A/N: Wow. The response to chapter five was... frightening! All that hostility reflected at poor, sweet Wilson. And all those overwhelming pleas to 'fix' it! So, in answer, I present to you
CHAPTER SIX: GOOD NIGHT
Five minutes later, when his cell phone rings, his eyes fly open as his weary brain tries to place the jarring sound. He grabs for the phone, sees the lighted caller ID display. House.
“Did I wake you? Figured you’d be up worrying yourself silly over my boo-boo; I’m disappointed,” House drawls.
“Sorry to hear that,”
“Actually, I had a reason for calling. See, I’m watching this movie—and who’d have thought singing bears could be boring, by the way—and it’s at a commercial, so thought I’d let you know the dressing’s soaked through on my hand, just in case you wanted to stop by in the morning and change it or something, but if you want me to wait for the nurse—”
“House, shut up! Don’t you ever take a breath? Soaked through? With what?”
“Well, it’s red. And sticky. I’m guessing it’s blood.”
“It shouldn’t be actively bleeding at this point.”
“I’ll let it know; I’m sure that once it hears your professional opinion, it’ll stop immediately. G’night.”
“House, wait! Don’t hang up. Listen, elevate your hand, wrap it in a towel or something. I’ll be right there, okay?”
“If you’re sure it’s not a bother. Wouldn’t wanna disturb your sleep or anything.”
“Yeah; got it. You’re all about my welfare; I’ll make a note. On my way.”
When he arrives at the apartment, he decides to forego any formalities; he uses his key and lets himself in. House is lying on the couch in the living room. He’s got his right hand propped up on a couple of pillows, and Wilson can see, even in the dim light, that the blood’s already coming through the towel.
“Gloves!” House barks harshly, pulling his hand out of
“Thanks; wasn’t thinking.”
House lets his mouth drop open, pretends to be shocked at the news. “Nah! Ya think?”
“See, that’s the thing about Vicodin—perfect appetite suppressant. Drug reps should really mention that; they’re missing out on a huge segment of the market!” House grins.
“Want something to eat now?” Damn it, House; if you’re infected, your body’s gonna be burning calories like wildfire! Not like you can afford to lose any weight, either.
“Roller coaster in my stomach says no; thanks just the same.”
“Damned thing was throbbing. Figured some ibuprofen wouldn’t hurt; you know, that whole synergistic effect thingy they told us about in med school? So I get the bottle, only then there’s the entire childproof cap issue to deal with. Have you ever met anyone who could ‘push’ and ‘turn’ and ‘squeeze’ all at the same time? I haven’t… well, maybe a couple of three year olds, but then that defeats the whole purpose of childproof, don’t you think?”
“Oh yeah. Anyway, so there I was, going through all these digital gymnastics with my non-dominant hand, and my right hand just automatically says lemme show ya how it’s done, and the next thing I know, the bottle’s open! And my hand is bleeding. Case of taking the good with the bad, I guess. Or is it the bad with the good? I’m always getting that proverb confused. Or is it a moral? ‘Cuz I’m not real clear on that, either.”
“The only thing I’m clear on right now is that I’m sorry I asked. Really sorry. Let’s just get this done.”
“Damn, that hurt!” House says through clenched teeth. “Guess that answers any lingering doubts about nicking a nerve.” He tries to smirk, to make light of it, but finds himself dropping the smile as he looks into
House watches Wilson straighten the supplies. “You can stay,” he says abruptly. “Happen to have an unoccupied couch. Or… it will be, once I get done occupying it. Only people out this time of night are drunks and docs. The latter usually ‘cuz of the former. We patch up their victims and then we patch them up so they can go out and send us more victims—it’s this big circle. You ever think about that? Now there’s a true synergistic relationship. Or is it symbiotic? I think it’s symbiotic. Anyway. We keep them in business so they can keep us in bus—”
“House. I get it. I’ll stay.”
“And meant to tell ya, you did a lousy job with the stitches; scar for sure.”
“I failed sewing class in Home Ec; so sue me. Or call a surgeon next time; I hear they live for house calls. Pardon the pun.”
“Wasn’t complaining; chicks dig scars; adds mystique.”
“And you’re such an open book that you need all the mystique you can get, right?”
“That’s me,” House agrees happily. “You get what ya see!”
He helps House to bed, makes sure his hand is elevated and that the Vicodin’s within easy reach. As
“Hey, Jimmy, I never finished telling you about the ibuprofen! So I get the cap off, and turns out it’s a new bottle. And you know that hermetically sealed foil thing?”
“Shut up, House. Go to sleep,”