Housefic: All Who Wander
Merry Christmas and the happiest of holidays, everyone. :D
Title: All Who Wander
Authors: nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson, various original characters
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: Oh, the weather outside is frightful! And it's making a mess of everyone's plans, House and Wilson included. 3,074 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is another story in that Indeterminate Timeline of the Riververse. But if pressed, I'd have to say it takes place in the very near future. ;-D
Beta: deelaundry, pwcorgigirl, and blackmare, with especial thanks for their invaluable suggestions and contributions.
All Who Wander
"Fine," Wilson says. "We're not going anywhere," he says, and twists the key to turn off the engine. House isn't sure who he's saying all this to, so he doesn't bother to answer -- it's been obvious for the last hour and a half the traffic wasn't moving. Instead he edges himself a little higher in the passenger seat and pictures himself, not for the first time, on the command deck of a ship. That's how high up and how much expanse of windshield there is in this vehicle, which must surely be a converted airport shuttle, no matter how much the rental-lot guy had insisted it was simply a customized Odyssey with more seats than it had left the factory with. Whatever, it had been the only car left in the corner lot that had started on the first try. Outside that expanse of windshield, the red tail-lights of the cars in front of them blink as irritated drivers tap their brakes impatiently. They're not going anywhere either. No one is going anywhere, not with the snow blowing sideways and a wreck somewhere up ahead blocking the road.
"Kobayashi Maru, Mister Sulu," he mutters sagely. "Your move."
Wilson closes his eyes for a moment, then slumps back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. He jabs at the radio buttons, but the only signals making it through the storm's interference are an NPR station doing pledge week and a cross-border station from Medicine Hat.
"And for just sixty dollars," the NPR announcer croons, "we'll send you the exclusive 2014 Downton Abbey engagement calendar."
Wilson changes the station back to the country music from Medicine Hat, and that's when someone knocks on the window, a dull thunk thunk against the cold safety glass. House twists around in his seat. Sure enough, someone's out there, so bundled up only their eyes and the bridge of their nose is visible, one mittened hand still raised, ready to knock again. House opens the window a crack, and the stranger pulls down his scarf to expose dry, chapped lips and chattering teeth.
"I'm s-s-s-sorry," the guy says.
"So am I," House growls, and starts to roll the window back up.
"House," Wilson mutters, and House reluctantly rolls the window back down.
"I'm s-s-s-sorry," the guy says again, "b-b-b-but we r-r-ran out of g-g-g-gas, and our heater's n-n-not working, and I n-n-noticed your c-c-c-car was still ... still running ... " The guy runs out of voice and simply stands there, both hands at his throat, trying to shrink into his parka and out of the howling wind. "M-m-m-my wife," the guy says miserably. "She's ... she's -- "
"Oh, god," House groans. "Don't tell me. Your wife's pregnant?"
A brightening of the guy's eyes tells him it's the truth, and of course, Wilson is already fumbling on his side for the door-unlock. The locks pop, and Wilson leans across House, waving a hand in invitation.
"Go get your wife," he says. He catches House's glare. "We've got plenty of room," he says mildly, and it's true, the hideous minivan actually has enough room for a fucking village, if a village could be magically transplanted to this godforsaken stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere. In the meantime, the side door is sliding open; the van's interior temperature immediately drops twenty degrees as the wind and snow come roaring in, and then their guests are settling into their seats, the guy and his wife whom House can't tell much about other than she's obviously at the "swallowed a watermelon" stage. The door slams shut, and there's an awkward silence. The wife doesn't volunteer anything, but the guy sticks out his hand.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm Mike. Mike Copeland. This is my wife Melanie."
"Wilson," Wilson says, with the warm smile he always breaks out when he thinks he's being a prince. "James Wilson. And this is -- "
"Jeff," House says. "Jeff Dahmer."
The guy -- Mike's -- smile falters, but he keeps his hand out. Good for him. House takes it in a tight grip and shakes it vigorously.
"I'm a herpetologist," House says. "Jim here used to be a male model, but he's come out west to start a second career as a rodeo clown. Merry Christmas!"
Mike looks at him, seemingly dazed. Wilson's smile has frozen into a congealed rictus.
