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sick_wilson2010-07-15 08:59 am
mashfanficchick.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2010-07-15 08:59 am
Entry tags:
Untitled fic (for the "Random" Challenge)
Title: Untitled
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mashfanficchick
Word Count: 750
Rating: G
Pairing(s): None
Warning(s): None that I can think of, other than a complete lack of anything even resembling a beta. I did proofread this, but--IMHO--proofreading one's own work tends to not work particularly well.
Summary: There's always a reason.
Disclaimer: The character of Wilson doesn't belong to me.He belongs to House. Neither do the characters of House or Sam, nor the fictional institution of PPH. The city of New York also doesn't belong to me, though I do lay claim to it as my home town.
Author's Note: Writtten for the Camp![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sick_wilson "Random" Challenge. The keywords were a generic plant, House's piano, and Memorial Day. (Yes, I know I cheated by not actually naming the holiday, but I can fix that if it's that important to anyone.)
There's always a reason. One of House's many sayings, and a source of contention between him and Wilson, played through Wilson's mind as he lay motionless on the couch. “Always a reason” meant that people's every word, every step, was fraught with meaning...except, of course, for those of the theory's speaker. House could do whatever he wanted, say whatever he wanted, and then neatly dance out of the way of any attempts at analysis. But anyone else.... Wilson sighed. Thinking about House's theories would only frustrate him, especially since, where Wilson was concerned, they always seemed to be right.
He'd shown up on House's doorstep a few hours earlier, covered in gauze to the point where knocking had been difficult; he'd had to work at it for nearly a minute before being heard over House's piano. In hindsight, he should have foreseen that possibility, the way House always said he foresaw everything, but the cabbie had been long gone, the holiday weekend far too busy to enlist someone at the hospital to give him a ride.
Unsurprisingly, House hadn't been overjoyed at having his evening interrupted, but the sight of a nearly mummified best friend had galvanized him. He'd cleared off the couch with a broad swipe of his hand, sending things flying, before doing his best to make Wilson as comfortable as possible. Not that that endeavor had been too successful, though he had managed to get some food into him—and Wilson shuddered to think about what the other half of that equation was going to entail—before sitting down on the coffee table and asking the obvious question: “What the hell happened to you?”
What, indeed? It had seemed so simple on the surface: a quick trip with Sam to up to New York, to celebrate the unofficial beginning of summer and a rare three day weekend. With so many of the “natives” off to the Hamptons or wherever, the city was practically empty. They'd met up with old friends of theirs for dinner on Friday, and Sam had had a wonderful time shopping Saturday while Wilson himself had met up with a couple of friends he hadn't seen in years. On Sunday, the weather perfect for a day out, they'd decided to picnic on the Great Lawn, bringing with them an assortment of delicacies from several of the gourmet food stores near the park.
By Sunday evening, as he and Sam walked back to their hotel, it had all started to unravel. He'd begun feeling unwell—a headache, a stuffy nose—and decided to head back to Princeton early. He knew it might just be allergies, though his were usually so minor as to be nearly irrelevant, but he didn't want to take the risk and wind up driving home in the grip of a summer cold. Sam had been cool; she had plans with her sister for Monday, and didn't want to change them. Wilson told her to take the car, and bought himself a train ticket home.
Reaching the Princeton station, though, he changed his plans significantly. The slight wheezing he'd detected in his own breathing didn't worry him too much; he knew his allergies occasionally caused a mild asthma attack, and his inhaler was, as always, easily reachable in his pocket. The all-over itching, however, was cause for concern. A systemic reaction to an unknown substance...he made a detour to PPH.
He'd been lucky, he knew. It hadn't been a systemic reaction, but rather near-full-body contact dermatitis, apparently from lying on the tree-pollen-laden park grass wearing nothing but shorts. Given his reassurance that he would be fine and knew what to do, the ER had bandaged the worst of the damage, given him an antihistamine, and sent him on his way. It was only after he left that he realized he wouldn't be able to turn the key in his own lock. Giving the cabbie House's address had been a no-brainer; now, here he was, installed on House's couch like he belonged there, while the man himself played something Wilson didn't recognize on the piano. A warm breeze rustled the papers on the sill, caressing Wilson like a lover, and as he groggily realized the undeniable truth—that this was where he wanted to be—he groaned softly, taking care to hide the sound in the music. He felt good, or as could as one could feel in his condition. But House...House would see this as he always did, Wilson knew. There must've been a reason.
