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nightdog_barksPosting this evening in serial form. Moving up in order to add stats, warnings, and an explanation that this is AU!Crack.
ETA:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
asynca has raised the interesting question as to whether this is crack or just AU. What do other folks think?
ETA 2: Posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson and sick_wilson.
TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A soft "R" for this chapter; subsequent chapters may be rated differently.
WARNINGS: None for this chapter.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is strictly a by-product of the "What If?" machine that runs in my head. It's full of action/adventure, mysterious strangers, incredible coincidences, and suspenseful cliffhangers. At least, I hope it is. I also hurt Wilson. A lot. But I'll give fair warning when those chapters are posted.
This fic is complete and will be posted a chapter at a time over the next eleven days. The total word count is somewhere around 30,000.
Thanks as always to those absolutely incredible First Readers, who devoured each section and kept coming back for more.
BETA: Silverjackal, who said, "I'll keep that in mind."
lj cut here
Welcome to Wherever You Are
Chapter One
Acting on your best behavior,
Turn your back on Mother Nature --
Everybody wants to rule the world.
Wilson sang along, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. House's theme song, he thought wryly. He's always wanted to rule the lives of everyone around him, and now that he's beaten Tritter at his own game, he's worse than ever.
The entire ugly mess had come to a head a few months ago. When the trial itself had ended in a spectacular train wreck, with House getting off scot-free and the investigating officer disgraced, he'd been cocky and insufferable ever since. Of course, he was that way all the time. It was just that now he was more so.
He felt his heartrate beginning to rise and forced himself to concentrate on the Nevada countryside rolling past. It had been good to get away from the conference in Las Vegas on this last day. He'd already given his speech, had done the meet-and-greet, led the symposium on MDR1 gene polymorphisms, wined and dined potential donors -- in short, he'd done everything that was required of him as the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. When his colleague and fellow McGill alum Dr. Winston Sen had tossed a set of car keys to him in the lobby of the hotel, Wilson had caught them and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"You look exhausted, Jim," Winston had said. "Take my car and get away from here for the rest of the afternoon."
Wilson's protest was automatic. "I appreciate the offer, but there's just not enough time." Too much work still to be done, calls to make, need to check that class on thyroid neoplasms --
"Come on," Dr. Sen cajoled. "You'll love it." He lowered his voice and continued speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "My birthday was this week, so Lira surprised me, rented something special. See the keys?" Wilson looked down, ran his thumb over a familiar symbol.
"A baby Benz," Winston grinned. "A sweet little CLK550, eight cylinders powered by three hundred eighty-two big horses."
"Go on," he urged, still seeing doubt in Wilson's eyes. "It'll be good for you. I'm leaving tonight anyway and I can catch the hotel shuttle, so just check it back in at McCarran when you go home tomorrow. The rental papers are in the glove compartment."
Wilson stared at the keys for just a moment longer, then closed his hand over them. Why not? he thought. I'm always doing what other people expect of me, so why not do this one thing for myself?
"Thanks, Win," he said, and meant it.
The sun was beginning to settle below the western horizon by the time Wilson turned the convertible around and headed back to the city.
He'd been driving for what seemed like hours, taking the back roads, enjoying the rush of wind in his face. The ever-present knots of tension in his muscles had gradually loosened, lulled away by the purring growl of the little car's engine. He had deliberately banished all thoughts of the hospital, of inter-departmental politics, of House from his mind, and concentrated instead on the music coming from the radio and his own slightly off-key singing. He wasn't even sure where he was, but the lights of Vegas shimmered in the distance like the Emerald City and he knew it would be easy to find his way back.
There was a sudden cross-breeze, and a stray tissue that had been resting on the floorboards swirled up and brushed past his face on its way out of the car. Wilson cursed and made a grab for it, but it was already too late as the thin, gauzy piece of paper sailed out of the back of the convertible.
It was at that moment that the red and blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror.
Wilson cursed again.
"License and registration, sir."
The cop was tall and broad-shouldered. Even though the twilight was growing deeper and the shadows lengthening, he still wore a mirrored pair of aviator sunglasses that reflected Wilson's own face back at him.
"Here's my license, Officer," he said, "but this is a rental car and the contract's in the glove compartment --" Wilson started to reach across the center console.
"Sir!" the cop barked. Wilson froze. The patrol officer's right hand had drifted down and was hovering above the service revolver strapped to his hip.
"Please keep your hands where I can see them, sir."
"I ... uh ... yes. Sorry." Wilson laughed nervously. "Guess you guys can't be too careful nowadays."
