Anna (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} asynca) wrote,@ 2007-08-10 23:56:00 |
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FIC: Figments
TITLE: Figments
Players: House/Wilson
RATING: R
IN BRIEF: Beware the rampant crack! House realizes he's dead, and God got it all wrong.
When House’s vision clears, the first thing he notices is Wilson perched very neatly on the edge of his desk, shaggy legs crossed in girlish modesty...
...Dressed in a hot pink ballerina tutu, and very little else.
He’s at least had the decency to somehow stretch the spandex to cover his squishy torso; by the look of the straps bisecting his shoulders and practically cutting into his flesh, the tutu probably belonged to someone’s fat, deluded ten-year-old daughter.
The fingers of one hand spread in the air a distance from his face, Wilson haughtily inspects his efforts with the... nail file.
It’s at that point that House realizes he’s probably dead. “Great,” he says flatly, “I’m in hell.”
Wilson glances toward him, only half paying attention.
“Death inspired a mid-life crisis?” House attempts again, nodding towards Wilson’s new threads. “Watch out, Anna Pavlova.”
Wilson squints at him for a moment, then, as if he’s forgotten, he says, “Oh!” and looks down his front, brushing absently at a kink in the mesh. He then shrugs. “Laundry day tomorrow,” he offers, as if it explains his new fashion sense.
“The afterlife has Laundromats?”
“Yup,” Wilson confirms, blowing the dust from his nails. “They’re free, though. It’s one of the perks.”
Wincing, House nods – like what Wilson has said makes perfect, logical sense.
Inspecting the contents of his office, House finds everything to be eerily normal. Even the cap he had slapped on a featureless bust the day beforehand hangs precariously off the skull, threatening at any second to fall and knock a number of familiar knick-knacks and medical memorabilia off the shelf below.
“Please tell me the other perks include twenty-one virgins,” he only half-jokes, wondering about the fact that despite lacking suit pants, Wilson has put on two matching black socks and his flirty French leather shoes. The socks are even folded neatly down around his ankles, for Chrissake. Someone obviously neglected to inform Wilson that real men scrunch, they don’t fold. At forty, Wilson should know this by now.
Wilson looks down at his crossed furry legs again, and then back at House. He chuckles in amusement, placing the nailfile carefully in a space on the desk, and then presents himself with an outward sweep of his arms.
It takes House at least a second to decipher the point, which he blames on the whole recently-dead thing. Contemplating escape, he looks back towards the glass door, which, instead of leading to the hospital corridor, appears to lead to a blank space. He then looks back towards ballerina Wilson perching primly on his desk.
“Wait a second.” He pinches at his forehead. “I just die a horribly fiery and incredibly manly motorcycle death, and, what, I get you? In a pink tutu?”
Wilson presses his lips together, and nods in exaggerated sympathy. “’Fraid so.” He gestures upwards. “Orders from above.”
“God told you to wear a pink tutu.” He makes to lean heavily on his cane, and nearly falls flat on his frowning face. Opening his hands up towards him as if to inspect the contents, he looks hurriedly around his legs for the missing object. He discovers that he’s naked, caneless, and scarless. Also, he has markedly less leg hair than Wilson, and feels horribly emasculated by that fact.
Wilson tilts his head from side to side. “He... was flexible on the details, and the tutu fitted better than the Alice In Wonderland costume. Icy roads, you know. Lots of people dying – all the good costumes were taken.” He pushes off the table, swinging his arms forward and clapping his hands together. “I figured you’d be less freaked out by this than by me dressed as the Cheshire Cat.” He then rubs his hands, before cocking them towards House and beckoning.
“He’s the Great Almighty,” House argues, stationary and refusing to be defeated by the rampant absurdity. “Why couldn’t he put you in a Flyers uniform, at least?”
“He’s a Rangers fan.”
Well, that did explain a few things. “I want the virgins,” he complains. “You didn’t even shave your legs.”
Wilson rolls his eyes very dramatically, blowing a frustrated stream of air through his lips. He makes a big show of changing his posture to ‘sultry’ – the woman ‘sultry’, with a swayed hip and chest thrust forward – and leers, “Wanna shave them for me...?”
