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sick_wilson2008-11-02 08:48 pm
prepare4trouble.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2008-11-02 08:48 pm
Entry tags:
Words - chapter 2
Story Title: Words
Chapter title: What Normal Would Become
Rating: PG
Summary: Wilson tries to adjust, House tries not to.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Luckily for the characters, I don't own them or anything to do with the show.
A/N: I honestly had no intention of writing any more of this, but then I did anyway. There's at least one more chapter to come too.
Part 1
“You're an idiot,”
House's head snapped around at the unexpected words to look Wilson sitting on the other side of his couch, the ever present sign language book resting in his lap. “Okay, no fair. You're not allowed to start arguments until you've mastered lip reading, otherwise you'll always think you've got the last word.”
“I saw 'lip reading',” Wilson told him, “and something about words. Why don't you just learn to sign? It's not as hard as you'd think.”
House shook his head, “Necessity is the mother of... getting on with stuff. Or however it it that goes. I have no need. You're going to have to lipread eventually, unless you plan on quitting the rest of the world completely. When you do, I won't need anything I've learned. So what's in it for me?”
Wilson shook his head. Anger crept through into his voice as he replied. Not being able to hear himself had taken away his ability to censor things like that. House had first noticed that when he didn't tell his friend how afraid he sounded as he lay in bed in the hospital trying not to think about the future. “I think I saw 'lipread' there again. Which, by the way, isn't was easy as you've been lead to believe by Sue Thomas F B Eye. Accuracy-wise it's pretty hit and miss. Turn down the TV and see how much you get.”
“I can write things down then,” House mimed writing in his left palm with the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. “You can still read, can't you?”
“You don't write if you can help it. You can't stand having to write things down because it makes them permanent. There are no throw-away comments.” He picked up the pen and notepad and wrote, 'Once it's on paper it's there forever,'
Wilson put down the pen triumphantly and glared House defiantly in the eye.
“Maybe,” he agreed, “unless I do this,” House ripped out the offending piece of paper, screwed up up in a tight ball and threw it in the bin.
“It's still there,” Wilson told him. “Just like the other thing you wrote.” At the confusion on House's face, he shook his head, “You know what I mean,”
House did. The thing he had told Wilson as he lay in a hospital bed trying to come to terms with the life changing piece of news that he had just received. It was the worst thing House could possibly have said, and there it was in black and white, laying probably in the dump by now, but maybe still somewhere in the hospital. Maybe even, knowing Wilson, somewhere in his friend's possession, there to remind him of how much House wasn't a friend. No when it really counted. Not like Wilson. Wilson who had stuck by him through everything.
As though reading his mind, Wilson shook his head, “I got rid of it,” he said, “I'm right though, aren't I?”
House shrugged non-committedly.
“Then learn to sign. I don't want to have to spend the rest of my life communicating with you through notes, trying to decipher your awful handwriting. Why are you being so stubborn about this? If you ever want things to be normal between us again, you're going to have to have to. I'm trying to get on with my life, why do you insist on making things more difficult for me than they already are?”
House stared. That was the most Wilson had said to him since it happened. Normal? Things were never going to be normal again. This had changed everything, and eventually what they defined as normal would alter too, but even then, it would only be what normal would become.
House pre-empted his move to grab the TV remote, but Wilson was quicker, he pressed the mute button and switched off the subtitles.
“Hey,” House tried to take back the remote, “That's my favourite show,”
Wilson shook his head, leapt to his feet and dodged out of the way. House began to follow him then thought better of it. Instead he took advantage of the extra room on the couch to stretch out. Wilson took the remote and his book with him, went into House's bedroom and closed the door behind him
He could have got up and used the volume control on the TV to fix the problem, but something stopped him, and it wasn't the pain in his leg. He stared at the TV, unable to follow what was going on in the vaguest of terms, let alone understand the words that were being said. It wasn't like he'd never turned down the volume on a TV before, he knew what a show looked like with the sound switched off. But what about the world? What would that look like? And what if the remote to turn it back up had been damaged beyond repair? He stared at the door to the bedroom that Wilson had closed behind him, and massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
***
Three had weeks passed quickly. Wilson had been discharged from the hospital and House had invited him to stay. Wilson grudgingly accepted, not wanting to appear too needy, but clearly not wanting to be alone. He hadn't said that, of course. Neither had House, there was no point saying much of anything to Wilson any more. Writing things down took away the spontaneity, made him think before he spoke. Thinking about them made saying all kinds of things seem less of a good idea.
