Crossover Fic: Ten Percent Solution - Chapter 5

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A quick shout out to  Moondroplette by the way, for making me an icon for my story - you rock!

 

So after last night's luscious H/W banter, I feel invigorated to finish this bad boy!

It's slash

It's House/Wilson and Starsky/Hutch

None of them are mine; however they have promised to reenact whatever I write . . .

Starsky and Hutch, retired cops, need a doctor. They find House.  And Wilson.

Chapter One:  http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1330070.html#cutid1

Chapter Two: http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1330253.html#cutid1

Chapter Three: http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1333584.html#cutid1

Chapter Four: http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1336085.html?#cutid1

Ten Percent Solution - Chapter 5

Foreman beat him to Starsky’s room. Hutch was sitting on the edge of Starsky’s bed and the two were obviously engaged in a heated discussion. Well, Hutch was. Starsky just sat there, smiling. Nodding.

 

Wilson came up behind Foreman. “Where is he?”

 

“How do I know?” Foreman turned to Chase and Cameron. “I say we start the meds and wait for him to show up. Or you could sit here and wait for him. I’m going back to the office.”

 

Wilson walked over and talked to the nurses for a moment, and then returned. “I’ll start the Metyrosine. Chase, you check the Clinic and Cuddy’s office. Cameron, do the roof and the cafeteria . . .”

 

“Jimmy.” Starsky’s voice shot out of his room. Wilson hurried in.

 

“My partner here is starving. Do you think you could convince Dr. Cameron to take him down to the cafeteria and feed him?”

 

“I know where the cafeteria is.” Hutch stood.

 

“I’m headed down there anyway,” Cameron smiled as she stepped into the room. “I’d be happy to go with you.”

 

“See, Hutch? She’d be happy.” Starsky smiled. “And I need to talk to my cousin.”

 

Cameron tucked her arm in Hutch’s and, after a quick scowl back at Starsky, he led her out of the room. Wilson pulled a chair closer to the bed.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

Starsky frowned. “Feel like shit. Wanted him outta here so I could moan in peace. Feel like my skin’s crawling off.”

 

“We just ordered a medication that should take the edge off most of the symptoms.”

 

“Feel a little weird, too.”

 

Wilson stood and unwrapped his scope from around his neck. “Your chest feel tight?”

 

Starsky stopped him. “No, Jimmy. Weird, not sick. Feel like I’m going to die. All I keep thinking about is that I’m about to die and Hutch is not going to make it if I die and every time a nurse walks by I get this feeling that I’ve already died and the nurse is coming into tell Hutch . . .”

 

Wilson put a hand on Starsky’s arm. “It’s the tumor.”

 

“The tumor?”

 

“A symptom.”

 

“Feeling like I’m being stalked by the Grim Reaper is a symptom?”

 

“Yes – feelings of impending doom, an elevated level of anxiety . . .”

 

“Sounds about right. Oh hell, Hutch is never going to believe that one. He would have just told me it’s all in my head.” Starsky winced and sucked in a breath. “Any chance you got a secret stash like your buddy House?”

 

Wilson smiled. “No. They only allow one drug dependent physician on staff here. Insurance I guess.”

 

“He’s a piece of work, your House.”

 

“He’s not my-“

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever Jimmy. Just don’t waste all your time denying something for the sake of denying it, okay?”

 

Wilson shifted in his seat. “We’re friends.”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And how long you been in love with each other?”

 

“We’re not . . .”

 

“Oh yeah, I forgot. Well, let me tell you a little story, then.”

 

Wilson nodded and settled into his chair.

 

Starsky continued, “Once upon a long time ago, Hutch and I were tight like the two of you,” he held up his hand to stop Wilson’s protest. “Friends. Best friends. Partners. That’s all. We went through hell in those early days. Some tough cases. Real Elmo Leonard stuff. Well, you know. You read the files, right?”

 

“Right. And what I gathered between the lines of all the phone calls between your mother and mine . . .”

 

“Right. So, those days, you couldn’t slide a piece of paper between us, we were so close. Lived for each other. Died for each other.”

 

Wilson nodded. “But doesn’t some of that come with the territory? Band of Brothers? Brothers in Blue?”

 

“You read a lot of crime novels, don’t you Jimmy?”

 

“I read a lot of things, Davey.”

 

“Okay, so then we got stuck in something we couldn’t get out of . . .”

 

“James Gunther.”

 

“Yeah, James Gunther.”

 

For a moment Starsky stopped talking. Wilson could almost see the demons swirling.

 

Starsky waved a hand in the air, dispelling them all. “So you know I got shot up. For real. Six months recovery, cardiac arrest, infection, the whole nine yards. Ticker stopped right in front of Hutch. Twice. Just about killed him.”

 

“That’s why the MRI is out.”

