sick_wilson | Adopt-a-Plot-Bunny Program

Entry tags:

!mod post

Adopt-a-Plot-Bunny Program

Have you ever had a brilliant idea for a story in which Wilson gets sick or hurt, but you couldn't quite figure out what to do with it? Maybe the muses were fickle and abandoned you in the midst of the creative process, and an unfinished fic continues to languish on your hard drive. Or maybe you have the opposite problem, and your plot bunnies are multiplying faster than you can keep up with them. Perhaps you've never been bitten by the writing bug, but have spent countless hours daydreaming of ways to torture Wilson with various injuries and/or illnesses. Whatever your situation, wouldn't it be great if you could find a good home for your neglected plot bunnies, where they could have an opportunity to thrive under someone else's tender loving care?

*drum roll*

sick_wilson is pleased to introduce the Adopt-a-Plot-Bunny Program—a forum designed to bring ideas and writers together.

If you want to offer a plot bunny for adoption, provide a brief description of the type of illness and/or injury that you'd like to see inflicted upon our favorite oncologist. Plot summaries are also welcome.

If you're a writer and decide to adopt a plot bunny, please credit the person who provided the concept for your story. A reference to

sick_wilson would be greatly appreciated if you cross-post to other communities.

Interested? *poke, poke*

Let the fun begin!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It was about seven o’clock, when House finally got up from where he had collapsed onto one of the red, green, and brown printed covers of the hotel beds, limped heavily through the door dividing his room and Wilson’s and started to ask Wilson if he had seen a list of places to eat nearby, when a knock sounded at the door to Wilson’s room. Wilson glanced at House, and then walked over to answer it. “Hello?” he asked. The same bellboy who had been waiting outside a few hours earlier stood in the doorway. “I’m supposed to tell you that the digestive cancer diagnostic advancements conference has been canceled, and that we have arranged a shuttle system between here and the nearest ski resorts for your convenience and pleasure. Also, here is a pamphlet of nearby attractions, though most of them are not open this time of year.” as soon as he finished, handed the pamphlet to Wilson, and shut the door behind him, House let out a cackle. Wilson looked at House, confused as to why being stuck in a hotel with nothing much to do for a week was making him cackle like a tickled hyena. “You do realize that Cuddy just paid for a vacation to a prime hotel, right near about ten ski resorts, and we don’t even have to take vacation leave, don’t you?” said House, by way of explanation. “Oh...but you cant ski, what are you going to do?” “....way to ruin the moment, Wilson.” said House. “sorry.” said Wilson, and he looked like he meant it.

About an hour later, after the room service dinner the hotel provided for free, as compensation, House and Wilson decided to head down to the lounge, mostly because the cable had been knocked out by the storm, and they had nothing better to do. Plus, Wilson had gotten tired of watching House pace, trying to relive the stiffness in his thigh from the long plane flight, and the tense and cramped car ride to the hotel. “Hello, care to join us?” asked a friendly, light haired man, in his mid to late twenties. He was sitting at a table of other, similarly aged men, about half of whom were reading the rain check pamphlets that had been distributed by the unfortunate bellboy. The other half were sneaking glances at the few, non male, colleagues who were in attendance at the moment. They had obviously been stuck in the hotel for a while, because there were about five completed one thousand piece jigsaw puzzles on the table they were sitting at. “Lets see...the one that talked to us looks like Chase, that one that keeps sneaking glances at the brunette in the corner is practically Foreman’s twin, and said brunette is making the same sympathetic face as Cameron always makes. All we need is a large breasted, argumentive old lady to walk down here, and it’ll be like we never left. Oh, joy.” thought House, looking around the room as Wilson accepted the blond man’s offer and sat down. House turned and seeing Wilson sitting, sat down as well, though with a slightly less friendly air about him than the charismatic, dark haired, oncologist.

