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sick_wilson2008-12-24 06:46 pm
nightdog-barks.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2008-12-24 06:46 pm
Entry tags:
Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful
TITLE: Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
CHARACTERS: Wilson. House. And four OCs.
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: None.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: If this is a dream, Wilson would really like to wake up now, please. 1,705 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This fic has been called "twisted," "weird," and "bizarre." And that was by my First Readers. Heh. Suffice it to say that I have committed a great many holiday sins with this story. They're all meant in good fun, though. Honest. There are a few notes at the end of the fic. Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to ... all of them. They are the very best Christmas present any writer could have, and I would be lost without them.
Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful
The clattering roar in the sky that's been accompanying Wilson all the way home from the hospital suddenly increases in intensity the moment he reaches the front door. The noise and the rush of downdraft cause him to fumble with his key, and he hisses out a soft curse as he has to shake the keyring to bring up the right one again.
A light sweeps by; night turns into day where it strikes, and Wilson glances up as it briefly illuminates the old-fashioned brass knocker on the door. The face on the knocker seems to grin at him, and then the light is gone.
Must be a big accident somewhere, Wilson thinks, but that can't be right -- there haven't been any sirens, just the racketing whirlwind in the sky. Something whizzes by and smacks into the steps by Wilson's feet. Instinctively, he looks down, and immediately his brows furrow in puzzlement. It's a present -- a slender, gift-wrapped box, split open by the impact to reveal another box, this one with MONT BLANC stamped in gold across the top. Another present flashes by, trailing a plume of smoke; it lands on the sidewalk and Wilson watches in astonishment as a naked Barbie bounces free. A detached, clinical part of his mind notes that the doll's hair is on fire. More boxes fall, showering out of the sky like small square meteorites. It's raining gifts.
Other people on the street are beginning to shout, and Wilson cautiously cranes his head out from under the apartment-front awning. There's something there, something darker than the night sky, tilting, blocking out the stars, and another something, much too close --
A rending, screeching clash of metal splits the sky; the air erupts in a blinding storm of light and flame.
It's the last thing Wilson sees as his world goes black.
Consciousness is a low hum, one that only gradually resolves into individual voices and a slow awareness that he's sitting upright. The darkness is absolute, and for a terrifying moment Wilson thinks he's blind. It's only after an adrenaline-stoked bout of frantic attempts to blink that he realizes he's been blindfolded with what feels like his own tie. He tries to reach up, lift the smooth silk from his eyes, but his hands are trapped, bound at the wrists behind what must be the back of a wood-framed chair.
"Uh," Wilson says. He tries to shift position, only to discover that his ankles are bound also, tied securely to the legs of the chair.
What the --
"House?" Wilson mumbles, because really, who else would do something like this?
"He's awake," someone says, and it's a male voice, but it's not House.
Wilson keeps very still. He knows he's in his own kitchen -- not only can he smell the spicy potpourri that Amber liked to keep hanging in a small net-bag above the sink, but also the lingering remnants of the stuffed peppers he made last night for dinner.
"I can see that," another voice replies testily, and this is an old man's voice, a rich baritone with mellifluous, rolling syllables. The voice comes closer.
"I'm truly sorry about this," the old man says. "It's all Rudy's fault, really -- "
"What?" a third voice squawks. "No way was it my fault! It was Don -- he swerved and jerked me off track -- "
"Oh, please." It's the first voice again, and this time it holds a dark and thundery undertone of anger. "What was I supposed to do? There was a pigeon right in my flight path -- you're the one who should have compensated for the yaw!"
"Me? No no no. Look, you want to blame someone, blame F.C."
"It wasn't F.C.'s fault." It's a fourth voice; Wilson can hear yet more mumbling in the background and the click of footsteps on the parquet, and he wonders dizzily just how many people are in his apartment.
"Oh yeah, Dash, like you'd know," the third voice mocks. "You're such a suck-up."
