Fic: P.U.O
Title: P.U.O.
Author: Fayding_fast
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1474
Spoilers: Minor for "Dying changes everything"
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: Wilson has a raging temperature; poor boy.
Author's note: This fic was inspired by a line from an actual episode.
Wilson, in answer to Taub's question: "I just.... need a change of scenery."
-'Dying changes everything'
Wilson's hot - uncomfortably so. To the point where he could melt into a puddle of mucilaginous goo and small wonder. He's sans shade; the sun is high in the sky and positioned directly over his head, and it's brutal.
Adding to his problems, massive birds are soaring lazily above him, by dint of infrequent beats of their wings. Wilson's not sure if he likes the look of them.
Shielding his retinas from the blinding sun, he cranes his neck and watches them. He's half expecting them to be perturbed by his scrutiny, but, on the contrary, they're unruffled; they eye him back with avid interest as if he's easy pickings.
No, Wilson decides, he doesn't like the look of them, one bit. He shivers, despite the oppressive heat.
Almost crushed by despair, he staggers around in an imperfect circle and casts his weary gaze over mile upon mile of sand. Scorching, golden sand in every direction, the monotony broken only by a solitary cactus and a trail of meandering, drunken footprints that he can only assume are his.
Where the hell is the damned plane?
"Wilson?" a voice says, and, at first, Wilson's relieved. He'd recognize that gruff, beloved voice anywhere, but, then, the panic, like Old Faithful, materializes right on cue. Had House, who could throw a tantrum worthy of a prima donna if he was told he had to walk more than fifty yards, been forced to wander lost and all alone in the desert, too?
"House, I can hear you, but I can't see you. Where are you?" Wilson calls, and the effort to speak, when his throat is so dry, immediately sets off a painful coughing fit. He weakly thumps his own chest until he finally has the coughing under control, and by the time he straightens up, he's breathless, thoroughly miserable and exhausted.
"I'm right in front of you, you moron," the voice replies sardonically.
Wilson spins, his mouth gaping and focuses his sweat-filled, stinging eyes on the cactus. He stumbles back several paces in shock. "I....." He coughs, clears his throat and tries again. "I didn't realize that cacti could speak," he confesses, ashamed that he could be so ignorant. "You sound exactly like my best friend." He hadn't known that cacti could show emotion, either, but this one does; it evinces surprise.
"Do I, now?" the cactus drawls after a long pause, and Wilson nods with caution.
Wilson gets the distinct impression that he's being mocked. What an excellent start. They'd only been conversing for a couple of minutes, and, already, he'd succeeded in unwittingly causing offense. Ill at ease, he digs the fingers of both hands into the back of his neck and stares unhappily at the far horizon, squinting. "I've lost my bearings," he softly explains.
"Along with your tiny mind?" the cactus enquires cheerfully.
Wilson grimaces and takes a deep breath. His lungs fill with arid air. "I've strayed away from my fellow passengers," he says and hopes the cactus doesn't realize how close he is to tears. He pats his empty pockets. "And I've mislaid my compass."
"You carry around a compass?"
"Always." A blush heightens the color in his already sunburnt cheeks. Wilson looks down and absently scuffs the toe of his highly polished French shoe through the sand.
"But, a compass?" the cactus presses.
"I like to be prepared," Wilson admits. He peers up at the cactus, feeling unaccountably shy.
The cactus is silent.
Probably studying him, Wilson muses and is suddenly, embarrassingly aware that he must look awful. He's dog-tired; his hair's damp and matted and hanging directly into his eyes and his shirt - sweat-soaked - is pasted onto him like an unwelcome rash. Agitated, he pulls the damp cotton away from his stomach and fantasizes about plunging headfirst into a freezing cold bath.
"Fellow passengers?" the cactus pries, startling him.
Wilson glares at it, praying that it's not going to continue asking a lot of annoying questions. "My plane must have crashed," he says curtly.
"Plane?"
"Yeah," Wilson sighs. He raises a trembling hand to his temple. His head is throbbing without mercy. In all likelihood, he has sunstroke. He stares at the cactus and raises his chin challengingly. "Why do you think I'm traipsing through a desert?"
