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house_wilson2011-02-03 07:03 pm
nightdog_barks) wrote in house_wilson2011-02-03 07:03 pm
Entry tags:
Loss Reserve
Title: Loss Reserve
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: Wilson, House, a guest appearance by Sandy, a few OCs. Gen.
Rating: A hard R for rough language.
Warnings: Yes, for a bit of violence.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: Wilson goes to the bank and gets more than he bargained for. Next time he'll take the drive-through. 2,141 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Creative licensing has been taken with one of the devices mentioned in this fic. Text-cut is taken from Pink Floyd's Money.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks totopaz_eyes and pwcorgigirl.
Loss Reserve
Wilson's knees are aching, so he shifts, slowly, ever so slowly, back onto his haunches. He hopes he's moving slowly enough not to attract the attention of Mr. Pink, who appears to be the craziest of this gang of crazy bastards. And they are crazy, no doubt about that -- who the hell robs banks anymore? Who robs banks, and call each other by the names of characters from a goddamn movie? Not that these guys look anything like those characters, although it's hard to say for sure with those ski masks over their heads. He allows the part of his mind that not freaking out about being a fucking hostage in a fucking bank robbery to contemplate Reservoir Dogs for a few moments before the woman kneeling next to him starts crying again.
"I was just going to make a deposit," she sobs. "A deposit!"
"Shhhh," Wilson hisses. "Please!"
It's too late; all up and down the line of hostages, heads are turning.
"A deposit!" the woman wails, and that does it, Mr. Blue is coming over.
"Oh, shit," Wilson breathes, and then Mr. Blue is there, and so is his gun, which he's pointing right in the woman's face.
"Shut the fuck up, you bitch," Mr. Blue snarls, but instead of shutting up, the woman -- who was wearing pearl earrings until Mr. Orange demanded she hand them over -- opens her mouth wider, as if she's going to scream --
"Hey," Wilson says, even as the freak-out part of his brain yells stop stop what the fuck are you doing? "Hey, look, don't -- don't do this." He can hear the words pouring out of his mouth too fast, crashing into each other like boxcars on a runaway train, but he can't seem to make himself stop. "You haven't killed anybody yet, you haven't, so don't make things worse, please don't."
Mr. Orange stares at him. Then he moves the gun to Wilson's face.
"What," he says, "do you know about making things worse?"
Every part of Wilson's brain shuts down -- zip! -- the muzzle of that damn gun seems to take up his entire field of vision, and the only thought in his mind is how he feels like he's just gone swimming but forgotten to take his clothes off. He can hear the newsfeed on the flatscreen TV behind him -- the crazy bastards have left it on, following their own live robbery coverage on channel 5, but otherwise everyone is holding their breath, even Mr. White who's been on the phone with the police the whole time, and Wilson blurts out the only thing he can think of:
"I'm an oncologist."
And apparently that makes just enough sense to Mr. Orange, who blinks once and then nods. "Okay," he says. "Okay." And then he punches Deposit-woman in the face. She goes over backwards, blood spurting from her nose dyeing her white blouse red, and for one endless moment Wilson thinks he's going to shoot her anyway while she's lying there. But he doesn't; instead he waves his gun in the air and yells at the hostages, "Everybody! Shut the fuck up!"
But nobody's talking, Wilson wants to say, but he doesn't, he can't. Deposit-woman just lies there, crying quietly to herself in snuffling gulps. Wilson shifts on his haunches again. His shoulders are starting to hurt now, too, and the plastic zip-ties are cutting into his wrists. For a moment he envies the woman her position on the floor.
Yeah, this has been a great morning.
Wilson imagines himself explaining to House how he got here.
The ATM was out.
The ATM was out, and so I decided to walk in.
Why were you at the bank anyway? Wait, don't tell me! You were taking out a loan for me!
No. I am not your bank, not anymore.
I'm deeply hurt. Okay, I'm really not. I'm just saying that if you had been taking out a loan, you might've been in an office and you could have locked the door.
You're not helping.
Actually, I am. See, you haven't thought about these thugs for --
"You! Up! Get up, now!"
The rough voice startles Wilson out of his reverie, but his legs are half-asleep and it takes Mr. Orange and Mr. Blue to haul him to his feet. Around him, other hostages are being ordered up, the goons going down the line, sticking their free hands under peoples' armpits, pulling them up.
"Come on! Up! Up! Get up!"