He waits a beat before answering, “Pass me the trash can?”
Wilson glances toward it, and looks back quizzically.
“I’m going to hurl,” House casually informs him. “This may have escaped your attention, but you’re so not a hot chick.” He looks upward at the blank space where the ceiling would normally be. “I want my lawyer,” he demands of it. “I didn’t live a life of pain and suffering to get my cross-dressing friend as a reward in the afterlife.”
Wilson looks perturbed. “I don’t get it; He specifically said you’d forgo the twenty one virgins for me.”
“For your macadamia nut pancakes, not any other sort of nuts or pancakes. Sheesh.” He drags his hand over his face, and shoots an angry look upward. "Nice one, O Lord!"
Wilson, after a moment of tense frowning, drops the act, his arms flopping by his side. He pushes at a frond of hair that keeps flopping over his eyes like it use to when he was in his twenties, shouting upward, “I tried!” He then begins to peel the tutu down his yeti legs, thankfully revealing a nerdy pair of men’s briefs and not nakedness underneath. He steps out of it, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’s now mobile in House’s office in nothing but underwear and dress shoes, and sinks into House’s chair. His hand dips briefly underneath the desk to switch on the computer.
House figures he must have been staring, because Wilson says defensively, “What? Just checking my email. I’ll be quick.”
“And then what? We sprout giant, fluffy angel wings and go flittering through the clouds?”
Wilson shrugs, his eyes on the screen as his fingers make several bursts of short, staccato typing. “Don’t ask me.” He sounds a little frustrated, actually. “God's plan says we’re supposed to be having hot sex now.”
A force collides very solidly with House’s chest, making the room shudder like a nine-point-nine on the richter scale. Something falls and smashes. Wilson glances towards the sound, exhaling. “Great,” he groans, like he knows exactly what’s happening. “Now I have to wait another twenty years.”
The room shakes again; all the books inch forward in the shelves, sliding free and peppering the floor with their splayed corpses. Something unseen takes an invisible baseball bat, and swings it into House’s midsection, causing him to drop to the floor. Before he hits the carpet, however, the surface bottoms out underneath him, and he’s falling, sinking.... being drained downwards with a deluge of his personal effects from his office. Spinning in the nothingness, he catches sight of a pin-prick of light rushing upward, away from him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Wilson’s voice warns someone. He sounds calm.
Vertigo fading, House suffers a moment of panic when he can’t feel any of his limbs, before realizing there’s a nasal oxygen tube taped to his upper lip. Where there’s 100% oxygen, there’s brain-fuzzing painkillers and muscular relaxants.
“It’s been three days,” a female voice complains; House doesn’t recognize it. “He stinks. It’ll only take a minute.”
House opens his mouth, and finds his throat has turned to gravel. Nevertheless, he manages to rasp, “Wilson! Go away and let the nurse give a dying man his damn sponge bath.”
While he’s concentrating on trying to make sense of the haze of shapes moving through the fog, he almost doesn’t notice that there’s a set of iron fingers curled around his forearm and cutting off blood supply to his hand.
Not boding well for his sponge bath, he hears the frenzied clip-clapping of retreating nurse-shoes, and the hiss of the door being pulled closed.
“Why are you here?” House turns his head to grumble, blinking at the tan shape that he expects any second to solidify into Wilson. “I want her to come back and lather me, and you to go away.”
Wilson ignores him. “Are you in any pain?” Now he doesn’t sound calm. In fact, his throat sounds raw, like he’s about to do something girly and embarrassing like burst into tears in the middle of the hospital.
“I’m so doped up I can hardly see anything or feel my limbs. How’s my bike? Please don’t tell me it’s totalled,” he exaggerates the drama, “I just couldn’t live with myself.”
“Your bike’s parked in the basement.” Wilson sounds confused, but at least he’s beginning to look less like The Blob. House can even make out the knit of Wilson’s caterpillar eyebrows as he continues, “You drove it there, in fact. It’s fine.”
“Didn’t I—” he realises that he actually can’t remember the crash. Or anything, really. Retrograde amnesia – temporary, hopefully – is a common symptom of head trauma. He just hopes his brain isn’t damaged too badly, but fears for the worst. Wilson was in a tutu and attempting to seduce him, for crying out loud.
