Panic and Pancakes

[moose_mcmoose]

I had an urge to write something a bit weird. I don't know why, perhaps it's the foggy weather which seems to have engulfed EVERYTHING in sight.

Oh yeah and I am going to the Pantomime tonight! FTW!!

Title: Panic and Pancakes
Rating: PG-13
Characters: House/Wilson
Words: 1910
Disclaimer: If I owned them I would have invested in some new clothes and a sorely needed haircut. But I haven't. Take from that what you will
Summary: Hurt/comfort and pancakes. Not slashy unless you have those sorts of goggles on at this particular time.

Sometimes it would start with snow. The gentle bounce of a snowflake off the tip of his nose or the cold sensation of ice on his lips. He would sit up, curious to find the source, but all he would find was darkness.

Sometimes it would start with a high-pitched whistle, like a rusted old kettle that's been left boiling for too long. The noise would rip its way through his ears making him cringe and twitch until he moved his hands in a futile attempt to block it all out. It never worked.

It didn't really matter how it started, the parallel tracks would always converge in the end.

On occasion they would cross on the way there; he'd spot the same images or hear the same noises, but most of the time they followed their own linear path until that final stretch.

.

.

He'd been pretty impressed with himself and House since moving into the new apartment; everything had ran surprisingly smoothly, almost too smoothly. Inwardly, he had been waiting, tentatively and anxiously, for something to go horribly wrong, for something to trip both of them up unexpectedly and take them both back to square one. As awful as he knew it sounded, even in his own head, he couldn't help but feel this was too good to last.

He sighed as he pulled his pants up and flicked them onto his waist. Often, he wonders when his quiet optimism had been crushed down to an overwhelmingly dark sense of shadowy pessimism.

.

.

For the first time in six months, the whistling began.

A crescendo being directly funneled into his head, melting his brain and searing his ear drums. It was too excruciating for him to cry out; he wasn't even sure what type of noise he would make if he was given the option.

He grabbed the two pillows from the other side of his bed and clamped them over his head. The noise dulled for a moment to a muffled squeak before it seemingly re-energized itself and flooded his senses once again.

Taken aback, he bit down hard on his bottom lip, breaking the skin and drawing blood. Every muscle in his body constricted in some vain hope that it would stop him hearing but cowering from the noise only made it more acute.

He could feel himself reddening, sweating, his body pulsating under the pressure of holding his breath.

Then it stopped.

No fade, no diminuendo, just an abrupt end.

Warily, he opened one eye before sitting up. With his palms down he felt the hard ground beneath. Hard ground. Like a road or a freshly lacquered floor; nothing like the bed he'd just been trying to get to sleep in.

He tried to get up but his limbs wouldn't do the job they had been assigned. All he could do was pull one hand to his face and watch as something dark and slick ran its way down his hand, his lower arm and into the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Wilson

Somehow he managed to end up lying face down in the blink of an eye, his face pushed so hard into the floor he thought his cheekbone would crack with any more pressure.

He tried a garbled attempt at a 'hello' but only succeeded in making himself inhale and cough on the blood from his lip.

Wilson

Footsteps. Soft, padding steps coming from the left.

He scrunched his eyes up preparing from something painful, a kick to the head or a punch the gut maybe.

He felt himself being hauled sideways and flipped over onto his back before being hoisted to his feet.

Wilson, open your eyes

He hadn't expected to see himself when he opened his eyes. The hair effortlessly parted to one side, the body buttoned up in a presentable new suit, the feet encased in expensive Italian shoes and the face set in a calm, placid manner. The upturned edges of the lips hinting at a smile.

This was beyond surreal.

The other Wilson placed a hand on his shoulder and tilted his head to one side, that sympathetic tilt he reserves for giving bad news. He could see the hand of the other Wilson flex down by his side.

The force of a fist pushed him backwards and he landed ass first onto the ground. He didn't get time to register the blood seeping from his nose and trickling down to his chin, as the other man had pounced, holding his arms down with his knees and sticking both hands around his throat.

Holy shit Wilson

He started the to thrash but it was no use; he could feel the air getting heavier and harder to take in. All the colour was draining from his vision, everything was turning into a fuzzy monochrome mess. The grip was tightening around his neck as he became increasingly light headed and his eyelids fluttered aggressively in a fight to stay open.

It always ended this way.

.

.

He felt himself being shook furiously.

“Wilson! Hey!”

He groaned, unable to make any other discernible noise.

“You need to sit up. Come on. Unless choking on your own blood is the way you wanna go.” House pulled at Wilson's limp and ragged body to help it upright.

It was only when he sat up that he felt the blood run from his chin and onto his t-shirt. His face hurt like hell. “What ….um.”

