Among Friends
"House!" Wilson's shocked shout startles him awake and groaning. Steps race, tapping louder, floor shaking ever forceful.
"What happened?" Shoes squeal at his ear under crouching weight,
"Nothing." House grumbles half aware, his shoulder gripped through comforter.
"Are you all right?"
"Lemme sleep."
"A minute till I fix your bed." Wilson allows in a somewhat stern tone. "Ingrid is going to be here any minute."
Soles on floor precede the noise of fabric being handled in the near corner, than an unexpected chucle. "This is great, House." Smiles Wilson as he walks to the bathroom. "Means your downstairs are in working order." Ball of fabric lands unfurled in the other room.
'I'd rather have upstairs.' House complains to himself.
Hinges squeal as the oncologist retrieves spare bedding, cloth shaken spread with the noise of a flapping banner coming from Greg's other side, followed by sound of stuff jammed against straining old wood. Finally an arm rolls House on the back, feathery buffer shielding his jutting joints from direct pressure of the hard surface. The cover slips aside, exposing bare legs and than some. If Wilson is affected he does not express it. Bare skin goose bumps in seconds and House tries to cover himself but halts almost instantly, muscles back at him with a vengeance for the recent bathroom escapade.
"Let's get you decent." Wilson is neutral.
Gray orbs stare aimlessly upward into a featureless hue while he is being dressed, emotional discomfort at utter helplessness building gradually.
"On three." Wilson takes him under upper back and knees. "One, two…"
The world moves unsteadily around him, younger man lacking Clarence's strength. Even so, House is laid carefully on the soft-foam mattress, never once fearing a fall.
Wilson sits at his side with a huff. "Think you'll stay in bed today?"
"Depends on Ingrid."
Speak of the devil - the bell buzzes. With a tap on Greg's hand Wilson is gone to greet the masseuse. Short distance between her tapping feet tells of a stout woman.
"Hello, Greg." The good natured Valkyerie greets her old acquaintance.
"Gutten tag." He replies half-mockingly with equal ease, years of association with pain relief creating an automatically positive mood in him.
"Where does it hurt?" Ingrid's fingertips feel his underdeveloped musculature for signs of stiffness.
"All over."
"He stood on his feet - rod straight - just to see if he could." Wilson elaborates from the corner, a hint of chiding in his delivery. "Lost a day of workout to impatient curiosity."
"Well did you succeed?" She inquires eagerly and shakes his calf.
"Oh yeah…" A beatific grin sprawls over his face.
"So. Where is it worst?"
"Thigh." 'duh...' He directs her efforts, winching as she digs in. But moments later a low hum of pleasure is coaxed out on a sigh. A purr rumbles deep in his chest, deft fingers kneading the cramp away like so much thick dough. "Play me 'Seasons', willya Jimmy."
Without word of reply a click sounds from the player and two small speakers, square on either nightstand, come alive with a vibrant, bird-like string solo. Second violin soon joins in a musical dialogue of avian style. House is barely aware of Wilson's departure, lost between the double pleasure of music and ministrations. The piece moves to its second, slower segment, sending his sleep deprived mind to a light nap.
Ingrid's cough-like cover-up for chuckle brings him back to the momentarily silent room.
"What?"
"You snored." Her tone is laughter.
He makes a 'so what face' as she cautiously rolls him over, and nestles his head back into the pillow. Lips licked and rounded, one tertza deeper harmonies are whistled to the serene light-heartedness of a modern operatic song, a method of making music better than any his body can currently come up with.
On the chorus, Ingrid adds her surprisingly clear voice to the instrumental variant of a familiar song.
House falls silent for the time of her singing, mouth agape with awed wonder. Second verse leaves her to quiet work.
"I had no idea you could sing." He whispers.
"You never asked." She answers friendly. "Do you?"
House smiles. "Bocelli I ain't." He winks. "Any other languages you speak?"
She giggles. "I don't even know Italian. I sing by ear."
"Why didn't you sing the English parts?" He is confused.
"Italian is more melodic." Her hands ease his deltoids.
He pouts thoughtfully. "I could teach you."
"Italian?"
"Italian, Spanish, Portugese…" House mumbles against the pillow. "Pick a song and I'll translate it."
"Next time 'Nesun dorma'."
"I'll try not to." He smirks, phone ringing and shutting up. "That's Clarnece."
True enough the man's distinct knocking is heard, followed by the twist of a spare key. "Hi, Ingrid."
"Morning, Clarence."
"Doc."
"Hey."
"I'll see myself out." She offers good naturedly. "Take it easy, House."
He grins. "Yes mommy."