A/N: Although no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, I do not own it, nor any part of Monty Python, aside from a stack of DVD's. I don't own Pearl drums, either.
Chapter 4—Screw With Them
"I can't believe I'm about to do this," Wilson said nervously, buckling his helmet and glancing at House's motorcycle. His stomach felt as if it were doing flip-flops.
"You can do it," House said, snapping his visor into place. "Stop being a baby. Just close your eyes and think about something else. Oh, and remember to hold on. It would be counterproductive to do otherwise."
House mounted the bike and Wilson cautiously got on with him, tightly grasping his middle when he felt the bike begin to ease forwards. The rest of the ride was a terrifying blur of car horns, squealing brakes and House's swearing. By the time they arrived at the hospital, Wilson was not only wide awake, but appeared to have aged five years and acquired a nervous tick.
"It wasn't that horrible," House said, trying not to laugh at Wilson's bewildered expression. He took off his helmet and picked up his cane.
"It was…an experience," Wilson said, following House's lead and remembering to remove his own helmet. He ran his free hand through his hair and noticed Cuddy's car approaching. He and House exchanged a mischievous grin and embraced. Knowing that Cuddy was watching, House softly kissed the top of Wilson's head and released him. Brakes screeched and rubber burned when Cuddy slammed on the brakes in disbelief. Wilson and House were walking away from the motorcycle, hand-in-hand.
*~*~*~*
"What do you know about House and Wilson?" Cuddy demanded, stopping Chase on his way to the locker room after lunch. Chase turned around and gave Cuddy a confused expression.
"House is a sarcastic ass and Wilson's too good for him?" Chase asked, not entirely sure why Cuddy was pestering him, nor why she looked like an agitated rooster.
"No, not in general. I already know that. I meant, lately. Have they been acting weirdly?"
"Um, not really. House got some flowers yesterday, and Wilson voluntarily rode on House's motorcycle. Any reason? If you need me to—"
"—is something wrong?" House interjected, walking up to Chase. Wilson stopped behind them, nearly colliding with Chase. "Other than the coffee, of course."
"Cut it out, House," Cuddy snapped. "What the hell is going on with you two?" She pointed at House and Wilson.
"No more than what's going on between yourself and Thirteen."
"House, you are unbelievable. Forget it. Just forget I ever asked."
"You know, a hooker said the same thing last night. I think I'm catching on, as the next Lupus."
Chase couldn't help but laugh as Cuddy stuttered, searching for appropriate words.
"Did you do something?" She finally sputtered at Wilson.
"I don't have time to play who took whose crayons," Wilson said. "I have patients."
Wilson nodded politely and went about his way, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cuddy rounded on House. Chase took his chance and fled towards the locker room.
"You were holding hands," she hissed, "I saw you. Are you taking something other than Vicodin?"
"You must be having hallucinations." House contemplated adding more, but the fury radiating from Cuddy told him to do otherwise. "On another note, the insurance company should've given you a call."
"They did. Now stop evading the question."
"I'm not evading the question. I'm merely asking for another one so I can contemplate the answer to the first one."
"How did you manage to total a brand-new Mustang?"
"That, wasn't my fault. You'd know that if you read the file for a change."
Without thinking, Cuddy snapped her and forward and upended House's coffee cup, making it look as if House had wet his pants. It was House's turn to be rendered speechless as he limped away from the scene, holding his coffee cup and patient file in front of his wet pants, and went to his office.
"What happened to you?" Foreman asked when House finally made his way into the diagnostics room.
"Cuddy decided to be an ass for a change," House said.
"Did you make an ass comment?"
"No, but I was thinking it. This is for you," he handed Foreman the patient file. "I have to go to the clinic. Should be back after lunch."
Foreman took the folder and watched House leave.
"Is Cuddy really that terrifying?" Wilson asked, leaning on the door to House's locker and trying not to laugh at the wet stain decorating House's pants.
"No, but apparently she thought hot coffee and going commando would be." He yanked a pair of pants from his locker.
"Well, I have underwear, and we can always get better coffee."
"I don't think we're quite there yet. The underwear, not the coffee." House quickly changed pants and crammed the dirty pair into his locker. Wilson stood up straight.
"Why so defeated?" House asked, raising an eyebrow at Wilson. "It's only underwear."