"Ha," he says through clenched teeth. "Jeff, you're always such a kidder. No, I'm a -- oof!"
His next word is lost as a gust of wind smacks the van hard enough to make it rock from side to side.
"Oh!" Melanie the wife squeals, and as if in answer, there's a sudden flurry of thumps -- someone else knocking on a window.
This time it's either an old gent in a voluminous down jacket or the Michelin Man; House isn't sure which until the guy opens his mouth.
"'Scuse me, gentlemen," he creaks out, "but I wonder if you fellas could keep this box in your car so it don't get froze? Me and my Chevy had an unexpected meet-up with a snowbank and I'm waitin' on a tow from the triple-A."
The box he's holding up is white and pale pink cardboard -- it reminds House of his mother's old hatboxes, the ones she kept on the top shelf of the closet of the duplex in Pensacola.
Except this box is meowing.
"That -- " Wilson starts. He shakes his head. "Your box," he says. "It meowed."
"Well, I 'spect it did," the old man says. "Y'see, our old barn cat -- I call her Dorothy Lamour -- she up and had a passel of kittens out of the blue." He lifts up one corner of the box lid, just enough to allow a questing paw to poke out, exploring the air. "Mrar?" He shuts the box again. "Got four of 'em in there -- varmints got the rest -- so I'm takin' 'em to my granddaughter for a present."
"I'll bet you are," House says.
"My grandkids love cats," the old gent says stolidly. "Anyways, I'd be beholden' to you fellas if you could hold onto 'em until we get movin' agin."
House is opening his mouth to tell him that the parents of his grandkids are going to kill him for saddling them with four kittens, and he should just sew them into a sack now, when Wilson pipes up.
"We wouldn't think of taking them without taking you," he says.
"Oh, no," House says. "No, really -- "
"I thank you fellas muchly," the old guy says. "It is a mite chilly out here." And with that he hands over the box to Wilson and clambers in ... just as two more people show up, stamping their feet in the snow and sheltering a third, much smaller person between them.
"I'm sorry," the first guy says, "but we saw these other people, and the heater in our car's broken down, and we were worried about our daughter ... she forgot her snow boots ... "
"Daddy? Poppy? I'm cold." A small face peeps out from between the two men. She eyes House and Wilson cautiously.
"I'm sorry," the guy says again. "I'm Tom, this is Walter, we're the Kovaks, and this is our daughter Trudie."
House sticks out his hand. "Jason Voorhees," he announces. "Merry Christmas." It gets no reaction; House is disappointed, but maybe the guy's just not a Friday the 13th fan.
Mike's eyes narrow. "I thought you said your name was -- "
"Come on!" House says, and makes an expansive, kum-ba-yah gesture. "Trudie? Come on, Trudie. You and your two daddies come on in."
"It's okay," he assures Tom -- or is it Walt? -- "Some of our best friends are Rosicrucians."
"Wait," the guy says. "I ... what?"
"Not now," House says. "Get in." Behind him he can hear Kitten Guy introducing himself.
"Hello there," Kitten Guy says. "Your name's Trudie? That's a fine name. My name's Barlow Waltrip. Would you like to see my box of kittens?"
After that, it's quiet for about ten minutes until Peyton and Crib show up, a couple of young hunters in winter camo, shotguns -- in locked cases -- and a huge red cooler sitting between them on the hard-packed snow.
"Please tell me that's full of beer," House says.
"Sorry," says Peyton. "Mallards, mostly. Few mergansers."
"Our truck," says Crib, in a tone of explanation and apology.
"It's okay," Wilson assures them, as everyone shuffles and shifts, making room. "I'm James Wilson, and -- "
"Roy G. Biv," House says. "Merry Christmas!" He sneaks a peek; Wilson's face has turned an interesting shade of red.
One of the hunters, House isn't sure which, produces a duck call from one pocket and blows into it to amuse Trudie.
QUONK, goes the duck call. QUONK QUONK
"Quack!" Trudie joins in. "Quack quack!"
Peyton grins. "That's right, little lady," he says. "Look here, we've got somebody here I think you'd like to meet."
