Fic: Roll the Bones (Part One)
Posted to house_wilson, housefic, and sick_wilson
Title: Roll the Bones
Authors: pwcorgigirl, blackmare_9, and nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson, OMC, OFC.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Yes, in a very general sense for Season 6.
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures, and a gamble's the only game left.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This fic is in three parts; each chapter contains a link to the next. The entire story is 12,852 words. LJ-cut text is from Learning to Fly, by Tom Petty.
Beta: Our intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to topaz_eyes and daasgrrl.
Roll the Bones
Part One
The only reason why Colt had the gun with him when he headed out to the Quik Stop was he'd been cleaning it and didn't have time to put it away so the kids wouldn't find it.
Well, that was what he was telling himself.
The truth was he was considering holding up the route man who emptied the rank of dusty soda pop machines outside the store. The money would all be small change and dollar bills, but it'd buy another bottle of oxy from that guy who'd set up shop in the parking lot of the Urgent Care.
So he'd stuck Daddy's old Navy pistol, the one he got from his Daddy, who didn't turn in the paperwork to give the gun back when his enlistment ended, into the pocket of his jeans and let the tail of his shirt fall over the gun's butt.
He wouldn't be contemplating crime and needing more pain killers if he hadn't wrecked his Hyster forklift at the paper mill back in the spring. If the damned workman's comp doctor would sign off on the paper stating that he, Colt Locklear, had a permanent disabling back injury from the wreck, then he'd be set, could get himself some medical treatment and his medication on Medicaid. But no. Dr. Smartypants didn't give a damn about the working man.
So what if he and Rayburn Phillips had been in a little fender-bender the night before and he'd had a couple of shots of bourbon to ease the muscle spasms in his shoulders before he went on shift? It was medicinal. He wasn't drinking on the job, no way, no how.
Lorna was in her usual spot on the sofa, a cigarette tucked in the corner of her mouth while she changed the baby's diaper. As usual, Dale had blasted clean out of the confines of her Pampers.
“What you been feeding her? Smells like a septic field overflowed,” Colt said as he fished for his car keys in the junk on the end table. Judge Judy was hurting his ears, harping away on the TV like the screeching old biddy she was. Damn, but those Yankee women had ugly voices.
“I'm on my last nerve today, Colt, so give it a rest.”
“Be glad to. I'm going out for a while.”
"Then bring back some diapers and Midol. And get me some cigarettes, but not that Basic shit."
"They're cheaper."
"Yeah, and they just about give me catarrh. You better come home with Newports this time."
Colt glowered at his wife but it had absolutely no effect. No surprise; it never did, so he compensated by muttering you better come home with Newports this time in a squeaky falsetto as he went out the door, but pitched low enough so Lorna didn't hear him.
Outside the sun was shining. It was already heating up, and all four window units on the trailer were running.
Running up the 'lectric bill, Colt thought. He frowned at the faithful old Chevy sitting in the red-dirt driveway, baking in the sun. A few feet away from the car, a pit bull lay in a sprawled heap, freckled belly exposed to the warming light.
"Hey, Bobo," Colt said, but the dog didn't stir, and after a moment Colt sighed and reached for the car door. "Ow!"
He yanked his hand back and blew on his fingers. He glowered at the Chevy, but that had about as much effect as it had on Lorna, so he ended up wrapping his shirt tail around the handle in order to wrench the door open.
Inside, the vinyl seats were melting-hot, but the old bath towel he used as a blast shield was only heating-pad hot, about the same toasty temperature that Lorna preferred when she was having her monthlies. He stuck the key in the ignition, and the Chevy coughed to life. Colt rolled down the window.
"Keep an eye on things, Bobo," he shouted to the dog. The pit bull slept on.
"Okay, yeah," Colt mumbled. The revolver was gouging into his groin, so he shifted in his seat and eased it up a little. He started to back out of the yard, angling around to keep from knocking over the hummingbird-feeder stand his wife had put up. The heat from the sun-blistered seat soaked into his back, loosening the kinks and soothing away the pain.
Once on the road he stepped on the gas. If he didn't get going, he'd miss the soda pop man.
"Pull in here," House said.
"What?" Wilson said. "There? Why?"
"Bzzzzt!" House said. "Too many questions. Pull in, it's an emergency."
Wilson glanced over. House didn't appear to be in any pain, which could mean ... anything.
He flicked on the turn signal and pulled in.
