SUMMARY: A decision has been made. Time to tell Wilson.
CHARACTERS: House, Wilson
RATING: R for language and themes.
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
"Afternoon, sunshine," House lets his voice precede him as the door slides open.
Wilson raises one eyebrow in greeting—it's almost 4:00, after all. He lifts the remote off the bed and switches from a bland decorating show to ABC.
House doesn't flop into his usual chair, and he's brought no snacks for taunting. He doubts Wilson's going to want him to stick around after the news he's bringing. Then again, it's a good thing he didn't stick around for the end of that damn meeting. As soon as it's over Cuddy will be in here asking Wilson what he wants to do, and that's ridiculous because everybody knows patients are idiots. He paces the width of the room before returning to the end of the bed and stopping.
Wilson simply waits as the music for General Hospital starts quietly in the background.
House scratches at an eyebrow and picks up the chart that's hanging on the end of the bed. He flips it open and tries for offhanded when he says, "First PT session went well, yeah?"
Wilson harrumphs through his bandaged nose and reaches for his water bottle.
"Great." House flips the file closed and drops it back on the footboard. "Looks like you'll be free by Wednesday."
Wilson sputters a little and looks up with something resembling consternation, accompanied by a side order of irritation.
"That's right," House says cheerfully. "Released, escaped, vamoosed. You can get the hell out of this fishbowl." He waves his cane at the blind-covered glass wall. "No more ogling by random passers-by, no more late-night visits from Nurse Bertha, no more Camer—"
House answers Wilson's glare with a grin. "You'll be staying with me."
The water bottle lands on the table with a hard thunk.
"I checked you out of that damned hotel and Chase moved your stuff to my place yesterday. Don't worry, I didn't let him drive your car."
He can see Wilson's right hand flexing. By the look in his eyes, Wilson's looking like he's wishing he had two good hands to wrap around his neck. House decides to beat a retreat.
Just before he slips out the door, House turns back and adds, "And don't worry about sleeping on the sofa. I've taken care of it."
House knows there's too much to make up for; atonement is impossible but he's got to try. House smiles down at the floor as he walks, remembering Wilson, standing over his bed after the infarction and threatening to smother him with his own pillow.
Wilson doesn't know it yet, but it's his turn. House is going to help him, whether he likes it or not.