The cop ignored him as he studied Wilson's license.
"This is a New Jersey driver's license," he said at last.
Wilson blinked.
"Um ... yes, it is."
The officer's eyes were unreadable behind the dark shades.
"Do you have any other identification, sir?"
Wilson opened his wallet again and pulled out his hospital photo i.d.
"What's going on, Officer?" he asked cautiously. "Is there something wrong?"
The cop had taken his hospital card and was holding it between two fingers as if it were something dirty.
"Yes sir," the patrolman said calmly. "I'd say doing eighty in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone is something wrong."
Wilson's jaw dropped.
"What?" He twisted around in the driver's seat, looking behind him. The cop's partner was standing by the Mercedes' trunk, watching Wilson's every move. His right hand was resting on the grip of his pistol.
Wilson turned slowly back and licked his suddenly dry lips.
"I'm sorry ... I didn't see any signs," he said.
The officer tapped Wilson's license and hospital i.d. against the fingernails of one hand.
"Speed limit within the locality of Hellebore is thirty-five miles per hour, sir. Wait here a moment, please."
And with that, the cop turned on his heel and walked away.
Wilson watched in his rear-view mirror as the two patrolmen briefly conferred, and he swallowed again as the officer holding his identification disappeared into the black-and-white police cruiser.
"The locality of Hellebore ..."
What locality? What did that even mean? There wasn't a sign of human habitation as far as his eyes could see, and he was pretty damn sure he hadn't passed any signs for any towns.
"Sir, would you please step out of the car?"
Wilson started. He hadn't even heard the patrol officer's return.
"Is there a problem with my i.d., Officer?" There couldn't be, Wilson knew that, but he needed to buy a little time while he tried to figure out what was going on.
"Sir, I'm asking you to step out of the car."
Moving slowly and carefully, Wilson started to unbuckle his seat belt.
"This is a speed trap, isn't it?" he said. "Okay, that's ... okay. I'd appreciate it if you could just go ahead and write my ticket now."
The cop's jaw worked, up and down, and for the first time Wilson realized the man was chewing gum.
"Sir," the officer said. His voice was very calm. "Out of the car. Now."
Wilson turned his head just enough to see the cop's partner. The other patrolman was still standing by the convertible's rear bumper, but his hand wasn't resting near his gun anymore.
He was in a two-fisted shooter's stance, and was aiming it directly at Wilson's head.
"What --" Wilson's voice caught, and he tried again. "This ... this is crazy!"
"No sir," the cop said, even as he opened the driver's door and reached inside.
"This is Hellebore."
Wilson lay on the cot trying desperately not to panic. The mattress (if such a pathetically thin piece of ticking could be called such) provided no protection against the cold lattice of the cot's metal frame that held it in place.
The cot. Which was in the jail cell he currently occupied. In the Hellebore County Jail. In Hellebore, Nevada.
Which was, as far as he could tell, the single worst place he could possibly be.
Wilson shivered, still trying to make sense of what had happened after the cops had pulled him over.
The broad-shouldered patrol officer had pulled him out of the car, cuffed his hands behind his back, frog-marched him to the police cruiser and stuffed him into the back seat.
He'd read him his rights, so familiar to Wilson's ears from movies and TV shows. His voice had been flat, like he didn't really care if Wilson was listening or not.
The other officer had gotten in, shut the door, and they'd driven off, leaving Winston Sen's birthday convertible parked on the very edge of the road like a lonely silver bullet.
They'd driven through the night, first along the main highway, then along twisty side roads, then caliche gravel paths, and finally a single long dirt trace that had led into the locality of Hellebore.
The town was completely dark, the storefronts like ghostly false dollhouse constructs. They'd pulled in right beside a large frame building, hauled him out of the cruiser, pushed open a creaky front door and led him inside.
Inside it was light -- a spacious room, with lots of blue-uniformed cops milling around, and a blond, husky Sergeant behind the duty desk.
"Wilson," Wilson's arresting officer had stated, holding onto Wilson's left arm. "James E. Princeton-Plainsboro. That one. We called him in."
The desk officer hadn't even looked up.
"Cell 2B," he said, making a notation in the logbook open before him.
And that was how Wilson had ended up here, on a narrow, uncomfortable cot, in a cold jail cell, in Hellebore fucking Nevada.
He shivered again.
This was wrong on so many levels.
No one had answered his questions. That's how they'd started out, as questions. They'd escalated into forceful questions, then demands, then pleas.
