Excuses, Excuses
Nov. 29th, 2008 12:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
debbiel66Title: Excuses, Excuses
Author: debbiel
Characters: Wilson, House, Cuddy
Rating: PG
Words: 2200
Post episode: Last Resort
Author's Note: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_barks and deelaundry for the beta read.
Summary: The hostage situation is over and House is nowhere to be found. Wilson finds his own way to cope.
Excerpt: They’d had plans to go out that night, but Wilson will be damned if he goes bowling with that lunatic. There are no excuses this time. House has taken things too far.
Excuses, Excuses
He's finally home. Wilson winces when the front door slams into the wall and chips the wintergreen plaster. Amber had loved those walls. She'd loved Wilson more, but she'd have killed him for messing them up – good thing House is around to do it for her. Wilson doesn't think he can survive another day like this one.
It's been hours since the standoff ended, but Wilson's not sure whether he's angry or terrified now that it's over. When it comes to House, those two emotions enjoy conjugal relations. He’d looked for House at the hospital, had tried his cell again and again, and had finally given up altogether, driving back to his apartment alone. They’d had plans to go out that night, but he'll be damned if he goes bowling with that lunatic. There are no excuses this time. House has taken things too far.
The day had started off well. Grief still woke him up in his empty bed, but coffee tasted good with cream and sugar. Life was getting back to normal, and for that, Wilson was glad.
That morning, he'd gone to pick House up because they were going out after work. Monday was Beer For A Buck Night at the Galaxy Bowl, and shockingly, House was paying. Because House always insisted, they’d stopped for jelly donuts and bad coffee on the way, even though they were running late. The delay and the mess were almost worth House's good mood. He was humming as he traced powdered sugar snowflakes on the dash.
All the same, Wilson was suspicious. House was not a morning person. He had to be up to something. Probably had to do with Cuddy. Wilson figured he could warn her, but whatever it was seemed to be keeping House entertained. Wilson let it go. At this point in the game, Cuddy had to know what she was getting into. Once he and House went their separate ways at the hospital, Wilson quickly forgot about it, and he covered up the residue of powdered sugar with his lab coat.
It was a good day to be an oncologist. Test results came back, and it turned out that two of his patients had gone into remission. His difficult lymphoma case was accepted for a randomized clinical trial, and most thrilling of all, Wilson got word that his immunotherapy research was going to be published in the American Journal of Clinical Oncology. All this required documentation, authorization, and a lot of paperwork, which was why Wilson was still at his desk when the announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“Code Gray-Clinic. Code Gray-Clinic.”
Code Gray was unusual. It was a code designated for a security emergency, usually involving a combative person using physical force or violence. Wilson suddenly flashed back to the last time he’d heard it called. Heart pounding, he bolted out of his office and checked House’s office. It was empty. No shots fired, no darkening pool of blood. Wilson told himself to calm down. What were the chances a Code Gray could involve House this time?
“Dr. Strong to the dean's office. Dr. Strong to the dean's office.” The loudspeaker was sounding off again.
Crap. Another code, this time directing armed security to Cuddy’s office. Wilson thought back to House’s good mood in the car that morning. It was too much of a coincidence. It had to be House.
Wilson was half way to the clinic when the SWAT team charged past him, shouting at him to stay back. They’d entered the hospital through the cardiology wing, most likely setting off a dozen cardiac monitors in their wake. He'd seen SWAT teams on TV but never in person, and his instinct for self-preservation almost kicked in. Wilson kept going but tried hard not to notice that everyone else was going the other way.
Coming around the corner, he almost bumped into Cameron who grabbed him by the arm.
“It’s House,” she announced with breathless gravity.
“Of course it’s House,” Wilson said, with undue irritation.
The FBI had cordoned off the affected areas but deemed the rest secure and didn’t evacuate the entire hospital. Wilson hated waiting. There was nothing he could do for House by standing around, so he returned to oncology, finished up some paperwork, and then found his way to triage, helping out where he could. He was with a patient when House called him on his cell wanting a consult. Wilson did his best to respond coherently while wanting to scream into the phone, “Why does it always have to be you?”
The second time House called, Wilson wasn’t nearly so self-possessed.
Wilson could have forgiven House anything until he found out about the gun. Wilson had to repeat the allegations to himself several times before he could believe it: The patient had the gun. The patient gave House the gun. House gave the gun back to the patient.
It made perfect sense, in an insane sort of way. House was trying to buy time. House had always been willing to die for an answer, but Wilson planned to kill him first. But before he had the chance, the whole thing ended as dramatically as it began. The SWAT team stormed the CT room, apprehending the gunman and ending the standoff. Nobody but Cuddy and authorized personnel were allowed on the scene, and somewhere in the ensuing confusion, House slipped away.