"Good question," the cactus says. "Family history of acting like loons? Overwork?"
"I was on a plane," Wilson stresses. It's funny. He can't actually remember checking any bags in, or queuing up for ages to get through passport control. Still, he supposes he must have done. "It crash-landed....." He glances around. "Well, I'm not sure where, exactly, but..... somewhere."
"Spoken like a true boyscout." the cactus says thoughtfully. "Where's good old Sully when you need him?"
"Yeah," Wilson murmurs, thinking that the cactus is remarkably well-informed. Dizzy, he sways on his feet.
"Why don't you go and lie back down?" the cactus suggests.
"Here? You joking? Where am I....?" He's interrupted when one of the hovering birds peels off from the rest like a defector. Wilson watches as it circles nearer and nearer to him, and, with rising terror, he realizes how wide its wingspan is. How curved its beak is. That he's weak and exposed and without any real defense.
The bird lands on its short, stubby legs not twenty feet away from him. Staring at him with something akin to insolence, it lifts its purple-red, unfeathered head and hisses.
"Oh, God," Wilson says, appalled.
"What is it? Wilson?"
Wilson observes the bird with a mixture of morbid fascination and revulsion. The thing defecates down its own legs, and Wilson covers his mouth with the palm of his hand, repulsed. "A vulture," he says, speaking through his splayed fingers.
There's a dozen or more vultures hovering over him, now.
Without looking up, Wilson points them out. "They've been gathering for some time, waiting for me to die." He closes his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the dizziness. "No-one will ever find my remains," he laments, suspecting that hysteria is just around the corner but not caring.
"Oh, relax," the cactus says. "Vultures don't eat bones."
"Vultures don't ......" Wilson repeats, then cuts himself off and shakes his head in disbelief. "I have no shelter," he grates out. "No water."
"I can provide you with shelter," the cactus declares matter-of-factly. "I can bring you some water."
"You can?" Wilson doesn't know what to think about this unexpected kindliness.
"Yep. I'm pretty resourceful." There's a smile in the plant's voice. "For a cactus."
"You are," Wilson says, and he's not bluffing. The sun beats down with savage ferocity upon his unprotected head. Lifting his hand, Wilson fumbles with the knot of his tie.
The vulture hops a little nearer to him, expectant.
Wilson wonders if other men had felt like him, when faced with a Gorgon - the horror forever transfixing them - turning them into stone. "How much do you charge?" he murmurs.
"For sex?" the cactus asks. "I'm surprised you feel up to it, but I'm game if you are. I charge...."
The cactus not only sounds like House, it behaves like him. Wilson tears his gaze away from the bird of prey and pokes his tongue experimentally at his sore, chapped lips. "For a glass of water," he says quietly, patience personified.
"Forty dollars," the cactus answers promptly. "An extra twenty if you want ice."
Wilson stares at it. "That had better be for a barrelful." He struggles to stay on his feet, his vision swimming in and out of focus.
He daren't think about what the vulture will do if he hits the ground. What its brethren will do. "I haven't got my wallet," he says, his voice growing fainter and fainter. "Must have fallen out of my pocket along with my compass." He looks at the cactus and resorts to pleading. "I'll let you have it later, 'kay?"
"I wait with baited breath," the cactus replies, and if there are echoes of bright, teasing laughter pealing through the words, Wilson no longer has the energy to worry about it.
Wilson gives up on trying to loosen his tie and lets his hands fall to his sides in defeat. "I can't undo it," he moans. "I'm burning up."
The cactus lurches stiffly towards him. "For God's sake, you idiot," it growls and, now, it just sounds exasperated.
Or does Wilson also detect a hint of fondness in its tone? No, that wouldn't make any sense; he's mistaken.
"Get some rest," the cactus orders. "Take my arm."
Panicky, Wilson tucks his hands into his armpits. "But if I lean on you," he whispers, eyelids flickering, "won't you rip me to shreds?" Barely conscious, he's pulled gently in against the cactus' side.
The cactus' whole manner has become oddly subdued. "Not this time, Jimmy," the cactus says.
