Title: The Phantom of the Operating Room
Summary: House and Wilson role-play and get more than they bargained. The story begins in a dream-like state, please be patient. Everything will make sense as you continue reading.
Characters: House/Wilson. Historical OC
Rating: R
Warning: Fluffy Thriller (With Humor!). Spoilers for pre-strike S4
Disclaimer: Don't own, just borrow a scene, a line, a nuance. At worst, I'm a word klepto.
A/N: This story was inspired by Hugh Laurie's comment at the LA Times Emmy panel. He said House was like the Phantom of the Opera, so I took it from there. I'm sure HL never had in mind what I did. This story has just about every element in it but my trademark angst. Sort of AU. It has my first real fluffy moment! Some historical trivia is presented at the end of the story.
Kudos and an extra helping of Fruit Loops to my beta, bookfan85 for her keen eyesight, great suggestions (including "BBB"), and support.
"In sleep he sang to me,
in dreams he came ...
that voice which calls to me and speaks my name . . .
And do
I dream again?
For now
I find the Phantom of the Opera is there - inside my mind . . . "
- "Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber
Many people claimed the hospital was haunted. Rumors permeated the air like smoke. If the operation was a success but the patient died, medical personnel would raise an eyebrow and nod to each other in understanding. When sad and mysterious melodies floated up through the stairwell, or even a crumb of food went missing, it was blamed on the ghost.
There were some brave and cynical souls who laughed and challenged the believers. "Show me, people! Find the ghoul and ask him to come and see me because Wilson's potato chips are missing, and I'm hungry!"
The devotees smiled sheepishly and turned their heads away, but their opinion did not change. Too many heard a madman's laugh coming from the bowels of the building when the clock struck midnight.
It caused palpable sensations. Hands became cold and clammy. Goosebumps traveled over arms up to hair roots. Most shuddered and closed their eyes tight in an effort to forget the chilled breath that lingered on the back of their necks.
Whether one was a stalwart defender or dedicated debunker there was one point of agreement – no one wanted to venture down into the old subterranean level of the foundation that was built on the remains of an ancient asylum.
Only those desperate to hide from the light of day would ever seek the secret passages, spiral staircases and underground springs that hid in its depths.
One man knew all it's secrets.
He was The Phantom of the operating room.
At the end of a long dark passage there was a chamber. The devil's own cathedral. A stream of gold passed by the threshold ignited by the softly glowing light from scores of candles lit within. Burning tapers gripped by gilded multi-branched candelabras caused the walls to dance by firelight. The overall incandescence was a sight to behold. A rock crystal glacier hung from the cavernous vault. A multitude of intricately shaped prisms smoothed out the erratic flames of the candles encased in its heart, distributing dazzling rainbows on the stone and velvet curtained walls. Rich thick carpets transformed the cold naked floors into Scheherazade's dream. The room was a miniature palace.
Carved Victorian furniture underscored the sumptuousness of the room. A tufted blue silk tete-a-tete marked the center directly below the chandelier. Assorted tuffets and ottomans dotted the interior. A lush fainting couch and a gigantic four-poster stretched out from a distant shadowed wall. Sculpted gargoyles perched on each corner pillar grinning like Cheshire cats warmed by the ever-moving flames.The bedding was a sea of blue, green and gold. Lavish jacquard silks and embroidered coverlets rippled in layers as waves upon the sea. An abundance of pillows of all shapes and sizes trimmed in jet, fringe, and tassels were heaped carelessly upon the bed,
In the middle of one dark wall, was the centerpiece of the room, an organ with a forest of pipes that was lost in the darkness overhead. Wedding cake tiers of ivory and black keys rivaled the myriad pedals below.
It was the perfect throne for the masked creature commanding the behemoth before him. A pearl grey silk-lined cape nearly covered the perfectly cut formal black tailcoat, snowy white waistcoat, and gold studded shirt.
The notes tumbled throughout the room, blending and swirling in solemn delight. The white mask partially covering the organist's face did not prevent fingers from stroking the keys, gliding over them with sensual delight, tickling and enticing the lover under his fingertips to moan in melodic pleasure.