Wilson shakes his head, dismissing the topic and repeating, “Are you okay? How does your leg feel?”
House wonders if the lack of pain was what made him think that his limbs were paralyzed earlier; because when he focuses on wriggling his toes, he can feel the fabric of the sheets drag across the skin on his feet. His leg doesn’t hurt; not at all. He can barely feel it, in fact. It’s fucking wonderful. “What am I on? Double dose of morphine? Triple? With a sprinkle of Clonidine on top?”
“Nothing,” Wilson announces, squeezing House’s forearm. His voice practically quivers with excitement, “It doesn’t hurt, does it? Your leg?”
Nothing? House wonders if he’s still dead. Perhaps the world will start to make sense again if he lies very still and thinks happy thoughts about physics, algebra, and other comforting concepts that rely on terrestrial logic.
Springing up out of the visitor’s chair, Wilson dashes across the room, throwing the door open and yelling to a random intern, “Get Cuddy! Tell her it worked!”
Lying still, House wonders if this is still some ploy by God to get Wilson and him to have hot sex, and if Cuddy will be involved, too. He finds the whole idea much more palatable with the addition of B-cups and the hallowed ass; in fact, he might even let Wilson blow him after all. Just to please God, though – wouldn’t pay to get the big guy offside.
“This is fantastic!” Wilson declares, hands running through the precious locks of his hair. He looks about twenty years old again when he’s smiling ear to ear, and is positively glowing with optimism and joy and kittens. House feels slightly nauseated. He’s not having sex with this Wilson: if he wanted kittens, he’d do Cameron.
Wilson’s about ready to break into song and dance. “I hoped it would work, but...” when his hands are done with his hair, he throws them towards House, “...I didn’t know it actually would!”
House begins to seriously doubt Wilson is actually talking about sex, after all. “What’s working?” he asks suspiciously.
The jubilant gesticulating stops, and Wilson’s brow flutters as if he’s not sure of House is screwing with him or not. “The Ketamine.”
TITLE: Figments
Players: House/Wilson
RATING: R
IN BRIEF: Beware the rampant crack! House realizes he's dead, and God got it all wrong.
When House’s vision clears, the first thing he notices is Wilson perched very neatly on the edge of his desk, shaggy legs crossed in girlish modesty...
...Dressed in a hot pink ballerina tutu, and very little else.
He’s at least had the decency to somehow stretch the spandex to cover his squishy torso; by the look of the straps bisecting his shoulders and practically cutting into his flesh, the tutu probably belonged to someone’s fat, deluded ten-year-old daughter.
The fingers of one hand spread in the air a distance from his face, Wilson haughtily inspects his efforts with the... nail file.
It’s at that point that House realizes he’s probably dead. “Great,” he says flatly, “I’m in hell.”
Wilson glances toward him, only half paying attention.
“Death inspired a mid-life crisis?” House attempts again, nodding towards Wilson’s new threads. “Watch out, Anna Pavlova.”
Wilson squints at him for a moment, then, as if he’s forgotten, he says, “Oh!” and looks down his front, brushing absently at a kink in the mesh. He then shrugs. “Laundry day tomorrow,” he offers, as if it explains his new fashion sense.
“The afterlife has Laundromats?”
“Yup,” Wilson confirms, blowing the dust from his nails. “They’re free, though. It’s one of the perks.”
Wincing, House nods – like what Wilson has said makes perfect, logical sense.
Inspecting the contents of his office, House finds everything to be eerily normal. Even the cap he had slapped on a featureless bust the day beforehand hangs precariously off the skull, threatening at any second to fall and knock a number of familiar knick-knacks and medical memorabilia off the shelf below.
“Please tell me the other perks include twenty-one virgins,” he only half-jokes, wondering about the fact that despite lacking suit pants, Wilson has put on two matching black socks and his flirty French leather shoes. The socks are even folded neatly down around his ankles, for Chrissake. Someone obviously neglected to inform Wilson that real men scrunch, they don’t fold. At forty, Wilson should know this by now.
