it's saturday, and already it's shaping up into a very boring weekend
It's Saturday. Well, it's Sunday now. I tried to start typing a few hours ago, when it was clearly Saturday, but to no avail.
Paul was on the phone for bloody ages. He's a tennis fan, inconsolable after Team GB lost their Davis Cup tie against Switzerland. I love speakerphones, I'm beginning to appreaciate its virtue now. He talked and talked and talked. The cows came home, had kids, went away, and died, and still he talked. Technology came to the rescue, in the shape of that godawful 'low battery' bleeping.
Anyway. Pilfered this off byrons_brain:
You Are A: Duck!
Found in many lakes and ponds, ducks are a common site the world over. Known for their famous quack, ducks tend to congregate in flocks or go off on their own in pairs. As a duck, you may seem friendly at times but will not hesitate to bite if someone is bothering you. Your love for travel and preference for being in crowds are some reasons why you are a duck.
You were almost a: Lamb or a Puppy
You are least like a: Turtle or a GroundhogCute Animals Quiz
Okay, at least I'm not a dodo or something.
And in a fit of boredom, I can't even get PfaH off the ground. I'm stuck with a writer's block. Went in search of inspiration in my Yahoo!Mail Bulk Mail folder. A few e-mails from the people pretending to be officials from Euromillion saying that I've won a couple of millions; quite a few from supposedly good-intentioned relatives of dead dictators offering a cut of blood money; a good few offering viagra, passwords to underaged-lesbians sites, and membership to the 'hottest porn-site in town'. Sigh. I wonder what would House do with these things...
House got the nurse to stop in front of the glass doors. He sat in his wheelchair looking inside, watching the people he has come to care about, maybe just a little, and not something he'll declare from the rooftops. The four of them, Wilson, Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, they sat huddled together. They bickered over some scans and scribbles, took turns to talk and listen. They threw projectiles at one another and smiled at some inside joke. And House couldn't hear any words, and he thought how comfortable the four of them looked. Working hard and working as they should. Ignoring him. They didn't even notice him at first, despite the wheelchair making enough squeaks to wake the dead. Pity it doesn't heal the sick.
And when they do notice him, they look at him like he is some spectre, like he doesn't belong there. Funny that, because the last time he checked he is still Head of Diagnostic Medicine, and very much alive.
"Anybody miss me?" House asks again only to be greeted by silence. "Obviously not," he concludes. They are still looking at him, the four doctors and the one nurse with the wheelchair. He dismisses the nurse, who takes the squeaks away. "What's that?" No answer, House feels slighted and glares at them.
"Just some boring, benign stuff," Wilson says at last, stacking the scans and notes into one tidy pile. The other three follow suit, clearing the papers and binders from the table, looking everywhere but at House.
"Stuff?" House cocks his head to one side. "Is that a medical term?"
"It is now," Wilson grins. "I'll make sure you get the memo. In triplicate."
"How very gracious of you," House sneers, limping over to the window. "Cuddy told me you're doing my clinic for me?" House ignores the collective eyerolls and watches two paramedics having a cigarette break under his window.
"You want to take it back?" Wilson asks.
"Why spoil your fun?" House shrugs, surely they know there's no love lost between him and the clinic. "Besides, I have a lot iTunes credits to burn. I keep hearing these music while I was asleep." House makes funny faces at a bird that lands on his windowsill. It looks at him and flies away. "So..." House turns around only to find that Wilson is the only one left in the room. He gestures at the empty room and raises an eyebrow.
"Anything I said?"
"Clinics," Wilson supplies as he joins House in front of the window. "Like you cared."
"Of course not. Better them doing it, than letting the gimp do the run around."
"So..." Wilson traces a picture of a house on the condensation. "You probably have a wonderfully thought out conspiracy theory about how people are out to get you..." House looks perturbed as he watches Wilson draw flames all over the house.
"Am I supposed to have one?" House twirls his cane and throws it in the air. It misses the ceiling and comes back down with a loud clatter.
"Do you or don't you?" Wilson turns to face him and House itches for a pop of Vicodin. "Stupid question," Wilson dismisses, "forget I asked."
"Probably sent by Vogler," House answers. He fishes the bottle and shakes out a pill onto his palm. "Really can't see him getting over his rejection pretty quickly. I mean... look at him: the man with the money, rejected by his adoring public. Rejected for the man with the bum leg and a drug addiction. He should stop buying hospitals and start huffing bleach, I tell you. Much more effective that way."
"You think too highly of yourself." Wilson contemplates the burning house he traced on the window and rubs at it viciously. One hundred million dollars worth, he thinks, staring ahead.
"So..." House draws a tie on his part of condensation. "Were you worried about me?" He draws diagonal stripes and polka dots all over the tie and chuckles to himself.
"I was more worried that you might survive the ordeal and wake up, actually."
"Tell me you didn't mean that." House glances sideways and sees Wilson knitting his brows together in concentration.
"Everybody lies," Wilson whispers. "Uh... I need to go. Patients. Some of us have real work to do." And damn Wilson for having two good legs, House thinks, as he turns and sees the door swinging shut. The nurse with the squeaky wheelchair rolls across the corridor, there's an old lady slumped in it.