The end.
Author: Fayding_fast
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1474
Spoilers: Minor for "Dying changes everything"
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: Wilson has a raging temperature; poor boy.
Author's note: This fic was inspired by a line from an actual episode.
Wilson, in answer to Taub's question: "I just.... need a change of scenery."
-'Dying changes everything'
Wilson's hot - uncomfortably so. To the point where he could melt into a puddle of mucilaginous goo and small wonder. He's sans shade; the sun is high in the sky and positioned directly over his head, and it's brutal.
Adding to his problems, massive birds are soaring lazily above him, by dint of infrequent beats of their wings. Wilson's not sure if he likes the look of them.
Shielding his retinas from the blinding sun, he cranes his neck and watches them. He's half expecting them to be perturbed by his scrutiny, but, on the contrary, they're unruffled; they eye him back with avid interest as if he's easy pickings.
No, Wilson decides, he doesn't like the look of them, one bit. He shivers, despite the oppressive heat.
Almost crushed by despair, he staggers around in an imperfect circle and casts his weary gaze over mile upon mile of sand. Scorching, golden sand in every direction, the monotony broken only by a solitary cactus and a trail of meandering, drunken footprints that he can only assume are his.
Where the hell is the damned plane?
"Wilson?" a voice says, and, at first, Wilson's relieved. He'd recognize that gruff, beloved voice anywhere, but, then, the panic, like Old Faithful, materializes right on cue. Had House, who could throw a tantrum worthy of a prima donna if he was told he had to walk more than fifty yards, been forced to wander lost and all alone in the desert, too?
"House, I can hear you, but I can't see you. Where are you?" Wilson calls, and the effort to speak, when his throat is so dry, immediately sets off a painful coughing fit. He weakly thumps his own chest until he finally has the coughing under control, and by the time he straightens up, he's breathless, thoroughly miserable and exhausted.
"I'm right in front of you, you moron," the voice replies sardonically.
Wilson spins, his mouth gaping and focuses his sweat-filled, stinging eyes on the cactus. He stumbles back several paces in shock. "I....." He coughs, clears his throat and tries again. "I didn't realize that cacti could speak," he confesses, ashamed that he could be so ignorant. "You sound exactly like my best friend." He hadn't known that cacti could show emotion, either, but this one does; it evinces surprise.
"Do I, now?" the cactus drawls after a long pause, and Wilson nods with caution.
Wilson gets the distinct impression that he's being mocked. What an excellent start. They'd only been conversing for a couple of minutes, and, already, he'd succeeded in unwittingly causing offense. Ill at ease, he digs the fingers of both hands into the back of his neck and stares unhappily at the far horizon, squinting. "I've lost my bearings," he softly explains.
"Along with your tiny mind?" the cactus enquires cheerfully.
Wilson grimaces and takes a deep breath. His lungs fill with arid air. "I've strayed away from my fellow passengers," he says and hopes the cactus doesn't realize how close he is to tears. He pats his empty pockets. "And I've mislaid my compass."
"You carry around a compass?"
"Always." A blush heightens the color in his already sunburnt cheeks. Wilson looks down and absently scuffs the toe of his highly polished French shoe through the sand.
"But, a compass?" the cactus presses.
"I like to be prepared," Wilson admits. He peers up at the cactus, feeling unaccountably shy.
The cactus is silent.
Probably studying him, Wilson muses and is suddenly, embarrassingly aware that he must look awful. He's dog-tired; his hair's damp and matted and hanging directly into his eyes and his shirt - sweat-soaked - is pasted onto him like an unwelcome rash. Agitated, he pulls the damp cotton away from his stomach and fantasizes about plunging headfirst into a freezing cold bath.
"Fellow passengers?" the cactus pries, startling him.
Wilson glares at it, praying that it's not going to continue asking a lot of annoying questions. "My plane must have crashed," he says curtly.
"Plane?"
"Yeah," Wilson sighs. He raises a trembling hand to his temple. His head is throbbing without mercy. In all likelihood, he has sunstroke. He stares at the cactus and raises his chin challengingly. "Why do you think I'm traipsing through a desert?"