At first it appeared that the musician was alone in this gothic vignette, but he was not. From among the damask silk throws and pillows, someone stirred. A vision in sapphire and antique silver lace rose from the bed. Every fold in the gown was designed to shimmer and entice. Cinched tightly around the waist, ample breasts nestled in a foam of frothy ruffles. Graceful hands emerged through sleeves dripping with silk gossamer webs. A train fell from a bustle and trailed behind the back of the gown as the figure walked toward the 'Angel of Music.'
Vanity motivated the owner to design the dress, but the ultimate objective was seduction. The extravagance deliberately framed the dark beauty of the face. The color highlighted the creamy white skin accented by winsome dark eyes lined with long eyelashes. Chestnut curls tumbled down in wanton abandon to the waistline.
The figure appeared to be sleepwalking. Moving silently with one arm held out toward the masked man until the hand was inches from his jaw. Avoiding any contact, the hand quivered, and with one determined motion, snatched the mask from the face.
The organist issued a blood-curdling howl as he turned around to behold the one person in the world he held dear. His ruined visage in turn was greeted by . . .
A heart stopping high-pitched scream ripped from rosebud lips. The shapely body crumpled to the floor, tresses fanning around the beautiful face.
All the fury drained as the cripple knelt next to his beloved and pressed his ear to fulsome breasts. Not finding what he was seeking, he allowed a curse to slip from under his breath as he held his fingers to the neck, and was rewarded with a pulse. Reassured but frustrated, he slapped the bloodless cheek.
"Wilson, wake up, you idiot! It's me!"
Slowly, the lids fluttered, and soft brown eyes regained focus, "Hmm, what?" A look of panic flashed once again across the beautiful face, but the tuxedoed man grabbed the French-manicured fingers and pressed it to his scarred cheek.
"Don't faint on me again you sissy-boy, it's only grease paint!"
The lips pursed and thinned as the mouth turned down in disdain, "For God's sake House, why didn't you warn me!"
Helping his lover sit up, "I was going for that authentic girly scream of yours. You're a doctor and a man who isn't afraid of wearing make-up. Why would a little stage makeup on me cause you to faint? You knew tonight was the 'Phantom of the Opera.'"
Not wanting to admit to nearly peeing in his French lingerie, Wilson smoothed his dress and tossed his head of curls as he found a moment to think and regain his composure. The oncologist clutched a last minute inspiration, "Actually, it was not the makeup. It's this damn corset you wanted me to wear. I can't breathe!!" Jazz hands accompanied this last remark.
House almost couldn't contain his smile. He put out his own two hands, and bracing with his left leg, helped Wilson get up from the floor.
"Well, I know how important keeping that plus size figure is to you."
Still breathless, "Actually, I wear a size 18, and it's only because of my broad shoulders." He sounded smug as he finished, "I have a size 14 waist."
House snorted, "Yeah, you and John Travolta."
Before continuing, House waited for Wilson to regain his equilibrium, and for his ankles balancing on size 13 extra wide pumps to stop wobbling. His concern vanished as he saw a slightly warm blush complementing the rouged cheeks.
His words were rough and low, "You do look incredible tonight." He nibbled and teased the lobe of a bejeweled ear.
He felt something round and hard slip down and catch in his throat. He began choking. He tried to self-administer the Heimlich maneuver, but Wilson's arms immediately snaked around him, and a double first drove up under his ribcage. A black pearl flew out of his mouth and dropped onto the floor chattering and rolling away.
Now it was House's turn to compose himself, but he was doing a bad job of it. "What the fuck was that?!"
"That was supposed to be a pearl earring. I used some eyelash adhesive to stick it to my ear." Feathery lashes batted over sweet puppy dog eyes, then they turned away in shame as if he really was caught chewing a slipper. "Sorry" he shrugged. "Bad idea."
"Next time you raid your mother's jewelry box, get your ears pierced first."
Indignation replaced remorse, "It wasn't one of my mother's, it was one of Julie's. I found a box of discarded jewelry the other day, and saw the loose pearls." Arms, folded across his copious bosom, "I'm not going to run around the hospital with holes or diamond studs in my ears."
Blue eyes considered the floor as well as the remark. Looking up, he replied, "But, you've been giving it some thought."
