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Patient, Impatient
by Jayne Leitch
Rating: eh, PG.
Pastfic. No spoilers, unless you somehow missed the whole painful-leg-injury thing.
Usual disclaimers apply: I own nothing, not even a smidgen of medical knowledge. Do not take with litigious intentions. May cause drowsiness.
PATIENT, IMPATIENT by Jayne Leitch
Wilson had long suspected House's eyes were adapting to life in the shadowy cave of his lights-perpetually-off, TV-perpetually-on hospital room. He was proven correct one evening after rounds when, after stepping out of the halogen-lit hall and into the flickering gloom, he was still blind as House greeted him: "Ah, Wilson. Come to poke the invalid with a big stick. Such a *good* doctor."
Still waiting for his vision to adjust, Wilson held up the cane that had been delivered that morning. "Most invalids would be happy to see this. It means the enforced bed-rest is almost over."
"To be replaced by enforced physical therapy. Have I mentioned that I *like* being waited on hand and foot twenty-four hours a day?" Deadpan though they were, his words were slurred; the glow from the television glistened off his glassy-eyed stare.
"Every day." Wilson moved further into the room, finally able to make out where the furniture was. He laid the cane down with the handle next to House's hand, then settled into the visitor's chair beside the bed--exactly where he'd left it the last time he'd visited, which was exactly where it had been for the last two weeks. He'd thought the nurses, at least, would've moved it at some point. "It's maple, which is supposed to be very sturdy. There are rubber caps and metal clips for the end, for winter. And--even though I know you don't care about this sort of thing at all--it's got a dark varnish, so it looks very distinguished."
House snorted. "It's a necessity, Doctor. I don't need to be sold."
Wilson shrugged, his attention drawn by House's unblinking gaze to a shouting match between two plastic-coiffed men on the TV screen. The volume was low, barely loud enough to be heard over the beep and hum of the monitors--Wilson didn't know for sure, but he had his suspicions that one of the great Doctor House's lesser-known talents was lipreading--and the acting was bad, so after a moment he let his attention wander again, this time to the swing-table on the other side of the bed. The dinner tray was still there, and most of the dishes looked untouched. Glancing down, Wilson noted House's rail-thin shape under the blanket. "You want me to get you something from the cafeteria?"
The grimace that twisted House's face was gone in less than a second, but the slight shift of his body was more than telling.
Wilson looked back up at the TV screen and pitched his voice to a tone of bald professionalism. "Pain?"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw House roll his head on the pillow, look at him for a moment, then go back to staring at the TV. "Always." There was a pause, and Wilson tried not to hold his breath--but then Greg sighed and said, "I hate being a patient."
Relaxing, Wilson reached for the IV gauge. "If it's any consolation, Dempsey hates that you're a patient, too."
"No, Dempsey hates that I'm *his* patient." Greg's fingers wrapped around the cane's handle, absently exploring the shape and texture of the wood. "If I were under the care of some other poor sap, Dempsey could sneak in and mess with my dosage and not be the primary physician on file when the lawyers came knocking with wrongful death suits."
"Paranoia?" Leaning back in his chair, Wilson shook his head. "All those soaps are making you crazy."
"Leave the soaps alone. I could be spending my time in far worse ways." Before Wilson could think of something to say to that, he continued, "Speaking of spending time, shouldn't you be going home to what's-her-name?"
Wilson blinked. "Celia?"
Greg let go of the cane and gave a showy, ungainly snap of his fingers. "*Celia*, that's it. I always forget her name. She has so many more memorable attributes." Rolling his head again, he gazed earnestly into Wilson's face. "Beautiful girl. Really. Legs up to her eyeballs." He paused, then tilted his head on the pillow and added, rather more bitingly, "A condition which denotes a very limited cranial capacity, unfortunately. Ah well, we can't have everything all at once, now, can we."
Wilson chuckled--lightly, because he wasn't sure that was the desired response. God help him if House was determined to be mercurial tonight. "Celia has to work late. She won't be home until long after I am, no matter when I leave."
Greg stared at him, then turned his head back towards the TV. His eyes, which had cleared somewhat with the activity of their conversation, went unfocused and glassy again. "You need to find more places to be elsewhere."
The clumsy wording made Wilson frown, and he leaned forward, watching House's face under the dim flicker of light. He saw Greg's jaw clench, saw his lips thin into a firm line; a second later the blanket betrayed an almost-certainly autonomous twitch from his leg, and Wilson bit back an impulse to ask again about the pain. Instead, he turned his attention to the histrionics of the fictional people on the screen, and stayed still and quiet until he thought House had drifted off.
He left the cane on the bed, and didn't even consider switching off the TV. He was at the door when he heard a rustle of fabric, followed by House's low, gravelly, slurred voice. "Just because I'm drugged to the tits, James, doesn't mean you can take advantage."
Wilson's hand left the doorknob and he almost turned around--but then he stopped. Greg wasn't looking at him; even with his back to the bed he knew it, could see in his mind the tableau of the room.
Even as he came and went, it never really changed.
He smiled at the shadows. "See you tomorrow, Greg," he replied, and opened the door to the blinding brightness of the hall.
End.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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