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Cats' Corners: the little HOUSE in the woods....
Where House is NEVER safe...
Random Hour (fifth in the HOUR series) 
24th-Jun-2007 07:26 am
SadHW

Title: Random Hour
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
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 HourHappy HourMidnight Hour,  and  Fifty-Minute Hour.

And--as always--my undying gratitude to [info]blackmare_9  and [info]misanthropicobs, first-readers extraordinaire.
 

RANDOM HOUR

 

THURSDAY 2:00pm

 

Wilson walks into the exam room and smiles when he sees that the patient is Hank, the prisoner with the deformed foot and the bad attitude.  It doesn’t faze him when Hank regards him with a scowl.

 

“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.”

 

Wilson frowns; Hank’s blood pressure is high, and his heart is racing.  He’s clearly in severe pain.  Wilson opens the medical record and is appalled at what he sees.

 

“We need to talk about increasing your—” Wilson stops himself as he remembers where he is—who he is—now.  He shakes his head sadly.  “Sorry, Hank.  Nurse’ll be right in.”

 

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, Wilson can’t leave the room fast enough.

 

Wilson stands in the corridor, head down, eyes closed.  Should’ve listened.  Should’ve believed you.  Should’ve been a doctor when I was a doctor.  I’m sorry, House.

 

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, Wilson!  It’s all I’ve got left….

 

House closes the folder, and closes his eyes.

 

Wilson should still be working; his shift doesn’t end till 3:00.  But when the guard saw him leaning against the wall in the clinic, pale and shaking, he’d escorted him back to his cell, told him to lie down a while.  They’re kind to him here.  He’s well-liked by everyone, staff and inmates alike—but none of them know him.

 

Wilson wishes that he’d finished out his shift.  All there is to do now is think.  Wilson doesn’t like to think anymore.

 

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.

 

Three o’clock arrives and the work day ends.  Wilson makes himself close his eyes, and tries to nap.  House forces his eyes open, and tries not to.

Next is:
Painful Hour

 

Thoughts 
24th-Jun-2007 03:43 pm (UTC)
Put your panty (and boxer)-peeling skills to use and bust outta there.

neither he nor i are in this particular ficverse by choice--when i'm ready, i'll make things all rainbows and sunlight again; i promise.