Post-Op (PG)
Jul. 20th, 2011 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deelaundryTitle: Post-Op
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: Wilson, House, House's team
Rating: PG
Words: 1250
Summary: "If a tree falls in a forest and Wilson doesn't hear it, does it make a noise?"
Notes: There's a lot of these plus more at the end, so hang on. This fic ignores the events of the Season 7 closer. Either they didn't happen or this is set in the future; take your pick. Prompted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
barefootpuddles in the Literary Drabble Challenge. I completely failed at making this a drabble. One form of Serket Woid 7 is also included. Written as a present for nightdog_barks, whose recent experiences needed more Wilson in them.
James E. Wilson, MD, of Princeton, New Jersey, died Friday morning at Frelinghuysen Memorial Hospital in Morristown, New Jersey. He is survived by his parents, two brothers, a pleasant-enough cat, and three alimony payments.
Yes, that must be it.
He died during the hemorrhoid surgery and was sent to Hell: it’s the only possible explanation for why he’s trapped in a small awkwardly laid-out recovery room, lethargic from lingering anesthesia and laryngitic from the intubation, while House drops potato chip fragments all over his hospital bed and conducts an “educational workshop” for the Diagnostic team. Foreman has commanded the only chair in the room; Thirteen is perched on the air conditioning unit; Chase is propped up against the doorjamb to the bathroom; and Taub has found a spot on the floor. House is taking up most of the end of the hospital bed, Wilson’s feet having been shoved aside. “Fetal position’s better for your recovery, anyway,” House said, and those had been the last words addressed directly to Wilson.
Directly to.
Not about.
There have been quite a few more words said about Wilson, during the “workshop,” which has been a bizarre mixture of Socratic questioning, dumb-blonde-type jokes (transformed to dumb-Wilson jokes), koans, and brain teasers similar to those Wilson’s sixth grade G&T teacher used to pose.
It’s been a long hour.
“So,” says House, “there are twenty people in a room.”
“Twenty actual people?” Taub asks wearily.
“Yes, but it’s not time for you to ask questions yet.”
Taub’s head thumps back against the dingy maple-donut colored wall. “My bad.”
“There are twenty people in a room. All of them are people Wilson used to have a relationship to.”
“Relationship relationship?” Thirteen asks. Chase is humming; Foreman looks like he’s going to break something any minute.
House is oblivious. “Nope. Any old kind of relationship: colleague, classmate, drycleaner --”
“You have a relationship with your drycleaner?” Taub asks.
“Pfft.” Chip flecks spray even more widely. Wilson would sigh if he had the energy.
House continues, “I don’t even have a drycleaner, but we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Wilson.”
Chase grunts in approval; the rest of the team nods.
House used to have a drycleaner -- well, actually, Wilson’s not sure if House had a drycleaner or just knew a drycleaner, but anyway, enough to have a relationship with. Of the poker kind. Wilson should tell the team that story -- leaving out the part about Chase hiding among Wilson’s ties as House called Wilson’s bluff -- but he’s kind of tired. And his throat hurts. Also his ass, a little. Not as much as his throat, surprisingly.
“Twenty people in this room, all of them have had some kind of relationship with Wilson, and just by glancing in the room for a few seconds, I know for a fact that Wilson has cheated on fourteen of them. How do I know that?”
“Because you know all of them,” Foreman puts in.
“Ernnh,” House responds, the universally understood Family Feud buzzer of incorrectness. “Like I give a damn about twenty random people who’ve been caught in the flypaper of Wilson’s persona.”
“You do know the ones Wilson’s slept with,” Chase says. He shifts to the other side of the doorway. “If your years of stalking any woman he even breathes near are to be believed.”
Foreman grunts. He may be remembering Wendy, his ex-girlfriend who House had been convinced was going out with Wilson. Or Amber. Foreman hadn’t enjoyed being in the middle of that fray. Or Bonnie. Apparently House’s fake apartment-hunting spree had interrupted patient care. Or Sam. Or maybe Wilson should stop reflecting on past failures and try to get some sleep.
Try being the operative word.
House waves a hand through the air dismissively. “I don’t care enough to remember their faces. That’s not it. How do I know for a fact that Wilson has cheated on fourteen of the twenty people in the room?”
“Because fourteen of them are girls,” says Thirteen, and ouch, she’s not nice.
House grins and touches his finger to nose, and he’s not nice either.
Hell.
“Not that insulting your best friend for the past hour hasn’t been a barrel of laughs,“ grumps Foreman, “but can we go now? I have actual work to do.”
“You are working,” retorts House. “Hand me the jerky.”
“Passing you food when you ask for it is not part of my job.” Nevertheless, a huge bag of jerky emerges from the sack next to Foreman’s chair and is passed over to House.
“Creative reasoning is, however.” House tears into the jerky and worries a stick of it between his teeth. Stick? Hunk? Slice? How do you quantify jerky? Wilson is pondering that (Side? Like of beef?) as House continues, “Figure out why I’m here and you can leave.”
Taub pops up from the floor, wiping his slacks off. “You’re here because you care about your friend. See ya.”