"I'm wondering how much trouble we're in."
"Nothing I can't get out of. Honestly, I think I've done worse." House stepped forward and hugged Wilson. "Personally, I think this is hilarious. We rammed the stick so far—"
"—I get it. I think I'm just over thinking it."
"Does one of the little baldies have terminal cancer?"
"Yeah, this little kid. He's, like, five."
House heaved a sigh and held Wilson tighter. As much as he loved him, he would never understand how a person could care so much about one, anonymous patient.
"I know you don't care either way," Wilson said, "but I do. It's worse attending a funeral for a kid."
"Just do the family a favor, and fall apart on your own time. Don't do anything at last minute." House gently smoothed the younger man's hair and backed out of the embrace. "I have to go track down another car. I'm thinking something a little more sturdy. Something that won't be turned inside out by a stump."
Wilson cracked a half-hearted smile and left the locker room with House.
*~*~*~*
"AIDS," Foreman concluded, closing the file. House walked into the room and leaned against the wall. "When did you get here?"
"Five minutes ago," House said, "Cuddy doesn't know I'm here, so if you see her, warn me. Why AIDS?"
"He tested positive, and there really isn't any other alternative, House."
"I wasn't going to suggest anything. I'm suffering from acute clinic condemnation and needed to exercise my brain."
"How'd you manage that one? Cuddy didn't say anything."
"A wreck that was legally the fault of an Australian fleeing fraud charges."
"You wrecked your bike?"
"No, you idiot, I wrecked a leased Mustang."
Foreman stifled an uncharacteristic laugh. "That was yours?"
"Yes, is there a problem? Some kind of anti-sports car regulation that Cuddy conveniently forgot to mention?"
"No. I'm thinking about you and Wilson in a cherry red, convertible Mustang."
"At least we wrecked in style. Top was down. I'll be back later for a follow-up, in case it's not AIDS."
House stood up and left, heading for Wilson's office.
"What the hell?" House exclaimed, opening the door to Wilson's office. "Did something snap and send you back to first grade?"
Wilson briefly glanced up at House before returning to the pile of green, red, gold and white paper on his desk.
"It's Christmas," Wilson stated bluntly. "I always help with the decorations."
House resisted the urge to burst out laughing. "I seriously didn't know that. I thought you were Jewish."
Wilson pointed to a stack of neatly cut menorahs, stars of David, and a tall coil of dredel and Hebrew script garland.
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Every year, House."
"I meant today."
"Since…Holy crap it's been three hours."
House shook his head playfully and sat on the couch.
"While you're in here," Wilson added, "I need more snowflakes." He stood up and placed a stack of white paper and a pair of scissors on House's lap. House looked at the paper, then at Wilson.
"You actually think I possess artistic ability?" House asked.
"Yes, actually, I do. Now cut."
"I'm flattered."
"You're sarcastic."
House propped his bad leg up on the couch cushions and started cutting snowflakes. They hardly spoke; House managed to allow the snowflakes to absorb most of his attention. Neither of them noticed when Cuddy stepped in to check on Wilson's progress.
"House," Cuddy said, expectantly, crossing her arms and glaring down at him.
"What?" House shot irritably, not bothering to look up from his work.
"Clinic?"
"I'm busy. I'm making snowflakes for bald children, and until you showed up, I was doing it with a straight face."
"Of your own free will?"
"Well, Wilson asked, so not really."
Cuddy shifted her glare towards Wilson, who was idly decorating a paper Christmas tree. He shrugged, and put the tree on top of a stack to his left.
"We have an activities department for that," Cuddy stated dryly. House and Wilson cast her identical, bored expressions.
"I'm not behind on my hours," House said.
"I doubt you're doing more good here. You would do well to get a head start on tomorrow's."
House gestured to the heap of snowflakes on the floor beside the couch that was almost at the same level as Cuddy's knees. She picked one up and her face rearranged itself in shock. Not only had House agreed to make Christmas decorations because he was asked, he had done a half-decent job. Each was completely different, cut perfectly like on a cartoon. House put his scissors on Wilson's desk and left for the clinic.
"How on earth," Cuddy exclaimed once House was out of earshot, "did you get him to make Christmas decorations? He didn't even try to sabotage them."