About half an hour later, after introductions had been made, and the other doctors had found out that it was much more pleasant to talk to the chocolate eyed man than his icy blue counterpart, the doctors and Wilson were deep in a discussion about which ski place had the best slopes for different skill levels. House was staring un-abashidly at the Cameron-twin in the corner, who was sending him occasional glares. Or, more accurately, House was staring un-abashidly at the Cameron-twin’s cleavage, and her glares were, unfortunately coming from her eyes, not her breasts, so House had not seen them, not that he would have cared if he had. “Anyway, I bet that nobody that hadn’t grown up skiing all the time could make it through the whole diamond trail at little winchester mountain.” said one of the doctors who lived near the convention site, but had stopped by to talk with his stranded brethren in the fight against severe-diahriah-causing cancers. “I’ll take that bet!” said Wilson, who, little known to most of his companions--and wives–,back in New Jersy, had actually skied quite a bit in his college days, and had gained quite a large reputation, along with House, back at med school for being able to ski just about any trail that someone laid out for them. “Ok then, but don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when we have to pick you up with a snow-mobile because you passed out halfway down the trail.” said another native “I wont, believe me.” replied Wilson, confidently.

_________________________________________________________________________
Wilson was strapping on his skis at the top of the hill that marked the start of the diamond trail, when House limped up the slope towards him. When House tapped Wilson on the shoulder, Wilson jumped and almost fell over. House just raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. “You sure you can do this? You haven skied since, what? Your first year of being an intern?” said House after Wilson had regained his balance. “Thanks for your concern, but im pretty sure I can handle it.” said Wilson looking surprised at House’s question. “Im not concerned, I just want to know what to bet on.” said House. “Oh...” said Wilson. House turned and started limping back down the hill, towards the warm indoors of the ski resort’s lounge. “Why did he come all the way up here just to ask me that? I have my phone, he could have just called....” thought Wilson as he started to ski down the small hill.

House had been in the lounge for about two hours, waiting for Wilson. Most of the other doctors had gone out to ski some on their own, but that wasn’t really an option for House. He had just got up to start pacing again, when his phone rang. It was Wilson’s ringtone. He hurriedly picked it up, off of the coffee table he had set it on, and had been playing solitaire on for the last half hour. “Wilson?” he asked as he answered the phone. “House...thank....god.” said Wilson, pain in his voice. “What, did the ever so great Wilson crash into a tree?” said House, sarcastically, though his heart was beating fast. “No...I....forgot....my....goggles....got...snowblind...then...I crashed into...a tree.” said Wilson, a hint of humor creeping into his voice at the end of his sentence. “Ok, well, are you ok?” asked House. “No...I hurt my...leg.” said Wilson “well, where are you?” said House, “I’ll call ski patrol to get you.” “I don’t....know....everything....is purple and....green.” said Wilson. “Did you notice any mile markers, oh, god of skiing?” “No...not....for...a....ergh....while.” said Wilson, more pain in his voice now. “You ok? Tree branch fall on you now?” said House with sarcasm, although his face betrayed his worry, not that Wilson could see House’s expression. “No...I....moved.....to...try...and look....around...bad...idea...I guess” said Wilson, humor creeping into his voice again. “Well I’ll call ski patrol, and tell them you are on that trail, two hours’ skiing into it. Ok?” said House. “Thank....you” said Wilson, tiredly.

House did not know the number for ski patrol, but he had noticed the first aid shack on his way up to the start of the trail, so he limped to the small building, and knocked on the door. “Hello, may I help you?” asked the nurse who answered his knock, as she glanced at his cane, somewhat confused. “My friend hurt his leg on one of the trails, he need someone to pick him up. Said House, thinking that, unfortunately, this nurse could not have really made it if she had to deal with more than broken bones and sprains on a regular basis. “Oh, then I’ll call ski patrol, do you know what trail the friend was on?” asked the nurse, looking much more comfortable now that the situation was seen to be one she was familiar with. “The diamond trail, about two hours skiing into it.” House wondered if he should tell the nurse that Wilson was also snowblind, but decided it would probably make her head explode if she had to deal with more than one symptom.