“Ernnh!” House brings his cane up in the air to block Taub’s attempt at egress. “Jesus, Taub, I thought Wilson was the one who’s had his brain fogged by sleep juice, not you.”
“Silly of me.” Taub takes his seat again.
Thirteen swings her legs. “You’re hiding from Clinic duty.”
“You get points for the answer at least being in-character, but that’s not it.” House shifts his weight and falls to his side -- directly onto Wilson’s legs. He’s now using Wilson as a bolster. Awesome. Wilson doesn’t have the energy to grunt, but he manages a loud-ish snort.
House ignores him.
“Seriously, House.” Foreman shifts forward in the chair, arms going to knees, face resolving into the ‘no, really, I mean it’ expression that has not even once worked on House. “I have work to do.”
“Thought you’d be the one to get this first, Mr. Summa Cum Everybody Out of My Way.”
“Competition,” Chase says thoughtfully over Foreman’s nearly audible scowl.
House taps a foot against one of the railings on the bed. “Something to add, Brit Boy?”
“Competition,” Chase says again. This time he’s standing straight, relaxed, with a hint of a smile on his face. “You’ve had us here the whole time, picking apart Wilson’s character, dredging up his mistakes, and criticizing his foibles, because you‘d fallen to second and you wanted to be back to number one.”
“At?” House asks.
Wilson expects to see recognition on the other doctors’ faces, but he doesn’t. Huh. He knew Chase had a unique spark of inspiration, but he’d figured the others would at least get it from the clue.
Guess not.
“The number one,” Chase continues, “biggest pain in Wilson’s ass.”
As a round of groans fills the room, House presses more solidly into Wilson’s legs and then sits up. “Out of here, all of you. Lunch time soon, and there’s only going to be jello enough for one.”
“For you?” Thirteen asks as she saunters by.
“Of course.”
House watches them all go, then drags the guest chair around so as to face Wilson.
“Always,” Wilson rasps out, “biggest pain ’n my ass.”
“Yeah, I know,” House replies. “This hospital has the worst rate of post-operative infectious transmission in the state. Why’d you have to have your surgery here?”
For a dozen reasons, none of which House would understand, respect, or even really care about. So Wilson says the only thing he can. “T’ be pain in your ass.”
He drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.
End notes: Sekret Woid was "laryngitis." Prompt frombarefootpuddles was: "Because fourteen of them are girls." (Taken from "About the B'nai Bagels"). Quote listed in the Summary is from Hugh Laurie. Idea for hemorrhoid surgery inspired by Robert Sean Leonard, who said, "In my mind, Wilson's a much unhealthier person than House is. In my mind as the actor. That's my opinion. I think he's very constipated."
Author: Dee Laundry
Characters: Wilson, House, House's team
Rating: PG
Words: 1250
Summary: "If a tree falls in a forest and Wilson doesn't hear it, does it make a noise?"
Notes: There's a lot of these plus more at the end, so hang on. This fic ignores the events of the Season 7 closer. Either they didn't happen or this is set in the future; take your pick. Prompted by
barefootpuddles in the Literary Drabble Challenge. I completely failed at making this a drabble. One form of Serket Woid 7 is also included. Written as a present for nightdog_barks, whose recent experiences needed more Wilson in them.James E. Wilson, MD, of Princeton, New Jersey, died Friday morning at Frelinghuysen Memorial Hospital in Morristown, New Jersey. He is survived by his parents, two brothers, a pleasant-enough cat, and three alimony payments.
Yes, that must be it.
He died during the hemorrhoid surgery and was sent to Hell: it’s the only possible explanation for why he’s trapped in a small awkwardly laid-out recovery room, lethargic from lingering anesthesia and laryngitic from the intubation, while House drops potato chip fragments all over his hospital bed and conducts an “educational workshop” for the Diagnostic team. Foreman has commanded the only chair in the room; Thirteen is perched on the air conditioning unit; Chase is propped up against the doorjamb to the bathroom; and Taub has found a spot on the floor. House is taking up most of the end of the hospital bed, Wilson’s feet having been shoved aside. “Fetal position’s better for your recovery, anyway,” House said, and those had been the last words addressed directly to Wilson.
Directly to.
Not about.
There have been quite a few more words said about Wilson, during the “workshop,” which has been a bizarre mixture of Socratic questioning, dumb-blonde-type jokes (transformed to dumb-Wilson jokes), koans, and brain teasers similar to those Wilson’s sixth grade G&T teacher used to pose.
It’s been a long hour.
“So,” says House, “there are twenty people in a room.”
“Twenty actual people?” Taub asks wearily.
“Yes, but it’s not time for you to ask questions yet.”
Taub’s head thumps back against the dingy maple-donut colored wall. “My bad.”
“There are twenty people in a room. All of them are people Wilson used to have a relationship to.”
“Relationship relationship?” Thirteen asks. Chase is humming; Foreman looks like he’s going to break something any minute.
House is oblivious. “Nope. Any old kind of relationship: colleague, classmate, drycleaner --”
“You have a relationship with your drycleaner?” Taub asks.
“Pfft.” Chip flecks spray even more widely. Wilson would sigh if he had the energy.
House continues, “I don’t even have a drycleaner, but we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Wilson.”