"Shut up, Rudy," the old man says. "You make trouble again, I'll see to it that your next career choice is that of a thermometer."
"You're slipping, F.C.," comes the sneering reply. "Stealing lines from David Mamet now?"
"You wouldn't know a premier American playwright if he bit you in the ass," F.C. retorts.
Rudy snorts in disgust and stomps away. Only ... it sounds as if two people are stomping off, and Wilson can still hear the old man nearby, sighing in apparent exasperation. There's a short silence, and Wilson holds his breath, listening.
"Putz," the old man grumbles. "What can I say, though? I need him, he needs me. It's a marriage made in Purgatory." A strong hand clasps Wilson's shoulder and squeezes gently as if in reassurance. "Anyway. Like I said, I'm very sorry about all this. We'll be out of your hair as soon as possible, but until then, I'm afraid we just can't allow you to wander around -- the boys would be tripping over you right and left." The hand gives another squeeze; it's a strangely fatherly gesture, and a wave of dizziness washes over Wilson. He tries to take a deep breath, but his ribs ache and his throat feels raw and scraped. He pulls at his restraints; his hands tingle and itch, and when he flexes his fingers the skin stretches tight like a too-small glove.
"Please," he whispers, but the hand pats his shoulder and then the warmth is gone.
"You just sit tight," F.C. advises, "and we'll be done before you know it."
The next few hours -- at least, Wilson assumes they're hours, since time seems to be alternately speeding up and slowing down here in the dark -- consists of his visitors picking up cartons and boxes and moving them somewhere else. And, sometimes, dropping them. That's what it sounds like, anyway -- lots of huffing and puffing and F.C.'s occasional shouted direction to put this here, not there, and his workers' grumbles and muffled curses.
It's all interrupted by a sudden, sharp rap at the door.
"Hey, Wilson!" a familiar voice shouts, and Wilson sags in his chair with the surge of relief.
"Who's that?" F.C. asks.
"It's House," Wilson says. "Doctor ... Gregory House. A friend."
"He's on the list, sir," Dash says.
There's a rustle of paper, the sound of pages being turned.
"Are you sure? I don't -- "
"The other list, sir."
"Oh! That list!" The old man chuckles. "Now I remember. Yes, Dr. House has been very naughty this year. Of course, he's quite naughty every year, really, since about ... "
"1962," Don supplies.
"Wilson! Come on!" House shouts again.
"Exactly," F.C. says.
"Please," Wilson rasps. "Could you please let him in?"
"But we're not finished packing yet."
The rapping is growing louder, but at the same time it's getting harder for Wilson to breathe.
"Wilson!"
"Please," Wilson says again, just as a coughing fit overtakes him. He leans forward, tries to pull his hands free.
"The more the merrier," Rudy points out.
"Well ... " F.C. says doubtfully. "But he hasn't told me what he wants."
Rudy sighs. "Tell F.C. what you want," he says.
"What I -- " Wilson can barely get the words out; his lungs are on fire and he's choking.
"What you want for Christmas."
Wilson drags in a great, whooping gasp of air, just as House switches from his cane to his fists and starts pounding at the door.
"House," Wilson grits out. "I want -- House."
Warm breath on Wilson's ear; the tickle of what might be whiskers on his neck.
"Then open your eyes," F.C. says, and Wilson does.
"You're kidding me," House says.
Wilson shakes his head, then winces a little. The intubation tube has left his throat so sore it hurts to move, let alone swallow. His burned hands, still wrapped in thick bandages, rest by his sides. His wrists are still chafed from the hospital restraints.
"You realize how much mileage I could get out of this?" House muses. "Tied up and held prisoner by Santa Claus and his reindeer? Dude, this beats stripper firemen hands down. You and your sneaky Jewish mind."
"Shouldn't've told you," Wilson whispers.
House shifts in his seat and uses the handle of his cane to tap lightly at his chin.
