licenseartistic Therapy (Average) House & Wilson
1. Title / Prompt: Therapy/Sharp
2. Character: Dr Greg Hosue, and featuring Dr James Wilson
3. Warnings: Mild swearing
4. Pairings: House & Wilson strong friendship
5. Your character's fandom: House, MD
6. Word count: 468
7. Rating: Average
8. Disclaimer: Drs Greg House and James Wilson belong to David Shore and Bad Hat Productions, and are written here for entertainment only.
9. Notes: Takes place sometime after the infarction. House is resisting therapy. Wilson is the voice or reason. Only he's somewhat unreasonable in his attempt to reason.
"I'm not going," House said firmly.
Wilson felt his bottom lip twitch. Felt the nerve in his cheek pulsate. He exhaled slowly, though his nose. "Yes. You are."
House turned his eyes turned up to Wilson's face. Steel blue. Sharp as the point of a knife blade. Piercing right through his soul. Wilson settled his gaze, looking right back at him.
"I'm not going," House insisted a second time, his voice sharp with annoyance.
Wilson felt a shock of anger travel up his spine. "Yes. You are," he replied just as firmly, and backed it up by moving toward House.
House eyed him skeptically. "No," he spat, holding his gaze steady. "We said we'd see how I felt, and go from there. I don't feel like it."
Wilson looked like a wild dog backed into a corner. "So what? I'm just supposed to back off? Let you sit around and feel sorry for yourself? I can't do that, Ace."
House was the dog across the fighting ring from him, his teeth bared. "Just...leave me alone." I'm not ready.
"No," Wilson growled. He lunged toward House, his hands gripping the arms of House's chair, practically putting himself nose to nose with House. "No. You're going to get up, you lousy son of a bitch. Get up and get on your god damn feet." House turned his head, which only angered Wilson more. He took a step back, flexed his hands, turned away, and then back just as fast, hands reaching for the front of House's shirt.
"James!" House yelped sharply, "What are you doing?"
Wilson jerked him out of the chair. The shock of sudden movement and the pull of gravity on his leg made it throb. He whimpered involuntarily, and groped for a hold on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson held him suspended for a moment and then thrust him back into the high-backed chair.
House grunted and leaned forward, both hands pressed against his damaged thigh. His fiery gaze darted up to Wilson, his jaw set in defiance. "Get. Out!" he shouted.
Wilson looked like he wanted to say something, but there were no words, and so he backed slowly away.
Another grunt, and House was pushing himself up to his feet; hands on the arms of his chair, chest heaving. heart pounding in his chest, pulse roaring like thunder in his ears. Disregarding the crutches that rested against the wall, he stood, arms out, staring at Wilson. Challenging him. One step, and he was down before Wilson could reach him, hitting the ground in a twisted tangle of arms and legs.
"You stupid son of a bitch," Wilson glowered at him. He reached a hand out, to help House up. House gripped it, his fingers curling tightly around Wilson's fingers. "You probably just set yourself back three months."
2. Character: Dr Greg Hosue, and featuring Dr James Wilson
3. Warnings: Mild swearing
4. Pairings: House & Wilson strong friendship
5. Your character's fandom: House, MD
6. Word count: 468
7. Rating: Average
8. Disclaimer: Drs Greg House and James Wilson belong to David Shore and Bad Hat Productions, and are written here for entertainment only.
9. Notes: Takes place sometime after the infarction. House is resisting therapy. Wilson is the voice or reason. Only he's somewhat unreasonable in his attempt to reason.
"I'm not going," House said firmly.
Wilson felt his bottom lip twitch. Felt the nerve in his cheek pulsate. He exhaled slowly, though his nose. "Yes. You are."
House turned his eyes turned up to Wilson's face. Steel blue. Sharp as the point of a knife blade. Piercing right through his soul. Wilson settled his gaze, looking right back at him.
"I'm not going," House insisted a second time, his voice sharp with annoyance.
Wilson felt a shock of anger travel up his spine. "Yes. You are," he replied just as firmly, and backed it up by moving toward House.
House eyed him skeptically. "No," he spat, holding his gaze steady. "We said we'd see how I felt, and go from there. I don't feel like it."
Wilson looked like a wild dog backed into a corner. "So what? I'm just supposed to back off? Let you sit around and feel sorry for yourself? I can't do that, Ace."
House was the dog across the fighting ring from him, his teeth bared. "Just...leave me alone." I'm not ready.
"No," Wilson growled. He lunged toward House, his hands gripping the arms of House's chair, practically putting himself nose to nose with House. "No. You're going to get up, you lousy son of a bitch. Get up and get on your god damn feet." House turned his head, which only angered Wilson more. He took a step back, flexed his hands, turned away, and then back just as fast, hands reaching for the front of House's shirt.
"James!" House yelped sharply, "What are you doing?"
Wilson jerked him out of the chair. The shock of sudden movement and the pull of gravity on his leg made it throb. He whimpered involuntarily, and groped for a hold on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson held him suspended for a moment and then thrust him back into the high-backed chair.
House grunted and leaned forward, both hands pressed against his damaged thigh. His fiery gaze darted up to Wilson, his jaw set in defiance. "Get. Out!" he shouted.
Wilson looked like he wanted to say something, but there were no words, and so he backed slowly away.
Another grunt, and House was pushing himself up to his feet; hands on the arms of his chair, chest heaving. heart pounding in his chest, pulse roaring like thunder in his ears. Disregarding the crutches that rested against the wall, he stood, arms out, staring at Wilson. Challenging him. One step, and he was down before Wilson could reach him, hitting the ground in a twisted tangle of arms and legs.
"You stupid son of a bitch," Wilson glowered at him. He reached a hand out, to help House up. House gripped it, his fingers curling tightly around Wilson's fingers. "You probably just set yourself back three months."