Chase grunts in approval; the rest of the team nods.
House used to have a drycleaner -- well, actually, Wilson’s not sure if House had a drycleaner or just knew a drycleaner, but anyway, enough to have a relationship with. Of the poker kind. Wilson should tell the team that story -- leaving out the part about Chase hiding among Wilson’s ties as House called Wilson’s bluff -- but he’s kind of tired. And his throat hurts. Also his ass, a little. Not as much as his throat, surprisingly.
“Twenty people in this room, all of them have had some kind of relationship with Wilson, and just by glancing in the room for a few seconds, I know for a fact that Wilson has cheated on fourteen of them. How do I know that?”
“Because you know all of them,” Foreman puts in.
“Ernnh,” House responds, the universally understood Family Feud buzzer of incorrectness. “Like I give a damn about twenty random people who’ve been caught in the flypaper of Wilson’s persona.”
“You do know the ones Wilson’s slept with,” Chase says. He shifts to the other side of the doorway. “If your years of stalking any woman he even breathes near are to be believed.”
Foreman grunts. He may be remembering Wendy, his ex-girlfriend who House had been convinced was going out with Wilson. Or Amber. Foreman hadn’t enjoyed being in the middle of that fray. Or Bonnie. Apparently House’s fake apartment-hunting spree had interrupted patient care. Or Sam. Or maybe Wilson should stop reflecting on past failures and try to get some sleep.
Try being the operative word.
House waves a hand through the air dismissively. “I don’t care enough to remember their faces. That’s not it. How do I know for a fact that Wilson has cheated on fourteen of the twenty people in the room?”
“Because fourteen of them are girls,” says Thirteen, and ouch, she’s not nice.
House grins and touches his finger to nose, and he’s not nice either.
Hell.
“Not that insulting your best friend for the past hour hasn’t been a barrel of laughs,“ grumps Foreman, “but can we go now? I have actual work to do.”
“You are working,” retorts House. “Hand me the jerky.”
“Passing you food when you ask for it is not part of my job.” Nevertheless, a huge bag of jerky emerges from the sack next to Foreman’s chair and is passed over to House.
“Creative reasoning is, however.” House tears into the jerky and worries a stick of it between his teeth. Stick? Hunk? Slice? How do you quantify jerky? Wilson is pondering that (Side? Like of beef?) as House continues, “Figure out why I’m here and you can leave.”
Taub pops up from the floor, wiping his slacks off. “You’re here because you care about your friend. See ya.”
“Ernnh!” House brings his cane up in the air to block Taub’s attempt at egress. “Jesus, Taub, I thought Wilson was the one who’s had his brain fogged by sleep juice, not you.”
“Silly of me.” Taub takes his seat again.
Thirteen swings her legs. “You’re hiding from Clinic duty.”
“You get points for the answer at least being in-character, but that’s not it.” House shifts his weight and falls to his side -- directly onto Wilson’s legs. He’s now using Wilson as a bolster. Awesome. Wilson doesn’t have the energy to grunt, but he manages a loud-ish snort.
House ignores him.
“Seriously, House.” Foreman shifts forward in the chair, arms going to knees, face resolving into the ‘no, really, I mean it’ expression that has not even once worked on House. “I have work to do.”
“Thought you’d be the one to get this first, Mr. Summa Cum Everybody Out of My Way.”
“Competition,” Chase says thoughtfully over Foreman’s nearly audible scowl.
House taps a foot against one of the railings on the bed. “Something to add, Brit Boy?”
“Competition,” Chase says again. This time he’s standing straight, relaxed, with a hint of a smile on his face. “You’ve had us here the whole time, picking apart Wilson’s character, dredging up his mistakes, and criticizing his foibles, because you‘d fallen to second and you wanted to be back to number one.”
“At?” House asks.
Wilson expects to see recognition on the other doctors’ faces, but he doesn’t. Huh. He knew Chase had a unique spark of inspiration, but he’d figured the others would at least get it from the clue.
Guess not.
“The number one,” Chase continues, “biggest pain in Wilson’s ass.”
As a round of groans fills the room, House presses more solidly into Wilson’s legs and then sits up. “Out of here, all of you. Lunch time soon, and there’s only going to be jello enough for one.”
“For you?” Thirteen asks as she saunters by.
“Of course.”
House watches them all go, then drags the guest chair around so as to face Wilson.
“Always,” Wilson rasps out, “biggest pain ’n my ass.”
“Yeah, I know,” House replies. “This hospital has the worst rate of post-operative infectious transmission in the state. Why’d you have to have your surgery here?”
For a dozen reasons, none of which House would understand, respect, or even really care about. So Wilson says the only thing he can. “T’ be pain in your ass.”
He drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.
End notes: Sekret Woid was "laryngitis." Prompt from
barefootpuddles was: "Because fourteen of them are girls." (Taken from "About the B'nai Bagels"). Quote listed in the Summary is from Hugh Laurie. Idea for hemorrhoid surgery inspired by Robert Sean Leonard, who said, "In my mind, Wilson's a much unhealthier person than House is. In my mind as the actor. That's my opinion. I think he's very constipated."