SUMMARY: House makes a plan.
CHARACTERS: Wilson, House.
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.
A Good Idea
Bendy straws. That was the answer House had come up with, back when Wilson first woke up in the hospital. Not just any bendy straws, either, but the kind they give out at kids' birthday parties, the kind with a bendy section as long as a small snake. House had gone online and bought a half dozen packages of the things, rush delivery.
The reason is simple. Wilson—thanks to the repeated punches of some right-handed goon—is missing a molar from his upper left jaw. Who the hell ties a man up and does that—but that's a pointless question. House knows who, and why, and it's over and doesn't really matter anymore.
And the missing tooth, which will be a minor curse for the rest of Wilson's life, is a minor blessing for now. It means that if he has a straw that bends properly, he can poke it through the space where the tooth used to be. It means he can eat thicker liquids than a person with a wired jaw normally could.
It means that House can get Wilson a strawberry shake. It's really too soon for Wilson to be going anywhere, but they'll take the convertible and it'll make life seem not to suck quite so bad. They'll be gone for fifteen minutes at most; the Dairy Queen is right at the edge of campus, along with the Krispy Kreme and the Papa John's and all the other staples of collegiate life. There's a drive-thru. Wilson won't be alone even for a moment, and if anything happens—but nothing's going to happen.
House adds five milligrams of oxycodone to the tiny glass of ginger ale he's just poured, and makes a cautious limping beeline for Wilson's bedside. The bed's in its usual chaise-lounge position, and Wilson is asleep, as he has been for much of the day. It's dusk now, the time rapidly approaching when vampires and torture victims can go outside without attracting too much attention.
"Wake up, Rip Van Winkle."
"Oh, don't give me that. Look, I brought more drugs."
"So you're not hungry?"
Wilson's eyes open. House had known that would get his attention. He's always hungry.
"Drink this first. No dessert until you finish your magic elixir."
That's almost a smirk on Wilson's face, which is still so many colors it shouldn't be. He's going to bitch and moan about this, but House has strict instructions to make him get up and around at least a little bit, once each day. Nobody ever said there couldn't be a red Corvette involved.
Wilson shuts his eyes and drinks the ginger ale, unaware of what House has in mind. Innocent, clueless Wilson. House snatches the cup from him the moment it's empty, and finds himself being studied by suspicious brown eyes.
"Yer smiling. Why?"
"I'll tell you," he replies, "in about twenty minutes. Just as soon as the drugs do their thing."
House smiles a little bit wider. This is going to be ... almost like fun.
He'll take what he can get, these days.