Wilson looks down at his crossed furry legs again, and then back at House. He chuckles in amusement, placing the nailfile carefully in a space on the desk, and then presents himself with an outward sweep of his arms.
It takes House at least a second to decipher the point, which he blames on the whole recently-dead thing. Contemplating escape, he looks back towards the glass door, which, instead of leading to the hospital corridor, appears to lead to a blank space. He then looks back towards ballerina Wilson perching primly on his desk.
“Wait a second.” He pinches at his forehead. “I just die a horribly fiery and incredibly manly motorcycle death, and, what, I get you? In a pink tutu?”
Wilson presses his lips together, and nods in exaggerated sympathy. “’Fraid so.” He gestures upwards. “Orders from above.”
“God told you to wear a pink tutu.” He makes to lean heavily on his cane, and nearly falls flat on his frowning face. Opening his hands up towards him as if to inspect the contents, he looks hurriedly around his legs for the missing object. He discovers that he’s naked, caneless, and scarless. Also, he has markedly less leg hair than Wilson, and feels horribly emasculated by that fact.
Wilson tilts his head from side to side. “He... was flexible on the details, and the tutu fitted better than the Alice In Wonderland costume. Icy roads, you know. Lots of people dying – all the good costumes were taken.” He pushes off the table, swinging his arms forward and clapping his hands together. “I figured you’d be less freaked out by this than by me dressed as the Cheshire Cat.” He then rubs his hands, before cocking them towards House and beckoning.
“He’s the Great Almighty,” House argues, stationary and refusing to be defeated by the rampant absurdity. “Why couldn’t he put you in a Flyers uniform, at least?”
“He’s a Rangers fan.”
Well, that did explain a few things. “I want the virgins,” he complains. “You didn’t even shave your legs.”
Wilson rolls his eyes very dramatically, blowing a frustrated stream of air through his lips. He makes a big show of changing his posture to ‘sultry’ – the woman ‘sultry’, with a swayed hip and chest thrust forward – and leers, “Wanna shave them for me...?”
He waits a beat before answering, “Pass me the trash can?”
Wilson glances toward it, and looks back quizzically.
“I’m going to hurl,” House casually informs him. “This may have escaped your attention, but you’re so not a hot chick.” He looks upward at the blank space where the ceiling would normally be. “I want my lawyer,” he demands of it. “I didn’t live a life of pain and suffering to get my cross-dressing friend as a reward in the afterlife.”
Wilson looks perturbed. “I don’t get it; He specifically said you’d forgo the twenty one virgins for me.”
“For your macadamia nut pancakes, not any other sort of nuts or pancakes. Sheesh.” He drags his hand over his face, and shoots an angry look upward. "Nice one, O Lord!"
Wilson, after a moment of tense frowning, drops the act, his arms flopping by his side. He pushes at a frond of hair that keeps flopping over his eyes like it use to when he was in his twenties, shouting upward, “I tried!” He then begins to peel the tutu down his yeti legs, thankfully revealing a nerdy pair of men’s briefs and not nakedness underneath. He steps out of it, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’s now mobile in House’s office in nothing but underwear and dress shoes, and sinks into House’s chair. His hand dips briefly underneath the desk to switch on the computer.
House figures he must have been staring, because Wilson says defensively, “What? Just checking my email. I’ll be quick.”
“And then what? We sprout giant, fluffy angel wings and go flittering through the clouds?”
Wilson shrugs, his eyes on the screen as his fingers make several bursts of short, staccato typing. “Don’t ask me.” He sounds a little frustrated, actually. “God's plan says we’re supposed to be having hot sex now.”
A force collides very solidly with House’s chest, making the room shudder like a nine-point-nine on the richter scale. Something falls and smashes. Wilson glances towards the sound, exhaling. “Great,” he groans, like he knows exactly what’s happening. “Now I have to wait another twenty years.”
The room shakes again; all the books inch forward in the shelves, sliding free and peppering the floor with their splayed corpses. Something unseen takes an invisible baseball bat, and swings it into House’s midsection, causing him to drop to the floor. Before he hits the carpet, however, the surface bottoms out underneath him, and he’s falling, sinking.... being drained downwards with a deluge of his personal effects from his office. Spinning in the nothingness, he catches sight of a pin-prick of light rushing upward, away from him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Wilson’s voice warns someone. He sounds calm.
