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house_wilson2010-12-24 06:19 pm
nightdog_barks) wrote in house_wilson2010-12-24 06:19 pm
Entry tags:
A Housefic: The Gift of the Magi
Title: The Gift of the Magi
Authors:nightdog_barks, blackmare, and pwcorgigirl
Characters: Wilson, House. Gen.
Rating: R (for language)
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Only in the most general way for the beginning of Season 7.
Summary: "You think I'd rather drive to Trenton, through holiday traffic, just to watch a bunch of kids in burlap and blankets stand around a manger and sing 'Kum Ba Yah'?" 2,312 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This fic was sparked by a real-life news article. Link is in the Notes at the end of the story. Apologies to O. Henry for the title. :-)
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks totopaz_eyes for encouragement.
The Gift of the Magi
It's been almost six weeks since Wilson's social life imploded so dramatically in his face.
A bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? sighs the small voice inside his head. And yes, okay, if he really admitted the truth to himself, it had been more of a meltdown than an implosion -- a cold meltdown, with Sam's icy voice a frigid splash of water on his heart.
Oooh, melodrama, the small voice says, only this time it sounds more like House. House, who was even now enjoying a quiet evening at home with Cuddy instead of sitting beside Wilson on this drive into the wilds of exurban New Jersey.
Trenton, House says. The wilds of Trenton.
"Oh, shut up," Wilson mumbles.
"Come on, House," he'd said. "It'll be fun."
"Your definition of fun leaves a lot to be desired." House eyed him over the rim of his coffee mug. "And it's not like Christmas eve means anything to you."
"It does if it means a little girl gets to be in a Christmas pageant because she's in remission."
"Oh. Of course, it's about one of your cancer kids."
"Her parents invited me," Wilson said. "She wants me to be there."
"And you think I'd rather drive to Trenton, through holiday traffic, just to watch a bunch of kids in burlap and blankets stand around a manger and sing 'Kum Ba Yah'?"
"I think they'll be singing 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.'"
"Whatever. You think I'd rather do that than spend the night playing hide the sugarplum with Cuddy?" He put down his coffee cup and picked up the case folder lying on his desk. "Gotta go. My patient's name isn't Lazarus."
Wilson shoved his hand in his pockets and blew out a breath. "You sure you don't want to come?"
"Nope." House's voice floated back over his shoulder, but he didn't turn around. "I read the book. Know how it ends."
Wilson scoots a little lower in his seat, but doesn't dare close his eyes for fear of falling asleep. The church is warm, made more so by the packed pews, and, he imagines, the animal heat of the two sheep, two lambs, and one goat in the sanctuary. The pageant, as the usher had explained, was a live Nativity. She'd talked nonstop as she'd escorted him down the aisle, guiding him to his place of honor behind Mr. and Mrs. Rees Pettigrew, nattering on about the church, its founding in 1883, the original fieldstones, how proud the congregation was to welcome him, how happy they were that little Clare Pettigrew was well enough to participate this year.
"The animals are from some of the local farms," she'd said, her eyes drifting away from Wilson's to watch as a very small angel readjusted the plastic glued-glitter halo on her head. "It gives the children and the spectators a much more fulfilling Christmas experience." He'd imagined House's response to this and almost laughed, but luckily had been rescued at the last minute by Sara Pettigrew, who'd pointed out her daughter, ready to lead the cloud of angels onstage.
"Thanks to you, Dr. Wilson," she'd murmured, suddenly teary-eyed, and had seized the moment to snap a series of photos that had left him blinking from the flash.
One of the sheep bleats softly, startling Wilson out of his reverie. Everyone's turning, looking back towards the vestibule, and it's easy to see the reason why. At least one of the Three Kings is here, dressed in long robes and a turban bedecked with paste jewels and peacock feathers, and he's riding on the back of a real, live camel. The woman sitting next to Wilson leans over.
"Isn't it amazing?" she stage-whispers, her breath warm on Wilson's right ear. "It's from a company that provides animals for charitable events and children with special needs."