"He just did it," Wilson said boredly. He was beginning to see why House avoided Cuddy with the same energy as one would avoid dog sick. "I gave him paper and scissors and he did it. I didn't think I'd end up facing a Spanish Inquisition."
"Watch out, I think House usually says things like that. He won't like you taking his place. What's wrong with you two? House is showing compassion and you're irritable."
Wilson's fist slammed into his desk. "I had three children, Cuddy, diagnosed with terminal cancer. I had to tell three kids under the age of ten that they are going to die. And I have to say, all of the banging and crashing and beeping isn't really helping, either."
"If you need—"
"—I don't need time off. That's the last thing I need."
"You're not PTSD, if that's what you're thinking. It's only been ten days."
"Eleven. I've been abnormally jumpy and alert for all of them. At everything. Doors slamming, for instance. House closed the fridge door to hard last night and it set me off."
"It's still shock."
"Six of one, half dozen of the other. My point is that I'm extremely stressed out right now, so of course I'm going to be irritable. Take your own advice and read the goddamn file."
"Get House and go home, Wilson. Both of you. I'd expect that from House, but not you, so something is wrong."
Wilson cast Cuddy a glance to kill and donned his coat. "Now I'm wondering if something's wrong with you," he grumbled. "Being an ass is House's territory. You usually stick to having one."
Cuddy stormed from the office. Wilson paged House, and the pair of them left the hospital.
"Did you get another car?" Wilson asked, worry welling up in his chest. The thought of another high-speed motorcycle ride was far from comforting.
"Nope," House said, drawing a key out of his pants pocket. "Better."
Wilson almost went weak with relief when he saw the Ford SVT Raptor parked beside House's motorcycle.
"You're going to have to drive," House said, pulling on his helmet. "I can't exactly help you put the bike in the bed of this thing."
"I'll figure it out," Wilson countered. Driving on his own was almost equally as terrifying as another motorcycle ride. Wilson wheeled the motorbike up to the bed of the truck and lifted up on the handlebars. It rose a foot off the ground before he was overwhelmed.
"You can't do it. It's too heavy. You'll be fine, and I won't mock you horribly if you drive slow."
"Yes you will."
"Only a little. Not as much as usual."
"There's no way I can do this. If something goes off, a car horn or something…." Wilson shuddered at the thought of being behind the wheel and having a total meltdown.
"Then pull over. You're going to have to drive again sometime."
Wilson's eyes narrowed. He put his hands on the bike, planning on lifting the entire thing this time. Then, House jumped at him and yelled. Wilson's reaction was just as he'd predicted. The adrenaline rush from Wilson's sudden terror sent the bike flying into the bed of the truck and he started running. Then he slid on a patch of ice and fell flat on his butt.
"Perfect," House said, limping over to Wilson. "Problem solved."
"You asshole!" Wilson roared. "What the fuck was that? I can't believe you, Greg! I could've killed both of us if I'd missed! I could have smashed over fifty thousand dollars worth of vehicles. All so you wouldn't have to go out of your God-blessed way to do one fucking thing for me! What the fuck, Dr. House, did I do to you? You always back out on me, or leave me somewhere, like I'm this, this thing you can't wait to get rid of, and I ask you to do one thing! Leave your bike until tomorrow, but you can't do it, can you? That stupid bike matters more than the possibility of me involuntarily freaking out and killing myself right in front of you! You would have to watch me die, House, how does that feel?"
Wilson stood up, pure rage powering from every pore of his body. House, awestruck, didn't move in time to stop Wilson as his fist collided with his chest, causing him to fly four feet in the opposite direction. He didn't stand up.
"Shit!" Wilson yelled, now in tears from the sudden emotional stress. "Greg! Goddamn it!"
"Are you going to help me up or just swear at me?" House snapped. "You broke my damn cane."
"Crap," Wilson reached down and pulled House to his feet, holding him close. "I didn't….I didn't mean to."
"I get it," House sighed. "I get it. I made a mistake, but it was purely impulsive. He bent down slowly to pick up the pieces of his cane. It had snapped in half when he fell on it. "It's okay. I'm not hurt. It'll bruise, but my leg's okay. Let's go home."
They slowly made their way back to the truck, and House drove to the apartment without further commentary. They didn't speak to each other until dinner was finished, and they were in their pyjamas watching television.