None of them had worked.
"Where am I?"
Silence.
"What the hell is going on?"
Silence.
"Look, I need to know what's going on!"
Nothing.
"Hey, don't I get a phone call?"
They'd shoved him into the cell, closing the door behind him. The rough rattle of keys and a loud click! told him they'd locked it.
"God damn it, what's happening here?"
They'd walked away down the hall, switching off the lights and leaving him alone.
In his cell.
"Get up."
Wilson shifted and groaned softly. His back was killing him.
"What time izzit?" he mumbled, not bothering to look at his wrist. His watch had been the first thing they'd taken from him. After that they'd taken his shoes and his tie, as he'd stood there in their grasp, breathing silently through his nose.
"Get up," the voice repeated. Wilson turned over and stretched. A uniformed guard tossed something onto his chest; it landed with a soft flop!, and he jerked and then squinted.
Orange. A bundle of ... clothes. An orange prison jumpsuit.
No, some small awake part of his mind was chanting. This is important, no, no, no.
"No," Wilson said. "I want a lawyer."
"Too bad," the guard said, and Tasered him.
"What are the charges?"
Wilson blinked, and swayed on his feet, kept upright only by the strong hands of his two arresting officers on either side of him. His wrists had been cuffed again, and he felt nauseous -- an aftereffect of the Taser shock, he knew, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the sickness.
"Lawyer," he whispered, trying to swallow down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. "Want lawyer. I'm entitled ... to an attorney ..."
The cops ignored him, and addressed the judge instead.
"Speeding, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer," one of the patrolmen declared.
"And littering," the other one added. "Don't forget the littering."
"Uh ..." Wilson tried to interrupt, but events were already moving past him.
"I think he was drunk and disorderly too, Judge," the first officer said.
Wilson twisted around, trying to take in the makeshift courtroom. There seemed to be daylight peeking in the one barred window, set high in the wall. Was it dawn already? Had he really been here all night?
His orange jail uniform seemed to glow in the shifting light. The guard had calmly informed Wilson that if he continued to refuse to put it on, he'd simply be Tasered again, stripped, and the guards would put it on for him. Still reeling from the powerful shock and frightened at the prospect of the guards' hands on his body, Wilson had reluctantly complied.
"Not right," he muttered. "This's ... not right. Lawyer."
The guards' grips tightened on his arms, and he flexed his wrists, pulling at the handcuffs.
"Dr. Wilson!"
Wilson looked up. The judge, a heavy-set man whose jaw had been working the entire time they'd been there, was speaking to him.
"Dr. Wilson," the judge repeated. "James Wilson, Head of Oncology, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."
Wilson gasped, and his spirits rose. The judge knew who he was!
"Best friend of Dr. Gregory House."
Wilson's breath froze in his lungs.
The judge leaned closer, almost crouching over his desk, and for the first time Wilson noticed his white hair, his piercing eyes.
"My nephew Michael told me you said you'd go to jail for your friend, Dr. Wilson." The judge settled back in his chair and gathered his robes about him. "Well. Since you've waived your right to an attorney, you're going to get your wish. We'll see if Dr. House is as good a friend as you seem to believe he is."
The gavel came down. It was a hard, final sound against the surface of the wooden desk.
"Bail denied, remanded to Hellebore County custody. Thirty days hard labor. Case closed!"
"No," Wilson murmured, then "No!" again. "Wait just a minute! I never waived my right to an attorney! I never even got a phone call!" He began to struggle against his captors. The patrol officers tightened their grip, and only now did he see his second arresting officer's black plastic nametag.
Tritter, Joseph K.
"God," he breathed. "Oh, God, no! What's going on here? Who are you people?" The voice of the judge rang in his ears. My nephew --
Wilson tried to kick, to twist away.
"Hold him," someone yelled. "Hold the bastard!"
There was a blue flash, an almost subliminal zap!, and Wilson sank down into blackness.
~ tbc
NOTES:
Complete lyrics of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" may be found here.
Wilson's conference topics are real; more information about them may be found here and here.
ETA:
asynca has raised the interesting question as to whether this is crack or just AU. What do other folks think?ETA 2: Posted to
house_wilson and sick_wilson.TITLE: Welcome to Wherever You Are
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs
RATING: A soft "R" for this chapter; subsequent chapters may be rated differently.
WARNINGS: None for this chapter.
SPOILERS: Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.
