||[Sep. 30th, 2006|01:27 am]
Summary: Wilson suffers a personal crisis; will House be there for him? Will House even care?
Author's Notes: Based on a true story.
"Why?"came the pitiful blubber. Its sorrow rang true: like a story without aproper ending, or a squeaking, grating hinge without enough WD40. Its irritating whine echoed through the hall, digging deep and harsh into the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to hear. It refused to leave the hall, and the people in it, in peace. "Why?" blubbered again, louder. More nasal.
Although House knew he should probably just keep on walking, to the elevator, go home and drink a nice cup of paint thinner, maybe read a few chapters of that novel that he'd gotten from Cuddy last Christmas . . . but House was a curious man. Curious, indeed.
He pushed open thewooden door, the one with Dr. Wilson inscribed on it, and, really couldn't muster enough emotion to give a fuck about what was laid before him.
Wilson, his long time fourth floor companion, was draped over his desk, a bottle of Chardonnay dangling from booze-numbed fingertips. His hair was disheveled, and spoke stories. Stories with unhappy, twist endings, filled with jilted lovers and small children dying. As if sensing some universal cue, the moment House stepped intothe room, Wilson dropped the bottle, and blubbered his most blubbery blubber yet.
House did not have an answer for this; instead, watching. Just watching Wilson attempt to stand. To walk over to House, perhaps. To grab House's coat and shake the man, pelting him with the bullets of life's unanswerable questions. Why.
House would never find out, though, because that was when Wilson's stomach had had just about enough of this shit, and Wilson projectile vomited all over his office, chunks of lasagna made with all the love and care one man can give to his own meal spewed just everywhere. Chunks of it jiggled as it oriented itself on its new home of Wilson's carpet, catching the light and the various types of stomach fluids glistened. Acids, drunken drinks. That sort of thing.
Wilson wiped at his mouth, but it was a slovenly attempt, and did nothing but smear the bits of food this way and that on his chin; and now, his sleeve.
Wilson collapsed in a heap, then rolled slowly, making some of the most horrible mouth noises House had ever the misfortune of hearing!
House wanted to rip off his own ears, just to get some relief of this awful chorus of nails on a chalk board, screechy, death, but he refrained, and after a moment, he was able to translate it into English.
"Why am I like this? Why?"
Wilson's body flopped this way and that in his own vomit, tears streaming down his face, as he continued to ask.
This continued, for about an hour. Maybe two.
Finally,House had enough of watching this pathetic display. No longer would he passively watch this thing, this sniveling mess that used to be a man. He let his pants fall, dropping to his knees.
Silently, he brandished his massive, two block-long cock, and lifted it into the air.
THWACK! It slammed against Wilson's shoulder, and that seemed to be enough to clear Wilson's mind, but it wasn't enough for House! No, not for House! He'd had enough!
"H-House -- what are you -- Why are you--"
House paid no mind to the blubbering man's protests! Stoically, House continued his attack, raining down blows. THWACK! THWACK! Wilson would thank him, in the end. Again and again his gigantic, legendary cock descended, bruising the pasty white skin of the man beneath him. THWACK!!
"Why?" Wilson wailed.
And the bottle of chardonnay sat, silently. As if it was an audience to this display, this performance. True, true friendship.