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House, Wilson, and Chase celebrate Hanukkah. Rated R for smutty smut.
As usual, my information about all things Jewish comes from the University of Google--except the part about latkes. I do know how to make latkes. As for the rest, in particular the Story of Hanukkah, I think it's reasonably accurate, but of course vastly oversimplified. The light-up musical dreidel exists, and I'm fairly sure these rules for strip dreidel would actually work, if anyone wants to try it.
***
“You know, eight mismatched candles in front of the stereo isn’t exactly the same thing as a menorah,” Wilson remarked, attempting to light the fourth candle with the headless Santa candle that was standing in the for the shamash.
“Isn’t making do with what you have, shutting up, and being grateful what Hanukkah is all about?” House asked.
Wilson blinked. “Well, sort of.” He managed to light the fifth, and for today, last, candle. Santa was now melted down to his belt buckle--he probably wouldn’t last three more nights. “But the Maccabees had divine help making do with what they had.”
“I was totally joking,” House informed him.
“Robert!” Devi hurried to catch up with him as he headed back to the office from the men’s room.
He turned. “What’s on your mind?”
“I found a case,” she said breathlessly, thrusting a folder at him.
He glanced toward the office, where Foreman and Evans were.
“I thought House might be interested in it,” she stage-whispered.
A/n: In this chapter, House has a nightmare about his prison experience. The dream sequence--in italics--may not be suitable for some readers.
***
“Eh…eh…guh--”
Wilson, attuned to signs of distress from House’s corner, woke to the sounds of harsh breathing and muffled cries, and knew immediately that House was engaged in near-silent battle against a nightmare.
This could be the test of House’s resolve not to use drugs to end his panic attacks. But maybe not--sometimes he calmed down on his own as he woke. “Easy, buddy,” he said as he got up and padded over to House’s air mattress. “You’re okay. I’m right here with you.” He knelt next to the air mattress. House twisted and flailed, but his movements were brought up short, as if he were bound. Working quickly, and still murmuring reassurance, Wilson cleared away the blankets that restrained his movements. Sometimes it helped.
“He doesn’t like to be touched,” Wilson said apologetically into the phone. “He’ll need to be under general anesthesia for the entire procedure.” He’d started the day with a list of four dentists. Now he was down to the last one. Two weren’t taking any new patients, and the other had, after listening to his spiel, said that she didn’t think she could help House.
“That’s not a problem,” said Dr. Ahn, the fourth dentist. “What kind of work does he need?”
Wilson crossed his fingers. “He hasn’t had a checkup or a cleaning in six years. At least.” He wasn’t at all sure that House had cared much about oral hygiene when he’d last been a free man. “So you’ll probably want to start with a cleaning, and it’ll take some time. He’s also missing four front teeth, top and bottom. He wants a bridge as soon as possible.”
A short "Pencils" update. House takes another step in his master plan.
#
Clarence had barely set the brakes of his wheelchair before the coffee-shop waitress came and asked what they’d like. There was nothing, nothing, like being a drooling cripple to get fast service. “Hot chocolate and a brownie,” he requested.
There was a slight pause before the waitress answered, “All right.” He knew she was checking with Clarence, to be sure his charge was allowed to order for himself. “I’ll bring that right out.”
“I’ll bet she will,” he groused as she walked away. They came to the coffee shop often--at least once a week. He hardly ever had to assume his secret identity as Dr. Ameoba anymore.
The next morning, House had some residual grogginess from the Ativan, but otherwise seemed none the worse for wear. After they left the bar, as soon as they got to the car he’d scooted out of the chair and curled up on the floor behind the front seats. Since it seemed unlikely he’d be able to sit House up enough to position a seatbelt properly, Wilson had decided to leave him there for the ride home. But once they got there, he had a rough few minutes where Wilson had thought he might have to call Clarence to help pry him out, but eventually he’d managed to get him out of the car and into bed.
By unspoken agreement, they avoided discussing the incident over breakfast. They talked about what Wilson should buy at the store after work on Monday, whether House felt up to doing OT that afternoon, and the feasibility of House’s acquiring a Seeing-Eye dolphin.
When last we saw our heroes, Severely Crippled House and Caretaker Wilson, House had just solved the case of Guy Who Woke Up Blind One Day. Foreman thinks that Chase wants to take over House's job, and Foreman actually does want to take over House's job. House compares himself to Bruce Wayne and Wilson to Alfred. Wilson feels it necessary to point out that he is not a robot operated by screaming. Emboldened by his success with the case, House decides they should go out to a bar.
Or you could just read it here.
And here's the new chapter!
Wilson made a simple dinner--an omelette stuffed with herbs, mushrooms, cheese, and bacon. He put only the lightest sprinkling of cheese and bacon on his own half, but loaded up House’s portion with the calorie-dense ingredients. He’d had finally lost his concentration-came physique, but he was still underweight.
“’s good,” House commented, digging in.
“Thanks.” Wilson’s first thought was to wonder what House wanted--he wasn’t usually free with the compliments.
“I’m glad you’re not a robot,” he added.
O-kay. “Me too. I don‘t think I’d like being a robot.”
“If you were a robot, you wouldn’t know any different,” House pointed out.
House stretched and yawned, flinging one arm out over the edge of the bed, and whacking Wilson in the chest with the other.
“Geddoff,” Wilson mumbled, pushing at him.
They hadn’t had this problem before, and it took House only a moment to realize why. He was once again six feet tall, and not noticeably furry. “Hey, Wilson, look!” he exclaimed, poking Wilson in the ribs.
“I’m sleeping,” Wilson pointed out, even though he obviously wasn’t.
