Java Warning: House blend, no cream or sugar = angst
A/N: This fic is a birthday present to leakey_lover. Hope you enjoy. My thanks to geekygecko for her suggestions and allowing me to bounce ideas off her.
Please don't hate me.
"Wilson." House deliberately pitches his voice low so not to be overheard, even though he sits on his bed with no one else in the room. He works hard to keep his tone serious, allows just the right hint of authority.
"House?" is the incredulous response. "Is everything alright? How did you get hold of a phone after one day?"
"Cigarettes are like gold around here."
"And in less than twenty-four hours you're working on a new addiction and in possession of a phone? Mayfield's doing wonders for you."
"Have to keep from getting bored. Drooling is highly overrated." House lowers his voice even further to underscore the cleverness of his scheme. "The staff hands out cigarettes to smokers."
"If they were passing out cyanide laced Kool-Aid would you drink that too?"
"Listen-up, Wilson. By chance, a couple of cigarettes drop near the men's showers and suddenly nobody cares if they are bending over, naked. There's a scuffle. Techs rush in to break it up, and a cell phone accidentally falls out of one of the Mongo's pockets."
House's hand clutches at the smooth contours of the cell, an old model, thick and heavy, but he doesn't mind. It's his lifeline at the moment. He savors the silence from the other end as Wilson's plays the scene in his head, and accepts the huff of breath as a sign of admiration.
"Not bad for someone a raffle number short of winning a toaster?"
"House…"
Wilson wearily bends his name into two syllables, not sounding pleased. This was not what House expects to hear after implementing his daring plan and succeeding.
His confidence cools, but his voice keeps up appearances.
"Christ. Relax. I know the difference between who I am, my rat, and the actor. I'm not Steve McQueen planning the Great Escape.
"You can't expect me to sit around all day snapping jigsaw pieces into place while watching soaps."
"Why not? You like solving puzzles, and never missed an episode of Prescription Passions while on clinic duty." A promising chuckle falls from Wilson's lips.
Feels like old times.
As the pleasing sound continues, a chill runs up House's spine. Wilson's approval may only be the crackle of static. The display shows two bars and a low battery. Damn. Of all the Mongos in this place, why had he fingered the one from a non-stop talking Lennie?
House quickly returns the phone to his ear as he hears Wilson's voice scratching out into the air.
"What do you want, House? Why did you call me?" Wilson asks patiently, encouragingly.
House hesitates. How pathetic is he, hoping for a collateral lie. Expecting Wilson's enabling skills to make it unnecessary for him to ask, but Wilson's clueless.
Deflating like a tired balloon, House's first flush of victory fades.
"Never mind."
"Wait, you didn't steal a phone just to call and say you stole a phone?"
Hopelessness laps at his feet and is on the rise, but House takes a steadying breath and shears off a slice of pride in his effort for confirmation.
"Coming here. Was this the right thing to do?"
"Barring your criminal tendencies—"
"I need to know. Seriously"
"House…option…."
The poor sound quality is carving Wilson's voice into blips.
More bad news. House speaks as loud as he dares, "Hold on!" and shoves the cell under his pillow a fraction of second before a shadow wings past the small window in the door.
Room check.
Dutiful eyes peer through the glass then disappear.
House feels the rise in his heartbeat, but waits, allowing it to slow down.
One, Two, Three…Six, Seven…Eight, Nine, Ten.
He dives for the phone. Comfort returns as he cups the smooth case and brings it back to his ear.
"Go on. I'm back."
Silence.
"Wilson."
The line is dead.
Wilson?
Dropping the phone into his lap, House forgets about it and crosses his arms as he begins to rhythmically rock, receding into himself.
I'm not losing it.
I'll come up with a new plan.
Wilson will come.
He won't leave the conversation unfinished. He'll call the Director. Insist that I speak to him…
I'm not losing it….
The motion and words are comforting.
House doesn't notice when the bar of soap slips off his knees and slides onto the floor.
~fin~
Thank you for reading. All comments welcome.