"Yes," Wilson whispers back. "I can't imagine there'd be many camel farms in New Jersey." The woman laughs and puts her hand on Wilson's forearm; she's wearing a lot of rings but a wedding band isn't among them. He's about to speak to her again when the choir begins singing and the camel stops right next to Wilson's pew, affording him an up-close view of the animal's broad flank. He's contemplating what seems to be the world's largest camel's-hair coat, a vast expanse of brown, slightly curly wool smelling faintly of straw, when the animal takes a step back. The trainer pulls at its lead, taps at its spindly legs and protruding knees with his staff; the camel whuffs out a soft snort, like a horse but more nasal, and begins the cumbrous process of lowering its front half into a kneeling position. Wilson glances up -- the Orient King looks vaguely bored, perhaps dismayed at his realm condensed to a single packed church in New Jersey. All that changes in the next moment, though, as his mount lurches back up and takes a clumsy, swaying step sideways.
"Hup, Lula," the trainer says, then again, more urgently, "hup, Lula!"
Wilson just has time to contemplate the incongruity of a camel named Lula before the animal jerks back on her lead, steps crosswise again, overcompensates, and begins a slow sideways tilt.
"Um," Wilson says, then he's smothered under the weight of the world's largest camel's-hair coat and the lights go out.
Someone is whistling. It's a repetitive, almost tuneless sound, familiar in an all-too-obnoxious way. The wordless song reaches its end and starts over again.
"Grandma got run over by a reindeer -- "
"Wha ... uh ... you wern'coming." He realizes, a moment after he says it, that it was a dumb thing to say. He's in some hospital somewhere, and he's not awake enough to know if it's Trenton or it's home.
"And you were so desperate for my company that you got into a hit-and-run just so they'd have to call your physician of record. You're pathetic. And concussed, apparently where your head got klonked by Habib's Traveling Hummus Emporium."
"Shu'up, House. Hurts." He's slurring a little, and aware of a sludgy-feeling thought pushing its way through his brain. Something to do with being drugged versus the, the ... concussion. That's the word.
"Stupid is supposed to be painful."
"Fuck you." He's sure that's not what he meant to say, but at least he didn't slur this time. "Not my fault. You'd been there, I'd have had an excuse to sit in the back."
"Spare the cripple the trip through the pews. Very Christian of you."
"I did mention fuck you, didn't I?"
"Losing the Christian thing, now."
"It wasn't my fault if -- "
"If you keep putting yourself in idiotic places where you're really damn likely to get hurt? How is that not your fault?"
"It ... are you even talking about the ... no, you're not." Of course not. House is never only talking about one thing. Cautiously, he flexes the fingers of his left hand, moves to touch the bandage on his head. It hurts. Everything hurts. "How's the ... " Damn it, the word won't come. "The king?"
"Elvis? Still dead."
"Not him. The ... guy on the camel." More memories surface -- shouting, screaming, the mournful brown eye of the camel right before it had ... "What about the people sitting next to me? Was anyone else -- "
"Will you calm down? Everybody else is okay. You were the only casualty." House glowers at him. "More accurately, you were the only one dumb enough not to get out of the way of a collapsing ungulate."
"And ... the camel?"
House's expression tells him exactly what he thinks of this question, but he answers anyway.
"The camel," he says, very slowly as if speaking to a very small child, "is fine."
Wilson relaxes just a bit, but his headache doesn't. "I'm gonna need more drugs," he mumbles.
"You're not on any. You'd remember the protocol for concussions if you didn't have one. Who the hell is your shrink?"
"What?" Wilson's head is throbbing harder by the moment, and the pugilistic bob and weave of House's conversation isn't helping. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"Fire her."
"Wait, how'd you know ... "
"Because you're you, and you wouldn't spill your deep dark secrets to anything without a pair of nice, nurturing boobies. Ergo, your shrink is female, but that's not the point. The point is, she sucks at her job."
"Houuuuse." He shuts his eyes and gives up even trying to follow this.
"If she didn't, you never would have been hit by the last camel."
Wilson frowns. "Are you calling Sam a camel? How does that even make sense?"
"It does if you think of things metaphorically. You know, like Easter bunnies and virgin births. You're gonna be fine, by the way." A creak and an exhaled breath beside him; House is getting up.
House is leaving. Of course House is leaving; nothing he can do here, plenty to do at home. Wilson opens his eyes and finds himself watching House's back as it heads toward the door.