"No," he says. "I'm glad you did." He pastes a look of faux-concern on his face. "It's good for you -- to get these kinks out in the open like this. That's the first step on the road to recovery." He leans back in his chair, rummages around in the backpack he's got set on the floor. "Here. Brought you some newspapers." He holds one up; Wilson doesn't need to look at it to know the headline. The story's been all over CNN, Fox, MSNBC, even BBC America, since he woke up yesterday -- how the helicopter carrying Stan Nixon to his annual gig at Quaker Bridge Mall as the "Skydiving Santa" had collided with a traffic chopper, sending both aircraft tumbling in a fiery spiral directly onto Wilson's street.
The reporters keep calling it "the Christmas miracle" that there were no fatalities on the ground. Wilson keeps wondering what Father Christmas would say about that.
"You read t'me," Wilson mumbles. "Besides -- " He holds up his mittened hands.
"Oh!" House does a not very convincing job of feigning surprise. "Silly me, I forgot about that completely." He opens the newspaper, shaking out the pages with an excessively loud rattle. "Hmmm ... here's a good story!" He peers over the top edge of the paper and raises both eyebrows, then begins to read.
"In a shocking scientific development, researchers at the Otto von Kugelfisch Institute in Berlin revealed today that approximately eighty-three point two percent of Jewish males secretly believe their congregation's Rabbis are really Santa Claus and that he carries vibrating Easter eggs in his sleigh."
Wilson closes his eyes as House continues his pretense of reading. He opens them again when he hears jingle bells, but it's only a candy striper going by, down the hall.
~ fin
Oh the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful!
And since we've no place to go --
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
A Few Notes:
The David Mamet quote is real, and is taken from this recent theater story.
Quaker Bridge Mall is real. Stan Nixon is not, nor is there a "Skydiving Santa" routine that I know of. If there were, it would probably be a "Rappelling Santa" instead (since it's from a helicopter) but that didn't have the same alliterative effect. Hee.
"Let It Snow" (composer, Jule Styne, lyrics by Sammy Cahn) was written in 1945; the complete lyrics may be found here.
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesCHARACTERS: Wilson. House. And four OCs.
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: None.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: If this is a dream, Wilson would really like to wake up now, please. 1,705 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This fic has been called "twisted," "weird," and "bizarre." And that was by my First Readers. Heh. Suffice it to say that I have committed a great many holiday sins with this story. They're all meant in good fun, though. Honest. There are a few notes at the end of the fic. Cross-posted to
house_wilson. BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to ... all of them. They are the very best Christmas present any writer could have, and I would be lost without them.
Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful
The clattering roar in the sky that's been accompanying Wilson all the way home from the hospital suddenly increases in intensity the moment he reaches the front door. The noise and the rush of downdraft cause him to fumble with his key, and he hisses out a soft curse as he has to shake the keyring to bring up the right one again.
A light sweeps by; night turns into day where it strikes, and Wilson glances up as it briefly illuminates the old-fashioned brass knocker on the door. The face on the knocker seems to grin at him, and then the light is gone.
Must be a big accident somewhere, Wilson thinks, but that can't be right -- there haven't been any sirens, just the racketing whirlwind in the sky. Something whizzes by and smacks into the steps by Wilson's feet. Instinctively, he looks down, and immediately his brows furrow in puzzlement. It's a present -- a slender, gift-wrapped box, split open by the impact to reveal another box, this one with MONT BLANC stamped in gold across the top. Another present flashes by, trailing a plume of smoke; it lands on the sidewalk and Wilson watches in astonishment as a naked Barbie bounces free. A detached, clinical part of his mind notes that the doll's hair is on fire. More boxes fall, showering out of the sky like small square meteorites. It's raining gifts.
Other people on the street are beginning to shout, and Wilson cautiously cranes his head out from under the apartment-front awning. There's something there, something darker than the night sky, tilting, blocking out the stars, and another something, much too close --
A rending, screeching clash of metal splits the sky; the air erupts in a blinding storm of light and flame.