SUMMARY: Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is strictly a by-product of the "What If?" machine that runs in my head. It's full of action/adventure, mysterious strangers, incredible coincidences, and suspenseful cliffhangers. At least, I hope it is. I also hurt Wilson. A lot. But I'll give fair warning when those chapters are posted.
This fic is complete and will be posted a chapter at a time over the next eleven days. The total word count is somewhere around 30,000.
Thanks as always to those absolutely incredible First Readers, who devoured each section and kept coming back for more.
BETA: Silverjackal, who said, "I'll keep that in mind."
lj cut here
Welcome to Wherever You Are
Chapter One
Acting on your best behavior,
Turn your back on Mother Nature --
Everybody wants to rule the world.
Wilson sang along, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. House's theme song, he thought wryly. He's always wanted to rule the lives of everyone around him, and now that he's beaten Tritter at his own game, he's worse than ever.
The entire ugly mess had come to a head a few months ago. When the trial itself had ended in a spectacular train wreck, with House getting off scot-free and the investigating officer disgraced, he'd been cocky and insufferable ever since. Of course, he was that way all the time. It was just that now he was more so.
He felt his heartrate beginning to rise and forced himself to concentrate on the Nevada countryside rolling past. It had been good to get away from the conference in Las Vegas on this last day. He'd already given his speech, had done the meet-and-greet, led the symposium on MDR1 gene polymorphisms, wined and dined potential donors -- in short, he'd done everything that was required of him as the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. When his colleague and fellow McGill alum Dr. Winston Sen had tossed a set of car keys to him in the lobby of the hotel, Wilson had caught them and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"You look exhausted, Jim," Winston had said. "Take my car and get away from here for the rest of the afternoon."
Wilson's protest was automatic. "I appreciate the offer, but there's just not enough time." Too much work still to be done, calls to make, need to check that class on thyroid neoplasms --
"Come on," Dr. Sen cajoled. "You'll love it." He lowered his voice and continued speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "My birthday was this week, so Lira surprised me, rented something special. See the keys?" Wilson looked down, ran his thumb over a familiar symbol.
"A baby Benz," Winston grinned. "A sweet little CLK550, eight cylinders powered by three hundred eighty-two big horses."
"Go on," he urged, still seeing doubt in Wilson's eyes. "It'll be good for you. I'm leaving tonight anyway and I can catch the hotel shuttle, so just check it back in at McCarran when you go home tomorrow. The rental papers are in the glove compartment."
Wilson stared at the keys for just a moment longer, then closed his hand over them. Why not? he thought. I'm always doing what other people expect of me, so why not do this one thing for myself?
"Thanks, Win," he said, and meant it.
The sun was beginning to settle below the western horizon by the time Wilson turned the convertible around and headed back to the city.
He'd been driving for what seemed like hours, taking the back roads, enjoying the rush of wind in his face. The ever-present knots of tension in his muscles had gradually loosened, lulled away by the purring growl of the little car's engine. He had deliberately banished all thoughts of the hospital, of inter-departmental politics, of House from his mind, and concentrated instead on the music coming from the radio and his own slightly off-key singing. He wasn't even sure where he was, but the lights of Vegas shimmered in the distance like the Emerald City and he knew it would be easy to find his way back.
There was a sudden cross-breeze, and a stray tissue that had been resting on the floorboards swirled up and brushed past his face on its way out of the car. Wilson cursed and made a grab for it, but it was already too late as the thin, gauzy piece of paper sailed out of the back of the convertible.
It was at that moment that the red and blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror.
Wilson cursed again.
"License and registration, sir."
The cop was tall and broad-shouldered. Even though the twilight was growing deeper and the shadows lengthening, he still wore a mirrored pair of aviator sunglasses that reflected Wilson's own face back at him.
"Here's my license, Officer," he said, "but this is a rental car and the contract's in the glove compartment --" Wilson started to reach across the center console.
"Sir!" the cop barked. Wilson froze. The patrol officer's right hand had drifted down and was hovering above the service revolver strapped to his hip.
"Please keep your hands where I can see them, sir."
"I ... uh ... yes. Sorry." Wilson laughed nervously. "Guess you guys can't be too careful nowadays."
The cop ignored him as he studied Wilson's license.
"This is a New Jersey driver's license," he said at last.
Wilson blinked.
"Um ... yes, it is."
The officer's eyes were unreadable behind the dark shades.
"Do you have any other identification, sir?"
Wilson opened his wallet again and pulled out his hospital photo i.d.
"What's going on, Officer?" he asked cautiously. "Is there something wrong?"
The cop had taken his hospital card and was holding it between two fingers as if it were something dirty.