And of course, they've brought their dog -- an enormous black Lab with frosty fur and panting breath, who scrambles inside the van and immediately snuffles the box in Barlow Waltrip's lap, lifting the lid with her nose and provoking an outraged "Mraarrrrrr!" from the kittens. Slobber flies everywhere.
QUONK QUONK
"Doggie!" Trudie cries. "Daddy, Poppy, I want a dog!"
"Down, Cricket," Peyton admonishes.
The van shudders as the dog bounces between the seats, joyfully barking.
"She was a bitty pup and she couldn't bark like her brothers," Crib explains. "She'd try and all'd come out was this chirp-chirp-chirp sound, so we named her Cricket."
"What's next?" House grumbles. "Goats? Chickens? A lamb?"
"Bit early for lambs, son," the old man replies. "Still gotta shear, vaccinate, and do the pour. Got the barn all heat up, though."
House blinks, but the old man doesn't crack a smile. A few feet away, Melanie seems to have fallen asleep amidst the noise, her head tucked into her husband's shoulder, his arms holding her tight. Even in sleep, she looks exhausted. House looks away. Not his problem.
With ten warm, snow-dampened humans and one large dog in residence, the van has combined all the worst features of a cloud forest and a sauna into one stifling, stinking environment. A milk-white layer of frost coats the insides of the glass surfaces, condensation drips from the ridiculous sunroof, and House uses a judicious fingertip to sketch out a drawing on the nearest window.
"Poppy, what's that?"
Walt leans close and squints. "I'm not sure, honey." He turns a questioning glance toward House. "Is it a dragon?"
"It's an ulcerated colon," House says.
Trudie frowns. "But what does it mean?"
"Hopefully you'll never find out. Can you read?"
Trudie's frown changes to a proud smile. "Yes!"
"Then tell me what this spells," he says, and starts to trace a series of letters.
"P ... E ... N ... "
"Stop that," Wilson growls in his ear, causing House to smear the next letter.
"Spoilsport," House mutters. He backtracks, writing PIG in front of the PEN.
"You draw the pig," he instructs Trudie, "and I'll draw the pen."
The end result is something out of a nightmare: a round, bloated body, five legs and a yard-long spring for a tail, behind a set of bars that are suspiciously prison-like.
"Lotta ham on that pig," Waltrip remarks.
"We don't eat ham," Trudie says. "We're Jewish." She adds an extra flourish to the pig's mouth so that it looks like he's smiling, and looks up at House. "Do you eat ham?"
"What are you doing out here?" House says. "You with your two daddies, out in the middle of nowhere?"
"You're answering a question with a question," Trudie says primly.
"So what's the answer?"
"We're from Connecticut," Trudie says. "Poppy's daddy lives in Kalispell."
"You are really lost," House mutters.
"'Not all those who wander are lost,'" Trudie chirps. House stares at her.
"Trudie's a ... uh ... big fan," Tom says. "You know, of -- "
"Lord of the Rings. Yeah, I got it."
"We're reading all the books," Trudie informs him. "I've seen the movies, and I've seen The Hobbits's five times already! Next we're gonna read The Silmarillion, and for Halloween I'm gonna be Eowyn!"
"Legolas is way prettier," House says.
Trudie giggles. "You're funny," she says.
"You don't know the half of it."
It's at that moment that someone in the endless jam of stopped cars starts honking, which sets Cricket to barking again, deep-chested woofs! that set off the kittens in the box, who start yowling, and Crib and Peyton, who both start shouting at Cricket to hush up. Trudie begins to laugh, and with all the noise it takes both House and Wilson a minute to realize that Mike Copeland is also shouting.
"My wife's in labor!" he's yelling. "Her water's broken! Could I get some help over here? Please! Help us!"
"I never want to do that again," House growls. He's watching the empty darkness, well after midnight in this old slice of nowhere, through the window of the new car -- a real car, this time, a nimble little Nissan, with room for just four people, five at the most, not that House is ever going to invite five people into this car. It had taken Wilson a while to convince the rental agent that they hadn't butchered a deer in the minivan -- as it turned out, the cell phone footage Walt Kovak had filmed of the ambulance making its way through the traffic and of the new mother holding her baby had done the trick.
It's almost stopped snowing, here on the eastern side of Billings, and the roads are clear.