"Good question," the cactus says. "Family history of acting like loons? Overwork?"
"I was on a plane," Wilson stresses. It's funny. He can't actually remember checking any bags in, or queuing up for ages to get through passport control. Still, he supposes he must have done. "It crash-landed....." He glances around. "Well, I'm not sure where, exactly, but..... somewhere."
"Spoken like a true boyscout." the cactus says thoughtfully. "Where's good old Sully when you need him?"
"Yeah," Wilson murmurs, thinking that the cactus is remarkably well-informed. Dizzy, he sways on his feet.
"Why don't you go and lie back down?" the cactus suggests.
"Here? You joking? Where am I....?" He's interrupted when one of the hovering birds peels off from the rest like a defector. Wilson watches as it circles nearer and nearer to him, and, with rising terror, he realizes how wide its wingspan is. How curved its beak is. That he's weak and exposed and without any real defense.
The bird lands on its short, stubby legs not twenty feet away from him. Staring at him with something akin to insolence, it lifts its purple-red, unfeathered head and hisses.
"Oh, God," Wilson says, appalled.
"What is it? Wilson?"
Wilson observes the bird with a mixture of morbid fascination and revulsion. The thing defecates down its own legs, and Wilson covers his mouth with the palm of his hand, repulsed. "A vulture," he says, speaking through his splayed fingers.
There's a dozen or more vultures hovering over him, now.
Without looking up, Wilson points them out. "They've been gathering for some time, waiting for me to die." He closes his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the dizziness. "No-one will ever find my remains," he laments, suspecting that hysteria is just around the corner but not caring.
"Oh, relax," the cactus says. "Vultures don't eat bones."
"Vultures don't ......" Wilson repeats, then cuts himself off and shakes his head in disbelief. "I have no shelter," he grates out. "No water."
"I can provide you with shelter," the cactus declares matter-of-factly. "I can bring you some water."
"You can?" Wilson doesn't know what to think about this unexpected kindliness.
"Yep. I'm pretty resourceful." There's a smile in the plant's voice. "For a cactus."
"You are," Wilson says, and he's not bluffing. The sun beats down with savage ferocity upon his unprotected head. Lifting his hand, Wilson fumbles with the knot of his tie.
The vulture hops a little nearer to him, expectant.
Wilson wonders if other men had felt like him, when faced with a Gorgon - the horror forever transfixing them - turning them into stone. "How much do you charge?" he murmurs.
"For sex?" the cactus asks. "I'm surprised you feel up to it, but I'm game if you are. I charge...."
The cactus not only sounds like House, it behaves like him. Wilson tears his gaze away from the bird of prey and pokes his tongue experimentally at his sore, chapped lips. "For a glass of water," he says quietly, patience personified.
"Forty dollars," the cactus answers promptly. "An extra twenty if you want ice."
Wilson stares at it. "That had better be for a barrelful." He struggles to stay on his feet, his vision swimming in and out of focus.
He daren't think about what the vulture will do if he hits the ground. What its brethren will do. "I haven't got my wallet," he says, his voice growing fainter and fainter. "Must have fallen out of my pocket along with my compass." He looks at the cactus and resorts to pleading. "I'll let you have it later, 'kay?"
"I wait with baited breath," the cactus replies, and if there are echoes of bright, teasing laughter pealing through the words, Wilson no longer has the energy to worry about it.
Wilson gives up on trying to loosen his tie and lets his hands fall to his sides in defeat. "I can't undo it," he moans. "I'm burning up."
The cactus lurches stiffly towards him. "For God's sake, you idiot," it growls and, now, it just sounds exasperated.
Or does Wilson also detect a hint of fondness in its tone? No, that wouldn't make any sense; he's mistaken.
"Get some rest," the cactus orders. "Take my arm."
Panicky, Wilson tucks his hands into his armpits. "But if I lean on you," he whispers, eyelids flickering, "won't you rip me to shreds?" Barely conscious, he's pulled gently in against the cactus' side.
The cactus' whole manner has become oddly subdued. "Not this time, Jimmy," the cactus says.
The end.