The Quik Stop was pretty much like every other Quik Stop they'd passed on their way to Florida, only more so. This one hadn't just seen better days -- it had seen better decades. Instead of painted grey cinderblocks, it was constructed of weathered red wood that was sagging in some places and bowed out in others. It looked like something that might have spawned Jed Clampett's shack, but after a moment Wilson decided maybe it had been a general store once, converted to a convenience trap at this intersection of Nothing and Nowhere. Neon-script signs in the windows advertised live bait, hot coffee, and Jax beer. The air smelled of pine trees, hot asphalt, and that distinctively fragrant undernote of roadkill.
The passenger door of the Volvo slammed, startling Wilson out of his olfactory analysis. House was throwing his shoulders back, stretching his muscles.
"So?" Wilson asked.
House breathed in. His nose wrinkled.
"So, what?" he said.
Wilson rolled his eyes. "So, what's the emergency?"
"Oh," House said. He used his cane to point at the biggest, swirliest neon sign. It showed a bright orange peach, with green hundred-dollar bills replacing the leaves on the stem. The script letters above the peach read GET GA-LUCKY! IS TODAY YOUR LUCKY DAY?
Wilson stared at the sign.
"You wanted a ... lottery ticket? House!"
"It could happen!" House said. "It could!" He adopted a look he probably thought was contemplative. "And if it does," he said, "I'll split it with you -- seventy-thirty."
"Is that really fair? Considering I'm the one driving?"
"Okay," House grumbled. "Sixty-forty. It'll be enough to pay your medical malpractice for a year."
"Your generosity knows no bounds," Wilson said dryly. "And you know the hospital pays the malpractice insurance."
"Details," House said. "I knew you'd see it my way. Come on. I'll let you buy me some road food." He waved at the LIVE BAIT! sign. "See? Sushi and Slim Jims, coming right up."
Wilson shook his head.
"You go ahead. I need to use the men's room."
Neither of them paid any attention to the delivery guy nearby, working to open up the big, hulking block of the soft drink machine, or the man next to him, who'd just emerged from a dusty Chevy Caprice with a red and black #3 decal on the back window. He'd been listening closely, and as he'd listened, a thoughtful expression had come over his face.
"You want a cold drink, son?"
Colt just about jumped out of his skin at being addressed directly by the man he was fixing to rob.
"It's gonna take me just a minute," the man continued placidly. He wasn't even looking at Colt -- he was busy running one hand over the pop machine's front panels like it was some beloved pet he was gonna have to put down. "Some fool went and stuck gum over the locks on ever-one of these machines. Gotta get the WD-40 from the truck, spray 'er good and let it soften that mess up."
Colt tried not to touch the pistol under his shirt tail, tried not to shift from one foot to the other.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. After all, times being what they was, how many folks were dropping 75 cents in the slot for a Coke when the Quik Stop sold Faygo Colas for 33 cents a piece inside? He had a sudden picture of himself standing before Judge Pope in an orange jumpsuit and hearing some court-appointed lawyer talking about the piddling amount of change he'd stolen.
There's gotta be a better way, he thought, and then he heard the word "malpractice" come from the two men beside that silver car with New Jersey plates.
It had been a long time since Wilson had used a restroom that required a key -- especially a gold-tone metal key, attached by a length of twine to a clunky wooden plaque, varnished to a smooth-grained sheen and labeled MEN'S in purple block letters. Both restrooms (MEN'S and GIRL'S) were outside the main store, on the side of the ell facing the parking lot.
Wilson washed his hands a second time and looked around. Somewhat to his surprise, the men's room had been scrupulously clean. A polished slab of knotty pine hung at eye level above the toilet tank; an artful example of wood-burning, it sported the finely-charred outline of a prize stag, with the legend Young bucks with short horns, stand close!
He jacked a couple of sheets of soft brown paper out of the roller and stepped back, brushing into place a few unruly strands of hair. He wiped his hands and tossed the balled-up paper into the trash can, then slid back the chain-lock, opened the door, and started out into the bright sunlight. A shadow moved behind him, and something hard and unforgiving pressed into the small of his back. Wilson froze.
"Doc?" a voice breathed in his ear. "You and me got somethin' to talk about."
House came out of the Quik Stop feeling vaguely disappointed. It wasn't as much fun when Wilson wasn't there, although it had been fun seeing Wilson blush when he'd asked the Jethro behind the counter for the key to the men's room. He started into the parking lot, sucking enthusiastically on the plastic straw sticking out of a Super-Goliath-size RC Cola, then stopped.
The silver Volvo was gone.
House turned around and looked behind him, then squinted into the parking lot again.