"You never want to be a doctor again?" Wilson murmurs. He's jacking with the radio again, pulling in the ghost of a late-night broadcast from Chicago.
"No more babies," House says. "Too messy. And then the parents turn out to be ingrates."
"You're just pissed that they're naming it after me."
"It was a girl!"
"They're naming her Jamie," Wilson says, the smug bastard.
"Well, it's not like you did anything," House says. "Other than head up the cheerleading team."
"I cut the cord!" Wilson protests.
"With the old guy's knife!"
"Barlow Waltrip," Wilson says. "His name was Barlow Waltrip."
"I got my Case knife with me, if you boys wanna borrow it," House singsongs in a raspy wheeze. Wilson doesn't say anything, but House can tell by the tightening of Wilson's jaw and the crinkles around his eyes that he's trying not to laugh. Or maybe cry.
House drags a hand across his face; he can still smell the antiseptic soap from the private facilities at the Pelican Truck Plaza where he and Wilson had showered and scrubbed away all the disgusting bodily fluids that accompanied giving birth. He's not sure what the others did -- Crib had gotten the worst of it, but Crib, it had turned out, was a seasoned EMT and didn't seem to mind. He and Peyton had elected to stay with their truck, and Crib had probably just gone out and rolled in the snow with Cricket. The last he'd seen of Trudie, she'd been cuddling one of Barlow Waltrip's kittens as the old man had waved goodbye.
"I think Barlow Waltrip was possibly the reincarnation of Doc Holliday," Wilson says. "Mild-mannered farmer by day, traveling surgeon by night."
"That's what you could do," House says. He slants his voice into the same approximate drawl as Waltrip's. "You could just travel the west, deliverin' the babies for those in need."
"Is that what I could do," Wilson says, and now he is smiling, or trying not to.
"Ah-yup," House says, still in the same drawl. "And sooner or later, somebody'd come to town, wanting to kill you. And then you'd have to call me."
"You?"
House points an index-finger gun barrel at the windshield and cocks his thumb. "Ka-pow," he says, and blows imaginary smoke from his fingertip. In the back of his mind a memory stirs -- a mirror, another mock gunfight, another friend from when this all started. He takes another sip of the high-octane truck stop coffee.
"But why would anyone want to kill me?" Wilson wonders.
"Anyone who would suggest this insane road trip deserves to die," House says, in as ominous a voice he can muster.
"Hey," Wilson says. "You know the Cannonball Run thing was your idea in the first place."
"Smokey and the Bandit, and you took me up on it. And you were sober at the time, while I was up to my eyeballs in Cuervo."
"Look at it this way," Wilson says. "Your eyeballs got to see Cape Alava. Westernmost point of the contiguous United States, nothing beyond that but the Pacific Ocean." He leaves off his Wikipedia lesson and looks around, eyebrows furrowed. "Where's the list?" he says. "Where's that page you printed off?"
"In my backpack," House says. "I don't need it. I know what's next. West Quoddy Head, in Lubec, Maine. It's a lighthouse." No reason for Wilson to know just yet what else is in House's backpack -- a Quaker Boy "Ruttin' Fever" Bull Elk Bugle call and a Montana State University cap. A theme mascot cap, which in this case means a demented plush bobcat with plastic antlers sprouting from its head, very much a genetic experiment gone tragically, hideously wrong. He'd picked them up in the truck plaza's Cedar ‘n Sage gift shop while Wilson was shampooing his precious hair, and plans to demonstrate both at the appropriate time. Possibly during breakfast.
"And after that?" Wilson says, oblivious to House's cunning plan.
"Ballast Key, Florida. We'll probably have to sneak in -- it's private property."
"At least it'll be warm," Wilson sighs. "I want to be warm."
"You can be warm in the hotel pool in Bismarck," House says.
The station in Chicago fades in and out, and in the east, the horizon grows brighter. Wilson flips down the sun visor just as the static clears and Perry Como or someone like him is singing about tidings of comfort and joy.
"Isn't this over already?" House says.
"I think, technically, it's Christmas morning," Wilson says.
"About time," House says. "Then it'll be 365 days before we have to deliver another stupid baby."
Wilson shakes his head, but he's smiling.
"Merry Christmas, House," he says.
House sighs. "Merry Christmas, Wilson."