"I didn't realize I hit you until I'd already done it," Wilson said suddenly. "It was seriously an accident."
"I had it coming," House said. "I've had that coming for a very long time. I'm surprised I didn't get it earlier."
"Well, you don't know how to act any other way. You don't mean half the crap you say, so it's not as bad."
"I didn't. Never have." House reached across the couch and pulled Wilson close to him. "I didn't leave unless it was important, either. I had things to arrange for you after your wreck. Trying to get anything done in that place is hell. Honestly, I didn't even consider the fact that you'd be coherent enough to know if I was there or not."
Wilson cuddled up against House. "I guess your innate sense of hearing me care needs to make an appointment with the ENT."
"I'm going to have to say no to the corny puns. I love you, but no."
"I don't know what to do. I'm scared that Cuddy's going to send me to an institution, or something."
"It's not full-blown PTSD. This isn't near as bad as…things I've dealt with before."
"It never is, House. You know me."
"I don't know you're reactions. I only knew mi-my patients'."
"Your reactions? Does this have something to do with you claiming to understand?"
House heaved a sigh and scratched his head. "I was a freshman in college. Someone broke into my dorm hall. Shot my roommate right in front of me. I thought he was going to kill me, too, but he just left me to watch the roommate die. He made me watch him die at gunpoint, too. I wasn't in a position to fight him off."
"Shit…."
"I won't let Cuddy do anything to you. You're staying right here." House held Wilson tighter. "Have you thought about taking a week off?"
"I can't, there's too many patients."
"There's bound to be someone else who can take over for a day or two. You need some real sleep. Lying in bed petting me for six hours really only counts towards proving that you're an obsessive-compulsive."
Wilson's cheeks flushed red. He hadn't realized that House had been awake.
"I'll meet you in the middle," House continued. "We'll work the rest of this week. Christmas is on Sunday, we'll take Monday and Tuesday off. Unless we're celebrating Hanukkah. Then I need a new strategy. It's up to you, really."
"We?"
"Unless you're planning on moving out anytime soon."
Wilson shot him a questioning glance.
"Thought not. Did you assume I'd leave you all on your own? I like time off just as much as the next satirical ass."
"Not really. Something tells me that you'd find leaving me here by myself to be boring."
"Way to go, you're a genius. Now. The Christmas Ball is tomorrow. It's the perfect opportunity to screw everyone up at once."
Wilson couldn't help but smile at House's abrupt, yet appropriate, change of subject. Planning out a ruse for the Christmas Ball was preferable to discussing their present mental states.
*~*~*~*
"Sorry I'm late," House said, sitting at the table, between Chase and an empty chair. He tightened his tie absentmindedly.
"Where were you?" Cuddy asked, her words drilling into House like an acid. She sounded like a nun. He could scarcely manage to keep a straight face.
"Spiking the punch."
Cuddy heard rushed footsteps behind her, then a thud and a clatter. Wilson was on his butt on the floor, surrounded by what had been his and House's dinner. Cuddy felt the distinct sensation of pot roast sinking into her hose. An annoyed looking usher scowled harshly at Wilson as he stood up and took his seat.
"Your shirt's still unbuttoned," House said in a low voice. His seemingly innocent comment worked. Both men felt Cuddy's stare start to burn into them.
"What?" House asked, acknowledging Cuddy's apparent discomfort.
"Still unbuttoned?" Cuddy stated, leaning most of her emphasis on the 'still.'
"Well, yeah."
"Why was it unbuttoned in the first place?"
The entire table's attention shifted to House.
"Oh my God," Chase exclaimed, an incredulous, epiphany-implying expression crossed his face. "There's no way in hell."
"Someone did mention you doing Cameron before I did Wilson."
The following silence was nearly deafening.
"Oh it's not like he has herpes," Wilson finally added.
Chase's nervous laughter broke the tension. "Well, this is certainly…awkward."
House and Wilson shrugged. "Only if you make it," House said.
"Did you seriously have sex?"
"No, you idiot. He spilled the first round of drinks all over his shirt and jacket."
The group exchanged glances and passed a few uncomfortable laughs.
"I think this is the longest we've gone without being kicked out," House mused, leaning back in his chair.