"Thanks," he says, when he was sure he meant to say fuck you again. "You didn't have to come."
House pauses a moment, but doesn't look over his shoulder. "Fire her," he growls again, and then he's gone, leaving what feels like an impossible puzzle behind him.
It might get easier after Wilson's had some sleep. He lays his head back and hopes to just pass out again.
"What's the ICD-9 for getting hit by a camel?" House asks in mock earnestness. Every time Wilson opens his eyes, House is there, perched on the arm of the bedside chair like some evil genie with a growth hormone problem. Which is fine with Wilson, as long as he isn't talking about boobies or metaphors for hummus or anything else that sounds like a riddle on some insane alternate-universe game show.
"Shut up, House."
House flips a page in Wilson's chart. "919 comes close. Multiple superficial injuries. But then there's the concussion -- 850, and 840 through 842 covers spraining your entire arm, and hell, let's just lump it all together with 848."
Wilson opens one eye. Evil genie, pen poised, check. "What's 848?"
"Multiple ill-defined sprains and strains."
"Fascinating, but shut up. My head hurts."
Miracle of miracles, House puts the chart down. "You're going home tomorrow," he says.
"I'm being discharged. There's a difference."
House ignores him, and Wilson finds himself suddenly wishing House had actually pursued this line of conversation. Instead, House leans down and rummages through his backpack. After a moment he straightens and tosses something in Wilson's direction. Wilson reaches for it, but his motor coordination isn't quite up to speed yet and it lands with a tiny thump on his chest. It's an address book, the kind of cheap little thing sold in hospital gift shops everywhere, with a black vinyl cover meant to look like leather. He picks it up and looks questioningly at House.
"Number in there you might need," House says. "Pretty good therapist, I understand," and then he's half-hidden again, pawing through his backpack. "Here," he says, and another something comes sailing through the air, this time to land with a more substantive thump on Wilson's chest.
At first he thinks it's a teddy bear, with its gold-plush fur and sprawling limbs, but no. The long muzzle, the U-shaped neck, the humps --
"Sorry about that," House says, and Wilson tears his attention away from the hideous thing long enough to see House stand up, sling his backpack over his shoulder.
"Had to get a Bactrian," House says. Gift shop didn't have any dromedaries." And with that, he's gone, leaving Wilson holding a two-humped plush camel.
The big TV in the living room natters away, a hockey game in progress -- his adopted Montreal Habs against the Islanders. If he wanted, he could turn on the television in here, watch the game in bed.
He doesn't want to. Instead, he pushes deeper into his pillow, wincing at the still-tender spot where the back of his head had met the hard wood of the pew seat. He starts to raise his right hand, then remembers it's not an ice pack he's holding, but the soft camel toy with the loopy ears and gold lamé reins.
Wilson sighs. He doesn't want to watch TV, he wants to talk to someone. He thinks about calling Sam, apologizing again. He thinks about calling Bonnie. Julie. Nora. Unless she still thinks he's a mendacious dirtbag.
Maybe House was right, a small voice says. Maybe you should be calling a new therapist, not an old flame.
Like House knows a damn thing about my shrink, he thinks, but he knows it's a losing battle.
House knew she was a she.
House knew that whatever she did for Wilson, it didn't work. It didn't even give him pause as he dove head-first into what he knew, had to have known, was the shallow end of the pool, with an Olympic swimmer poised on the blocks.
And House knew that Wilson would be dumb enough to do it again, exactly the way he was thinking of just now.
The camel's little plastic eyes gaze back at him. The coppery irises gleam softly, and the tucked-up stitches of the mouth look like a smile. He holds it up, and its plushy feet thump against his wrist. It was never about Bactrians or dromedaries, Christmas pageants or ungulates named Lula. It was about something else, something that had been building for a long time.
He gives the toy a shake, closes his fist around the small body. The golden fur is velvet-soft against his fingers.
"What do you say, Lula?" he murmurs. "Got any advice?" He sets the toy on his chest -- a slight, warm weight, and picks up his phone.
After all, this is the season for miracles.