~ fin
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Title: All Who Wander
Authors: nightdog_barks
Characters: House, Wilson, various original characters
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: Oh, the weather outside is frightful! And it's making a mess of everyone's plans, House and Wilson included. 3,074 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is another story in that Indeterminate Timeline of the Riververse. But if pressed, I'd have to say it takes place in the very near future. ;-D
Beta: deelaundry, pwcorgigirl, and blackmare, with especial thanks for their invaluable suggestions and contributions.
All Who Wander
"Fine," Wilson says. "We're not going anywhere," he says, and twists the key to turn off the engine. House isn't sure who he's saying all this to, so he doesn't bother to answer -- it's been obvious for the last hour and a half the traffic wasn't moving. Instead he edges himself a little higher in the passenger seat and pictures himself, not for the first time, on the command deck of a ship. That's how high up and how much expanse of windshield there is in this vehicle, which must surely be a converted airport shuttle, no matter how much the rental-lot guy had insisted it was simply a customized Odyssey with more seats than it had left the factory with. Whatever, it had been the only car left in the corner lot that had started on the first try. Outside that expanse of windshield, the red tail-lights of the cars in front of them blink as irritated drivers tap their brakes impatiently. They're not going anywhere either. No one is going anywhere, not with the snow blowing sideways and a wreck somewhere up ahead blocking the road.
"Kobayashi Maru, Mister Sulu," he mutters sagely. "Your move."
Wilson closes his eyes for a moment, then slumps back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. He jabs at the radio buttons, but the only signals making it through the storm's interference are an NPR station doing pledge week and a cross-border station from Medicine Hat.
"And for just sixty dollars," the NPR announcer croons, "we'll send you the exclusive 2014 Downton Abbey engagement calendar."
Wilson changes the station back to the country music from Medicine Hat, and that's when someone knocks on the window, a dull thunk thunk against the cold safety glass. House twists around in his seat. Sure enough, someone's out there, so bundled up only their eyes and the bridge of their nose is visible, one mittened hand still raised, ready to knock again. House opens the window a crack, and the stranger pulls down his scarf to expose dry, chapped lips and chattering teeth.
"I'm s-s-s-sorry," the guy says.
"So am I," House growls, and starts to roll the window back up.
"House," Wilson mutters, and House reluctantly rolls the window back down.
"I'm s-s-s-sorry," the guy says again, "b-b-b-but we r-r-ran out of g-g-g-gas, and our heater's n-n-not working, and I n-n-noticed your c-c-c-car was still ... still running ... " The guy runs out of voice and simply stands there, both hands at his throat, trying to shrink into his parka and out of the howling wind. "M-m-m-my wife," the guy says miserably. "She's ... she's -- "
"Oh, god," House groans. "Don't tell me. Your wife's pregnant?"
A brightening of the guy's eyes tells him it's the truth, and of course, Wilson is already fumbling on his side for the door-unlock. The locks pop, and Wilson leans across House, waving a hand in invitation.
"Go get your wife," he says. He catches House's glare. "We've got plenty of room," he says mildly, and it's true, the hideous minivan actually has enough room for a fucking village, if a village could be magically transplanted to this godforsaken stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere. In the meantime, the side door is sliding open; the van's interior temperature immediately drops twenty degrees as the wind and snow come roaring in, and then their guests are settling into their seats, the guy and his wife whom House can't tell much about other than she's obviously at the "swallowed a watermelon" stage. The door slams shut, and there's an awkward silence. The wife doesn't volunteer anything, but the guy sticks out his hand.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm Mike. Mike Copeland. This is my wife Melanie."
"Wilson," Wilson says, with the warm smile he always breaks out when he thinks he's being a prince. "James Wilson. And this is -- "
"Jeff," House says. "Jeff Dahmer."
The guy -- Mike's -- smile falters, but he keeps his hand out. Good for him. House takes it in a tight grip and shakes it vigorously.
"I'm a herpetologist," House says. "Jim here used to be a male model, but he's come out west to start a second career as a rodeo clown. Merry Christmas!"
Mike looks at him, seemingly dazed. Wilson's smile has frozen into a congealed rictus.