"Yes sir," the patrolman said calmly. "I'd say doing eighty in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone is something wrong."
Wilson's jaw dropped.
"What?" He twisted around in the driver's seat, looking behind him. The cop's partner was standing by the Mercedes' trunk, watching Wilson's every move. His right hand was resting on the grip of his pistol.
Wilson turned slowly back and licked his suddenly dry lips.
"I'm sorry ... I didn't see any signs," he said.
The officer tapped Wilson's license and hospital i.d. against the fingernails of one hand.
"Speed limit within the locality of Hellebore is thirty-five miles per hour, sir. Wait here a moment, please."
And with that, the cop turned on his heel and walked away.
Wilson watched in his rear-view mirror as the two patrolmen briefly conferred, and he swallowed again as the officer holding his identification disappeared into the black-and-white police cruiser.
"The locality of Hellebore ..."
What locality? What did that even mean? There wasn't a sign of human habitation as far as his eyes could see, and he was pretty damn sure he hadn't passed any signs for any towns.
"Sir, would you please step out of the car?"
Wilson started. He hadn't even heard the patrol officer's return.
"Is there a problem with my i.d., Officer?" There couldn't be, Wilson knew that, but he needed to buy a little time while he tried to figure out what was going on.
"Sir, I'm asking you to step out of the car."
Moving slowly and carefully, Wilson started to unbuckle his seat belt.
"This is a speed trap, isn't it?" he said. "Okay, that's ... okay. I'd appreciate it if you could just go ahead and write my ticket now."
The cop's jaw worked, up and down, and for the first time Wilson realized the man was chewing gum.
"Sir," the officer said. His voice was very calm. "Out of the car. Now."
Wilson turned his head just enough to see the cop's partner. The other patrolman was still standing by the convertible's rear bumper, but his hand wasn't resting near his gun anymore.
He was in a two-fisted shooter's stance, and was aiming it directly at Wilson's head.
"What --" Wilson's voice caught, and he tried again. "This ... this is crazy!"
"No sir," the cop said, even as he opened the driver's door and reached inside.
"This is Hellebore."
Wilson lay on the cot trying desperately not to panic. The mattress (if such a pathetically thin piece of ticking could be called such) provided no protection against the cold lattice of the cot's metal frame that held it in place.
The cot. Which was in the jail cell he currently occupied. In the Hellebore County Jail. In Hellebore, Nevada.
Which was, as far as he could tell, the single worst place he could possibly be.
Wilson shivered, still trying to make sense of what had happened after the cops had pulled him over.
The broad-shouldered patrol officer had pulled him out of the car, cuffed his hands behind his back, frog-marched him to the police cruiser and stuffed him into the back seat.
He'd read him his rights, so familiar to Wilson's ears from movies and TV shows. His voice had been flat, like he didn't really care if Wilson was listening or not.
The other officer had gotten in, shut the door, and they'd driven off, leaving Winston Sen's birthday convertible parked on the very edge of the road like a lonely silver bullet.
They'd driven through the night, first along the main highway, then along twisty side roads, then caliche gravel paths, and finally a single long dirt trace that had led into the locality of Hellebore.
The town was completely dark, the storefronts like ghostly false dollhouse constructs. They'd pulled in right beside a large frame building, hauled him out of the cruiser, pushed open a creaky front door and led him inside.
Inside it was light -- a spacious room, with lots of blue-uniformed cops milling around, and a blond, husky Sergeant behind the duty desk.
"Wilson," Wilson's arresting officer had stated, holding onto Wilson's left arm. "James E. Princeton-Plainsboro. That one. We called him in."
The desk officer hadn't even looked up.
"Cell 2B," he said, making a notation in the logbook open before him.
And that was how Wilson had ended up here, on a narrow, uncomfortable cot, in a cold jail cell, in Hellebore fucking Nevada.
He shivered again.
This was wrong on so many levels.
No one had answered his questions. That's how they'd started out, as questions. They'd escalated into forceful questions, then demands, then pleas.
None of them had worked.
"Where am I?"
Silence.
"What the hell is going on?"
Silence.
"Look, I need to know what's going on!"
Nothing.
"Hey, don't I get a phone call?"
They'd shoved him into the cell, closing the door behind him. The rough rattle of keys and a loud click! told him they'd locked it.
"God damn it, what's happening here?"
They'd walked away down the hall, switching off the lights and leaving him alone.
In his cell.
"Get up."
Wilson shifted and groaned softly. His back was killing him.
