things not found
house, house/wilson [maybe friendship, maybe not], 408 words-Wilson’s there because he’s always there. Wilson’s there because it’s where he fits.
notes: for corleones. let's call this an experiment.
Lightening rends the sky.
August rain beats into the roof; there’s a leak in the corner.
Wilson stretches a hand across the bed to comfort a wife, a girlfriend, a lover who isn’t there.
Fifteen years, countless lawsuits, more than enough teams, all come and gone.
House is House.
Less hair, more limp, but still just a bottle of pills and a cane, still just House.
Wilson bends the word narcissist around his tongue. Makes it new, makes it different, makes it more cutting than before, all with the sort of skill that comes with practice, not talent.
Wilson watches pills disappear, bourbon settle at the bottom of tumblers, boxes of syringes empty.
Wilson watches the years pass.
House makes Christmas sound like a venereal disease. Wilson’s a Jew.
It’s pizza this year, and beer.
The piano bleeds Noel, a forgoing of commercial for the religious.
Wilson calls it nostalgia, though he can’t say for what.
An operating table and the patient dies. House was right.
Cuddy calls him in. Tongues do battle in the same old office, and words strike words like steel against steel. Sometimes sparks fly.
Wilson’s there because he’s always there. Wilson’s there because it’s where he fits.
The fight limps out of the room. Cuddy settles into her chair, too tired to win, too proud to lose.
There are lines of grey in her hair.
Snow turns to mud; and House, a tennis ball, and the cane, equal a broken glass partition in the office.
The latest team scuttles away, tight-lipped and ashen. They’re new.
House sets up shop in the oncology wing, makes bad jokes about the size of that benign growth.
Wilson takes a sip of coffee.
Fourteen-year-old girl and a cardiac arrest. Cases start to sound like broken records.
The heart monitor slows and the mother cries. House pulls off a last minute save.
House is right. House is lucky.
The mother thanks him, tears in her eyes, voice choked with gratitude.
He doesn’t reply.
The earth makes it around the sun one more time.
The diagnostic department barters nicely wrapped boxes for smidgens of respect. They don’t get the better end of the deal.
One of them brings in a cake. No candles, no decorative frosting, just cake. Chocolate.
Beepers go off before the first slice is cut.
Wilson sits next to House, two forks, and chocolate is heavy on the tongue.
Wilson doesn’t bother with gifts any more.
notes: for corleones. let's call this an experiment.
Lightening rends the sky.
August rain beats into the roof; there’s a leak in the corner.
Wilson stretches a hand across the bed to comfort a wife, a girlfriend, a lover who isn’t there.
Fifteen years, countless lawsuits, more than enough teams, all come and gone.
House is House.
Less hair, more limp, but still just a bottle of pills and a cane, still just House.
Wilson bends the word narcissist around his tongue. Makes it new, makes it different, makes it more cutting than before, all with the sort of skill that comes with practice, not talent.
Wilson watches pills disappear, bourbon settle at the bottom of tumblers, boxes of syringes empty.
Wilson watches the years pass.
House makes Christmas sound like a venereal disease. Wilson’s a Jew.
It’s pizza this year, and beer.
The piano bleeds Noel, a forgoing of commercial for the religious.
Wilson calls it nostalgia, though he can’t say for what.
An operating table and the patient dies. House was right.
Cuddy calls him in. Tongues do battle in the same old office, and words strike words like steel against steel. Sometimes sparks fly.
Wilson’s there because he’s always there. Wilson’s there because it’s where he fits.
The fight limps out of the room. Cuddy settles into her chair, too tired to win, too proud to lose.
There are lines of grey in her hair.
Snow turns to mud; and House, a tennis ball, and the cane, equal a broken glass partition in the office.
The latest team scuttles away, tight-lipped and ashen. They’re new.
House sets up shop in the oncology wing, makes bad jokes about the size of that benign growth.
Wilson takes a sip of coffee.
Fourteen-year-old girl and a cardiac arrest. Cases start to sound like broken records.
The heart monitor slows and the mother cries. House pulls off a last minute save.
House is right. House is lucky.
The mother thanks him, tears in her eyes, voice choked with gratitude.
He doesn’t reply.
The earth makes it around the sun one more time.
The diagnostic department barters nicely wrapped boxes for smidgens of respect. They don’t get the better end of the deal.
One of them brings in a cake. No candles, no decorative frosting, just cake. Chocolate.
Beepers go off before the first slice is cut.
Wilson sits next to House, two forks, and chocolate is heavy on the tongue.
Wilson doesn’t bother with gifts any more.