 

“Yeah, fragments. Pain in my ass for years. But I guess if I’m being honest, I should start before I got shot. See, Jimmy – when there is a truth so obvious that you start to trip over it every day, it can wear on a person. And it just about wore us out. We were so busy finding ways not to be together, not to love each other, that we almost ended up hating each other. Hutch disappeared into booze and women, I hid behind my badge, got so goddamn officious I couldn’t even stand myself . . . until of course we tossed it all into the drink and then I got shot and at the end of it all, there was Hutch. Looking like crap. Big cheesy moustache. But still there. And I knew then it was time to stop denying the obvious truth. He was the one. Capital O.”

 

“But Hutch is not House, Davey.”

 

Starsky chuckled. “Jimmy, House is more like Hutch, from what I’ve seen, than even Hutch sometimes. Impatient, always thinks he’s right, stubborn, with a mysteriously rigid moral compass that needs a decoder ring to figure out – ring any bells?”

 

“You could say that about a lot of people . . .”

 

Starsky frowned. “Divorce number three not proof enough?”

 

Wilson fidgeted in his chair. “Proof enough that I shouldn’t be married.”

 

“Proof enough you ought to stop looking out in the world and start checking out the person who’s been standing beside you all this time. That’s all. I’ve seen the way you guys look at each other. Surprised everyone else around you hasn’t noticed yet.”

 

“There’s nothing to notice. We’re . . .”

 

“Friends. Yeah, got that. But just to finish my story . . .” Starsky raised an eyebrow.

 

Wilson held up both hands. Tugged at his tie. Wondered how soon the sweat forming on his forehead would trickle down into his eyes. Hoped Starsky didn’t notice that every word was slamming into him like a fist to his gut.

 

“. . . and so I just leaned in and it was over.”

 

Hell. Wilson had missed it. The story. The happy ending. The guidebook on how to go from House’s friend to House’s more than friend. He smiled, hoping Starsky wouldn’t notice and told himself the disappointment he felt had nothing to do with his sudden interest in the correct steps. In the guidebook. In the idea . . .

 

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you Jimmy?”

 

“I. . . uh . . “

 

“Already plotting your own search and destroy campaign?”

 

“Well, I  . . .”

 

“I’d get him drunk first. Guys like House need to be lubricated before they come around.”

 

“This a private party, girls?” House said from the doorway. “Or can anyone come?”

 

Wilson stood quickly, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his lab coat, turned and put both hands on his hips.

 

“Where have you been?” Wilson tried to look stern. Failed.

 

House ignored him and walked to the end of Starsky’s bed. “Where’s the old lion?”

 

“Dr. Cameron is feeding him.”

 

“I hope she brought her whip and chair.”

 

“If she didn’t, I’m sure Hutch will let her use his.”

 

House snorted and then turned to Wilson. “Did you kill all your patients?”

 

“I’m just making sure you don’t kill yours.” Wilson stood his ground.

 

House stared at Wilson for a moment. Then took a step to the left. Wilson took a step to his right, mirroring House’s move. House moved back right and Wilson followed. House tried a fake right, step left, but Wilson was undaunted. Starsky chuckled and clapped twice.

 

“See, you two are already great dance partners.”

 

“House, don’t.” Wilson moved a step closer to House, into his path. Into his space. They stood that way for a moment – Wilson wondering when House would call his bluff and House wondering why he could feel his pulse in his neck.  In his chest. In his . . .

 

“House, don’t.” Chase shouted, as he and Foreman burst through the door.

 

“Leave them alone,” Starsky commanded, “they’re doing just fine. I got them dancing . . .”

 

Wilson abruptly stepped back two feet. House stared at him for a few seconds and then an evil grin appeared. He took two steps toward Wilson. Wilson stepped back. House stepped forward. Wilson held up his arms and stepped back two more steps, which forced him against the empty bed.

 

“House, don’t.”

 

House took another step until he was pressed against Wilson and Wilson had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling back on the bed.

 

“Is that all you people know how to say? House don’t?”

 

“I say go for it.” Starsky crossed his arms and settled back into the pillows. “But what do I know – I’m just a sick old man. What do you think Dr. Chase?”

 

“Wha… I don’t . . .”

 

“It’s too dangerous,” Foreman answered for him.

 

“Dangerous? I’d like to be on one of your dates.” Starsky shook his head.

 

“He’s talking about you,” House said to Starsky, but kept his eyes locked on Wilson. “So, you think it’s dangerous?”

 

Wilson swallowed hard. “You can’t do the test.”

 

“I’m not talking about the test.” House was relentless.

 

“What test?” Starsky sat up.

“This feels like a test to me.” Wilson wriggled a little to the left and managed to get one leg free. He turned and pushed and suddenly he was standing, looking down at House, who was sprawled on the bed.

 

“Get out of my bed,” came a growl from the doorway. “Get a room means get your own – not Starsky’s.”

