|janecarnall (janecarnall) wrote,|
@ 2010-02-10 12:25:00
|Entry tags:||house md, my fanfic|
House MD: Crack, flash, say amyloidosis!!
Second-season House MD. Total crack.
Crack, flash, say amyloidosis!!
"Hey Wilson, you won't believe what just happened to me!" House was fairly sure he didn't believe it himself, either: but either it was real or he was clinically insane, so he was kind of hoping for the former.
Telling Wilson was the best move either way. House put on a shit-eating grin and said cheerily, "This creepy guy was just sitting in my office ... "
...when he noticed Wilson was crying.
Wilson had been sitting with his head down, shoulders bent over the desk, arms out embracing his paperwork, when House came in. He hadn't looked up. House had figured this was Wilson in one of his "I'm a department head, I'm busy, I have important stuff to do" moods, which would certainly change once House told him what had just happened.
Wilson looked up when House said "creepy guy", as if he were cringing back from the light: but even in shadows, it was obvious he'd been crying, a lot, for some time.
"What the hell?" House said. Wilson's face was red, swollen around the eyes, wet with tears and snot from a clogged nose. He shook his head, lifting his pen as if that explained it, as if he could possibly imagine House wouldn't have noticed.
"Just - " His voice was shaking. Wilson's voice never shook. Wilson never cried. Okay, he got that odd cracky note in it once or twice, but -
House stared. He wanted his whiteboard. Differential diagnosis, what causes sudden onset of tears in adult oncologist who does not cry, ever.
"Just go away, House - "
"Yeah, like that's going to happen," House said, absently. He was wondering whether to send one of his team or Wilson's useless assistant for Ativan or what else? Mostly he needed to have Wilson sedated, because the initial differential diagnosis was probably going to proceed best without Wilson in it, and it would be just like Wilson to act like he ought to be involved just because it was him House was diagnosing.
"House!" Wilson's voice cracked. "Go away!"
"No," House said. He went on staring. There was a letter open on the paperwork. House recognised the letterhead. Divorce lawyers. Diagnostically boring, but sudden onset, proximate cause - "This can't be just because the third Mrs Ex-Wilson is divorcing you," he said, with a sudden rush of complete boredom. "Creepy guy in my office - "
"Shut up!" Wilson's voice cracked in the middle and fell apart. The tears on his face looked messy. House went round behind the desk and yanked open the drawer Wilson kept supplies in - fresh box of tissues. He passed it to Wilson.
"You're such a baby," he said roughly. "Dry up."
Even creepy guy hadn't weirded him out like that, and Wilson wasn't even supposed to weird him out, crying wasn't weird, people cried, okay Wilson didn't, but vanishing? Wilson wasn't supposed to vanish on House, not ever, and definitely not like this -
The baby tangled up in Wilson's clothes, had a shock of dark hair and a screwed-up, wet-with-tears face.
"Oh fuck," said House.
He really hadn't expected to prove he wasn't clinically insane quite like this. The baby was - well, Jewish: Wilson-looking, sort of. Between six to nine months old. The eyebrows weren't right. But. Wilson.
And if he wasn't clinically insane, wishing Wilson was a baby was not the way he'd have opted to go. Thoughts of Angelina Jolie and a few million dollars slipped, reluctantly, out of House's mind, and stood on the sidewalk outside for a while waving at House through the windows. This was a perfectly normal baby who was going to grow up in the usual kind of way: Wilson surely didn't need to get back in time for his appointments this afternoon. Three wishes, and he'd wasted one of them, and was about to waste the second one.
This little Wilson wouldn't be any fun for a while, though.
"Grow up, Wilson," House said, with distinct lack of enthusiasm.
It came into his mind, in the cold flinty way the creepy guy in his office had communicated with him, that he couldn't: reversal-wishes wouldn't work until the original wish had 24 hours to run. He couldn't just take it back. House glanced at his watch. 11:30.
He put baby Wilson down on the carpet - as he'd figured, the infant was too young to crawl, he just lay there naked and squirming in an energetic kind of way, still crying in a dismal wail. Folded Wilson's clothes up and stuffed them out of sight, retrieving only his credit card. There was no way House was paying for tonight's pizza.
There were no spare t-shirts in the filing cabinet where Wilson normally kept spare clothes. House cursed him and took off his own. He shrugged on his shirt and buttoned it up. There was an opened pack of sanitary towels in the bottom of Wilson's supplies drawer, and band-aids. House unpeeled one towel and taped it on with band-aids: he'd have to send one of the kids shopping, but he was damned if Wilson was going to leak on him without warning. It wasn't going to hold very well. The t-shirt he'd been wearing went round baby Wilson double - the swaddling ought to help to hold everything together.
He went back to his own office via the corridor: he was fairly sure he'd drop baby Wilson or his cane if he tried to get over the wall in their balconies.
Chase, Cameron, and Foreman looked up as he came in, all with identical expressions: Is that House? Carrying a baby?
"Cameron, you need to call all Wilson's afternoon patients and tell them he had to leave unexpectedly. Chase, you're a girl, go buy baby supplies. Foreman, you're driving me home." There was no fucking way he could manage the bike with a baby.
Chase stood up, instantly obedient: Cameron stood up, instantly worried: Foreman sat back in his chair and looked at House, instantly contemptuous.
House sighed. Wilson was grizzling quietly in his arms, but he was going to need food - or at least baby goop - and diapers, and probably other stuff, and House wanted to deal with all of that at home, not in his office.
"Cameron, Wilson got called away and left me holding the baby. That is not a sports metaphor. You need to go call all his patients. Or get his stupid assistant to do it. Whatever. He'll be back tomorrow. Chase, I need baby supplies for the next day or so, at my home, right now. Food, diapers..." He didn't have a hand to spare: his left arm was fully occupied with Wilson. "Whatever. Go. Foreman. Do I need to explain to you why you're driving me home?"
"You might need to explain to Cuddy," Foreman said, getting to his feet.
"Not if you three keep your mouths shut," House said. "Let's go."
Inspired by Hockypocky's drawing. No really.
Foreman looked at House, making a primly-disapproving face. "You know, that kid really should be in a safety seat. In the back, facing backwards." He spoke with solemn slowness, as if delivering safety information to an idiot.
"And that's how babies roast to death in unattended cars!" House carolled cheerfully.
As he'd hoped, that got Foreman's expression from Disapprovingly Prim to Shocked and Disgusted. There wasn't a lot of difference, of course, but Shocked and Disgusted Foreman glared more and lectured less.
Foreman drove carefully and gently: House sat still, holding Wilson against his stomach with one arm, and supporting his head with his free hand: Wilson spent the trip making small gurgling noises and drooling on House's t-shirt.
What the hell must this be like for Wilson? Was he aware he was a baby? How aware were babies this age? House could remember watching his father leave for an assignment - by deduction, he knew that must have been before his third birthday. He could remember nothing earlier. A baby this age couldn't talk: if Wilson had lost language, had he lost cognitive thought?
Chase's car was already there. House opened the door, stopped a moment as he considered the logistics of walking with a cane while carrying a baby, and put Wilson down on the floormat while he levered himself out of the car. Foreman squawked: House ignored him. Wilson wailed: House picked him up. He felt something unpleasantly squidgy around Wilson's backside.
"Oh shit," he muttered, economically.