~ fin
Notes:
This story is based on a real news event, shared in an email bypwcorgigirl. Yes, a real camel, at a real Christmas pageant, fell into the audience. No one was hurt -- two videos of the incident are here.
Authors:
nightdog_barks, blackmare, and pwcorgigirl Characters: Wilson, House. Gen.
Rating: R (for language)
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Only in the most general way for the beginning of Season 7.
Summary: "You think I'd rather drive to Trenton, through holiday traffic, just to watch a bunch of kids in burlap and blankets stand around a manger and sing 'Kum Ba Yah'?" 2,312 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This fic was sparked by a real-life news article. Link is in the Notes at the end of the story. Apologies to O. Henry for the title. :-)
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
topaz_eyes for encouragement. The Gift of the Magi
It's been almost six weeks since Wilson's social life imploded so dramatically in his face.
A bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? sighs the small voice inside his head. And yes, okay, if he really admitted the truth to himself, it had been more of a meltdown than an implosion -- a cold meltdown, with Sam's icy voice a frigid splash of water on his heart.
Oooh, melodrama, the small voice says, only this time it sounds more like House. House, who was even now enjoying a quiet evening at home with Cuddy instead of sitting beside Wilson on this drive into the wilds of exurban New Jersey.
Trenton, House says. The wilds of Trenton.
"Oh, shut up," Wilson mumbles.
"Come on, House," he'd said. "It'll be fun."
"Your definition of fun leaves a lot to be desired." House eyed him over the rim of his coffee mug. "And it's not like Christmas eve means anything to you."
"It does if it means a little girl gets to be in a Christmas pageant because she's in remission."
"Oh. Of course, it's about one of your cancer kids."
"Her parents invited me," Wilson said. "She wants me to be there."
"And you think I'd rather drive to Trenton, through holiday traffic, just to watch a bunch of kids in burlap and blankets stand around a manger and sing 'Kum Ba Yah'?"
"I think they'll be singing 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.'"
"Whatever. You think I'd rather do that than spend the night playing hide the sugarplum with Cuddy?" He put down his coffee cup and picked up the case folder lying on his desk. "Gotta go. My patient's name isn't Lazarus."
Wilson shoved his hand in his pockets and blew out a breath. "You sure you don't want to come?"
"Nope." House's voice floated back over his shoulder, but he didn't turn around. "I read the book. Know how it ends."
Wilson scoots a little lower in his seat, but doesn't dare close his eyes for fear of falling asleep. The church is warm, made more so by the packed pews, and, he imagines, the animal heat of the two sheep, two lambs, and one goat in the sanctuary. The pageant, as the usher had explained, was a live Nativity. She'd talked nonstop as she'd escorted him down the aisle, guiding him to his place of honor behind Mr. and Mrs. Rees Pettigrew, nattering on about the church, its founding in 1883, the original fieldstones, how proud the congregation was to welcome him, how happy they were that little Clare Pettigrew was well enough to participate this year.
"The animals are from some of the local farms," she'd said, her eyes drifting away from Wilson's to watch as a very small angel readjusted the plastic glued-glitter halo on her head. "It gives the children and the spectators a much more fulfilling Christmas experience." He'd imagined House's response to this and almost laughed, but luckily had been rescued at the last minute by Sara Pettigrew, who'd pointed out her daughter, ready to lead the cloud of angels onstage.
"Thanks to you, Dr. Wilson," she'd murmured, suddenly teary-eyed, and had seized the moment to snap a series of photos that had left him blinking from the flash.
One of the sheep bleats softly, startling Wilson out of his reverie. Everyone's turning, looking back towards the vestibule, and it's easy to see the reason why. At least one of the Three Kings is here, dressed in long robes and a turban bedecked with paste jewels and peacock feathers, and he's riding on the back of a real, live camel. The woman sitting next to Wilson leans over.
"Isn't it amazing?" she stage-whispers, her breath warm on Wilson's right ear. "It's from a company that provides animals for charitable events and children with special needs."