It's the last thing Wilson sees as his world goes black.
Consciousness is a low hum, one that only gradually resolves into individual voices and a slow awareness that he's sitting upright. The darkness is absolute, and for a terrifying moment Wilson thinks he's blind. It's only after an adrenaline-stoked bout of frantic attempts to blink that he realizes he's been blindfolded with what feels like his own tie. He tries to reach up, lift the smooth silk from his eyes, but his hands are trapped, bound at the wrists behind what must be the back of a wood-framed chair.
"Uh," Wilson says. He tries to shift position, only to discover that his ankles are bound also, tied securely to the legs of the chair.
What the --
"House?" Wilson mumbles, because really, who else would do something like this?
"He's awake," someone says, and it's a male voice, but it's not House.
Wilson keeps very still. He knows he's in his own kitchen -- not only can he smell the spicy potpourri that Amber liked to keep hanging in a small net-bag above the sink, but also the lingering remnants of the stuffed peppers he made last night for dinner.
"I can see that," another voice replies testily, and this is an old man's voice, a rich baritone with mellifluous, rolling syllables. The voice comes closer.
"I'm truly sorry about this," the old man says. "It's all Rudy's fault, really -- "
"What?" a third voice squawks. "No way was it my fault! It was Don -- he swerved and jerked me off track -- "
"Oh, please." It's the first voice again, and this time it holds a dark and thundery undertone of anger. "What was I supposed to do? There was a pigeon right in my flight path -- you're the one who should have compensated for the yaw!"
"Me? No no no. Look, you want to blame someone, blame F.C."
"It wasn't F.C.'s fault." It's a fourth voice; Wilson can hear yet more mumbling in the background and the click of footsteps on the parquet, and he wonders dizzily just how many people are in his apartment.
"Oh yeah, Dash, like you'd know," the third voice mocks. "You're such a suck-up."
"Shut up, Rudy," the old man says. "You make trouble again, I'll see to it that your next career choice is that of a thermometer."
"You're slipping, F.C.," comes the sneering reply. "Stealing lines from David Mamet now?"
"You wouldn't know a premier American playwright if he bit you in the ass," F.C. retorts.
Rudy snorts in disgust and stomps away. Only ... it sounds as if two people are stomping off, and Wilson can still hear the old man nearby, sighing in apparent exasperation. There's a short silence, and Wilson holds his breath, listening.
"Putz," the old man grumbles. "What can I say, though? I need him, he needs me. It's a marriage made in Purgatory." A strong hand clasps Wilson's shoulder and squeezes gently as if in reassurance. "Anyway. Like I said, I'm very sorry about all this. We'll be out of your hair as soon as possible, but until then, I'm afraid we just can't allow you to wander around -- the boys would be tripping over you right and left." The hand gives another squeeze; it's a strangely fatherly gesture, and a wave of dizziness washes over Wilson. He tries to take a deep breath, but his ribs ache and his throat feels raw and scraped. He pulls at his restraints; his hands tingle and itch, and when he flexes his fingers the skin stretches tight like a too-small glove.
"Please," he whispers, but the hand pats his shoulder and then the warmth is gone.
"You just sit tight," F.C. advises, "and we'll be done before you know it."
The next few hours -- at least, Wilson assumes they're hours, since time seems to be alternately speeding up and slowing down here in the dark -- consists of his visitors picking up cartons and boxes and moving them somewhere else. And, sometimes, dropping them. That's what it sounds like, anyway -- lots of huffing and puffing and F.C.'s occasional shouted direction to put this here, not there, and his workers' grumbles and muffled curses.
It's all interrupted by a sudden, sharp rap at the door.
"Hey, Wilson!" a familiar voice shouts, and Wilson sags in his chair with the surge of relief.
"Who's that?" F.C. asks.
"It's House," Wilson says. "Doctor ... Gregory House. A friend."
"He's on the list, sir," Dash says.
There's a rustle of paper, the sound of pages being turned.