"Wilson?" he said.
Part Two
Title: Roll the Bones
Authors: pwcorgigirl, blackmare_9, and nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson, OMC, OFC.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Yes, in a very general sense for Season 6.
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures, and a gamble's the only game left.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This fic is in three parts; each chapter contains a link to the next. The entire story is 12,852 words. LJ-cut text is from Learning to Fly, by Tom Petty.
Beta: Our intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to topaz_eyes and daasgrrl.
Roll the Bones
Part One
The only reason why Colt had the gun with him when he headed out to the Quik Stop was he'd been cleaning it and didn't have time to put it away so the kids wouldn't find it.
Well, that was what he was telling himself.
The truth was he was considering holding up the route man who emptied the rank of dusty soda pop machines outside the store. The money would all be small change and dollar bills, but it'd buy another bottle of oxy from that guy who'd set up shop in the parking lot of the Urgent Care.
So he'd stuck Daddy's old Navy pistol, the one he got from his Daddy, who didn't turn in the paperwork to give the gun back when his enlistment ended, into the pocket of his jeans and let the tail of his shirt fall over the gun's butt.
He wouldn't be contemplating crime and needing more pain killers if he hadn't wrecked his Hyster forklift at the paper mill back in the spring. If the damned workman's comp doctor would sign off on the paper stating that he, Colt Locklear, had a permanent disabling back injury from the wreck, then he'd be set, could get himself some medical treatment and his medication on Medicaid. But no. Dr. Smartypants didn't give a damn about the working man.
So what if he and Rayburn Phillips had been in a little fender-bender the night before and he'd had a couple of shots of bourbon to ease the muscle spasms in his shoulders before he went on shift? It was medicinal. He wasn't drinking on the job, no way, no how.
Lorna was in her usual spot on the sofa, a cigarette tucked in the corner of her mouth while she changed the baby's diaper. As usual, Dale had blasted clean out of the confines of her Pampers.
“What you been feeding her? Smells like a septic field overflowed,” Colt said as he fished for his car keys in the junk on the end table. Judge Judy was hurting his ears, harping away on the TV like the screeching old biddy she was. Damn, but those Yankee women had ugly voices.
“I'm on my last nerve today, Colt, so give it a rest.”
“Be glad to. I'm going out for a while.”
"Then bring back some diapers and Midol. And get me some cigarettes, but not that Basic shit."
"They're cheaper."
"Yeah, and they just about give me catarrh. You better come home with Newports this time."
Colt glowered at his wife but it had absolutely no effect. No surprise; it never did, so he compensated by muttering you better come home with Newports this time in a squeaky falsetto as he went out the door, but pitched low enough so Lorna didn't hear him.
Outside the sun was shining. It was already heating up, and all four window units on the trailer were running.
Running up the 'lectric bill, Colt thought. He frowned at the faithful old Chevy sitting in the red-dirt driveway, baking in the sun. A few feet away from the car, a pit bull lay in a sprawled heap, freckled belly exposed to the warming light.
"Hey, Bobo," Colt said, but the dog didn't stir, and after a moment Colt sighed and reached for the car door. "Ow!"
He yanked his hand back and blew on his fingers. He glowered at the Chevy, but that had about as much effect as it had on Lorna, so he ended up wrapping his shirt tail around the handle in order to wrench the door open.
Inside, the vinyl seats were melting-hot, but the old bath towel he used as a blast shield was only heating-pad hot, about the same toasty temperature that Lorna preferred when she was having her monthlies. He stuck the key in the ignition, and the Chevy coughed to life. Colt rolled down the window.
"Keep an eye on things, Bobo," he shouted to the dog. The pit bull slept on.
"Okay, yeah," Colt mumbled. The revolver was gouging into his groin, so he shifted in his seat and eased it up a little. He started to back out of the yard, angling around to keep from knocking over the hummingbird-feeder stand his wife had put up. The heat from the sun-blistered seat soaked into his back, loosening the kinks and soothing away the pain.
Once on the road he stepped on the gas. If he didn't get going, he'd miss the soda pop man.
"Pull in here," House said.
"What?" Wilson said. "There? Why?"
"Bzzzzt!" House said. "Too many questions. Pull in, it's an emergency."
Wilson glanced over. House didn't appear to be in any pain, which could mean ... anything.
He flicked on the turn signal and pulled in.