Wilson looks around, dazed. It's clear the crazy bastards have come to some kind of accommodation, some kind of agreement with the police -- each of the four thugs, including the one who doesn't appear to have a name, are guiding a hostage toward the bank's front door. They've taken the branch manager, one of the tellers, another customer, and ... him. Mr. Pink's breath is hot on Wilson's right ear; he braces his free arm across Wilson's chest and hugs him tight. His voice is soft and chillingly calm.
"If you try anything," he says, "I'll kill you." The gun in Wilson's ribs emphasizes the point. "Just stay calm, and we'll all get out of this alive." Wilson waits for House to tell him how this really is like a movie, complete with bad dialogue by a lazy scriptwriter, but the little voice in his head is silent. "Come on," Mr. Pink says. "We're walkin' out of here."
The illusion of being on a movie-set continues all the way out into the parking lot, where there are more cops in one place than Wilson's ever seen in his life. It's a relief on some level to see them, but the thing is, they're all pointing their guns at Wilson and his seven erstwhile companions. "I'm not one of them!" he wants to shout, but he's pretty sure they understand, since Mr. Pink's got his gun shoved into Wilson's ear. And even though the gun is blocking some of Wilson's hearing, he can still make out Mr. Pink's stream of murmured curses.
"Motherfucking cops," Mr. Pink says. "Motherfucking cocksucker cops. Think you got me? You don't got me, you shit-eating motherfucking sonsabitches."
A helicopter clattering overhead drowns out the rest of whatever invective Mr. Pink is spouting, and Wilson is glad, until he sees how many of the police officers are wearing ... headphones.
He only has time to wonder what the hell they could be listening to at a time like this, when the world explodes into a swirl of rushing shadows and pain drives a rusty spike through the center of his brain. For one blinding second, he thinks Mr. Pink has broken his promise and shot him in the head, but before he can fall down and be properly dead, everything goes black.
Wilson opens his eyes to a world of pantomime. Where he is is clear enough -- he still hasn't forgotten what the Princeton General ER looks like from the last time he was there, but the last time he was here there was also sound. The ER's filled with docs, cops, guys with cameras, but what should be a cacophony of controlled noise is complete silence. Peoples' mouths open and close, their lips move as they address their cell phones, the police shuttle the camera guys towards an officer with a lot of metal on his chest -- all without a sound. Nothing except a low hum that seems to originate deep within his ears, a faint rumble that reminds him of the sea.
"Hey," Wilson says, or thinks he says, but nobody notices so maybe he really didn't say anything. He tries again. "Hey, I -- " and then House is there.
"Wilson," House says, or at least that's what it looks like House says, and when it's followed up by what's unmistakably "you idiot," Wilson is sure he guessed right the first time. When House keeps talking, though, Wilson is lost. His speech is too rapid for Wilson's rudimentary lip-reading skills, and the only ASL Wilson remembers from the Patient Outreach Program is the sign for "I'm sorry." He lifts one hand, palm out, in a stop gesture, and catches sight of the gauze bandage around his wrist. He watches as his hand starts to shake.
"HOUSE," Wilson says. "WHAT HAPPENED?" From the look on House's face he guesses that he's shouting. That swimming feeling is coming back, and he feels cold and hot and like he's sinking into the bed. The buzzing in his ears gets louder; he squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes it worse ...
Warm fingers wrap themselves around his hand, pull it down, press it flat against the sheets. Wilson opens his eyes to see House holding up a notepad with something written on it. When Wilson squints, he moves it closer. The hastily-scrawled letters slowly resolve into words.
Sonic cannon
Wilson looks from the notepad back to House, whose eyebrows are drawn together, asking an obvious question. Wilson nods, carefully, so the bed doesn't tip. House pulls the notepad back, tears off the sonic cannon page and tosses it on the floor before scrawling something else.
New toy from Hmlnd Security, it reads. Loaned to cops. Focused shockwave
He regards Wilson for a moment, then writes beneath that --
Killed all the birds in beam path. U got off lucky
Wilson considers the words. He doesn't feel lucky, and something of that must show on his face, because House discards the second piece of paper and scribbles --
Hearing will come back soon
How soon is soon? Wilson wonders, but he's too tired to pursue that line of thought right now. Instead, he groans as House shoves the notepad in his face.
Coming home w/me, it says. Danger by yrself
But before House can put that plan into action, his pager goes off. At least, that's what Wilson assumes just happened, because suddenly the little black device is in House's hand, and he's frowning at it. This time House doesn't bother writing, and Wilson is left staring after him.