"Well, it does look good on Chase . . ."
A streak of jealously numbed House's libidinous thoughts, "Window shopping, again?"
Two hands softly stroked his lapels, "You know I like my men rugged, not pretty."
House was pulled off-balance as the comely hands smashed him against big bouncy breasts and he felt his mouth mashed against a hungry one. His lips parted as a tongue probed and enflamed his senses. Both lovers dueled for ownership over the other.
House couldn't wait a moment longer. He gave the lips a tender kiss farewell, and quickly slipped a footstool next to Wilson's dress as he sat down and pulled the heavy skirt over his head.
He groaned when his eyes confronted . . . lace pantelettes! Layers of froth and padding disguised what he was looking for. He groped for an opening, and a small foothill began forming from its hiding place, promising to burst the linen seams as it continued to grow into Mt. Kilimanjaro. As House scrabbled, he could barely hear grunts and short begging whines from above. It was getting hot under the layered fabric. Between the trapped body heat from Wilson's groin, and House's own sexual enthusiasm, beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and burned his eyes.
Meanwhile, he hadn't made any headway through the ruffled fortress.
"What the hell, Wilson, why didn't you slap on a chastity belt as well? How do you pee in this thing?" Again, Wilson rumbled something inaudible. He heard one muffled word, "Velcro," and was assailed with cool air and light as hands lifted up the skirt and triumphantly ripped open a front panel.
Everything dimmed as a heavy blanket of soft cloth descended again. He could feel Wilson's hands gently encourage and guide him back to the opening. His hand sought the jewels from the inner sanctum . . . He choked on his annoyance . . . Goddamn Fruit of the Looms!
Spots began to swim before his eyes. It was a steam bath under the airless skirt. The heavy layers smothered him, and not in a good way. He began calling out their safe word, "Woz . . . Wozniak," as he removed the bulky brocade and gulped down fresh air as he tried to lever himself up by pushing on the silver handle of his ebony cane.
Wilson grabbed him under the arms and pulled him to his feet.
Concern was written all over Wilson as he inspected House's sweating, purple face. "Are you alright? Speak to me, House. I heard you call out the coma guy's name."
"Your nether region is hot as Hades under there, my delicate flower. What are you dressing for? A Rose Parade float?"
Fingertips alternatively fluffed and smoothed the lacy décolletage at the neckline and sleeves, "I'm playing Christine, who is a virgin. Besides, I take these reenactments seriously."
Blue eyes rolled heavenward and back, "Stop thinking reenactment. Begin thinking kink."
"Easy for you to say."
House's mouth dropped open as a painted silk fan appeared from the depths of the mysterious bosom and began waving it in both their faces.
"My gown is an exact copy of an 1870 original." The caterpillar eyebrows reduced to half their size with artfully blended makeup raised as he snapped haughtily, "Where did you buy your suit and cane? At the Halloween store?"
"Only the best theatrical costume shop in the tri-state area for you my sweet, and the cane is an antique." House twirled it through his fingers a couple of times, "Does that make you swoon, or is it not good enough for you, Aunt Pittypat?"
Wilson appeared mollified, but wasn't ready to concede, "And, the music?" He huffed, "You played 'A Whiter Shade of Pale.'"
"How many ways do I need to tell you, Because. It's. HOT."
The fan snapped closed with a flourish. "Oh . . .You have a point."
"And a tail to go with it." House's eyebrows did a little dance.
He debated whether he should take advantage of the moment and risk getting knocked senseless by the pendulous necklace draped around Wilson's neck as he kissed and sucked his tender skin. Good thing he had a self-destructive streak. Perhaps, it would be better to take a deep breath and dive under the gown once more.
He didn't act fast enough.
The Wilson Express was beginning to build up a head of steam. The hands on his hips were like the cowcatcher grill on the front of a locomotive prepared to divide a herd of cattle. "It's always about you and your fantasies isn't it?!"
"I thought you liked my ideas. You seemed to enjoy your slinky self in King Kong's hand as he blew you and your hair dry?"
Bedroom eyes softened Wilson's face, "the bellows was a stroke of genius," but then he seemed to wake from a dream and rumbled, "That gorilla hand was a mood killer!"