"Yes," Wilson whispers back. "I can't imagine there'd be many camel farms in New Jersey." The woman laughs and puts her hand on Wilson's forearm; she's wearing a lot of rings but a wedding band isn't among them. He's about to speak to her again when the choir begins singing and the camel stops right next to Wilson's pew, affording him an up-close view of the animal's broad flank. He's contemplating what seems to be the world's largest camel's-hair coat, a vast expanse of brown, slightly curly wool smelling faintly of straw, when the animal takes a step back. The trainer pulls at its lead, taps at its spindly legs and protruding knees with his staff; the camel whuffs out a soft snort, like a horse but more nasal, and begins the cumbrous process of lowering its front half into a kneeling position. Wilson glances up -- the Orient King looks vaguely bored, perhaps dismayed at his realm condensed to a single packed church in New Jersey. All that changes in the next moment, though, as his mount lurches back up and takes a clumsy, swaying step sideways.
"Hup, Lula," the trainer says, then again, more urgently, "hup, Lula!"
Wilson just has time to contemplate the incongruity of a camel named Lula before the animal jerks back on her lead, steps crosswise again, overcompensates, and begins a slow sideways tilt.
"Um," Wilson says, then he's smothered under the weight of the world's largest camel's-hair coat and the lights go out.
Someone is whistling. It's a repetitive, almost tuneless sound, familiar in an all-too-obnoxious way. The wordless song reaches its end and starts over again.
"Grandma got run over by a reindeer -- "
"Wha ... uh ... you wern'coming." He realizes, a moment after he says it, that it was a dumb thing to say. He's in some hospital somewhere, and he's not awake enough to know if it's Trenton or it's home.
"And you were so desperate for my company that you got into a hit-and-run just so they'd have to call your physician of record. You're pathetic. And concussed, apparently where your head got klonked by Habib's Traveling Hummus Emporium."
"Shu'up, House. Hurts." He's slurring a little, and aware of a sludgy-feeling thought pushing its way through his brain. Something to do with being drugged versus the, the ... concussion. That's the word.
"Stupid is supposed to be painful."
"Fuck you." He's sure that's not what he meant to say, but at least he didn't slur this time. "Not my fault. You'd been there, I'd have had an excuse to sit in the back."
"Spare the cripple the trip through the pews. Very Christian of you."
"I did mention fuck you, didn't I?"
"Losing the Christian thing, now."
"It wasn't my fault if -- "
"If you keep putting yourself in idiotic places where you're really damn likely to get hurt? How is that not your fault?"
"It ... are you even talking about the ... no, you're not." Of course not. House is never only talking about one thing. Cautiously, he flexes the fingers of his left hand, moves to touch the bandage on his head. It hurts. Everything hurts. "How's the ... " Damn it, the word won't come. "The king?"
"Elvis? Still dead."
"Not him. The ... guy on the camel." More memories surface -- shouting, screaming, the mournful brown eye of the camel right before it had ... "What about the people sitting next to me? Was anyone else -- "
"Will you calm down? Everybody else is okay. You were the only casualty." House glowers at him. "More accurately, you were the only one dumb enough not to get out of the way of a collapsing ungulate."
"And ... the camel?"
House's expression tells him exactly what he thinks of this question, but he answers anyway.
"The camel," he says, very slowly as if speaking to a very small child, "is fine."
Wilson relaxes just a bit, but his headache doesn't. "I'm gonna need more drugs," he mumbles.
"You're not on any. You'd remember the protocol for concussions if you didn't have one. Who the hell is your shrink?"
"What?" Wilson's head is throbbing harder by the moment, and the pugilistic bob and weave of House's conversation isn't helping. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"Fire her."
"Wait, how'd you know ... "
"Because you're you, and you wouldn't spill your deep dark secrets to anything without a pair of nice, nurturing boobies. Ergo, your shrink is female, but that's not the point. The point is, she sucks at her job."
"Houuuuse." He shuts his eyes and gives up even trying to follow this.
"If she didn't, you never would have been hit by the last camel."
Wilson frowns. "Are you calling Sam a camel? How does that even make sense?"
"It does if you think of things metaphorically. You know, like Easter bunnies and virgin births. You're gonna be fine, by the way." A creak and an exhaled breath beside him; House is getting up.
House is leaving. Of course House is leaving; nothing he can do here, plenty to do at home. Wilson opens his eyes and finds himself watching House's back as it heads toward the door.
"Thanks," he says, when he was sure he meant to say fuck you again. "You didn't have to come."
