Title: Beauty Spots
Author: hwshipper
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
A/N: Follows the separate fic Two Months, but also stands perfectly well on its own. Dive in!
Beta: triedunture brilliant as ever
Spoilers: For season 5.
CLARIFICATION NOTE: I have received a number of questions about the date I posted this fic. I would like to clarify that it was based on spoilers, as I warned for at the time. All the ideas in this fic which also appear in the episode are those of the writers in House, and I claim no credit at all: my intention was merely to elaborate and build upon canon, as is the nature of fanfic. I never intended to dupe or mislead anyone about authorship, nor am I psychic. If I spoiled anything for you, I can only now apologise.
Summary: House and Wilson are estranged. Events unfold.
Excerpt: At the memory of the patient, House's eyelids sprang open, to see possibly the most boring dashboard in history a couple of feet in front of him.
Beauty Spots
Wilson knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, let himself in anyway. He found House sitting on his couch, feet up. So far, so normal.
But the TV was off and the stereo silent. There was no book or journal at House's elbow, no laptop resting on his thighs. His cane lay flat on the floor next to him. The curtains were open and the only light in the room was spilling in from the street lamp outside; Wilson resisted the temptation to walk across the room and close the drapes.
Instead he looked at House sitting silently in the dark, doing nothing. Except smoke, apparently: an ashtray with several burnt out cigarette ends sat squarely on the coffee table.
Wilson didn't close the door behind him; he didn't want to stay any longer than necessary.
"Your mom called me," Wilson said awkwardly.
A spasm briefly crossed House's otherwise impassive face. "I told her not to."
Wilson sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not." House shifted a little on the couch. He reached out an arm and grabbed the half-empty cigarette packet on the coffee table. He shook one out, then reached into a pocket for a lighter.
Wilson didn't say anything, was sure he didn't move a muscle in his face, but he didn't need to: House stared at him and said, "Funny, I used to have this best friend, an oncologist, who warned me about smoking..."
He clicked the lighter with defiance, and added, "But he doesn't seem to be around any more. Doesn't seem to think we were ever friends in the first place."
Wilson wanted to rip off the invisible shroud of dazed numbness that swathed House like a thick rubber blanket, and hit him. Just to snap him out of it.
Instead he said with restraint, "The funeral--"
House cut him off like a whiplash. "I'm not going."
Wilson put his hands on his hips, he couldn't help it. "Your mother, House--"
"I am not--fucking--going." House bit the words out. "I told her that. I didn't go and see him the whole last year when he was ill, and I'm sure as hell not going now he's dead."
Wilson shook his head in a dazed way. "House... this is not for your father. It's for your mother! It's not like he'd know if you came to his funeral or not, right? But your Mom--"
"Not going! " House sang out loudly. He then took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke ostentatiously in Wilson's direction. "How many more times? And I don't know why you're so surprised, anyway."
Wilson clenched his fists and unclenched them again. "Actually, I'm not."
House raised an eyebrow and waited.
"You really are as big an ass as I thought." Wilson shrugged, and raised a palm. "I just--hoped."
And he turned and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Everything was dark, but getting lighter. Everything was quiet, but getting louder--like turning the volume up slowly on a stereo.
Fully fledged noises swam into House's consciousness. Tires. Car horns. As his sense of touch returned too, he realized dimly that he was sitting down, tilted slightly backwards... padded fabric, it felt like a car seat. And a strap across his body was holding him in place--a seat belt.
But he hadn't been in a car! He'd been at the hospital--he had a patient...
At the memory of the patient, House's eyelids sprang open, to see possibly the most boring dashboard in history a couple of feet in front of him. Wilson's Volvo. Wilson's car! How the hell--
The power of movement returned to his giddy head, and he shifted to look sideways. Wilson was there, mouth in a small tight line, hands moving steadily on the wheel. A long freeway unraveled in front of them.
He'd last seen Wilson several days ago, when Wilson had stormed out of his apartment...
Realization dawned loud and clear. It was the day of the funeral, and that was where they were headed.
"You drugged me," House said, his voice slow but clogged with grudging admiration. "How? You resigned, you don't even work at the hospital anymore."
Wilson didn't reply.
"I was there. I had a patient--" House stopped as knowledge continued to seep back. "Cuddy! You were in league with her."
Wilson still didn't say anything. House shifted a little in his seat, felt the familiar tug of pain, and swiftly found a void in his pocket where his pill bottle should have been. Also, his cane was nowhere to be seen.
"I've been kidnapped," House said, and his tone was one of wonderment. "You cunning bastards." He then switched to a glare. "Just because you've got me in this car, you don't think you've won, do you? There's a long drive ahead yet, and if you think I'm going quietly--"
Wilson spoke for the first time: his voice sounded calm. "We'll see."
House decided not to reply; he needed to concentrate on recovering his strength for a while.
His eye fell on the Volvo key chain dangling from the ignition. House started to muse on how best to grab the keys when they arrived at the inevitable rest stop.
END OF PART ONE