Vertigo fading, House suffers a moment of panic when he can’t feel any of his limbs, before realizing there’s a nasal oxygen tube taped to his upper lip. Where there’s 100% oxygen, there’s brain-fuzzing painkillers and muscular relaxants.
“It’s been three days,” a female voice complains; House doesn’t recognize it. “He stinks. It’ll only take a minute.”
House opens his mouth, and finds his throat has turned to gravel. Nevertheless, he manages to rasp, “Wilson! Go away and let the nurse give a dying man his damn sponge bath.”
While he’s concentrating on trying to make sense of the haze of shapes moving through the fog, he almost doesn’t notice that there’s a set of iron fingers curled around his forearm and cutting off blood supply to his hand.
Not boding well for his sponge bath, he hears the frenzied clip-clapping of retreating nurse-shoes, and the hiss of the door being pulled closed.
“Why are you here?” House turns his head to grumble, blinking at the tan shape that he expects any second to solidify into Wilson. “I want her to come back and lather me, and you to go away.”
Wilson ignores him. “Are you in any pain?” Now he doesn’t sound calm. In fact, his throat sounds raw, like he’s about to do something girly and embarrassing like burst into tears in the middle of the hospital.
“I’m so doped up I can hardly see anything or feel my limbs. How’s my bike? Please don’t tell me it’s totalled,” he exaggerates the drama, “I just couldn’t live with myself.”
“Your bike’s parked in the basement.” Wilson sounds confused, but at least he’s beginning to look less like The Blob. House can even make out the knit of Wilson’s caterpillar eyebrows as he continues, “You drove it there, in fact. It’s fine.”
“Didn’t I—” he realises that he actually can’t remember the crash. Or anything, really. Retrograde amnesia – temporary, hopefully – is a common symptom of head trauma. He just hopes his brain isn’t damaged too badly, but fears for the worst. Wilson was in a tutu and attempting to seduce him, for crying out loud.
Wilson shakes his head, dismissing the topic and repeating, “Are you okay? How does your leg feel?”
House wonders if the lack of pain was what made him think that his limbs were paralyzed earlier; because when he focuses on wriggling his toes, he can feel the fabric of the sheets drag across the skin on his feet. His leg doesn’t hurt; not at all. He can barely feel it, in fact. It’s fucking wonderful. “What am I on? Double dose of morphine? Triple? With a sprinkle of Clonidine on top?”
“Nothing,” Wilson announces, squeezing House’s forearm. His voice practically quivers with excitement, “It doesn’t hurt, does it? Your leg?”
Nothing? House wonders if he’s still dead. Perhaps the world will start to make sense again if he lies very still and thinks happy thoughts about physics, algebra, and other comforting concepts that rely on terrestrial logic.
Springing up out of the visitor’s chair, Wilson dashes across the room, throwing the door open and yelling to a random intern, “Get Cuddy! Tell her it worked!”
Lying still, House wonders if this is still some ploy by God to get Wilson and him to have hot sex, and if Cuddy will be involved, too. He finds the whole idea much more palatable with the addition of B-cups and the hallowed ass; in fact, he might even let Wilson blow him after all. Just to please God, though – wouldn’t pay to get the big guy offside.
“This is fantastic!” Wilson declares, hands running through the precious locks of his hair. He looks about twenty years old again when he’s smiling ear to ear, and is positively glowing with optimism and joy and kittens. House feels slightly nauseated. He’s not having sex with this Wilson: if he wanted kittens, he’d do Cameron.
Wilson’s about ready to break into song and dance. “I hoped it would work, but...” when his hands are done with his hair, he throws them towards House, “...I didn’t know it actually would!”
House begins to seriously doubt Wilson is actually talking about sex, after all. “What’s working?” he asks suspiciously.
The jubilant gesticulating stops, and Wilson’s brow flutters as if he’s not sure of House is screwing with him or not. “The Ketamine.”