 

House sat up and patted the bed beside him. “Come on, Goldilocks, there’s room for you.”

 

“Can it, House.” Hutch entered the room and moved to Starsky’s side. “These yahoos bothering you, buddy?”

 

Starsky chuckled. “Hardly. Haven’t had so much fun since we stopped rousting dandies from outside Huggy’s.”

 

Hutch patted Starsky on the leg. “I don’t remember that as being particularly fun.”

 

“That’s because you always wanted to be good cop. S’no fun being good cop.”

 

“I had to be good cop. Any time you tried to play good cop, you ended up getting pissed and dragging the guys out in the alley anyway.”

 

“What about Fat Rolly?”

 

“What about Fat Rolly – why are you making me think of Fat Rolly?”

 

“Fat Rolly?” House moved to the side of Starsky’s bed. “You guys really are a comic book come to life. I guess next we’ll hear all about the hooker with a heart of gold turned snitch Sugar Valentine and her dancing Pomeranians.”

 

“Her name was Sweet Alice and she didn’t like dogs.” Starsky said and reached up to lay a hand on Hutch’s forearm before he could work up to a good finger point. “So what about this test?”

 

Wilson came and stood by House. “He’s not going to do it. It’s too dangerous.”

 

“What is it?” Hutch stopped clenching his fist and took Starsky’s hand.

 

“It’s a simple, yet risky procedure where I induce an attack. If you head south immediately, we know the tumor is sitting on top of your kidneys and the chorus boys behind me scurry down to surgery and remove it.”

 

“Induce an attack? How?” Hutch’s fists clenched again.

 

“OR’s ready.” Dr. Cameron walked in the door. “Benson and Cuddy are waiting for you.”

 

Wilson shook his head. “House, what if you miss?”

 

“Miss?” Starsky struggled to keep Hutch on his side of the bed. “You can miss?”

 

“I won’t miss.” House raised his cane and a million things happened at once.

 

Foreman jumped for the monitors, Chase reached for the IV stand, and Cameron unlocked the brakes on the bottom of the bed. Hutch let out a strangled roar and headed round the bed towards House. Wilson swiped at the cane, missed, and Starsky watched calmly as House brought the cane down hard into his midsection.

 

Starsky let out a small gasp and then everyone in the room stopped. Except Hutch, who tackled House to the ground and punched him hard in the face.

 

“You son of a bitch-“

 

House managed to get his cane between himself and a concussion, but Hutch’s knee in his groin brought tears to his eyes and he dropped the cane. Hutch’s second attempt connected just under his jaw and he could feel his neck twist. He picked up the cane with his right hand and swung hard, cracking Hutch on the side of the head. Hutch fell backwards and House finally got a glimpse of the bed. Starsky, who was struggling to breathe, managed to give Wilson a thumbs up right before he passed out.

 

“Go, go . . .” hissed House from the floor.

 

Hutch rolled over and rose to a knee.  “What’s going on?”

 

Foreman and Chase wheeled Starsky out of the room; Wilson tossed the IV onto the bed and bent down to check on House. Cameron turned and helped Hutch off the floor.

 

“It worked. He’s having an attack, but we’re going to get him into surgery now.” She turned to Wilson. “I’ll take Hutch down to the OR waiting room.”

 

“I’ll take care of things here.” Wilson probed House’s jaw, but House swatted his hand.

 

“You can thank me later, Detective,” House taunted from the floor.

 

“Be a cold day in hell,” Hutch muttered and followed Cameron out the door.

 

“Why do you do that?” Wilson asked as he rose to his feet and opened a drawer. He pulled out a pack and popped it once on his knee, then knelt back down and pressed it on House’s jaw. “You know he could kill you, right?”

 

“Thought he had killed me for a minute.” House rolled back on his back and sighed. “My head hurts.”

 

“You’re lucky.” Wilson stood and reached his hand out and helped House off the floor, and House staggered to the bed.

 

“This you call lucky?”

 

“The test. Lucky it worked. Lucky Cameron does what she’s told. Lucky you’re not in traction.”

 

House patted the bed beside him. “Do you do what you’re told, Jimmy?”

 

“House, don’t.”

 

“Again with the don’t.”

 

“Well, you give me no choice. I’m not going to discuss this at work.”

 

“Which intimates you might discuss it not at work?”

 

“All it intimates is that I’m not going to discuss this. While I’m at work. You can figure out the rest of it yourself.” Wilson smoothed his lab coat and turned to the door. “I’m going to check on your patient.”

 

He stopped and turned back to House. “And you can be very sure that I will never, ever, climb into a hospital bed with you.” He disappeared down the hall.

 

House fell back on the bed, twirling his cane, wishing he had a Vicodin with him and wondering just what kind of bed Wilson would consider appropriate.

tbc . . .