Title: Random Hour
Characters: House, Wilson
Word Count: 650
Summary: Just... a random hour in the lives of House and Wilson, now that they have to get through their days alone. This series began with Visiting Hour, Happy Hour, Midnight Hour, and Fifty-Minute Hour.
“Just gonna get your vital signs, Hank. Then the nurse’ll be in. How you doing today?” he asks as he wraps Hank’s arm with the blood pressure cuff.
“How ya think? Hurtin’. Like usual.”
“We need to talk about increasing your—”
While they wait for the nurse, Wilson studies Hank—the hunched shoulders, the angry look in his eyes, the way his body’s drawn in on itself, protectively. He’s intimately familiar with the picture in front of him—hell, every single time he’d observed House from a distance, unnoticed, he’d witnessed this same picture. But that, that was just... House; it wasn't someone in unremitting pain! Was it? Was it? This is the first time Wilson’s stopped to consider what all of it means, the first time it’s ever boiled down to truly seeing what quiet suffering looks like. When the nurse enters,
The situation in the Diagnostics department is unusual—they’ve got two patients. House has the team running every test in the book on the first one while he studies the medical records of the second. He’s deep into the mystery when Cameron bursts into his office.
“We think we’ve got it figured out, House! We think it’s paraneoplastic syndrome.”
House looks up distractedly. “Boring. Also, not my gig. Go find Wil—go… track down an oncologist. Building’s crawling with ‘em.”
Cameron shoots him a pitying look, but leaves without another word. House looks back down at the folder in front of him and tries to immerse himself again in the clues that will eventually offer up the diagnosis.
House sighs in frustration when he realizes he’s read over the same test results three times, and he doesn’t remember a thing. This is the first time in his career that that’s happened—the first time ever that the puzzle isn’t enough for him.
You never should’ve lied for me. Everything that happened to you is your own damned fault; I hope you know that. You put yourself in prison. Didn’t need you protecting me. Go back to your cell—get outta my brain,
House closes the folder, and closes his eyes.
House rouses himself with a start—must’ve drifted off again. Good thing Cuddy hadn’t caught him; she’d have sent him back to that quack shrink, the idiot who thinks House is avoiding some issue.
House tries again to concentrate on the patient history; no luck. He wishes now that he’d stayed asleep. Looking at the folder is just a reminder of something he’s lost—the great Dr. House can’t think anymore.
arrives and the work day ends.
Next is: Painful Hour