House had always wanted to ride a ski patrol snowmobile, but oddly it wasn’t as fun as he had anticipated. Then again, he had never guessed that if he did get to ride one it would be on a pseudo search and rescue mission for Wilson. That might have had something to do with his lessened enjoyment of the ride. Or maybe not. “That him?” asked the burly man on the snowmobile ahead of House. “Let’s see, holding his leg, arm over eyes, pale, yeah, I’d say that’s him...” said House, sarcastically. The ski patrol man glared at House, and got off his snowmobile. House moved to get off of his but his thigh was stiff from the forty five minute ride, and gave out the moment he put weight on it. The burly ski patrol man glanced back at him, but did not help him up. “Sir, are you alright?” asked the nurse who had been on the snowmobile behind House. “I’m snowblind and I have a broken leg. I would say not.” said Wilson, almost as sarcastic as House. “Did House come?” asked Wilson, trying to look around, but failing miserably. “House?” asked the nurse. “Tall guy, cane, blue eyes, about my age, he said he’d call ski patrol, I guess he at least did that, even if he didn’t come out here.” said Wilson, sounding somewhat disappointed. “Great, he left me to deal with a nurse who probably doesn’t know the front end of a stethoscope from the back, and mr. Gorilla man here. Typical.” thought Wilson. House, of course was still trying to stand up on the icy ground on the other side of the snowmobiles. “If this House is a sarcastic bastard, then, yeah, he came...” said the burly ski patrol man. “Oh...” said Wilson, managing a brief smile at the thought of House berating the man the whole way here.

“So, we wrapped his knee, but even so, he shouldn’t walk on it until it heals, and keep his eyes covered until the symptoms disappear.” said the nurse, eyeing House with doubtful eyes, clearly thinking that he would not be able to deal with even those simple instructions. “I know, we *are* both doctors, I think we can handle a simple injuries like these.” said House, sarcastically. “Well, ok then, but how are you going to get your friend to your car?” asked the nurse, slightly mischievously. “You do have wheelchairs, don’t you?” asked House, more sarcastic than ever. “Yes, but you need two hands to push a wheelchair.” said the nurse, reacting to House’s slight. “Yes, your point being?” said House. “Well, you don’t exactly look like you can push a wheel chair and stand up at the same time.” said the nurse, now abandoning all traces of politeness. “I regret to inform you that your worries are baseless.” said House, with mock politeness. Wilson, sitting on the examination table in the corner, sighed. House glanced at Wilson, and amazingly ended the argument by telling the nurse to just go get a wheelchair. When she came back, she brought the burly ski patrol man in with her, and he helped Wilson off the table, and into the chair. House limped over to the Wilson and put his cane into Wilson’s lap. “Don’t lose that, I’m gonna need it eventually.” said House, faking annoyance for Wilson’s benefit. Then, without another word, he pushed Wilson, wheelchair and all out the door, scerupticiouslly grabbing the bottle of pain meds the nurse had left on the table as he went.

Wilson could hear House’s steps getting more and more ragged behind him, could feel the lurching of the wheelchair, and smell the sweat on the older man. He was torn between just letting House do this for his pride, and the fact that House would not stop complaining after they got back to the hotel, about his leg hurting. Wilson had just decided to tell House to stop it and get a nurse to push him, when House opened his mouth to speak over Wilson. “Don’t be an idiot, idiot.” was all he said, and it left Wilson very confused.

By the time they got to the van, House was breathing heavily, Wilson was dreading the rest of the day, and the sky was getting very, very, gray.

It was about halfway through the ride back to the hotel, when House had been starting to fall asleep, and was sitting in a position that could only be described as the closest you could come to lying down, while still technically sitting up, when he heard Wilson groan. “What’s his problem they gave him pain killers for his leg, and his eyes shouldn’t still hurt.” thought House, waking up a bit, but not yet opening his eyes. Wilson groaned again, and House opened his eyes. “What’s up with you?” asked House, annoyed. “Migraine.” muttered Wilson. “Don’t puke on me.” said House. “Not that kind, just hurts.” “Probably the stress from the snowblindness.” said House. “Thanks, I really needed to know just what caused it this time.” snapped Wilson. “Just shut up, talking hurts.” he finished, slightly apologetically. House didn’t reply. He was probably already asleep.

It was about ten minutes later, when the driver pulled over onto the side of the road. House limped up to the front to ask what the deal was. “this storm is too thick to see anything, and the wind is gusting so much I can barely keep on the road. This is the first parking lot since it got this bad, sorry, but I’m not driving anymore in this weather.” said the driver. House looked out the window, and saw one fain neon sign through the storm, and that was it. He was surprised they had made it into the parking lot at all. The driver looked at House curiously. “Didn’t you notice the storm?” asked the driver. “I was asleep. It’s kind of hard to notice much when you’re asleep.” replied House, scathingly, before turning to go back to tell Wilson what was up.