"What time izzit?" he mumbled, not bothering to look at his wrist. His watch had been the first thing they'd taken from him. After that they'd taken his shoes and his tie, as he'd stood there in their grasp, breathing silently through his nose.
"Get up," the voice repeated. Wilson turned over and stretched. A uniformed guard tossed something onto his chest; it landed with a soft flop!, and he jerked and then squinted.
Orange. A bundle of ... clothes. An orange prison jumpsuit.
No, some small awake part of his mind was chanting. This is important, no, no, no.
"No," Wilson said. "I want a lawyer."
"Too bad," the guard said, and Tasered him.
"What are the charges?"
Wilson blinked, and swayed on his feet, kept upright only by the strong hands of his two arresting officers on either side of him. His wrists had been cuffed again, and he felt nauseous -- an aftereffect of the Taser shock, he knew, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the sickness.
"Lawyer," he whispered, trying to swallow down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. "Want lawyer. I'm entitled ... to an attorney ..."
The cops ignored him, and addressed the judge instead.
"Speeding, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer," one of the patrolmen declared.
"And littering," the other one added. "Don't forget the littering."
"Uh ..." Wilson tried to interrupt, but events were already moving past him.
"I think he was drunk and disorderly too, Judge," the first officer said.
Wilson twisted around, trying to take in the makeshift courtroom. There seemed to be daylight peeking in the one barred window, set high in the wall. Was it dawn already? Had he really been here all night?
His orange jail uniform seemed to glow in the shifting light. The guard had calmly informed Wilson that if he continued to refuse to put it on, he'd simply be Tasered again, stripped, and the guards would put it on for him. Still reeling from the powerful shock and frightened at the prospect of the guards' hands on his body, Wilson had reluctantly complied.
"Not right," he muttered. "This's ... not right. Lawyer."
The guards' grips tightened on his arms, and he flexed his wrists, pulling at the handcuffs.
"Dr. Wilson!"
Wilson looked up. The judge, a heavy-set man whose jaw had been working the entire time they'd been there, was speaking to him.
"Dr. Wilson," the judge repeated. "James Wilson, Head of Oncology, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."
Wilson gasped, and his spirits rose. The judge knew who he was!
"Best friend of Dr. Gregory House."
Wilson's breath froze in his lungs.
The judge leaned closer, almost crouching over his desk, and for the first time Wilson noticed his white hair, his piercing eyes.
"My nephew Michael told me you said you'd go to jail for your friend, Dr. Wilson." The judge settled back in his chair and gathered his robes about him. "Well. Since you've waived your right to an attorney, you're going to get your wish. We'll see if Dr. House is as good a friend as you seem to believe he is."
The gavel came down. It was a hard, final sound against the surface of the wooden desk.
"Bail denied, remanded to Hellebore County custody. Thirty days hard labor. Case closed!"
"No," Wilson murmured, then "No!" again. "Wait just a minute! I never waived my right to an attorney! I never even got a phone call!" He began to struggle against his captors. The patrol officers tightened their grip, and only now did he see his second arresting officer's black plastic nametag.
Tritter, Joseph K.
"God," he breathed. "Oh, God, no! What's going on here? Who are you people?" The voice of the judge rang in his ears. My nephew --
Wilson tried to kick, to twist away.
"Hold him," someone yelled. "Hold the bastard!"
There was a blue flash, an almost subliminal zap!, and Wilson sank down into blackness.
~ tbc
NOTES:
Complete lyrics of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" may be found here.
Wilson's conference topics are real; more information about them may be found here and here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 06:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 07:11 pm (UTC)I'm open to labeling it AU!Action/Adventure -- I'm curious to see what other folks think.
*edits post to solicit opinions*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 08:13 pm (UTC)Maybe I should just say this was a product of the "What If?" machine that runs almost constantly in my head ...
no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 09:46 pm (UTC)I'm not sure there are any hard-and-fast definitions of AU vs. Crack anywhere.
... (it seems odd to call anyone by that name...)
Heh. My real first name appears in at least one fic each from
no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 09:50 pm (UTC)...seems natural to be chatting on the internet before I start ;)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 09:57 pm (UTC)Does that make sense? Am I contradicting myself without realizing it? What's your thinking on what's an AU vs. a speculative fic vs. ...?
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Date: 2007-06-28 10:07 pm (UTC)...imho. I think this feels like an AU, because it deviates so far from what you would ordinarily expect fanfic about House and Wilson to be able.
But I'm not going to be shockingly offended if everyone disagrees with me ;)