---
Paul was on the phone for bloody ages. He's a tennis fan, inconsolable after Team GB lost their Davis Cup tie against Switzerland. I love speakerphones, I'm beginning to appreaciate its virtue now. He talked and talked and talked. The cows came home, had kids, went away, and died, and still he talked. Technology came to the rescue, in the shape of that godawful 'low battery' bleeping.
Anyway. Pilfered this off byrons_brain:
You Are A: Duck!
Found in many lakes and ponds, ducks are a common site the world over. Known for their famous quack, ducks tend to congregate in flocks or go off on their own in pairs. As a duck, you may seem friendly at times but will not hesitate to bite if someone is bothering you. Your love for travel and preference for being in crowds are some reasons why you are a duck.
You were almost a: Lamb or a Puppy
You are least like a: Turtle or a GroundhogCute Animals Quiz
Okay, at least I'm not a dodo or something.
And in a fit of boredom, I can't even get PfaH off the ground. I'm stuck with a writer's block. Went in search of inspiration in my Yahoo!Mail Bulk Mail folder. A few e-mails from the people pretending to be officials from Euromillion saying that I've won a couple of millions; quite a few from supposedly good-intentioned relatives of dead dictators offering a cut of blood money; a good few offering viagra, passwords to underaged-lesbians sites, and membership to the 'hottest porn-site in town'. Sigh. I wonder what would House do with these things...
House got the nurse to stop in front of the glass doors. He sat in his wheelchair looking inside, watching the people he has come to care about, maybe just a little, and not something he'll declare from the rooftops. The four of them, Wilson, Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, they sat huddled together. They bickered over some scans and scribbles, took turns to talk and listen. They threw projectiles at one another and smiled at some inside joke. And House couldn't hear any words, and he thought how comfortable the four of them looked. Working hard and working as they should. Ignoring him. They didn't even notice him at first, despite the wheelchair making enough squeaks to wake the dead. Pity it doesn't heal the sick.
And when they do notice him, they look at him like he is some spectre, like he doesn't belong there. Funny that, because the last time he checked he is still Head of Diagnostic Medicine, and very much alive.
"Anybody miss me?" House asks again only to be greeted by silence. "Obviously not," he concludes. They are still looking at him, the four doctors and the one nurse with the wheelchair. He dismisses the nurse, who takes the squeaks away. "What's that?" No answer, House feels slighted and glares at them.
"Just some boring, benign stuff," Wilson says at last, stacking the scans and notes into one tidy pile. The other three follow suit, clearing the papers and binders from the table, looking everywhere but at House.
"Stuff?" House cocks his head to one side. "Is that a medical term?"
"It is now," Wilson grins. "I'll make sure you get the memo. In triplicate."
"How very gracious of you," House sneers, limping over to the window. "Cuddy told me you're doing my clinic for me?" House ignores the collective eyerolls and watches two paramedics having a cigarette break under his window.
"You want to take it back?" Wilson asks.
"Why spoil your fun?" House shrugs, surely they know there's no love lost between him and the clinic. "Besides, I have a lot iTunes credits to burn. I keep hearing these music while I was asleep." House makes funny faces at a bird that lands on his windowsill. It looks at him and flies away. "So..." House turns around only to find that Wilson is the only one left in the room. He gestures at the empty room and raises an eyebrow.
"Anything I said?"
"Clinics," Wilson supplies as he joins House in front of the window. "Like you cared."
"Of course not. Better them doing it, than letting the gimp do the run around."
"So..." Wilson traces a picture of a house on the condensation. "You probably have a wonderfully thought out conspiracy theory about how people are out to get you..." House looks perturbed as he watches Wilson draw flames all over the house.
"Am I supposed to have one?" House twirls his cane and throws it in the air. It misses the ceiling and comes back down with a loud clatter.
"Do you or don't you?" Wilson turns to face him and House itches for a pop of Vicodin. "Stupid question," Wilson dismisses, "forget I asked."
"Probably sent by Vogler," House answers. He fishes the bottle and shakes out a pill onto his palm. "Really can't see him getting over his rejection pretty quickly. I mean... look at him: the man with the money, rejected by his adoring public. Rejected for the man with the bum leg and a drug addiction. He should stop buying hospitals and start huffing bleach, I tell you. Much more effective that way."
"You think too highly of yourself." Wilson contemplates the burning house he traced on the window and rubs at it viciously. One hundred million dollars worth, he thinks, staring ahead.
"So..." House draws a tie on his part of condensation. "Were you worried about me?" He draws diagonal stripes and polka dots all over the tie and chuckles to himself.
"I was more worried that you might survive the ordeal and wake up, actually."
"Tell me you didn't mean that." House glances sideways and sees Wilson knitting his brows together in concentration.
"Everybody lies," Wilson whispers. "Uh... I need to go. Patients. Some of us have real work to do." And damn Wilson for having two good legs, House thinks, as he turns and sees the door swinging shut. The nurse with the squeaky wheelchair rolls across the corridor, there's an old lady slumped in it.
---