Housefic: Speeeeeed

[triedunture]

Title: Speeeeeed (3 drabbles)
Pairing: H/W one-sided
Warnings: Spoilers for Resignation
Summary: Three things that happened between scenes.

<><><>


1.

After the aborted breast exam, Wilson tries to collect his things but soon sees that he isn’t able to put all the papers in his briefcase a precise lined-up fashion. He wrestles with the files for a few minutes before leaving them on his desk and jamming a half-eaten box of Cheez-its in his bag instead.

His rationale is, of course, that something must go in the briefcase, or else he can’t leave.

This is the thought that makes him realize he cannot drive in this condition. He sighs, but it turns into more of a gasp, and his hand clutches at his chest and his heart is racing and—

Focus, he thinks. Kill House. Calm down. In that order.

He waits at the bus stop like anyone hopped up on speed would; he sits on the bench and taps his foot until the tapping becomes a stomping. Old women are beginning to stare. He gets up and paces instead, but the frantic rhythm of his steps looks more like jogging in place. The bus turns the corner, and Wilson is the first to the curb, bouncing on his heels in anticipation.

The door swings open and Wilson jumps onto the bus, fishing around in his pockets for a few dollars’ fare. He extracts the bills and eyes the small slit in the collecting machine. He tried to feed the money into the little slot, but his hands are shaking so badly, he can only shove the crumpled paper at the metal ineffectively.

The bus driver sighs, holds out a gloved hand, and takes the money from Wilson’s sweaty grasp.

“Sorry,” Wilson says, too quickly. “I’m really sorry, I’ve just taken these pills, well, I didn’t actually take them, they were given to me, without my knowledge you understand, and I’m a bit concerned about the possible side effects, but anyway these pills are making me a little—”

“Sit. Down,” the bus driver says.

Wilson nods and hurries down the aisle, sliding into the first available seat and hoping the bus’s mechanical voice will call out the stop for Baker Street soon.

2.

After Wilson puts down the coffee cup filled with House’s urine, he zips into the kitchen in search of a glass of water, anything to wash down the pill that feels like it’s lodged in his throat.

He hears House’s thump-steps following him, and tries to glare at him while at the same time chugging down a jug of blue Kool-Aid.

“I’m not sure you need any more sugar,” House says. He tilts his head and smiles, a slow smile that spreads across his face and lifts his cheeks.

Wilson stops gulping, gasping for air as he sets the jug back in the fridge. “You’re smiling,” he says, almost to himself. “Happy House, Happy House, you know that’s what they call bathrooms in Vietnam? I read that somewhere, or maybe you told me or maybe it was in a movie, we do watch an awful lot of movies, and I mean literally, an awful lot…” Wilson wipes some sweat from his forehead and tries checking his pulse again, his jittery fingers pressing against his neck. “I’m still going to kill you, that would solve everything,” he finishes.

“You didn’t drive like this, did you?” House asks, though his expression isn’t worried at all.

Wilson shakes his head and can’t seem to stop shaking it. He presses his palms to the sides of his neck, stilling the repetitive motions. His lips are trembling, he can feel a rivulet of perspiration running down the back of his neck.

He cracks another yawn, and House just grins wider.

3.

After it’s decided that House is too tired to drive him home, Wilson stays the night. It takes a while for the vicodin to kick in and make sleep possible, but when it does, Wilson is curled up in a ball on House’s bedroom floor.

House doesn’t seem to care. Wilson doesn’t seem to remember that he could sleep on the couch. His rationale is, of course, that when he wakes up on the floor, he will be closer to House. And the killing will happen quicker.

Wilson wakes up on the first ring of the telephone. The vicodin is making him drowsy and numb, and the lingering effects of the amphetamines make him shaky and disoriented.

He stares at the T-shirt that he’d used as a pillow. It’s rumpled and unwashed and smells like House. He listens to Cameron as she leaves an angry message.

“If you don’t pick up soon, I’m coming over there and dragging you in,” she says.

Wilson props his hands against the carpet and raises his upper body off the floor. He can see House from this vantage point, still in bed, still asleep. Wilson mentally counts the number of pills he’s mashed up in House’s food and drink today; he’s not going to answer the phone, that’s for certain.

He hears the phone ring a second time, and he glances at House’s alarm clock. Five thirty, the buses are running. Wilson pushes himself to his feet with a groan. He feels like he’s been through a wood-chipper, just like in Fargo, just one of that awful lot of movies.

His mind is racing, but slower than before. He looks down at House, happy, dead to the world House. He finger-combs his hair back into place and thinks about something funny.

He just wants to see House smile. House just wants to see him freaking out. It seems odd that those two things overlap so often.

Wilson bends over House and smoothes a hand over his friend’s forehead. House doesn’t even twitch. Wilson trails his still-jerky fingertips from House’s temple to his jaw. Nothing.

The phone rings again. Cameron will be here soon.

Wilson dips his head lower, then pulls back, curses softly, looks around the room, and finally presses his lips briefly to House’s mouth.

He stumbles his way out the front door, squinting in pain at the first rays of sunlight. He decides against going back to the hotel; the hospital is fewer stops away, and his office couch is calling.

Next week’s therapy session will be rife with discussion topics, he muses.


fin.