When House got back to Wilson, he found that Wilson was not in much shape to be told anything. He was curled up on the seat, his fingers in his ears, his face pressed into his elbow. “Wilson, we have to get off the bus.” said House, looking at his companion. “Urghuah.” said Wilson. “You conscious?” asked House. Wilson made a non-committal noise and started to sit up. He apparently soon found that to not be the best idea in the world, because as soon as he reached an upright position, he promptly curled up again, moaning. “Wilson?” asked House, now sounding slightly more worried, and less annoyed. “Migraine.” mumbled Wilson, and stuck his fingers back in his ears. House sighed, annoyed, and went outside to browbeat the driver into helping Wilson out of the van.

As soon as House got inside the small, one room and a small bathroom motel room, set Wilson on the bed, and shooed the driver out, Wilson resumed moaning holding his head. House looked at his disheveled friend, and sighed. The room didn’t have a computer, tv, bookcase, or any other entertainment device. It had a phone book, a bible, and a list of nearby attractions. The same list of nearby attractions that the nice hotel they were supposed to be staying at had provided. House sighed again, and sat down in the chair next to the bed. Or more accurately, the chair next to everything in the room, as there was almost no space that wasn’t taken up by the single bed. There was only one bed, and Wilson was on it. House tried to go to sleep in the chair, but Wilson’s moaning kept him awake. He debated going out to the lobby, but decided against leaving Wilson in his current condition. He didn’t want him puking on the bed after all.

Wilson’s migraines tended to go away within an hour after they started, but that was with the medication that was packed away, nice and neat and comfy, in Wilson’s suitcase at the nicer hotel. Given that, House should not have been surprised that three hours after the storm had forced them off the road, Wilson was still completely out of it. He wasn’t really surprised, just annoyed. Annoyed and bored. He had been lazily flipping through the phonebook, wondering if anyone in it was worth prank calling. He had already called, and annoyed, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron at least three times each, and they were no longer answering their phones. After about another half hour of this, House realized he had to go to the bathroom. As he got up, he glanced at Wilson, pale, sweating, and only half conscious. “You still there, Wilson?” he asked. Wilson made no reply, but winced at the sound. “Guess so.” said House, as he limped to the bathroom.

House was washing his hands, and thinking about the likelihood of managing to find a hooker desperate enough to go out in this storm for a customer with a groaning, half conscious guy on the only bed, when he heard a thump come from the bedroom, followed by an extra-loud groan, and a mumbled call of “House?” House would liked to have just ignored it, but there was another, slightly desperate call, and he decided he should probably see what had happened.

when he got out of the bathroom, at first he couldn’t see where Wilson was, but as he limped further into the dark room, he saw a huddled shape on the floor, in-between the bed and the wall. “Wilson? You alive?” asked House. “House....” groaned Wilson, and House heard the pain in his voice. “Wilson?” asked House again, moving closer, and bending over to get a better look at Wilson. Wilson was holding on to the bed sheets, white knuckled, and shaking, he seemed to be sitting in a awkward position, his right leg under him, his left up, and his forehead resting on his left knee. His eyes were closed, and he was bitting his lip, hard enough to puncture the skin slightly.
“Wilson?” House asked a third time. “Wilson, what’s up?” House asked, looking worried. “I...fell off....” said Wilson, his voice shaking. “I can see that.” said House, with his usual bluntness, “I mean, why are you still sitting there?” “I...landed...on...my knee....”said Wilson, seeming to curl up even more. “Yeah, you’re still sitting on it, why?” “Every....every...every time...I move...it...hurts...” said Wilson, shaking even harder now. “You are one screwed up guy.” said House, trying keep the worry out of his voice. “House....help....”said Wilson, his brown eyes unfocused, but looking up at House. “I can’t...” said House. “I’ll get the driver, or someone.” “No!” said Wilson, sounding panicked. “What? I can’t lift you without falling over, and you can’t get up by yourself or else you would have already, you want to stay that way?” asked House, sarcastically. “No...just...don’t....it hurts....please...” said Wilson. House could tell that Wilson wasn’t thinking straight, that he was probably only semi-conscious from the pain, that if he was thinking logically, he would be yelling at House to go get some help, but still, he looked so lost, and sounded so scared, that House couldn’t stop himself from kneeling down and putting a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson reached out and grabbed House’s arm, holding on to it like a lifeline. House almost pulled away, the contact was unfamiliar, after so many years of avoiding close company, but he didn’t. He didn’t pull away. instead, he reached out to take hold of Wilson’s other shoulder, and, shifting his own weight, pulled Wilson forward, off his injured knee. Unfortunately, this resulted in pulling Wilson onto his own painful leg, but as Wilson grabbed House’s shirt, and gasped at the pain of moving, House reflected that, at least he could get some sleep now, as he proved by passing out then and there.