"Ha," he says through clenched teeth. "Jeff, you're always such a kidder. No, I'm a -- oof!"
His next word is lost as a gust of wind smacks the van hard enough to make it rock from side to side.
"Oh!" Melanie the wife squeals, and as if in answer, there's a sudden flurry of thumps -- someone else knocking on a window.
This time it's either an old gent in a voluminous down jacket or the Michelin Man; House isn't sure which until the guy opens his mouth.
"'Scuse me, gentlemen," he creaks out, "but I wonder if you fellas could keep this box in your car so it don't get froze? Me and my Chevy had an unexpected meet-up with a snowbank and I'm waitin' on a tow from the triple-A."
The box he's holding up is white and pale pink cardboard -- it reminds House of his mother's old hatboxes, the ones she kept on the top shelf of the closet of the duplex in Pensacola.
Except this box is meowing.
"That -- " Wilson starts. He shakes his head. "Your box," he says. "It meowed."
"Well, I 'spect it did," the old man says. "Y'see, our old barn cat -- I call her Dorothy Lamour -- she up and had a passel of kittens out of the blue." He lifts up one corner of the box lid, just enough to allow a questing paw to poke out, exploring the air. "Mrar?" He shuts the box again. "Got four of 'em in there -- varmints got the rest -- so I'm takin' 'em to my granddaughter for a present."
"I'll bet you are," House says.
"My grandkids love cats," the old gent says stolidly. "Anyways, I'd be beholden' to you fellas if you could hold onto 'em until we get movin' agin."
House is opening his mouth to tell him that the parents of his grandkids are going to kill him for saddling them with four kittens, and he should just sew them into a sack now, when Wilson pipes up.
"We wouldn't think of taking them without taking you," he says.
"Oh, no," House says. "No, really -- "
"I thank you fellas muchly," the old guy says. "It is a mite chilly out here." And with that he hands over the box to Wilson and clambers in ... just as two more people show up, stamping their feet in the snow and sheltering a third, much smaller person between them.
"I'm sorry," the first guy says, "but we saw these other people, and the heater in our car's broken down, and we were worried about our daughter ... she forgot her snow boots ... "
"Daddy? Poppy? I'm cold." A small face peeps out from between the two men. She eyes House and Wilson cautiously.
"I'm sorry," the guy says again. "I'm Tom, this is Walter, we're the Kovaks, and this is our daughter Trudie."
House sticks out his hand. "Jason Voorhees," he announces. "Merry Christmas." It gets no reaction; House is disappointed, but maybe the guy's just not a Friday the 13th fan.
Mike's eyes narrow. "I thought you said your name was -- "
"Come on!" House says, and makes an expansive, kum-ba-yah gesture. "Trudie? Come on, Trudie. You and your two daddies come on in."
"It's okay," he assures Tom -- or is it Walt? -- "Some of our best friends are Rosicrucians."
"Wait," the guy says. "I ... what?"
"Not now," House says. "Get in." Behind him he can hear Kitten Guy introducing himself.
"Hello there," Kitten Guy says. "Your name's Trudie? That's a fine name. My name's Barlow Waltrip. Would you like to see my box of kittens?"
After that, it's quiet for about ten minutes until Peyton and Crib show up, a couple of young hunters in winter camo, shotguns -- in locked cases -- and a huge red cooler sitting between them on the hard-packed snow.
"Please tell me that's full of beer," House says.
"Sorry," says Peyton. "Mallards, mostly. Few mergansers."
"Our truck," says Crib, in a tone of explanation and apology.
"It's okay," Wilson assures them, as everyone shuffles and shifts, making room. "I'm James Wilson, and -- "
"Roy G. Biv," House says. "Merry Christmas!" He sneaks a peek; Wilson's face has turned an interesting shade of red.
One of the hunters, House isn't sure which, produces a duck call from one pocket and blows into it to amuse Trudie.
QUONK, goes the duck call. QUONK QUONK
"Quack!" Trudie joins in. "Quack quack!"
Peyton grins. "That's right, little lady," he says. "Look here, we've got somebody here I think you'd like to meet."
And of course, they've brought their dog -- an enormous black Lab with frosty fur and panting breath, who scrambles inside the van and immediately snuffles the box in Barlow Waltrip's lap, lifting the lid with her nose and provoking an outraged "Mraarrrrrr!" from the kittens. Slobber flies everywhere.