"Are you sure? I don't -- "
"The other list, sir."
"Oh! That list!" The old man chuckles. "Now I remember. Yes, Dr. House has been very naughty this year. Of course, he's quite naughty every year, really, since about ... "
"1962," Don supplies.
"Wilson! Come on!" House shouts again.
"Exactly," F.C. says.
"Please," Wilson rasps. "Could you please let him in?"
"But we're not finished packing yet."
The rapping is growing louder, but at the same time it's getting harder for Wilson to breathe.
"Wilson!"
"Please," Wilson says again, just as a coughing fit overtakes him. He leans forward, tries to pull his hands free.
"The more the merrier," Rudy points out.
"Well ... " F.C. says doubtfully. "But he hasn't told me what he wants."
Rudy sighs. "Tell F.C. what you want," he says.
"What I -- " Wilson can barely get the words out; his lungs are on fire and he's choking.
"What you want for Christmas."
Wilson drags in a great, whooping gasp of air, just as House switches from his cane to his fists and starts pounding at the door.
"House," Wilson grits out. "I want -- House."
Warm breath on Wilson's ear; the tickle of what might be whiskers on his neck.
"Then open your eyes," F.C. says, and Wilson does.
"You're kidding me," House says.
Wilson shakes his head, then winces a little. The intubation tube has left his throat so sore it hurts to move, let alone swallow. His burned hands, still wrapped in thick bandages, rest by his sides. His wrists are still chafed from the hospital restraints.
"You realize how much mileage I could get out of this?" House muses. "Tied up and held prisoner by Santa Claus and his reindeer? Dude, this beats stripper firemen hands down. You and your sneaky Jewish mind."
"Shouldn't've told you," Wilson whispers.
House shifts in his seat and uses the handle of his cane to tap lightly at his chin.
"No," he says. "I'm glad you did." He pastes a look of faux-concern on his face. "It's good for you -- to get these kinks out in the open like this. That's the first step on the road to recovery." He leans back in his chair, rummages around in the backpack he's got set on the floor. "Here. Brought you some newspapers." He holds one up; Wilson doesn't need to look at it to know the headline. The story's been all over CNN, Fox, MSNBC, even BBC America, since he woke up yesterday -- how the helicopter carrying Stan Nixon to his annual gig at Quaker Bridge Mall as the "Skydiving Santa" had collided with a traffic chopper, sending both aircraft tumbling in a fiery spiral directly onto Wilson's street.
The reporters keep calling it "the Christmas miracle" that there were no fatalities on the ground. Wilson keeps wondering what Father Christmas would say about that.
"You read t'me," Wilson mumbles. "Besides -- " He holds up his mittened hands.
"Oh!" House does a not very convincing job of feigning surprise. "Silly me, I forgot about that completely." He opens the newspaper, shaking out the pages with an excessively loud rattle. "Hmmm ... here's a good story!" He peers over the top edge of the paper and raises both eyebrows, then begins to read.
"In a shocking scientific development, researchers at the Otto von Kugelfisch Institute in Berlin revealed today that approximately eighty-three point two percent of Jewish males secretly believe their congregation's Rabbis are really Santa Claus and that he carries vibrating Easter eggs in his sleigh."
Wilson closes his eyes as House continues his pretense of reading. He opens them again when he hears jingle bells, but it's only a candy striper going by, down the hall.
~ fin
Oh the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful!
And since we've no place to go --
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
A Few Notes:
The David Mamet quote is real, and is taken from this recent theater story.
Quaker Bridge Mall is real. Stan Nixon is not, nor is there a "Skydiving Santa" routine that I know of. If there were, it would probably be a "Rappelling Santa" instead (since it's from a helicopter) but that didn't have the same alliterative effect. Hee.
"Let It Snow" (composer, Jule Styne, lyrics by Sammy Cahn) was written in 1945; the complete lyrics may be found here.
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But it was. Yay! XD