SUMMARY: Like a goddamned pregnant woman with his cravings...
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
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.
This morning, Wilson had threatened to quit even his limited cooking if House didn't come home from work with fresh mango for his smoothies. "Worse than a goddamned pregnant woman with his cravings," House mutters as he drops the three best-looking mangoes into a bag.
He is shouldered, hard, by someone as he makes his way to the checkout counter, and he nearly loses his mangoes and his balance. His reflexive, "Hey! Cripple here!" dies on his lips as he half-turns and sees the back of the man who bumped him. The close-cropped hair and broad shoulders are unmistakable. This time House does drop the mangoes.
A six-year-old breaks away from his father and helps House gather his groceries. House wills his hands to stop shaking as he puts everything on the conveyor, and he resists the urge to scan the store. He won't give the son of a bitch the satisfaction.
When he reaches for his wallet, he feels an unfamiliar crinkle in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a folded piece of paper while the clerk retrieves his change.
It's a photocopy of a page from an appointment book. Dr. Tomlinson's appointment book, scheduling her surgeries in orthopedics. Wilson's next surgery for the crushed left hand is highlighted in cheerful pink.
House crumples the sheet into a ball and stuffs it back into his pocket. He glances quickly around the store, silently takes his change and grocery bag, and hobbles as fast as he can for the exit, ignoring the sudden sweat beading on his lower back.