Fic : Lazarus
Sep. 19th, 2012 08:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
menolly_auTitle: Lazarus
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Season 8 Finale
Words Approx 1000
Warnings: None
Summary: You never know who you are going to meet in a bar.
A/N Okay, so this is a crossover between an as yet unnamed television pilot and House (and probably definitive proof that I have too much time on my hands :) Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sheppa for posting this interesting bit of news.
Rick Waller sat at a table in the bar, nursing a glass of coke, his empty dinner plate pushed to one side. The bar was quiet tonight; he could hear the piano playing over the soft murmur of conversation. The guy who played Tuesdays was good, he'd seen him here before, playing for hours, the tip jar was always full by the end of the night.
Rick found himself eating here more and more often, rather than going home to a microwaved instant dinner and a night in front of the television watching the latest trashy reality show. He usually propped his netbook up in front of him and pecked away at it between bites, to convey the impression of a busy executive, fitting food in between urgent appointments, rather than some loser hanging around a bar because he had nowhere better to go, and no-one he could be with.
It wasn't that he didn't have work, he did, but nothing that required him to work through dinner - business had been slow lately, the economy had more people struggling to hold onto their jobs and put food on the table than hiring lawyers, even cut-price lawyers, willing to do a little work on the grey edges of the law.
He played with the small package in front of him. He'd picked it up earlier today, hoping he'd be able to give it to her tonight, that maybe it would change things; she hadn't exactly been receptive to his efforts to make amends so far.
"It won't work."
He looked up, startled, as a rough voice interrupted his thoughts. The piano player was standing there, leaning on the cane he always used. He was a white guy, his hair cropped close to his head, his face creased and aged, his most startling feature was his bright blue eyes. He was tall, over six feet, but seemed shorter due to his lopsided lean. Right leg injury, Rick’s cop's brain supplied, painful by the way he was standing, and the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the cane.
"Going to her now, straight from a bar, she'll be able to tell." The man talked in quick, clipped sentences, his words sure, arrogant, as if he could never be wrong. "There's a smell you pick up in bars, women can sniff it out a mile away. You go there now, she'll think you've fallen off the wagon and you'll kill your chances for sure. Trust me; I've been on that rodeo."
"I haven't been drinking," Rick said, automatically defensive. The drinking was what got him kicked out of the police, he hadn't had a drink in over a year, although he wanted one every day. Then he frowned, "how did you know..."
"That you're an alcoholic? Seen you here lots of times, haven't seen you with anything stronger than a coke. But I've seen how you look at other people's drinks. You don't drink coke because you want to. Pretty dumb move, spending so much time in a bar, unless you're trying to prove something to yourself." The piano player fished a little medicine vial out of his pocket and ostentatiously swallowed a pill. "Addicts are stupid. Doesn't matter how much time you spend in bars not drinking, the day will come when you have one, and then you won't stop."
"You should know," Rick said sharply, taking a pill in front of someone else like that - the guy had problems of his own. Rick wasn't going to listen to any moralizing lectures from this ass. He pulled his netbook closer to him, signalling that the conversation was over.
"Don't you want to know how I knew where you were going?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Rick tapped away at the keyboard.
"You've been playing with that wedding ring all night," the guy nodded to Rick's finger. "Except for that's not the finger your dear wife put it on, I can see the tan line on the other one. She's on your mind though, and you've got a pretty package all wrapped up for her, so she's not dead. Divorced. Probably due to the drinking. You think you're going to win her back with expensive trinkets?"
Rick dropped the pretence of doing any work. "Who the hell are you? Sherlock Holmes?"
The guy's lips quirked in amusement. "No, although there are similarities. My name's Greg, and that's all you need to know for now. I need a lawyer who knows a few different ways to get things done. You interested?"
"What makes you think I'm a lawyer?"
Greg rolled his eyes, "I asked the bartender of course. What else?"
Of course. Rick sighed, the guy was probably right, no point in going to Cheryl's place tonight. He nodded to an empty chair at his table. "Have a seat."
"Just waiting for the little woman," Greg said, his eyes scanning the rest of the room and then softening as he apparently found his target.
Another man came up to the table. He was younger than Greg, but with similarly close cropped hair. He was thin, his clothes bagging on him, and he looked tired and worn down. His smile was quick, although his brown eyes assessed Rick as thoroughly as Greg's had.
He put out his hand and shook Rick's, a pleasantry Greg hadn't bothered with. "James," he introduced himself. "Nice to meet you, Mr Waller."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, you can make eyes at each other later. Now shall we sit, cripple here, remember?"
"Rick," Rick introduced himself to the newcomer as the two men got settled and had drinks orders taken. Once they were alone at the table James leaned forward.
"Rick, will you take our case?"
" My case," Greg interrupted. "You haven't done anything that would spoil your Boy Scout copybook."
"We're in this together." James replied firmly, amazingly managing to quiet Greg.
"I don't know what your case is yet," Rick pointed out, although he already knew his answer.
Greg smirked, twirling his cane between his hands.
"Well, to start with, we're both dead." He stilled the cane, staring straight at Rick, "but we got better and now we want to go home."
Rick sat back, draining the last of his coke; for once not even regretting it wasn't scotch. This should be good, if nothing else he suspected that this case wasn't going to be boring.