QUONK QUONK
"Doggie!" Trudie cries. "Daddy, Poppy, I want a dog!"
"Down, Cricket," Peyton admonishes.
The van shudders as the dog bounces between the seats, joyfully barking.
"She was a bitty pup and she couldn't bark like her brothers," Crib explains. "She'd try and all'd come out was this chirp-chirp-chirp sound, so we named her Cricket."
"What's next?" House grumbles. "Goats? Chickens? A lamb?"
"Bit early for lambs, son," the old man replies. "Still gotta shear, vaccinate, and do the pour. Got the barn all heat up, though."
House blinks, but the old man doesn't crack a smile. A few feet away, Melanie seems to have fallen asleep amidst the noise, her head tucked into her husband's shoulder, his arms holding her tight. Even in sleep, she looks exhausted. House looks away. Not his problem.
With ten warm, snow-dampened humans and one large dog in residence, the van has combined all the worst features of a cloud forest and a sauna into one stifling, stinking environment. A milk-white layer of frost coats the insides of the glass surfaces, condensation drips from the ridiculous sunroof, and House uses a judicious fingertip to sketch out a drawing on the nearest window.
"Poppy, what's that?"
Walt leans close and squints. "I'm not sure, honey." He turns a questioning glance toward House. "Is it a dragon?"
"It's an ulcerated colon," House says.
Trudie frowns. "But what does it mean?"
"Hopefully you'll never find out. Can you read?"
Trudie's frown changes to a proud smile. "Yes!"
"Then tell me what this spells," he says, and starts to trace a series of letters.
"P ... E ... N ... "
"Stop that," Wilson growls in his ear, causing House to smear the next letter.
"Spoilsport," House mutters. He backtracks, writing PIG in front of the PEN.
"You draw the pig," he instructs Trudie, "and I'll draw the pen."
The end result is something out of a nightmare: a round, bloated body, five legs and a yard-long spring for a tail, behind a set of bars that are suspiciously prison-like.
"Lotta ham on that pig," Waltrip remarks.
"We don't eat ham," Trudie says. "We're Jewish." She adds an extra flourish to the pig's mouth so that it looks like he's smiling, and looks up at House. "Do you eat ham?"
"What are you doing out here?" House says. "You with your two daddies, out in the middle of nowhere?"
"You're answering a question with a question," Trudie says primly.
"So what's the answer?"
"We're from Connecticut," Trudie says. "Poppy's daddy lives in Kalispell."
"You are really lost," House mutters.
"'Not all those who wander are lost,'" Trudie chirps. House stares at her.
"Trudie's a ... uh ... big fan," Tom says. "You know, of -- "
"Lord of the Rings. Yeah, I got it."
"We're reading all the books," Trudie informs him. "I've seen the movies, and I've seen The Hobbits's five times already! Next we're gonna read The Silmarillion, and for Halloween I'm gonna be Eowyn!"
"Legolas is way prettier," House says.
Trudie giggles. "You're funny," she says.
"You don't know the half of it."
It's at that moment that someone in the endless jam of stopped cars starts honking, which sets Cricket to barking again, deep-chested woofs! that set off the kittens in the box, who start yowling, and Crib and Peyton, who both start shouting at Cricket to hush up. Trudie begins to laugh, and with all the noise it takes both House and Wilson a minute to realize that Mike Copeland is also shouting.
"My wife's in labor!" he's yelling. "Her water's broken! Could I get some help over here? Please! Help us!"
"I never want to do that again," House growls. He's watching the empty darkness, well after midnight in this old slice of nowhere, through the window of the new car -- a real car, this time, a nimble little Nissan, with room for just four people, five at the most, not that House is ever going to invite five people into this car. It had taken Wilson a while to convince the rental agent that they hadn't butchered a deer in the minivan -- as it turned out, the cell phone footage Walt Kovak had filmed of the ambulance making its way through the traffic and of the new mother holding her baby had done the trick.
It's almost stopped snowing, here on the eastern side of Billings, and the roads are clear.
"You never want to be a doctor again?" Wilson murmurs. He's jacking with the radio again, pulling in the ghost of a late-night broadcast from Chicago.
