stopped, guiltily, eyes frozen strangely in mid-roll. "Oh, shit! I think I'm getting a migrai..." He ground suddenly to a halt, not knowing what to feel, and took a deep, shuddering breath. A moment later, he continued, finally. "They took away my key, and they said to give you these." He removed his left hand from his pocket, then, and held out a small parcel towards House.
House limped slowly across to Wilson, and stared silently into his eyes. He then took the package from Wilson's hand, and tipped the contents into his palm. In his hand lay a set of hazel-colored contact lenses. House's eyes widened even further, and he looked up at Wilson, disbelievingly.
"They say we might be able to keep some of the stuff in if we do it differently," continued Wilson, suddenly, "but I dunno. It sounded pretty hopeless to me."
Wilson couldn't contain himself any longer, and he lowered his head into his hands and began to cry. House rolled his eyes a bit, but he couldn't bear to see Wilson crying, and so he shifted uncomfortably on his cane. A moment later he took a cautious step towards Wilson, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Jimmy," he said, gruffly. "Everything will be okay." And he trailed his fingers gently through Wilson's soft, brown hair.
Wilson jumped back as though stung, though, and pushed House violently away. "Don't do that!" he hissed, horrified. "They'll be watching!" And he darted anxious looks around the room.
"Okay then!" said House, stepping back, and secretly relieved. "D'you wanna beer?" He grinned, and reached eagerly for Wilson's carrier bag, then, and withdrew a 6 pack. Looking closer, though, he realised it was diet soda, and his eyes swung slowly back to Wilson's.
"They sent that over too," said Wilson, wiping at his eyes and reaching for his hanky. "And Chinese and pancakes are out. They're calling in a dietician!" He blew his nose, then, and heaved a shuddering sigh.
It was a lot to take in, and House lowered himself slowly into an armchair and reached for a soda. He cracked it open, and tipped his head back, swallowing deeply. Neither man moved, and for some moments the only sounds to be heard were those of Wilson sniffling quietly into his hanky and a constant, high pitched whirring from a corner of the room.
Noticing the whirring, Wilson started, slightly, and glanced towards the corner. Two bright and beady little eyes stared back at him, and Wilson's eyes filled with tears again as he watched Steve McQueen running, steady and oblivious, on his wheel. At the sight of it, Wilson heaved another shuddering breath and turned back to House. "Oh, and I don't know how to tell you, House, but about the rat..."
The End
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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.
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