"How so?" House smirked; he knew what was coming . . .
"Ginormous gorilla hands, House," he sputtered, "tend to make objects, especially cocks, look smaller than they really are!"
"You have nothing to be ashamed about."
As he calmed down, Wilson clumsily tried to check his bustle and smoothed the waves of his wig. It was similar to him checking the pens in his lab coat pocket protector and finger combing his hair. No matter how you dressed someone up, some things never changed.
Butterfly wings batted above the luminous candlelit eyes, "How about doing one of mine next time?"
House couldn't suppress a sigh. "What ball-breaking diva did you have in mind?"
"Scarlett O'Hara"
"Shit. Clark Gable didn't give a damn, but I do. She's a regular black widow spider."
Wilson's mouth began to pinch into a thin line as he raised his hand to rub the back of his neck. He started to pace. House paused, his virgin was becoming an iron maiden. "Well, what did you have in mind?"
"I haven't thought it through completely, but instead of an old basement operating room, we could book a suite in Atlantic City."
"You and hotel rooms."
"Keeps moss from growing on me."
"You're treat?"
"Always is," returned the resigned reply, but Wilson quickly brightened, "Except for this." His outstretched arm took in the luxurious setting as if Vanna White was presenting a Cadillac Escalade for the audience's approval. "Whose life did you save to fund this fantasy, and who did you con to haul all this stuff down here?"
House felt his heart skip a beat. His forehead wrinkled in concern as he leaned on his cane, "You're the Patron Saint of reenactments, I thought you created this. He pulled out a small red leather volume, Dr. Henry Gray's, 'Anatomy Descriptive and Surgical.' He pulled a folded piece of paper from under the cover. It was a handwritten sheet of paper that included a map, date and time. "I thought you left this on my desk. An invitation for tonight, and a first edition of 'Gray's Anatomy.'"
Wilson shot back a startled, wide-eye look. He patted the side of his dress until he found what he was looking for, and withdrew from an invisible pocket a similar green volume. He read from the cover, "'Anatomist's Vade Mecum' by Erasmus Wilson," and waved an identical sheet of paper, "This isn't from you?"
They both stared at each other, trying to piece the puzzle together when they were startled by fiendish thunder crashing over their heads. The organ boomed "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor." If the music was not loud enough to ascend to heaven, the chamber was entombed far below the earth to ensure that the devil enjoyed the performance. The room trembled like a vibrating mattress in a cheap motel. Wilson managed to reach House's side, and held out a steadying hand.
The classical composition transformed into the dark bittersweet Andrew Lloyd Webber composition, "Phantom of the Opera" as a cloaked figure materialized on the organ bench - all ivory and black-as-sable elegance.
Both felt the hair rise on the back of their necks, but Wilson tried to deflect by whispering, "Great threads. Is Vera Wang designing for men now?"
Before House could shush him, the caped man stopped playing, and in one athletic leap, stood before them. There was no mask hiding his sharp features. His piercing violet eyes looked over his hawk-shaped nose. His narrow lips sat in judgment over a cleft chin. The scent of sweet pomade from his patent leather hair permeated the air. His head tilted back as he unleashed an unholy laugh and rubbed his hands together, "Finally . . . the night I've been waiting for!"
"Don't think this is the time to swap fashion secrets, Wilson. Looks like your everyday maniacal phantom to me. Can't reason with 'em, never will."
The cackle stopped abruptly, "What, Holmes?! Now that I've finally found you and Wilson here, you have the temerity to mock me?! No! You fell into my trap and you will hang by your own petard!"
Two brilliant doctors answered simultaneously, "Huh?"
The head of raven's wing hair gleamed as he stepped closer, "I knew I was on the right track when I found your volumes on display in the hospital library. All puffed up with your own vanity?" He wagged a finger at them, "Thought you could run from me, but you can't hide.
When you received my invitation, you knew it was the end for the two of you. Admit it!" The lining of the cape flashed as he pivoted in place, his energy preventing him from standing still. "You're jealousy drove you to diminish my master work, but it survived in spite of you."
House limped forward and threw down a challenge, "I watch 'Passion's Promise' when I want bad dialog. Fast forward to the exposition and explain who you are and why you're here so we can kiss and make up, and at call it a night."