The Quik Stop was pretty much like every other Quik Stop they'd passed on their way to Florida, only more so. This one hadn't just seen better days -- it had seen better decades. Instead of painted grey cinderblocks, it was constructed of weathered red wood that was sagging in some places and bowed out in others. It looked like something that might have spawned Jed Clampett's shack, but after a moment Wilson decided maybe it had been a general store once, converted to a convenience trap at this intersection of Nothing and Nowhere. Neon-script signs in the windows advertised live bait, hot coffee, and Jax beer. The air smelled of pine trees, hot asphalt, and that distinctively fragrant undernote of roadkill.
The passenger door of the Volvo slammed, startling Wilson out of his olfactory analysis. House was throwing his shoulders back, stretching his muscles.
"So?" Wilson asked.
House breathed in. His nose wrinkled.
"So, what?" he said.
Wilson rolled his eyes. "So, what's the emergency?"
"Oh," House said. He used his cane to point at the biggest, swirliest neon sign. It showed a bright orange peach, with green hundred-dollar bills replacing the leaves on the stem. The script letters above the peach read GET GA-LUCKY! IS TODAY YOUR LUCKY DAY?
Wilson stared at the sign.
"You wanted a ... lottery ticket? House!"
"It could happen!" House said. "It could!" He adopted a look he probably thought was contemplative. "And if it does," he said, "I'll split it with you -- seventy-thirty."
"Is that really fair? Considering I'm the one driving?"
"Okay," House grumbled. "Sixty-forty. It'll be enough to pay your medical malpractice for a year."
"Your generosity knows no bounds," Wilson said dryly. "And you know the hospital pays the malpractice insurance."
"Details," House said. "I knew you'd see it my way. Come on. I'll let you buy me some road food." He waved at the LIVE BAIT! sign. "See? Sushi and Slim Jims, coming right up."
Wilson shook his head.
"You go ahead. I need to use the men's room."
Neither of them paid any attention to the delivery guy nearby, working to open up the big, hulking block of the soft drink machine, or the man next to him, who'd just emerged from a dusty Chevy Caprice with a red and black #3 decal on the back window. He'd been listening closely, and as he'd listened, a thoughtful expression had come over his face.
"You want a cold drink, son?"
Colt just about jumped out of his skin at being addressed directly by the man he was fixing to rob.
"It's gonna take me just a minute," the man continued placidly. He wasn't even looking at Colt -- he was busy running one hand over the pop machine's front panels like it was some beloved pet he was gonna have to put down. "Some fool went and stuck gum over the locks on ever-one of these machines. Gotta get the WD-40 from the truck, spray 'er good and let it soften that mess up."
Colt tried not to touch the pistol under his shirt tail, tried not to shift from one foot to the other.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. After all, times being what they was, how many folks were dropping 75 cents in the slot for a Coke when the Quik Stop sold Faygo Colas for 33 cents a piece inside? He had a sudden picture of himself standing before Judge Pope in an orange jumpsuit and hearing some court-appointed lawyer talking about the piddling amount of change he'd stolen.
There's gotta be a better way, he thought, and then he heard the word "malpractice" come from the two men beside that silver car with New Jersey plates.
It had been a long time since Wilson had used a restroom that required a key -- especially a gold-tone metal key, attached by a length of twine to a clunky wooden plaque, varnished to a smooth-grained sheen and labeled MEN'S in purple block letters. Both restrooms (MEN'S and GIRL'S) were outside the main store, on the side of the ell facing the parking lot.
Wilson washed his hands a second time and looked around. Somewhat to his surprise, the men's room had been scrupulously clean. A polished slab of knotty pine hung at eye level above the toilet tank; an artful example of wood-burning, it sported the finely-charred outline of a prize stag, with the legend Young bucks with short horns, stand close!
He jacked a couple of sheets of soft brown paper out of the roller and stepped back, brushing into place a few unruly strands of hair. He wiped his hands and tossed the balled-up paper into the trash can, then slid back the chain-lock, opened the door, and started out into the bright sunlight. A shadow moved behind him, and something hard and unforgiving pressed into the small of his back. Wilson froze.
"Doc?" a voice breathed in his ear. "You and me got somethin' to talk about."
House came out of the Quik Stop feeling vaguely disappointed. It wasn't as much fun when Wilson wasn't there, although it had been fun seeing Wilson blush when he'd asked the Jethro behind the counter for the key to the men's room. He started into the parking lot, sucking enthusiastically on the plastic straw sticking out of a Super-Goliath-size RC Cola, then stopped.
The silver Volvo was gone.
House turned around and looked behind him, then squinted into the parking lot again.
"Wilson?" he said.
Part Two