Did House really just say his patient was experiencing tadpole fallout?
He's saved from speculation about House and the larval stages of amphibians by the arrival of Sandy, and, unlike House, she's come prepared with sheets of already-written notes. Wilson gives them a quick scan -- to his relief, his hands are steady.
In no particular order, he has the week off from work, the police want to interview him, four local TV stations want to interview him, CNN wants to interview him. Cuddy wants him to talk to the hospital's lawyers and a counselor, not necessarily in that order. His wallet and cell phone are impounded evidence. Wilson's head is swimming, and through it all Sandy keeps one hand resting gently on his shoulder.
He falls asleep that way, the drifted sheets of paper on his chest like scattered leaves.
In his dream, he can hear.
"If you try anything," Mr. Pink says, "I'll kill you." The gun in Wilson's ribs emphasizes the point. "Just stay calm, and we'll all get out of this alive."
Wilson's teeth ache. He thinks he can feel his bones vibrating, jittering like an articulated classroom skeleton.
"If you try anything," Mr. Pink says, "I'll kill you."
Something deflates with a soft pop! A tiny bundle of blood and feathers falls at Wilson's feet.
"I'll kill you," Mr. Pink says, and pulls the trigger.
Wilson shudders awake with a gasp, heart pounding. The hand on his shoulder tightens, too large for Sandy's lighter grip --
"Hey," House says, "don't hit me," and the hit me echoes faintly in Wilson's ears. He looks around. The ER is much calmer now, and he can hear, even if it's like listening to a conversation underwater. House has picked up Sandy's trick, and he holds a piece of paper in front of Wilson's nose.
Get your shoes on. Going home.
Wilson scrubs at his face with one hand and takes a deep breath, then slowly, carefully, sits up. When his head doesn't fall off and bounce around on the floor, he maneuvers himself off the bed and onto the plastic visitor's chair close by. House waits for him, drumming his cane against the hard linoleum, and underneath the drumming, Wilson can hear him muttering to himself. He can't catch all the words --
Thought -- lost you -- next -- online banking
Wilson concentrates on tying his shoes and doesn't look up. House was right -- his hearing is returning, little by little.
House mutters something else, something about loss and laser beams, and Wilson doesn't know if he's talking about today or the latest comic book he's been reading.
Doesn't really matter, though.
Wilson's content just to listen.
~ fin
Author:
nightdog_barks Characters: Wilson, House, a guest appearance by Sandy, a few OCs. Gen.
Rating: A hard R for rough language.
Warnings: Yes, for a bit of violence.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: Wilson goes to the bank and gets more than he bargained for. Next time he'll take the drive-through. 2,141 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Creative licensing has been taken with one of the devices mentioned in this fic. Text-cut is taken from Pink Floyd's Money.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
topaz_eyes and pwcorgigirl.Loss Reserve
Wilson's knees are aching, so he shifts, slowly, ever so slowly, back onto his haunches. He hopes he's moving slowly enough not to attract the attention of Mr. Pink, who appears to be the craziest of this gang of crazy bastards. And they are crazy, no doubt about that -- who the hell robs banks anymore? Who robs banks, and call each other by the names of characters from a goddamn movie? Not that these guys look anything like those characters, although it's hard to say for sure with those ski masks over their heads. He allows the part of his mind that not freaking out about being a fucking hostage in a fucking bank robbery to contemplate Reservoir Dogs for a few moments before the woman kneeling next to him starts crying again.
"I was just going to make a deposit," she sobs. "A deposit!"
"Shhhh," Wilson hisses. "Please!"
It's too late; all up and down the line of hostages, heads are turning.
"A deposit!" the woman wails, and that does it, Mr. Blue is coming over.
"Oh, shit," Wilson breathes, and then Mr. Blue is there, and so is his gun, which he's pointing right in the woman's face.
"Shut the fuck up, you bitch," Mr. Blue snarls, but instead of shutting up, the woman -- who was wearing pearl earrings until Mr. Orange demanded she hand them over -- opens her mouth wider, as if she's going to scream --
"Hey," Wilson says, even as the freak-out part of his brain yells stop stop what the fuck are you doing? "Hey, look, don't -- don't do this." He can hear the words pouring out of his mouth too fast, crashing into each other like boxcars on a runaway train, but he can't seem to make himself stop. "You haven't killed anybody yet, you haven't, so don't make things worse, please don't."
Mr. Orange stares at him. Then he moves the gun to Wilson's face.
"What," he says, "do you know about making things worse?"