"No more babies," House says. "Too messy. And then the parents turn out to be ingrates."
"You're just pissed that they're naming it after me."
"It was a girl!"
"They're naming her Jamie," Wilson says, the smug bastard.
"Well, it's not like you did anything," House says. "Other than head up the cheerleading team."
"I cut the cord!" Wilson protests.
"With the old guy's knife!"
"Barlow Waltrip," Wilson says. "His name was Barlow Waltrip."
"I got my Case knife with me, if you boys wanna borrow it," House singsongs in a raspy wheeze. Wilson doesn't say anything, but House can tell by the tightening of Wilson's jaw and the crinkles around his eyes that he's trying not to laugh. Or maybe cry.
House drags a hand across his face; he can still smell the antiseptic soap from the private facilities at the Pelican Truck Plaza where he and Wilson had showered and scrubbed away all the disgusting bodily fluids that accompanied giving birth. He's not sure what the others did -- Crib had gotten the worst of it, but Crib, it had turned out, was a seasoned EMT and didn't seem to mind. He and Peyton had elected to stay with their truck, and Crib had probably just gone out and rolled in the snow with Cricket. The last he'd seen of Trudie, she'd been cuddling one of Barlow Waltrip's kittens as the old man had waved goodbye.
"I think Barlow Waltrip was possibly the reincarnation of Doc Holliday," Wilson says. "Mild-mannered farmer by day, traveling surgeon by night."
"That's what you could do," House says. He slants his voice into the same approximate drawl as Waltrip's. "You could just travel the west, deliverin' the babies for those in need."
"Is that what I could do," Wilson says, and now he is smiling, or trying not to.
"Ah-yup," House says, still in the same drawl. "And sooner or later, somebody'd come to town, wanting to kill you. And then you'd have to call me."
"You?"
House points an index-finger gun barrel at the windshield and cocks his thumb. "Ka-pow," he says, and blows imaginary smoke from his fingertip. In the back of his mind a memory stirs -- a mirror, another mock gunfight, another friend from when this all started. He takes another sip of the high-octane truck stop coffee.
"But why would anyone want to kill me?" Wilson wonders.
"Anyone who would suggest this insane road trip deserves to die," House says, in as ominous a voice he can muster.
"Hey," Wilson says. "You know the Cannonball Run thing was your idea in the first place."
"Smokey and the Bandit, and you took me up on it. And you were sober at the time, while I was up to my eyeballs in Cuervo."
"Look at it this way," Wilson says. "Your eyeballs got to see Cape Alava. Westernmost point of the contiguous United States, nothing beyond that but the Pacific Ocean." He leaves off his Wikipedia lesson and looks around, eyebrows furrowed. "Where's the list?" he says. "Where's that page you printed off?"
"In my backpack," House says. "I don't need it. I know what's next. West Quoddy Head, in Lubec, Maine. It's a lighthouse." No reason for Wilson to know just yet what else is in House's backpack -- a Quaker Boy "Ruttin' Fever" Bull Elk Bugle call and a Montana State University cap. A theme mascot cap, which in this case means a demented plush bobcat with plastic antlers sprouting from its head, very much a genetic experiment gone tragically, hideously wrong. He'd picked them up in the truck plaza's Cedar ‘n Sage gift shop while Wilson was shampooing his precious hair, and plans to demonstrate both at the appropriate time. Possibly during breakfast.
"And after that?" Wilson says, oblivious to House's cunning plan.
"Ballast Key, Florida. We'll probably have to sneak in -- it's private property."
"At least it'll be warm," Wilson sighs. "I want to be warm."
"You can be warm in the hotel pool in Bismarck," House says.
The station in Chicago fades in and out, and in the east, the horizon grows brighter. Wilson flips down the sun visor just as the static clears and Perry Como or someone like him is singing about tidings of comfort and joy.
"Isn't this over already?" House says.
"I think, technically, it's Christmas morning," Wilson says.
"About time," House says. "Then it'll be 365 days before we have to deliver another stupid baby."
Wilson shakes his head, but he's smiling.
"Merry Christmas, House," he says.
House sighs. "Merry Christmas, Wilson."
~ fin
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