Characters: House, Wilson
Word Count: 525
Summary: What if Tritter's vendetta had been allowed to play out?
House shifts restlessly in the molded plastic chair. The chair's so old that the edges are crumbling, and each time he moves, a sharp piece of plastic bites into the back of his thigh. But he can't sit still, and for once he's oddly grateful for the added physical discomfort--it gives him something to focus on besides his usual pain, besides his unusual surroundings. This room where he sits and waits for
Funny what the brain does to the body when you put it under enough stress; he must've fallen asleep--the ultimate escape from reality. He struggles back to wakefulness when he realizes that
"Good to see you,"
House thinks about the question a minute, then answers with uncharacteristic seriousness, "Guess so. Be doing better if this were the hospital cafeteria and I was stealing french fries from you."
There's half a minute of painful silence then, until
"You've already said that," House points out. "And we've already determined that I'm doing okay."
House breaks the next silence. "You were late," he observes.
"I know. I was helping out... with a patient. Sorry."
"No skin off my nose," House assures him. "Just that we don't have much time; looks like the school bell's gonna be ringing any minute," he says, indicating the guard headed towards the PA system. "Recess is over."
Both men stand and stare at one another.
"Neither one of us would be here now if you hadn't been such a moron," House says abruptly, in a barely controlled voice. “We could’ve beaten Tritter. You know that, don’t you?”
The buzzer goes off, and the two men nod solemnly at one another, then each turns quickly away from the other.
On the way back to
The second in the series: Happy Hour