Every part of Wilson's brain shuts down -- zip! -- the muzzle of that damn gun seems to take up his entire field of vision, and the only thought in his mind is how he feels like he's just gone swimming but forgotten to take his clothes off. He can hear the newsfeed on the flatscreen TV behind him -- the crazy bastards have left it on, following their own live robbery coverage on channel 5, but otherwise everyone is holding their breath, even Mr. White who's been on the phone with the police the whole time, and Wilson blurts out the only thing he can think of:
"I'm an oncologist."
And apparently that makes just enough sense to Mr. Orange, who blinks once and then nods. "Okay," he says. "Okay." And then he punches Deposit-woman in the face. She goes over backwards, blood spurting from her nose dyeing her white blouse red, and for one endless moment Wilson thinks he's going to shoot her anyway while she's lying there. But he doesn't; instead he waves his gun in the air and yells at the hostages, "Everybody! Shut the fuck up!"
But nobody's talking, Wilson wants to say, but he doesn't, he can't. Deposit-woman just lies there, crying quietly to herself in snuffling gulps. Wilson shifts on his haunches again. His shoulders are starting to hurt now, too, and the plastic zip-ties are cutting into his wrists. For a moment he envies the woman her position on the floor.
Yeah, this has been a great morning.
Wilson imagines himself explaining to House how he got here.
The ATM was out.
The ATM was out, and so I decided to walk in.
Why were you at the bank anyway? Wait, don't tell me! You were taking out a loan for me!
No. I am not your bank, not anymore.
I'm deeply hurt. Okay, I'm really not. I'm just saying that if you had been taking out a loan, you might've been in an office and you could have locked the door.
You're not helping.
Actually, I am. See, you haven't thought about these thugs for --
"You! Up! Get up, now!"
The rough voice startles Wilson out of his reverie, but his legs are half-asleep and it takes Mr. Orange and Mr. Blue to haul him to his feet. Around him, other hostages are being ordered up, the goons going down the line, sticking their free hands under peoples' armpits, pulling them up.
"Come on! Up! Up! Get up!"
Wilson looks around, dazed. It's clear the crazy bastards have come to some kind of accommodation, some kind of agreement with the police -- each of the four thugs, including the one who doesn't appear to have a name, are guiding a hostage toward the bank's front door. They've taken the branch manager, one of the tellers, another customer, and ... him. Mr. Pink's breath is hot on Wilson's right ear; he braces his free arm across Wilson's chest and hugs him tight. His voice is soft and chillingly calm.
"If you try anything," he says, "I'll kill you." The gun in Wilson's ribs emphasizes the point. "Just stay calm, and we'll all get out of this alive." Wilson waits for House to tell him how this really is like a movie, complete with bad dialogue by a lazy scriptwriter, but the little voice in his head is silent. "Come on," Mr. Pink says. "We're walkin' out of here."
The illusion of being on a movie-set continues all the way out into the parking lot, where there are more cops in one place than Wilson's ever seen in his life. It's a relief on some level to see them, but the thing is, they're all pointing their guns at Wilson and his seven erstwhile companions. "I'm not one of them!" he wants to shout, but he's pretty sure they understand, since Mr. Pink's got his gun shoved into Wilson's ear. And even though the gun is blocking some of Wilson's hearing, he can still make out Mr. Pink's stream of murmured curses.
"Motherfucking cops," Mr. Pink says. "Motherfucking cocksucker cops. Think you got me? You don't got me, you shit-eating motherfucking sonsabitches."
A helicopter clattering overhead drowns out the rest of whatever invective Mr. Pink is spouting, and Wilson is glad, until he sees how many of the police officers are wearing ... headphones.
He only has time to wonder what the hell they could be listening to at a time like this, when the world explodes into a swirl of rushing shadows and pain drives a rusty spike through the center of his brain. For one blinding second, he thinks Mr. Pink has broken his promise and shot him in the head, but before he can fall down and be properly dead, everything goes black.
Wilson opens his eyes to a world of pantomime. Where he is is clear enough -- he still hasn't forgotten what the Princeton General ER looks like from the last time he was there, but the last time he was here there was also sound. The ER's filled with docs, cops, guys with cameras, but what should be a cacophony of controlled noise is complete silence. Peoples' mouths open and close, their lips move as they address their cell phones, the police shuttle the camera guys towards an officer with a lot of metal on his chest -- all without a sound. Nothing except a low hum that seems to originate deep within his ears, a faint rumble that reminds him of the sea.