“Shut up and put this on your nose.” House handed over a cloth which Wilson duly held under his bleeding nose. “You punched yourself in the face. Impressive but certainly idiotic.”

“I what?” His voice was muffled and nasal through the cloth and blood.

“You haven't broken it. At least it doesn't look broken.” House fetched another cloth to replace the one already soaked with blood and handed it over.

“I did this?” He cast a blank expression in House's direction.

“No it was me. I thought it would be fun to sneak into my friend's bedroom at night and punch him so hard in the face that I popped his nose. It's a hobby of mine. That and eating small children.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “You could have just said yes.” He gave his nose a gentle squeeze before removing the cloth; he was pretty sure the bleeding had stopped. Wearily, he handed the blood-stained cloth over to House who then tossed it in the bin in the corner of the room.

House pointed a finger at his t-shirt. “You'll probably want to change that.”

He pinched the material and stretched it forward, eyeing up the puddles of red that were dabbed all over it. “Probably.” He grinned weakly but the grin was short lived when he caught a flicker of concern on House's face. “I'm fine. Just a bad dream that's all.”

House thumbed the end of his cane. “I heard that from my room. You're a girly screamer you know that? Though not a very girly thrasher. You nearly knocked me out. Twice.” House held up his arm, showing a red mark where a forcefully thrown fist had connected with his skin.

A pained expression crossed his face, part embarrassed, part apology. “Sorry about that.” He reached over and flicked on the lamp.

House guffawed when he caught Wilson's face in the yellow glare. “You're gonna have a hell of a pair of black eyes in the morning. I'll tell Cuddy you went five rounds with that blonde woman from accounting.”

“Is it that bad?” He gently prodded the skin under his eyes. House was right, they were starting to swell. He was going to look like a wreck in the morning.

House grabbed a mirror from the set of drawers and held it up for Wilson to see. “You look smokin'”

The mirror didn't lie. He did look 'smokin', that's if 'smokin' meant you looked like you had been involved in a bar fight. His nose was bright red through a combination of old blood and the force of hitting himself, and there were dark lines forming under both his eyes, his left looking worse for the wear than his right. His lip was also starting to look swollen and angry. “I can't go into work looking like this.”

“Relax. I've been into work looking worse.”

“Yeah but you have patients once a month most of whom you don't see.” He tossed the mirror on the night stand before adjusting the pillows on his bed. “I have patients all the time most of whom I see everyday. They already have enough issues to deal with without me scaring the hell out of them.”

House pulled a mocking sad face. “Fine. Just call in sick.”

“I hate calling in sick.”

“Then don't call in sick.”

Wilson glared. “You're not helping.”

“No I just saved you from punching your own lights out and choking to death.” House watched as Wilson's face emoted from annoyance to acceptance.

He paused, trying to find words that weren't cliché or lame. “Thank you.”

House didn't seem to listen but Wilson was sure he heard them “Great. Now come on the TiVo is calling my name.” House hopped up from the edge of the bed and padded out the door.

“Woah. What?” He glanced at his watch on the night stand. “House, it's two thirty in the morning.”

House popped his head around the door frame. “And you are going to get back to sleep tonight right?”

He grimaced at the fact House had it worked out that he probably wouldn't. Clever bastard. Begrudgingly he replied, “No.”

“Well come on then. The pancakes won't make themselves.”

He took off his bloodied shirt and tossed it in the bin before pulling out a clean blue one from the drawers.

On most nights he'd much rather not make pancakes at two thirty in the morning. But this wasn't really most nights.

He diligently whipped the pancake batter before pouring it into the pan as House whooped and yelled at the monster truck rally that was playing out on the screen. When they were cooked he flipped both the pancakes onto a plate and carried it over into the living room. “Here you go.”

House took the plate on offer. “Thanks.” House stuffed a pancake into his mouth whole. “Didn't you make any for yourself?”

“Not really hungry.” He pulled at his clean t-shirt in hope of stretching out the creases it had gained lying the drawer.

“Here.” House proffered him a half of the last pancake.

He squinted his eyes and circled his hand over the plate, wary of House's offer.

“Oh come on. Just take it.”

“Can I get a picture of this?” He raised his eyebrows. “Seriously this is worth a photo.”

House turned his head and smiled sarcastically. “Just take the damn pancake otherwise I'll eat it myself.”

He grabbed out, snatched the last remnants of the pancake and elegantly shoved it inside of his mouth.

It was good, even if he did say so himself.

Comments

[moose-mcmoose.livejournal.com]

It pleases me muchly that you found this cool. I was a bit hesitant in posting it cos I read it back to myself and thought 'wtf?' just a little bit.

And I reckon giving goosebumps is an uber good compliment so huzzah for that as well. XD I'm glad it wasn't too surreal for your tastes.

Cheers for reading and commenting.