"No, I already figured out that you did spike the punch, you filled half the sandwiches with whipped cream, and toilet-papered a nurses' station," Cuddy said, sipping her drink. "The first one's okay, but in light of the fact that you didn't use all of the toilet paper in the hospital, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have reason to believe that you're planning something else."
"Christmas tradition," Wilson grumbled, standing up and pushing in his chair. House followed suit, and slowly followed Wilson out of the room.
"We should wait up on Cuddy," House suggested, stopping next to the door to the women's restroom.
"What are you planning now?" Wilson asked skeptically. He had already been kicked out, and wasn't keen on more misdeeds.
"Something fun."
They heard the clicking of high heels against tile. House quickly leaned his cane on the water fountain, and pinned Wilson up against the wall.
"Oh hell," Cuddy said, stopping cold in her tracks. It was inconceivable. House and Wilson. She had to be hallucinating. "What on earth?"
"What?" House said, leaning on his cane. He'd taken advantage of Cuddy's lengthened blink and picked up his cane. He and Wilson now stood apart, casually, looking at Cuddy with questioning expressions.
"You were…I saw you…."
"Cuddy, you're hallucinating."
Cuddy nodded slowly and went into the bathroom. Now out of earshot, House and Wilson gave in to the building laughter and continued down the hall, unable to believe that they had successfully tricked Cuddy into thinking she was hallucinating. It was by far the best prank they had pulled.
*~*~*~*
Snow was falling outside the bedroom window when Wilson woke. House was still peacefully asleep beside him, snoring away, holding him tight. A bird flew into the window glass and caused both men to jump. House merely moved from asleep to groggy; Wilson had fallen all the way out of bed, but managed to control himself for the most part.
"Shit," Wilson snapped, picking himself up and crawling back into bed. "Starting my day off right."
"It's fine," House said through a head-splitting yawn. "Merry Christmas, that poor bird not only flew into a window, but now knows that you sleep in your underwear."
"Shut up, House. You like it."
House tucked the comforter around Wilson's shoulders and slowly eased out of bed. "I'll get breakfast, bird-boy wonder. Next time, try flapping your arms and you won't fall so hard."
House was reprimanded by a pillow to the head. Satisfied, Wilson went back to sleep. House woke him a half-hour later with breakfast in bed, and helped himself to the steaming stack of pancakes.
"You do realize that you not only made breakfast," Wilson said, "but did so well and without complaint?"
"It must be that Christmas spirit that everyone's been talking about. It's contagious."
"So is lupus." Wilson gently kissed his lover and put the now empty breakfast tray on the bedside table. "I'll race you to the living room."
"That's not fair. You have two legs."
"What do you have, then?"
"One and a half."
"Fine, you can have a head start."
House started to quickly limp across the room. Wilson waited until he had cleared the doorway, and took off after him.
"Slow down," House warned, "you'll hit a window." Wilson cast him a smile, then stopped dead in his tracks. A set of red Pearl drums stood next to House's piano.
"What on earth?" Wilson mumbled, warily advancing towards the drum kit. He turned to look at House.
"They're not for me," House said.
"What made you think I wanted to learn to play drums? That would be worse than going to a fireworks display."
"Exactly. Calm down and hear me out."
Wilson sat on the piano bench, arms crossed, glaring at House with the utmost distaste.
"You're afraid of things you can't control. You couldn't control the truck that hit you. Loud noises went along with that, and it scares you, because when you lost that control, your adrenaline peaked; all the way up to the level of that of people who die traumatic deaths. Noise makes you relive the memory, and causes your adrenaline to spike until you hit the point of hysteria."
"I don't quite get where you're going with this."
"If you can control what scares you, it probably won't scare you for long. Just a theory, but I think I'm right. I usually am."
Wilson took a heavy breath and took up the pair of sticks lying on the piano. "Yours is under the tree." Carefully, he adjusted the stool behind the bass drum. House looked up from his new amplifier and watched as Wilson closed his eyes and, shaking all the while, started to strike out at the surrounding bits of percussion.
"Keep going," House said when Wilson started to stand up. "You haven't had a panic attack yet."
"I'm getting dressed," Wilson said. "I'll come back to it."
True to his word, Wilson did indeed return to his drums. At two in the morning. Halfway between annoyed and elated, House donned a pair of earplugs and waited for his love to return to bed.