Characters: House, Wilson
Word Count: 1100
Summary: Wilson thinks he's doing fine; House knows better.
The previous vignettes, in order, are: Visiting Hour, Happy Hour, Midnight Hour, Fifty-Minute Hour, Random Hour, Painful Hour, Dark Hour , Desperate Hour, Witching Hour , Lonely Hour, Dinner Hour, Legal Hour , Honorable Hour, House's Hour , Wilson's Hour , Uncomfortable Hour , Lunch Hour , and Administrative Hour .
As House and Wilson enter the apartment,
“How’s the shoulder?”
“It’s fine, House. Relax. Just been a… full day, that’s all. A good day. I’m a little tired; nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried; just don’t want you getting sick. You might expect me to act like a doctor, or something.”
“Heaven forbid! Like I said, relax. I’ve only got two more days of antibiotics. Then the whole thing just becomes some story to tell my grandchildren. Or not.”
“You take ‘em yet? The antibiotics?”
Too soon, he hears the footsteps headed his way again; they stop right next to him. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Yeah, House. What is it?” There’s no response, so
House is standing in front of him, cane in one hand, a plate in the other. He’s somehow managed to balance a glass of water, the prescription bottle, and some unrecognizable food item on the plate.
House sighs. “What’s it look like? It’s your meds and something to wash ‘em down with. And a sandwich; you take antibiotics on an empty stomach, you might barf on my couch.”
“It’s bologna and cheese, between a couple of Pop Tarts. We’re out of bread; I improvised!” House says proudly.
“House,” Wilson says patiently. “Meat and cheese, between two toaster pastries filled with… filled with….”
“Chocolate,” House supplies.
House makes a show of looking hurt. “I’ll have you know that in
That’d be the same country where ‘limping twerp’ translates to ‘friend,’
House hands the plate over, but continues to stand just in front of
“What? I said I’d eat.” Then he sees that what House is looking at is the pill bottle.
House nods his head, but
“House, what’s up with you? You’re acting… strange. I mean, you’re acting… concerned, but for you, that’s synonymous with strange.”
House wrinkles his brow. “Just trying to be a good host, is all. Sorry if it’s annoying you.” He sits next to
The next few minutes pass in silence as
“Yeah, I’m tired, and I’m at the tail end of an uncomplicated infection, and it’s my first day out, and maybe some of it was a little overwhelming. And I need to get some rest, and things feel a little strange right now, and yeah—it’s hard to really relax. I can’t quite believe it’s over, and I can’t quite believe it even happened in the first place. It’s a little tough, okay? But I’m not going to break!” Now he’s gesturing frantically, and yelling—and still, House is just sitting there, looking at him like he’s some sort of intriguing zoo exhibit.
House shrugs. “You needed to get angry,” he says simply, as he presses a dish towel to
House returns before
So Wilson does as he’s told, and he closes his eyes, and when House does something to his shoulder that stings it doesn’t bother him, because he’s still marveling at how suddenly easy it is to breathe, how effortless, and why hadn’t he noticed before how much work breathing had become? And when House does something that takes away the stinging and replaces it with wonderful coolness, Wilson takes another miraculously deep breath, and he falls effortlessly into a soft, safe place, a place where the only sound is a quiet, comforting, familiar voice telling him it’s okay, everything’s all right now. And then he sleeps.
And the end of our journey: