In response to Willie's challenge thrown out over the HouseMD Yahoo group. I'm not particularly a Cam/Wilson shipper, but this was too funny to pass up.
It's sloppy, irreverant, and quite possibly poorly written.
Dedicated to Willie
And Pip, the List Ninja
I Out-Care About You
Cameron had seen her fair share of inflatable items in her life, but the inflatable Jesus was more than she could handle. Not that she was religious. Her disbelief in God surprised people who saw her goody-two-shoes exterior and overlooked the hot molten lava interior. No, it wasn't religion. It was the principle of the thing. An inflatable Jesus. Well, at least it wasn't Christ on the cross; no, it was the manger scene with an inflatable baby Jesus.
An inflatable baby Jesus she wouldn't have seen had she not been on her way to her boyfriend's house. She should have been at home in bed. She had the flu, a miserable entire-body-consuming flu, but James needed cared for and God (if he, she, or it existed) damn it, she was going to care for him if it killed her!
Ah, James. Sweet James. Cameron sneezed. "I wonder if they make inflatable menorahs," she pondered as she pulled into his driveway.
"What are you doing here?" a drippy-nosed Wilson asked as she came in through the front door.
"Nice to see you, too, honey," she responded. "I knew you were sick. I came over to take care of you. Why is your coat on?"
"Well, I was on my way to come over to take care of you!" Wilson responded. He then sunk into a coughing fit that Cameron felt oddly resembled Carol of the Bells.
"Oh, sweetie," she said, running over to him. "You should get in bed!"
"No! You should get in bed!" Wilson responded.
"Here, have some tissues," Cameron deflected, pulling out a box.
"No, thanks, I have my own. You can use them if you'd like."
"Mine are Puffs."
"Mine are Kleenex," Wilson volleyed.
"Aloe and E."
Wilson examined his box. "Damn, two."
"Ha! Bring out the white board!"
Grudgingly, Wilson dragged out the whiteboard, also known as the "In-Home Out-Care Scoreboard."
"Add a point to my name," Cameron instructed. "Wait a minute! Where'd you get that point from?" she asked, thrusting out a finger at the scoreboard which now read "Wilson – 25, Cameron – 24."
"I gave myself a point for coming to see you."
"But I came to see you first!" Cameron argued.
"But I didn't know that when I was leaving to come see you."
"But I still need my point for the tissues AND a point for coming to see you, so I have 26 and you have 24."
Wilson, pouting, scratched out the 24 and wrote 26, muttering, "That's one plus two plus one plus one."
"What? Jimmy? Are you okay?" Cameron walked over to where he was standing.
"I should've taken the red pill."
"Poor baby, you have a fever," Cameron caressed Wilson's forehead.
"Oh, but darling, so do you!" Wilson exclaimed, his own clammy hand reaching for Cameron's forehead.
Two sets of eyes spotted a bottle of Tylenol on the coffee table in the distance… the eyes met… then returned to the bottle.
A mess of sweater-vests and ties erupted in a flurry of clothing-activity as they each raced for the bottle.
"It's mine! You need it more than me!" Cameron shouted, elbowing Wilson out of the way. "And now you really need it for that broken rib!"
"But sweetheart, you must be the best you can be so that floppy-haired Englishman won't one-up you. You take it. My ribs will heal!" Wilson responded as he grabbed Cameron by the ponytail, yanking her away from the white pills. "Ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly as his fingers, entwined with strands of hair, grasped the bottle.
His gaze turned upward as Cameron dangled a packet in front of him. "But I have TheraFlu."
"Curses!" Wilson threw himself down on the couch, knowing defeat.
"That's okay, babe. You'll get your points back in no time." Cameron sat down beside him, running her fingers through her newly thinned hair. "By the way, there's something I want to ask you."
Wilson turned to look at her, brows furrowed. "Sure. Go ahead."
"Have you ever heard of an inflatable Jesus?"