House had taken a few days off, to help Wilson move in, he said. In fact, moving Wilson in required shifting two suitcases from his hotel to House's apartment. Not exactly a time consuming procedure, nor one that House actually helped with at all. House had returned to work in a worse mood than normal, and Wilson hadn't.
He sat alone in his office, his face illuminated by the soft glow of his computer monitor in the darkness that had crept up on him so slowly he barely noticed. One internet window displayed the latest audiology research, the other contained porn. House wasn't looking at either of them, concentrating instead on the small piece of rubber between his thumb and forefinger. He rolled it back and forth, softening the material, examining it carefully.
It was late, far too late for him still to be at work. His team had all left hours ago. At home, no doubt, Wilson was waiting for him, maybe cooking again. He had come home twice that week already to find dinner on the table. His apartment had never been so clean and he had never eaten so well. A bored Wilson was a productive Wilson, it seemed. He missed his friend, but he had somehow managed to gain a wife. Not a bad trade, some people might say. House though, wasn't one of them. He might have been, if he hadn't had to think before he wrote.
He glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer screen, then turned his attention back to the earplug in his hand. It was grey, made out of a smooth, plasticy rubber, with a removable stick of hard plastic in the middle. That bit could be taken out and swapped for one that blocked different frequencies, depending on why the wearer needed them. From the main stem, the plug bloomed out into three fringes, each one designed to fit further inside the ear.
House flicked on the light and gave the instructions another quick read through, then inserted a plug into each ear.
They didn't cut cut out all sound, of course, but they definitely muffled it. The hum of his computer disappeared completely, the only thing he could hear was his own breathing, seemingly amplified ridiculously. He drummed his fingers and tapped the tip of a ballpoint pen experimentally on the surface of his desk, listening carefully. Then, satisfied with the result he got to his feet and finally went home.
Part 3
Chapter title: What Normal Would Become
Rating: PG
Summary: Wilson tries to adjust, House tries not to.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Luckily for the characters, I don't own them or anything to do with the show.
A/N: I honestly had no intention of writing any more of this, but then I did anyway. There's at least one more chapter to come too.
Part 1
“You're an idiot,”
House's head snapped around at the unexpected words to look Wilson sitting on the other side of his couch, the ever present sign language book resting in his lap. “Okay, no fair. You're not allowed to start arguments until you've mastered lip reading, otherwise you'll always think you've got the last word.”
“I saw 'lip reading',” Wilson told him, “and something about words. Why don't you just learn to sign? It's not as hard as you'd think.”
House shook his head, “Necessity is the mother of... getting on with stuff. Or however it it that goes. I have no need. You're going to have to lipread eventually, unless you plan on quitting the rest of the world completely. When you do, I won't need anything I've learned. So what's in it for me?”
Wilson shook his head. Anger crept through into his voice as he replied. Not being able to hear himself had taken away his ability to censor things like that. House had first noticed that when he didn't tell his friend how afraid he sounded as he lay in bed in the hospital trying not to think about the future. “I think I saw 'lipread' there again. Which, by the way, isn't was easy as you've been lead to believe by Sue Thomas F B Eye. Accuracy-wise it's pretty hit and miss. Turn down the TV and see how much you get.”
“I can write things down then,” House mimed writing in his left palm with the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. “You can still read, can't you?”
“You don't write if you can help it. You can't stand having to write things down because it makes them permanent. There are no throw-away comments.” He picked up the pen and notepad and wrote, 'Once it's on paper it's there forever,'
Wilson put down the pen triumphantly and glared House defiantly in the eye.
“Maybe,” he agreed, “unless I do this,” House ripped out the offending piece of paper, screwed up up in a tight ball and threw it in the bin.