A/N: November 14 is National Teddy Bear Day in the US! Celebrate by having a cup of tea and a sandwich with your best plush pal. Of, if you like, donate a Teddy to a child in need.
When Wilson had been in bed long enough that House was pretty sure he wasn’t getting back up, he turned down the TV and slid off the sofa, pacing over to the window by the piano.
Wilson’s question--do you want to stay a Teddy forever?--had got him thinking. He didn’t really. As a small plush animal, there were even more things he couldn’t do than there had been when he was just a cripple. He couldn’t work, couldn’t play--piano or video games--couldn’t ride his bike. He couldn’t even go out in public, as the incident at Build-a-Bear had demonstrated, and Saturday’s fiasco had confirmed. Being a Teddy was simply not a viable lifestyle choice over the long term.
#
“Okay, you’re supposed to recite this bit.” Wilson held up the book in front of House.
House was sitting in the middle of a circle formed by four of the fancy candles Wilson had picked up at the Goddess Emporium. Wilson had a small bag full of salt and herbs, which he was apparently going to sprinkle around the apartment while House recited. “Dear Goddess grant me--” He scrunched up his face in distaste. “Do I have to?”
“Do you want to stay a Teddy forever?”
( Read more... )
When they got home, House’s answering machine was full of messages from Chase and Cameron, telling him about journal articles dealing with the syndrome of delusional companions. “Why the fuck would I want to read those?” House wondered after the third one.
“I don’t know,” Wilson admitted. “Why don’t you ask them?”
“You can make those mushroom things while I call and do that,” House decided.
“Two--I mean one--for Zombie Attack Three please.” Wilson handed over his eight-fifty and received a ticket.
When he carried the ticket three feet over to the ticket-taker, she glanced down at the large shopping bag he was carrying. “I’ll need to inspect your bag, sir.”
“What? Why?”
Warning: Short Chapter. Contains brief scene of violence against small plush animal.
#
If House had thought being stuck in Wilson’s office all week was boring, that was nothing compared to the weekend. Wilson seemed to think that just because he was a Teddy bear, he had to stay in all weekend. That was okay on Friday night--they had pizza and beer, and watched some movies--but by Saturday afternoon, House was feeling stir-crazy.
Wilson had the Sunday Times--which he always bought on Saturdays--spread out on the coffee table. House leapt nimbly from the couch to occupy the page Wilson was currently trying to read. “Hey!” he said, noticing an ad. “The new Zombie Attack movie just opened!”
Finally, here it is! Expect chapter 16 tomorrow or Saturday.
#
“Are you going to behave yourself until Wilson gets back?” Cuddy asked him. “Or do I have to stay and babysit you?”
House considered. If Cuddy stayed, she could entertain him--except he’d bet doughnuts to dollars that she wouldn’t be as indulgent a companion as Wilson. She probably wouldn’t even bring him anything to eat. “I’ll be good,” he promised.
( Read more... )
Since it took me 13 chapters to cover House's first two days of Teddification, I realized I had to make the story jump forward in time if it was ever going to end.
Disclaimer: House's jokes are traditional, and not my own.
The next few days produced no changes in House’s situation. Wilson spent what felt like most of his working hours keeping him supplied with snacks and entertainment, and the slim remainder dodging questions from Chase and Cameron about his whereabouts and health status. He wasn’t getting much work accomplished, and it was a wonder that he was managing to do any.
Still, things could have been going much worse, and Wilson managed to settle into a sort of complacency. Until, that is, what happened on Friday.
“I wish you’d let me do that,” Wilson clucked.
“Stop being such a mother hen,” House told him, adjusting his paw-grip on the fork. They had finished dinner and were making the s’mores. House had put himself in charge of marshmallows, and was toasting them over the stove.
“What if you fall onto the burner?” Wilson continued irrelevantly. “You’re very flammable now.”
“That would only matter if I came into contact with the actual flame. Which I’m not going to.” He rotated the marshmallow slowly. “This one’s done. Bring me a cracker.”
( Read more... )
House was startled enough by his close encounter with Cameron that he didn’t ask Wilson to take him back to the lab. After Kendra came out of surgery and Wilson checked in with her, it was back into the carton and they went home.
He was beginning to develop a certain fondness for the carton. It was certainly his safest and most dignified form of transport. When he was inside, he wasn’t being squashed, and nobody could grab him suddenly. Susceptibility to being grabbed was one of the most important disadvantages of his new body. There was something about being small, cute, and furry that seemed to make people think his anatomy was public property.
( Read more... )
Wilson wasn’t sure who Kendra was gladder to see in pre-op--him or Dr. Bear.
“Where’s Gregory Bear?” she asked in a small voice. “Will he miss Dr. Bear?”
“He’s taking a nap,” Wilson answered. House actually was, for now at least. After the picnic he’d curled up in his travel carton with a pillow snagged from Wilson’s couch.
“That’s good. Dr. Bear can play with him when he wakes up.”
( Read more... )
The first thing House did when Wilson left was settle down on his fuzzy butt and enjoy his snack. Wilson hadn’t put any marshmallows in his hot cocoa, but it was still pretty good, especially when he dipped the Oreos in it.
He felt another song coming on, but he managed to hold it in. Once he was done snacking, he selected a pencil from Wilson’s gay little pencil-cup and pulled the keyboard closer to him.
Wilson was happier than he probably should have been to put House in his file carton and shut the lid on him. He was on his way down to the lab designated for House’s team to use--the lab the board had voted unanimously to give him so that lab techs would stop quitting--when the lid popped up a few inches and House’s beady little eyes peered out. “I hafta go to the bathroom,” he said.
( Read more... )
