Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG13-I think.
Summary: "Had he ever really listened to Wilson’s voice before?"
Spoiler for "Autopsy"
Warning: Nothing really happens and I have nowhere to go with it. If anyone wants to adopt it as a bunny, be my guest.
A/N:This was originally the second part of the story that started with Spring Fever . I wrote it under the influence of Robert Sean Leonard's voice and appearance in the PBS American Masters documentary about Eugene O'Neill.
Beta-ed by the lovely and talented Beta Goddess Carol.
Cross posted because I need the curry.
Stay tuned for scenes from the next general hospital.
House turned off the TV set in disgust. GH had managed to piss him off for the umpteenth day in a row. Sonny and Emily? What kind of crack monkeys were writing the show? He hadn’t been so annoyed since Jason dumped Liz for that heifer, Courtney. He rolled his chair back to then desk and turned on his computer. It was time for Jax_Is_A_Tool to get on line and start another anti-“Soily” post.
He was interrupted from a voice from the balcony. The door was open to take advantage of the spring breezes that had been warming up Southern Jersey after the long, cold lonely winter and making Cuddy wear those cute sun dresses. He only expected to hear bird songs and noise from the parking lot.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry I missed speaking to you last year.”
It must be Wilson rehearsing his speech for the Oncology Association dinner. Since he’d canceled last year, he owed the donors a real humdinger. House couldn’t resist the opportunity to go out and heckle his friend. He’d be doing Wilson a favor by helping improve his delivery. House came out to the balcony without his cane and was about to start pumping his fist in the air and yelling “Freebird!” when Wilson started the body of the speech.
“I want to tell you about a girl named Andie. Now, I’m sure each of you has known a cancer patient who was young or smart or brave, but this girl is all of those things. She has managed to touch people, even people who thought they couldn’t be touched.”
Normally House would scoff at the blatant manipulation of trotting out poor Andie to wring tears and money from the big donors. Furthermore, letting the girl hug him didn’t qualify as “being touched” in House’s book.
For some reason he found himself completely involved in Wilson’s speech as if he’d really cared about Andie instead of wanting to solve her puzzle.
“Dr. House asked if it was still illegal to do autopsies on living people. Naturally I was somewhat taken aback.”
Wilson’s voice was captivating him. It sounded different than the voice Wilson used for their games of verbal ping-pong, which had a justifiably guarded quality in case House threw the paddle and it became necessary to shoot back with “You’re an ass” or “Go to hell”. It wasn’t the emotional, almost but not quite crying voice, from after Vogler had Wilson voted off the board. This was Wilson speaking with warmth and humor about something he really cared about.
“The team rehearsed the procedure until they could do it perfectly.”
Had he ever really listened to Wilson’s voice before? Did it sound this moving at either of the weddings House had attended? Was this the voice he used to give terminal patients the bad news?
“The Oncology Association needs your support so that we can give all the Andies real hope and not just two more years.”
That must be the voice that had led three wives and who knew how many blonde thingies down the primrose path. House found himself wondering exactly how the voice sounded in the throes of passion, specifically saying his name. Greg. Oh, God! Greg.
“So thanks for coming tonight. Please be generous with your donations. Andie Terner and all the smart, brave, beautiful children are counting on you.”
House was still lost in an unseemly fantasy of Wilson saying things that had nothing to do with fundraising.
Now. Please. More. Right there.
“What do you think?” asked Wilson coming over to lean against the barrier.
“Huh? What happened?”
House shook himself back to reality. Down, boy. He told his own fundraiser.
“How many pills did you take today? The speech. What do you think of the speech? You probably think it’s a lot of sentimental slop.”
“No. It’s great. Every chick in the house will have runny mascara by the second paragraph.”
“I’ll take that as nauseating, but effective.”
“Big bucks for the bald kids. Will the brave little toaster herself be there?”
“Maybe. She’s had another round of chemo, so we’re waiting for a final OK for her to travel.”
House noticed that Wilson was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and two buttons undone and no tie. A breeze ruffled the front of his blow-dried hair.
House had been standing without his cane for longer than usual. The bad leg ached and something else was starting to feel blue.
“Gotta go. Very important case.”
He limped back to the comfort of his big chair and his little white friend.
OK, Greg. Get a grip. No, not on that. What the hell is going on? Take a voice plus a white shirt and some nice weather and you end up with what? A raging hard-on? Why now, after all these years?
He had nothing against the idea in general, but he’d never had this particular reaction before.
Are you sure you haven’t been repressing all along?
Yes, I’m sure, dammit.
Fine, no need to get testes.
House’s great debate was interrupted by a newsflash from Memory Lane. Wilson’s voice, sad and steady, floating towards him through a sea of pain, anger and Percocet telling him that Stacy had gone. House had thanked him.
Why would that memory show up now? To send that pesky erection back where it came from and to remind him that Wilson had seen him through the worst time in his life.
He looked up to find Cameron brandishing some papers with a euphoric look on her face. Either she’d won the lottery or she had an interesting case. House decided to take it even if it was something as mundane as Chicken Pox. He needed to focus on something other than Wilson’s voice, hair or the number of buttons open on his white shirt.