SUMMARY: Oh, how I hate to wake up in the mornin'...
CHARACTERS: Wilson, House
RATING: R for language and themes.
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like more champagne?"
Yesica Toscanini smiles. It's a smoldering, sultry smile, just like the picture in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and Wilson can't help but smile back.
"You're too kind," she murmurs in her liquid Argentine accent, and Wilson glances down modestly. The summer meadow is sun-dappled, green and glowing in the slanting light. Birds are calling, a soft breeze stirs Yesica's long dark hair, and the champagne (Veuve Clicquot, with the familiar orange label) is perfectly chilled. He tips a little more of the bright, bubbling wine into her tall crystal flute. A bee buzzes at his ear, and he slaps at it absently.
Yesica plucks a strawberry from the flute and licks it, slowly.
The bee comes back, more loudly than before, and Wilson slaps at it again.
"Oh, James," Yesica breathes. The strawberry is now covered in melted dark chocolate, which she sucks off the fruit's skin. Slowly.
The buzzing gets louder, and Wilson frowns a little. It's a weird, metallic sound, as if the pristine meadow harbors cybernetic robot bees.
"Does this sound like an open A to you?" Yesica asks.
Wilson blinks at her. "What?"
Yesica pouts. "I said, Mr. Williams, does this sound like an open A?"
And suddenly it's not Yesica Toscanini sitting across from him, her trim, shapely legs drawn up under her trim, shapely, ass, it's—
"Mr. Williams!" Carla Jean chides. "Let's get you all nice and cleaned up now. My Billy will be here any minute and he's got a whole new wardrobe for you two to try on before everything's in key!"
Punishment, some part of Wilson's brain asserts cheerfully. Punishment for those mean, mean thoughts about her son.
"Here, Mr. Williams—you try this one on for size!" In Carla Jean's beefy hand, the champagne flute has become a stiletto-heeled crystal slipper.
Wilson shrieks and falls backward, but it's too late—the robot bees are everywhere, their shiny silver wings buzzing and buzzing and making his teeth ache, and when he finally realizes it's a dream, nothing but a bad, crazy dream, he opens his eyes to—
House, holding what looks for all the world like a two-tined fork in front of his eyes. A vibrating, two-tined fork.
"Wilson!" House barks. "What does this sound like to you?"
Wilson stares at him. Impatient, House strikes the tuning fork against the hospital bedframe, and instantly the sound of the summer bees fills the room.
"That's better," House mutters, and uses his free hand to aim a remote control at his CD player. The player blares to life, and Mick Jagger's voice informs the world at a virtually earth-shattering volume that he can't get no satisfaction. House's fingers race up and down his own guitar, the power chords ringing through the apartment, playing along with Keith Richards. On the bedside tray, Wilson's morning meds, water, and breakfast slush are already laid out. The plastic water bottle bounces a little bit every time the heavy bass kicks in.
"Come on, Wilson," House calls out. "Chow time! Gotta make sure you don't keel over in the shower." He leers suggestively at Wilson and waggles his eyebrows. "You do remember how to use a shower, don't you? Or do I have to call in more of my reliably Reliant evil minions?"
Wilson drops his head back on his pillow and groans.
He wishes he were strong enough to stick that damn water bottle in House's ear.
*** Yesica Toscanini is very real. You can read more about her (or just look at the pretty pictures) here.