A ghostly hand touched Wilson's cheek, "Perhaps, I'll steal a kiss from this one," and then the finger pointed toward House's heart, "You don't recognize me, Holmes?! I'm the author of the book in your hands. The one you proofread for me 150 years ago, and then tried to steal as your own after I died. I'm Henry Gray!"
House looked down at the book in his hands, and tried to untangle the knots in the ghost's angry tale. He began quietly, "First, my name is House. You mistakenly think I'm some long gone editor called 'Holmes?' The name on my door is Dr. Gregory House. If you can write, you can certainly read."
There was a flutter from the cape, "But, here you are with this lovely creature . . . Um, I mean, you're standing beside Erasmus Wilson who authored the anatomy book that my own eclipsed." He turned his anger toward the man who was tilting his head back and pressing his palms to his eyes for the moment. "Wreathed in jealously aren't you?! Want you're revenge? You'll never have a chance. I'll destroy you first!"
Wilson removed his hands, but looked perplexed. The palms faced Gray, and were cleavage high, "Stop, this is so wrong . . ."
House took the reins and looked at the man in the dress beside him, "This is Dr. James Wilson, oncologist and Wonder Woman - I mean Boy Wonder."
He leaned on his cane as his attention swung back to the phantom before him, "Take a good look at us and get your facts straight, you moron! I can't believe you ever wrote such a seminal work. Your foot bone must be stuck inside your head bone."
Footsteps echoed as the ghoul circled around them, stroking his chin as he inspected their features closely. He peered at House. "I thought for sure you were Holmes when I heard you made yourself unpleasant to your fellows and that you were a cripple, but it seems that it's your leg that gives you trouble. You don't wear an eye patch."
In his next rotation, Gray's eyes lingered on Wilson in a threatening manner of a different nature. He fingered the lace neckline, his eyes glittered in the candlelight, "So it's Jamey then, not Erasmus?"
House had about all he could take. It was one thing to have his life threatened. It was another to have his boyfriend chatted up. He tugged off 'Jamey's' curly wig, and then dove into the depths of his chest, pulling out foam, packs of silicone, balled tissues, the fan, and a lorgnette until the bosom was depleted of all it's worldly goods, and . . . behold, there was one flat-chested middle-aged man standing before them in a dress.
"Let's get two things straight. He's a three time loser, and he's mine!"
The dark man stepped back two paces, "And now I see the grave error that I've made." With a flourish of his arm, he caught up the cape and bowed, "Please accept my apologies. I've let my vendetta cloud my judgment."
If ever an apparition could look forlorn, this one did as he sunk onto the tête-à-tête, and dropped his head into his hands.
As House looked around, preparing for a speedy retreat, he saw to his horror Wilson move toward the broken specter. He lifted the chin, and kissed the forehead. Donning his best bedside manner he murmured, "It's time to move on, Henry."
The spirit kissed both hands, and with a flick of his wrist a long stem red rose appeared, "For you 'My Beauty.'" Wilson accepted the offering, and the image of the man began to dissolve. House yelled after the fading image, "Read my lips, and remember that's no hoochie mama, he's a man!"
The wraith was a mere pale sketch as they heard words wafting back to them, "Quite alright. Nobody's perfect."
The organ screeched out a discordant chord, and a cold swirl of air blew all the candles out.
The sickening cloying stench of hair product still remained.
Dim overhead emergency lights covered the two lone men. The elegant trappings were gone. They stood inside an abandoned turn-of-the-century operating room. The walls were covered with yellowed and cracked tiles.
Silence ruled except for the loud ticking of a clock. A resounding bell began to toll the hour. It was midnight.
House cleared his throat, "Old Henry's been hanging out and watching TMC too long."
Wilson didn't respond. He waved the bud under his nose checking for any trace of scent, then let out a sigh.
"Let's get the hell out of here, Jimmy."
"Yeah, coming."
The clock struck again.
House hitched to the other side of the doorway and cursed as he stepped into a puddle of water that collected from a leaking overhead pipe. He'd managed to miss it on the way in, but damned his luck now. He looked at the corner of his cape. It was drenched. There would be no refund on his deposit from 'Theatrics R' Us.' He turned to warn Wilson, knowing he would have a hissy fit if he stained his precious confection.