End
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Season 8 Finale
Words Approx 1000
Warnings: None
Summary: You never know who you are going to meet in a bar.
A/N Okay, so this is a crossover between an as yet unnamed television pilot and House (and probably definitive proof that I have too much time on my hands :) Thanks to
sheppa for posting this interesting bit of news. Rick Waller sat at a table in the bar, nursing a glass of coke, his empty dinner plate pushed to one side. The bar was quiet tonight; he could hear the piano playing over the soft murmur of conversation. The guy who played Tuesdays was good, he'd seen him here before, playing for hours, the tip jar was always full by the end of the night.
Rick found himself eating here more and more often, rather than going home to a microwaved instant dinner and a night in front of the television watching the latest trashy reality show. He usually propped his netbook up in front of him and pecked away at it between bites, to convey the impression of a busy executive, fitting food in between urgent appointments, rather than some loser hanging around a bar because he had nowhere better to go, and no-one he could be with.
It wasn't that he didn't have work, he did, but nothing that required him to work through dinner - business had been slow lately, the economy had more people struggling to hold onto their jobs and put food on the table than hiring lawyers, even cut-price lawyers, willing to do a little work on the grey edges of the law.
He played with the small package in front of him. He'd picked it up earlier today, hoping he'd be able to give it to her tonight, that maybe it would change things; she hadn't exactly been receptive to his efforts to make amends so far.
"It won't work."
He looked up, startled, as a rough voice interrupted his thoughts. The piano player was standing there, leaning on the cane he always used. He was a white guy, his hair cropped close to his head, his face creased and aged, his most startling feature was his bright blue eyes. He was tall, over six feet, but seemed shorter due to his lopsided lean. Right leg injury, Rick’s cop's brain supplied, painful by the way he was standing, and the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the cane.
"Going to her now, straight from a bar, she'll be able to tell." The man talked in quick, clipped sentences, his words sure, arrogant, as if he could never be wrong. "There's a smell you pick up in bars, women can sniff it out a mile away. You go there now, she'll think you've fallen off the wagon and you'll kill your chances for sure. Trust me; I've been on that rodeo."
"I haven't been drinking," Rick said, automatically defensive. The drinking was what got him kicked out of the police, he hadn't had a drink in over a year, although he wanted one every day. Then he frowned, "how did you know..."
"That you're an alcoholic? Seen you here lots of times, haven't seen you with anything stronger than a coke. But I've seen how you look at other people's drinks. You don't drink coke because you want to. Pretty dumb move, spending so much time in a bar, unless you're trying to prove something to yourself." The piano player fished a little medicine vial out of his pocket and ostentatiously swallowed a pill. "Addicts are stupid. Doesn't matter how much time you spend in bars not drinking, the day will come when you have one, and then you won't stop."
"You should know," Rick said sharply, taking a pill in front of someone else like that - the guy had problems of his own. Rick wasn't going to listen to any moralizing lectures from this ass. He pulled his netbook closer to him, signalling that the conversation was over.
"Don't you want to know how I knew where you were going?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Rick tapped away at the keyboard.
"You've been playing with that wedding ring all night," the guy nodded to Rick's finger. "Except for that's not the finger your dear wife put it on, I can see the tan line on the other one. She's on your mind though, and you've got a pretty package all wrapped up for her, so she's not dead. Divorced. Probably due to the drinking. You think you're going to win her back with expensive trinkets?"
Rick dropped the pretence of doing any work. "Who the hell are you? Sherlock Holmes?"
The guy's lips quirked in amusement. "No, although there are similarities. My name's Greg, and that's all you need to know for now. I need a lawyer who knows a few different ways to get things done. You interested?"
"What makes you think I'm a lawyer?"
Greg rolled his eyes, "I asked the bartender of course. What else?"
Of course. Rick sighed, the guy was probably right, no point in going to Cheryl's place tonight. He nodded to an empty chair at his table. "Have a seat."
"Just waiting for the little woman," Greg said, his eyes scanning the rest of the room and then softening as he apparently found his target.
Another man came up to the table. He was younger than Greg, but with similarly close cropped hair. He was thin, his clothes bagging on him, and he looked tired and worn down. His smile was quick, although his brown eyes assessed Rick as thoroughly as Greg's had.
He put out his hand and shook Rick's, a pleasantry Greg hadn't bothered with. "James," he introduced himself. "Nice to meet you, Mr Waller."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, you can make eyes at each other later. Now shall we sit, cripple here, remember?"
"Rick," Rick introduced himself to the newcomer as the two men got settled and had drinks orders taken. Once they were alone at the table James leaned forward.
"Rick, will you take our case?"
" My case," Greg interrupted. "You haven't done anything that would spoil your Boy Scout copybook."
"We're in this together." James replied firmly, amazingly managing to quiet Greg.
"I don't know what your case is yet," Rick pointed out, although he already knew his answer.
Greg smirked, twirling his cane between his hands.
"Well, to start with, we're both dead." He stilled the cane, staring straight at Rick, "but we got better and now we want to go home."
Rick sat back, draining the last of his coke; for once not even regretting it wasn't scotch. This should be good, if nothing else he suspected that this case wasn't going to be boring.
End
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no subject
Date: 2012-09-20 10:46 pm (UTC)