"Hey," Wilson says, or thinks he says, but nobody notices so maybe he really didn't say anything. He tries again. "Hey, I -- " and then House is there.
"Wilson," House says, or at least that's what it looks like House says, and when it's followed up by what's unmistakably "you idiot," Wilson is sure he guessed right the first time. When House keeps talking, though, Wilson is lost. His speech is too rapid for Wilson's rudimentary lip-reading skills, and the only ASL Wilson remembers from the Patient Outreach Program is the sign for "I'm sorry." He lifts one hand, palm out, in a stop gesture, and catches sight of the gauze bandage around his wrist. He watches as his hand starts to shake.
"HOUSE," Wilson says. "WHAT HAPPENED?" From the look on House's face he guesses that he's shouting. That swimming feeling is coming back, and he feels cold and hot and like he's sinking into the bed. The buzzing in his ears gets louder; he squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes it worse ...
Warm fingers wrap themselves around his hand, pull it down, press it flat against the sheets. Wilson opens his eyes to see House holding up a notepad with something written on it. When Wilson squints, he moves it closer. The hastily-scrawled letters slowly resolve into words.
Sonic cannon
Wilson looks from the notepad back to House, whose eyebrows are drawn together, asking an obvious question. Wilson nods, carefully, so the bed doesn't tip. House pulls the notepad back, tears off the sonic cannon page and tosses it on the floor before scrawling something else.
New toy from Hmlnd Security, it reads. Loaned to cops. Focused shockwave
He regards Wilson for a moment, then writes beneath that --
Killed all the birds in beam path. U got off lucky
Wilson considers the words. He doesn't feel lucky, and something of that must show on his face, because House discards the second piece of paper and scribbles --
Hearing will come back soon
How soon is soon? Wilson wonders, but he's too tired to pursue that line of thought right now. Instead, he groans as House shoves the notepad in his face.
Coming home w/me, it says. Danger by yrself
But before House can put that plan into action, his pager goes off. At least, that's what Wilson assumes just happened, because suddenly the little black device is in House's hand, and he's frowning at it. This time House doesn't bother writing, and Wilson is left staring after him.
Did House really just say his patient was experiencing tadpole fallout?
He's saved from speculation about House and the larval stages of amphibians by the arrival of Sandy, and, unlike House, she's come prepared with sheets of already-written notes. Wilson gives them a quick scan -- to his relief, his hands are steady.
In no particular order, he has the week off from work, the police want to interview him, four local TV stations want to interview him, CNN wants to interview him. Cuddy wants him to talk to the hospital's lawyers and a counselor, not necessarily in that order. His wallet and cell phone are impounded evidence. Wilson's head is swimming, and through it all Sandy keeps one hand resting gently on his shoulder.
He falls asleep that way, the drifted sheets of paper on his chest like scattered leaves.
In his dream, he can hear.
"If you try anything," Mr. Pink says, "I'll kill you." The gun in Wilson's ribs emphasizes the point. "Just stay calm, and we'll all get out of this alive."
Wilson's teeth ache. He thinks he can feel his bones vibrating, jittering like an articulated classroom skeleton.
"If you try anything," Mr. Pink says, "I'll kill you."
Something deflates with a soft pop! A tiny bundle of blood and feathers falls at Wilson's feet.
"I'll kill you," Mr. Pink says, and pulls the trigger.
Wilson shudders awake with a gasp, heart pounding. The hand on his shoulder tightens, too large for Sandy's lighter grip --
"Hey," House says, "don't hit me," and the hit me echoes faintly in Wilson's ears. He looks around. The ER is much calmer now, and he can hear, even if it's like listening to a conversation underwater. House has picked up Sandy's trick, and he holds a piece of paper in front of Wilson's nose.
Get your shoes on. Going home.
Wilson scrubs at his face with one hand and takes a deep breath, then slowly, carefully, sits up. When his head doesn't fall off and bounce around on the floor, he maneuvers himself off the bed and onto the plastic visitor's chair close by. House waits for him, drumming his cane against the hard linoleum, and underneath the drumming, Wilson can hear him muttering to himself. He can't catch all the words --
Thought -- lost you -- next -- online banking
Wilson concentrates on tying his shoes and doesn't look up. House was right -- his hearing is returning, little by little.
House mutters something else, something about loss and laser beams, and Wilson doesn't know if he's talking about today or the latest comic book he's been reading.
Doesn't really matter, though.
Wilson's content just to listen.
~ fin