“Ergh.” “Wha?” “What happened?” House’s first thought was that he had been run over by a truck. His second thought was that it had all been a very, very, long, and weird dream, and he was still twelve, still living with his dad. His third thought was that he almost never remembered his dreams, so that couldn’t be it. His fourth thought was that Wilson was lying on top of him, it was dark, and his leg hurt. Man, his leg hurt a lot. wait. Wilson was lying on top of him. That one didn’t make sense. And why was the bed so hard. Wilson on top of him? His leg really did hurt a lot. Wilson was on top of him, holding on to his shirt. Oh, good, he was wearing a shirt. That meant nothing too weird was going on. Why was his shirt wet though? It was wet right near Wilson’s head too...gross....oww...leg....

“House?” “House?!” “Come on, say something, House!” “House?” “House....come on...wake up....” “House?” “Urgh” “finally!” “What the heck? Why are you lying on top of me?” “You don’t remember?” “What?!” “Er, sorry, that came out bad.” “That’s the understatement of the century.” “Sorry...look, could you possibly let go?” “Let go?” “Yes, you are hugging me.” “I let go.” “Um, right.” “Why aren’t you getting off of me now?” “Um, well, two reasons, first, my hands are kinda asleep from being under me, and seem to be tangled in your shirt, and second, because if I put any weight on my left leg, it will knee you in the groin, and my right leg is kinda out of commission at the moment.” “Oh.” “Yeah.” “My leg hurts.” “So does mine” “you still have a migraine?” “Not at the moment. They kept coming and going all night.” “Oh.” “Sooo...” “My shirt’s wet....” “Er, yeah, sorry about that.” “Were you crying, drooling, or puking?” “Um...crying.” “Oh. Good.” “Sorry.” “For getting my shirt wet? You’d better be.” “Heh, House...” “I’m serious, if it’s stained, you’re buying me a new one.” “Heh, ok.” “Can you move your hands yet?” “Let me see.” “No, not really.” “Oh.” “House....” “What?” “I’m getting...another...migraine.” “Bad?” “Not...as bad... not as bad as...the first...one.” “But bad.” “...yeah” “Damn.” “Sorry.” “Not the migraine, I have to pee.” “You...do?” “No.” “House....” “Heh.” “Urguhg.” “You ok?” “Don’t...talk...so...loud.” “Damn.” “Eragh....”

“House?” “I’m here.” “Sorry.” “Get off me, and we’ll call it even.” “I’ll try.” “Well?” “Still the same problem with my legs, but I can at least move my hands now.” “Ok.” “right.”

“Ready?” “No.” “You gonna be ready?” “No.” “Ok then, on the count of three?” “Ok.” “One, two, three.”
“Owwww!”

A few hours later, House sat, flipping through the phonebook, Wilson lay on the bed, moaning, and the room was rather dark. However, despite the similarities to the situation earlier, House was not debating leaving Wilson in the room alone, and Wilson was not going to fall off the bed, because House was sitting next to him on the bed and the wall was right up against the bed on the other side. It was no longer dark because of the hour, but because there was a massive snowdrift right outside the window, and almost no light was coming in. It was not a very big change, but it was a change.

note: this is part one, i'll post part two later, after it gets written

sorry about the funky way of posting, i hope it doesnt annoy anyone too much.
btw, most sites im alanwolfmoon. i just dont have an lj account yet....

er, sorry about this one again, this was in response to aphroditeroslin's #2

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Adopt-a-Plot-Bunny Program

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2

Re: dont have an lj account but took the liberty of writing a version of #2