What met his eye nearly made his salt-and-pepper hair turn solid white.
Wilson was still in the room. He was picking up the tossed fan as the room plunged back into darkness. All the candles returned and the flames were flickering back to life. The furniture was reappearing and taking solid form.
"Stop what you're doing now, and get out of there!"
Three.
The rose was clutched in Wilson's hand as he looked up. There was a look of panic on his face "Where are you, House? I can't see you."
Four.
"At the doorway." The stem of the rose seemed to be growing longer. Claw-like thorns burst through its green stalk. "Drop the rose, Wilson, and run like your life depended on it!"
The organ was once again blending harmonious chords.
Dr. Henry Gray was back at the organ furiously working the keys and pedals. The requiem grew louder and faster . . .
Five.
Wilson tried ridding himself of the flower, but the thorns bit into his skin, becoming entangled in the lace sleeves. The more he struggled, the more the blossom's barbs dug in. The stem began twirling and spinning into heavy green rope. It whipped around the folds of the dress, twirled around his ankles, and rooted into the floor.
Six.
"House, What's happening?" The voice cracked, "Everything is fading."
And, so it was. The interior was melting into twilight, Gray and Wilson were brighter images, but with every stroke of the clock, the two of them were disappearing as well.
Seven.
Gray stood up from the organ. He completely disregarded House. His eyes were large and focused only on Wilson.
Eight.
The madman's voice intoned, "At the end of the twelfth knell, My Angel, you will be mine forever." A low laugh gurgled and ended with an insane cackle.
House looked on paralyzed.
Nine.
He couldn't watch helplessly without taking some kind of action. Foolhardy or dangerous – it didn't matter. Wilson was going to be lost to him forever. He plunged back inside. The silver tip of his cane flashed as he vainly hammered on the roots, but nothing yielded.
Ten.
Then, he remembered what interested him about the cane when he purchased it. He pulled at the handle. Out slid a sword. The flat blade shimmered and caught the light. Delicate engraving highlighted the words, 'Fight for Love & Loyalty.' He began hacking at the strong verdant cable, and slashed through the silk and lace to quickly release Wilson's wrists and ankles from the rose's coiled stranglehold. As he severed the stalk it dissolved into black soot and floated away, and Wilson returned to solid human form.
Eleven.
As soon as his partner was able to move, he grabbed him around the waist to lead him to safety, but now he saw what stumped Wilson earlier, the phantom's walls were gone and the ivory tiles of the old hospital reared up in its place. There were no openings in the interior of the room
He was desperate for a miracle. Then he saw wet footprints on the operating room floor. They were his own when he tracked water from the shallow pool outside the room.
T . . .
"This way!" He locked on to the silken arm and did not let go . . . until they both stumbled out of the room.
welve!
There was a scream of outrage, as they clung to each other and looked back through the doorway.
The chamber faded to black velvet, and there was only a misty white trace of Henry Gray's silhouette that dissipated into nothingness.
The operating room flickered into view, but the doorway was soon covered with a heavy bolted iron door, and row after row of tiles slipped into place across the wall like the auto-complete command on a solitaire game. Within the space of minute there was a seamless and solid barrier in front of them.
Both men sighed with relief but neither let go. Their hold on each other softened into an embrace. House's arms slipped around a corseted waist as Wilson's hands cradled a stubbled face. Before their lips touched, Wilson whispered a husky heartfelt thank you. It was unnecessary to say any more, and became downright impossible as their mouths hungrily sought each other.
The benefit of Wilson's shredded skirt became apparent as the bulges in their clothes ignited from the friction between them.
Then House heard a water drop plop on the fine worsted of his jacket. His eyes looked up to see the faulty pipe, but there was none. He looked down at his shoulder. It wasn't water, it was blood from ragged cuts on Wilson's fingers.
The doctor in him shoved passionate thoughts to the side for a moment. "Here, let me look at your hands."
Wilson nuzzled at the fuzz on his cheek, answering in a husky voice, "I'm fine."
House inspected the crimson cuts.