House pauses a moment, but doesn't look over his shoulder. "Fire her," he growls again, and then he's gone, leaving what feels like an impossible puzzle behind him.
It might get easier after Wilson's had some sleep. He lays his head back and hopes to just pass out again.
"What's the ICD-9 for getting hit by a camel?" House asks in mock earnestness. Every time Wilson opens his eyes, House is there, perched on the arm of the bedside chair like some evil genie with a growth hormone problem. Which is fine with Wilson, as long as he isn't talking about boobies or metaphors for hummus or anything else that sounds like a riddle on some insane alternate-universe game show.
"Shut up, House."
House flips a page in Wilson's chart. "919 comes close. Multiple superficial injuries. But then there's the concussion -- 850, and 840 through 842 covers spraining your entire arm, and hell, let's just lump it all together with 848."
Wilson opens one eye. Evil genie, pen poised, check. "What's 848?"
"Multiple ill-defined sprains and strains."
"Fascinating, but shut up. My head hurts."
Miracle of miracles, House puts the chart down. "You're going home tomorrow," he says.
"I'm being discharged. There's a difference."
House ignores him, and Wilson finds himself suddenly wishing House had actually pursued this line of conversation. Instead, House leans down and rummages through his backpack. After a moment he straightens and tosses something in Wilson's direction. Wilson reaches for it, but his motor coordination isn't quite up to speed yet and it lands with a tiny thump on his chest. It's an address book, the kind of cheap little thing sold in hospital gift shops everywhere, with a black vinyl cover meant to look like leather. He picks it up and looks questioningly at House.
"Number in there you might need," House says. "Pretty good therapist, I understand," and then he's half-hidden again, pawing through his backpack. "Here," he says, and another something comes sailing through the air, this time to land with a more substantive thump on Wilson's chest.
At first he thinks it's a teddy bear, with its gold-plush fur and sprawling limbs, but no. The long muzzle, the U-shaped neck, the humps --
"Sorry about that," House says, and Wilson tears his attention away from the hideous thing long enough to see House stand up, sling his backpack over his shoulder.
"Had to get a Bactrian," House says. Gift shop didn't have any dromedaries." And with that, he's gone, leaving Wilson holding a two-humped plush camel.
The big TV in the living room natters away, a hockey game in progress -- his adopted Montreal Habs against the Islanders. If he wanted, he could turn on the television in here, watch the game in bed.
He doesn't want to. Instead, he pushes deeper into his pillow, wincing at the still-tender spot where the back of his head had met the hard wood of the pew seat. He starts to raise his right hand, then remembers it's not an ice pack he's holding, but the soft camel toy with the loopy ears and gold lamé reins.
Wilson sighs. He doesn't want to watch TV, he wants to talk to someone. He thinks about calling Sam, apologizing again. He thinks about calling Bonnie. Julie. Nora. Unless she still thinks he's a mendacious dirtbag.
Maybe House was right, a small voice says. Maybe you should be calling a new therapist, not an old flame.
Like House knows a damn thing about my shrink, he thinks, but he knows it's a losing battle.
House knew she was a she.
House knew that whatever she did for Wilson, it didn't work. It didn't even give him pause as he dove head-first into what he knew, had to have known, was the shallow end of the pool, with an Olympic swimmer poised on the blocks.
And House knew that Wilson would be dumb enough to do it again, exactly the way he was thinking of just now.
The camel's little plastic eyes gaze back at him. The coppery irises gleam softly, and the tucked-up stitches of the mouth look like a smile. He holds it up, and its plushy feet thump against his wrist. It was never about Bactrians or dromedaries, Christmas pageants or ungulates named Lula. It was about something else, something that had been building for a long time.
He gives the toy a shake, closes his fist around the small body. The golden fur is velvet-soft against his fingers.
"What do you say, Lula?" he murmurs. "Got any advice?" He sets the toy on his chest -- a slight, warm weight, and picks up his phone.
After all, this is the season for miracles.
~ fin
Notes:
This story is based on a real news event, shared in an email by
pwcorgigirl. Yes, a real camel, at a real Christmas pageant, fell into the audience. No one was hurt -- two videos of the incident are here.