“It's still there,” Wilson told him. “Just like the other thing you wrote.” At the confusion on House's face, he shook his head, “You know what I mean,”
House did. The thing he had told Wilson as he lay in a hospital bed trying to come to terms with the life changing piece of news that he had just received. It was the worst thing House could possibly have said, and there it was in black and white, laying probably in the dump by now, but maybe still somewhere in the hospital. Maybe even, knowing Wilson, somewhere in his friend's possession, there to remind him of how much House wasn't a friend. No when it really counted. Not like Wilson. Wilson who had stuck by him through everything.
As though reading his mind, Wilson shook his head, “I got rid of it,” he said, “I'm right though, aren't I?”
House shrugged non-committedly.
“Then learn to sign. I don't want to have to spend the rest of my life communicating with you through notes, trying to decipher your awful handwriting. Why are you being so stubborn about this? If you ever want things to be normal between us again, you're going to have to have to. I'm trying to get on with my life, why do you insist on making things more difficult for me than they already are?”
House stared. That was the most Wilson had said to him since it happened. Normal? Things were never going to be normal again. This had changed everything, and eventually what they defined as normal would alter too, but even then, it would only be what normal would become.
House pre-empted his move to grab the TV remote, but Wilson was quicker, he pressed the mute button and switched off the subtitles.
“Hey,” House tried to take back the remote, “That's my favourite show,”
Wilson shook his head, leapt to his feet and dodged out of the way. House began to follow him then thought better of it. Instead he took advantage of the extra room on the couch to stretch out. Wilson took the remote and his book with him, went into House's bedroom and closed the door behind him
He could have got up and used the volume control on the TV to fix the problem, but something stopped him, and it wasn't the pain in his leg. He stared at the TV, unable to follow what was going on in the vaguest of terms, let alone understand the words that were being said. It wasn't like he'd never turned down the volume on a TV before, he knew what a show looked like with the sound switched off. But what about the world? What would that look like? And what if the remote to turn it back up had been damaged beyond repair? He stared at the door to the bedroom that Wilson had closed behind him, and massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
Three had weeks passed quickly. Wilson had been discharged from the hospital and House had invited him to stay. Wilson grudgingly accepted, not wanting to appear too needy, but clearly not wanting to be alone. He hadn't said that, of course. Neither had House, there was no point saying much of anything to Wilson any more. Writing things down took away the spontaneity, made him think before he spoke. Thinking about them made saying all kinds of things seem less of a good idea.
House had taken a few days off, to help Wilson move in, he said. In fact, moving Wilson in required shifting two suitcases from his hotel to House's apartment. Not exactly a time consuming procedure, nor one that House actually helped with at all. House had returned to work in a worse mood than normal, and Wilson hadn't.
He sat alone in his office, his face illuminated by the soft glow of his computer monitor in the darkness that had crept up on him so slowly he barely noticed. One internet window displayed the latest audiology research, the other contained porn. House wasn't looking at either of them, concentrating instead on the small piece of rubber between his thumb and forefinger. He rolled it back and forth, softening the material, examining it carefully.
It was late, far too late for him still to be at work. His team had all left hours ago. At home, no doubt, Wilson was waiting for him, maybe cooking again. He had come home twice that week already to find dinner on the table. His apartment had never been so clean and he had never eaten so well. A bored Wilson was a productive Wilson, it seemed. He missed his friend, but he had somehow managed to gain a wife. Not a bad trade, some people might say. House though, wasn't one of them. He might have been, if he hadn't had to think before he wrote.
He glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer screen, then turned his attention back to the earplug in his hand. It was grey, made out of a smooth, plasticy rubber, with a removable stick of hard plastic in the middle. That bit could be taken out and swapped for one that blocked different frequencies, depending on why the wearer needed them. From the main stem, the plug bloomed out into three fringes, each one designed to fit further inside the ear.
House flicked on the light and gave the instructions another quick read through, then inserted a plug into each ear.
They didn't cut cut out all sound, of course, but they definitely muffled it. The hum of his computer disappeared completely, the only thing he could hear was his own breathing, seemingly amplified ridiculously. He drummed his fingers and tapped the tip of a ballpoint pen experimentally on the surface of his desk, listening carefully. Then, satisfied with the result he got to his feet and finally went home.
Part 3
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What was written on the piece of paper? So far, we don't know what House wrote on the paper, right?
Looking forward to the next chapter.
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Thanks for commenting, I'm glad you like it!
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cool!
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Thanks for the comment.
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Thanks for reading :)