(no subject)
Cut contains spoilers for HOUSE VS. GOD aired 4/25/06.
Okay, who called it? Yeah that would be me. I wrote this right after the end of season one, but abandoned it because I wasn't sure if it was in character for Wilson.
Well, guess what...
TITLE: Act III, Scene IV
AUTHOR:
gwena26
PAIRING: spoiling = t3h suck
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: 'Explicit language,' if you will.
SUMMARY: Aborted short story.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own House, M.D. nor do I own any of its characters.
“You know, it helps if you use both hands.” Wilson motions for House to toss the small bottle across the desk.
“I can handle it, thank you,” House says. Twirls his cane in his right hand. Works at the lid with the thin fingers of the other. His tongue rubs against the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows furrow. And when the lid gives, tumbles onto the desk, performs a ballerina twirl, and settles on its back, House winks at Wilson from the corner of his eye while he shakes a pill out of the bottle and into his mouth. “Yum.”
Wilson leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded into each other and tucked under his chin. “Why do you make things so difficult?”
“I am perfectly capable of taking my vitamins, mom.”
“Five minutes, I’m asking for five minutes. Just…” Wilson sighs. Now rubbing at the tension in his forehead.
House stops the endless circle of his cane, stabbing the rubber tip against the ground. He levers himself from his chair, strides to the other side of the desk. “Your patients depress me,” he says. He slides the thick manila folder from between Wilson’s arm and his body. “Always dying.”
“I thought you liked misery.”
“I do.”
Wilson pauses.
“I like making other people miserable,” House expands, flipping the folder open. He frowns. “Looks like your patient is miserable enough on her own.”
"Natalie”
“That’s great.”
“So you’re not going to help?”
“It’s Tuesday. I only perform miracles on Thurs-”
Wilson quickly rises from his chair and grabs the file. “How many times have I bailed you out?” His voice is sharp, frustrated. “How many times have I left my wife at the dining room table to clean the vomit from your carpet and keep your pills hidden in my pocket?”
Wilson pauses. Swallows. His voice has ebbed into a resigned plea. “I’m asking you to help save a life. We’re doctors. That’s what we do. If you don’t want to do this because you’re bored with your job, fine. Do this because you’re my friend.”
House is silent, stroking his index finger along the top curve of his cane.
“You’re fucking her.”
Wilson inhales sharply.
House raises an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
Okay, who called it? Yeah that would be me. I wrote this right after the end of season one, but abandoned it because I wasn't sure if it was in character for Wilson.
Well, guess what...
TITLE: Act III, Scene IV
AUTHOR:
gwena26
PAIRING: spoiling = t3h suck
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: 'Explicit language,' if you will.
SUMMARY: Aborted short story.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own House, M.D. nor do I own any of its characters.
“You know, it helps if you use both hands.” Wilson motions for House to toss the small bottle across the desk.
“I can handle it, thank you,” House says. Twirls his cane in his right hand. Works at the lid with the thin fingers of the other. His tongue rubs against the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows furrow. And when the lid gives, tumbles onto the desk, performs a ballerina twirl, and settles on its back, House winks at Wilson from the corner of his eye while he shakes a pill out of the bottle and into his mouth. “Yum.”
Wilson leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded into each other and tucked under his chin. “Why do you make things so difficult?”
“I am perfectly capable of taking my vitamins, mom.”
“Five minutes, I’m asking for five minutes. Just…” Wilson sighs. Now rubbing at the tension in his forehead.
House stops the endless circle of his cane, stabbing the rubber tip against the ground. He levers himself from his chair, strides to the other side of the desk. “Your patients depress me,” he says. He slides the thick manila folder from between Wilson’s arm and his body. “Always dying.”
“I thought you liked misery.”
“I do.”
Wilson pauses.
“I like making other people miserable,” House expands, flipping the folder open. He frowns. “Looks like your patient is miserable enough on her own.”
"Natalie”
“That’s great.”
“So you’re not going to help?”
“It’s Tuesday. I only perform miracles on Thurs-”
Wilson quickly rises from his chair and grabs the file. “How many times have I bailed you out?” His voice is sharp, frustrated. “How many times have I left my wife at the dining room table to clean the vomit from your carpet and keep your pills hidden in my pocket?”
Wilson pauses. Swallows. His voice has ebbed into a resigned plea. “I’m asking you to help save a life. We’re doctors. That’s what we do. If you don’t want to do this because you’re bored with your job, fine. Do this because you’re my friend.”
House is silent, stroking his index finger along the top curve of his cane.
“You’re fucking her.”
Wilson inhales sharply.
House raises an eyebrow. “Interesting.”