Author:
mashfanficchickWord Count: 750
Rating: G
Pairing(s): None
Warning(s): None that I can think of, other than a complete lack of anything even resembling a beta. I did proofread this, but--IMHO--proofreading one's own work tends to not work particularly well.
Summary: There's always a reason.
Disclaimer: The character of Wilson doesn't belong to me.
Author's Note: Writtten for the Camp
sick_wilson "Random" Challenge. The keywords were a generic plant, House's piano, and Memorial Day. (Yes, I know I cheated by not actually naming the holiday, but I can fix that if it's that important to anyone.)There's always a reason. One of House's many sayings, and a source of contention between him and Wilson, played through Wilson's mind as he lay motionless on the couch. “Always a reason” meant that people's every word, every step, was fraught with meaning...except, of course, for those of the theory's speaker. House could do whatever he wanted, say whatever he wanted, and then neatly dance out of the way of any attempts at analysis. But anyone else.... Wilson sighed. Thinking about House's theories would only frustrate him, especially since, where Wilson was concerned, they always seemed to be right.
He'd shown up on House's doorstep a few hours earlier, covered in gauze to the point where knocking had been difficult; he'd had to work at it for nearly a minute before being heard over House's piano. In hindsight, he should have foreseen that possibility, the way House always said he foresaw everything, but the cabbie had been long gone, the holiday weekend far too busy to enlist someone at the hospital to give him a ride.
Unsurprisingly, House hadn't been overjoyed at having his evening interrupted, but the sight of a nearly mummified best friend had galvanized him. He'd cleared off the couch with a broad swipe of his hand, sending things flying, before doing his best to make Wilson as comfortable as possible. Not that that endeavor had been too successful, though he had managed to get some food into him—and Wilson shuddered to think about what the other half of that equation was going to entail—before sitting down on the coffee table and asking the obvious question: “What the hell happened to you?”
What, indeed? It had seemed so simple on the surface: a quick trip with Sam to up to New York, to celebrate the unofficial beginning of summer and a rare three day weekend. With so many of the “natives” off to the Hamptons or wherever, the city was practically empty. They'd met up with old friends of theirs for dinner on Friday, and Sam had had a wonderful time shopping Saturday while Wilson himself had met up with a couple of friends he hadn't seen in years. On Sunday, the weather perfect for a day out, they'd decided to picnic on the Great Lawn, bringing with them an assortment of delicacies from several of the gourmet food stores near the park.
By Sunday evening, as he and Sam walked back to their hotel, it had all started to unravel. He'd begun feeling unwell—a headache, a stuffy nose—and decided to head back to Princeton early. He knew it might just be allergies, though his were usually so minor as to be nearly irrelevant, but he didn't want to take the risk and wind up driving home in the grip of a summer cold. Sam had been cool; she had plans with her sister for Monday, and didn't want to change them. Wilson told her to take the car, and bought himself a train ticket home.
Reaching the Princeton station, though, he changed his plans significantly. The slight wheezing he'd detected in his own breathing didn't worry him too much; he knew his allergies occasionally caused a mild asthma attack, and his inhaler was, as always, easily reachable in his pocket. The all-over itching, however, was cause for concern. A systemic reaction to an unknown substance...he made a detour to PPH.
He'd been lucky, he knew. It hadn't been a systemic reaction, but rather near-full-body contact dermatitis, apparently from lying on the tree-pollen-laden park grass wearing nothing but shorts. Given his reassurance that he would be fine and knew what to do, the ER had bandaged the worst of the damage, given him an antihistamine, and sent him on his way. It was only after he left that he realized he wouldn't be able to turn the key in his own lock. Giving the cabbie House's address had been a no-brainer; now, here he was, installed on House's couch like he belonged there, while the man himself played something Wilson didn't recognize on the piano. A warm breeze rustled the papers on the sill, caressing Wilson like a lover, and as he groggily realized the undeniable truth—that this was where he wanted to be—he groaned softly, taking care to hide the sound in the music. He felt good, or as could as one could feel in his condition. But House...House would see this as he always did, Wilson knew. There must've been a reason.
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Of course there's a reason, Wilson -- when you're sick, you always feel better if you're with the person you love most. :^)
This was a good job of getting in all your prompts!
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Now, how to move Wilson from he couch to the bedroom....
I love the visual imagery you provided of Wilson on the couch and House playing the piano.
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and ARGH i can't begin to imagine what poor wilson is itching like!
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