He would never tell Wilson, but he couldn't fault Henry Gray's taste. Of course, Wilson was one hell of a dangerous liaison tonight, but still worth the trouble. Was there nothing about the man that didn't make him hot? Oh, yeah, maybe when he wore those pantalets. He grabbed a ruffle from the undergarment and ripped it off with one good pull, wrapping the fabric around a couple of fingers, staunching the flow. "One or two cuts need stitches. Let's get you upstairs."
"Oh no, House, I'm not parading upstairs looking like this."
House acknowledged Wilson had a point. He wouldn't go upstairs in his finery, let alone in ruined eye makeup, and a shredded gown. He looked like a drag queen caught in a hurricane.
His eyes followed along the wall until he came across the small case he brought with him earlier; he hauled out its contents, "Here put these on. I brought clothes from home." He rummaged through the case until he found flashlights, and passed one to Wilson. We can go out through the back basement exit we used earlier. I'll stitch you up at the apartment."
They changed their clothes. With beams pointing in front of them to help find their way, and the night's horrors safely behind them, they began discussing who they would role-play next.
Wilson began, "If neither of us chose Phantom of the Opera, than it means it's my turn. When do you want to go to Atlantic City, Rhett?"
"Stop batting those eyelashes at me, Wilson. Your raccoon eyes are not going to persuade me. It may be your turn, but I saved your life. I get to choose.
I was thinking of Lucy and Ricky. Ricky finds Lucy with a seven foot loaf of bread in the kitchen, and Ricky says, 'Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do . . . here in the kitchen, and then in the bedroom.'"
Fingers pinched the bridge of Wilson's nose. He bit out, "Don't tell me. Another large prop! And, you'll expect me to bake it!"
"Let's try winging it this time. We both take turns playing with 'Little Ricky' to see who rises to the occasion first. Does that work for you?"
Wilson opened the door to the parking lot as the other limped through, a smile lit up his face, "You come up with some hair-brained schemes House, but you have this fantasy wrong. I'll do it if you agree to one change."
"Which is?"
"I can't see myself playing Lucy to your Ricky . . . but, I am ready to play Ethel to your Lucy."
The discussion ended in a kiss after they high fived in agreement.
Wilson hovered near the hospital bed.
"Did you... see... something? . . . House? What did you see? . . ."
"Nothing . . ."
"Nothing-you-don't-want-to-talk-about-it, or nothing . . ? House, you gotta talk about this . . ."
No explanation from the bed was forthcoming.
"Just looking at you hurts." Wilson looked over chart and was writing, "I'm going to order up some extra pain meds."
House needed time before answering Wilson's questions. What did he see? An out of body experience? An alternative universe? The hospital ghost of Princeton-Plainsboro's future? A cautionary tale? Illusion, reality, or his own wish fulfillment?
He knew he wasn't ready to discuss any of it with Wilson. Not yet, anyway. He chose to mask his feelings with a small 'Mona Lisa' smile at the corners of his mouth as he said, "I love you."
Fin.
Thank you for reading! Comments welcome. 3
A/N: Some trivia & additional credits:
1) This August marks the 150th year anniversary of the first edition of "Gray's Anatomy" written by Dr. Henry Gray. It was named, "Anatomy Descriptive and Surgical." Dr. Henry Carter drew the illustrations.
2) Dr. Timothy Holmes proofread the first edition, and was instrumental in the continuing success of later editions after the death of Dr. Gray, by continuing as the editor. There was a suspected rivalry between the two men during their lifetimes. Dr Holmes was known to be difficult with his students, though he had very kind words to write about his publisher, Mr. Parker upon his untimely death. He did lose an eye.
3) One of the top reference books prior to Dr. Gray's was, "Anatomist's Vade Mecum" by Erasmus Wilson.
4) "Bach's Toccata and Fugue" in D Minor was the organ music that accompanied the1925 silent movie classic "The Phantom of the Opera.
a) Four versions of "The Phantom of the Opera" were referenced: i) The 1909 story by Gaston Leroux, ii) The three movie versions: 1925, 1943, and 2004.
b) Want to credit writers of "Some Like it Hot" for the Phantom's "Nobody's perfect" line. It was too good to pass up!