The hostage situation at Princeton-Plainsboro made the first page of Google News. The initial reports lauded House as “the heroic disabled doctor who saved the day as well as the deranged patient.” There was some mention of an ambiguous situation involving the gunman’s weapon, but it certainly appeared to Wilson that House was going to get away with it again.
He eventually found Cuddy in her wrecked office. The room reeked of vomit and blood, and Wilson could read House’s writing on the wall of everything. Cuddy was behind her desk, improbably trying to put a drawer back together. Fixing a desk drawer didn’t really seem like much of a priority, but Wilson noticed the sheared bolts on the desktop and understood. It had taken him hours to figure out how to put his chair back together again.
Cuddy gazed at him wearily. “You have any bright ideas or spare parts?”
Wilson shook his head. “You can’t invite House over to play without accepting the fact that he’s going to mess with your stuff.”
“He invited himself. Don’t tell me you’re going to make excuses for him this time.”
“He’s House. And he didn’t cause this to happen.”
Cuddy was not happy. “He risked innocent lives.”
“Nobody died. The patient got his diagnosis.” Wilson was being careful. Cuddy would always put her hospital first, but Wilson’s loyalties were not so conflicted.
“Doctor Hadley was almost killed. And the gunman was not a patient. He hadn’t even been admitted.”
The fact that House had spent billable hours diagnosing a gunman who hadn’t even had the decency to be admitted was the sort of thing that would really irk the dean of a large teaching hospital. Wilson tried to suppress a smile but couldn’t and started to laugh instead. There was a distinct possibility he was going to crack up altogether. But then Cuddy joined in. Leaning against the desk, they laughed until they were wiping away tears, but it felt good to do it together. Sharing House sometimes felt like surviving a common disaster.
Wilson tried again, his voice still shaky. “House did his best.”
Cuddy wasn’t laughing any more. She wasn’t even smiling. “He would have sacrificed any one of those hostages for his obsessive need to know. That’s not doing his best.”
“He would have died for any one of those hostages.”
“It was dangerous, and it was wrong.”
“He’s House. He has his own interpretation of right and wrong.”
“Yeah.” Cuddy gave him a withering glare. “He’s right and everyone else is wrong.”
“He needed more time for the diagnosis.”
“Oh yes, the sacred diagnosis. And yet, I can remember a time when the diagnosis didn’t come first. It was for you, Dr. Wilson, just to get you to stay. Blackmail at its very best. And it must have worked because here you are, making excuses for him again. You and I are quite the pair, aren't we, enabling House to get whatever the hell he wants.”
“I chose to come back,” Wilson said quietly. “I knew what I was getting into. Do you?”
Cuddy looked away, but Wilson sympathized. A relationship with House had never been one for beginners. Wilson kissed her on the cheek this time, before he left. He didn’t try to help her put the desk back together...
There are things you just have to figure out for yourself.
Back in his own tidy apartment, Wilson checks the answering machine and tries not to worry. While no news is usually good news, House has a habit of screwing with platitudes.
It's been a day for waiting, but Wilson can't sit still. He puts his dishes away, organizes his journals, and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash cold water over his face. He studies his features somewhat grimly in the mirror. There’d been a time when the mirror was his friend. Easy on the eyes… that’s how his great Aunt Ruth used to put it, embarrassing her nephew in an agreeable sort of way. But the past year has taken its toll.
In the unforgiving light, Wilson looks disheveled and a little baffled. He will be going gray before long, and worry lines are already forming around his eyes. Wilson's not the kind of man who's meant to live alone, and it's beginning to show.
Time to break out the scotch, the expensive kind he ordinarily saves for celebrations. He downs the first one while still standing at the kitchen counter. It goes down fast and easy with a smooth finish, but it's not nearly enough, so he pours himself another and drinks it down as well. For the most part, he's a social drinker who rarely drinks alone, but it seems like a good day for breaking some rules. Genially sloshed and starting on his third drink, the apartment feels too warm and he decides he's wearing way too much clothing. He takes his tie off first and starts unbuttoning his shirt but that seems like too much of an effort. He stumbles to the couch. It really doesn't matter what happens next. Wilson isn't even worried any more. It's only a matter of time.
House will show up eventually, and he'll forgive House everything because that’s what he does. House is an infuriating ass, but Wilson is House’s person…maybe his only person if this thing with Cuddy doesn't work out. There's a guilty pleasure in being chosen by someone who doesn't really like people.
The knock on the door isn't a surprise, but it is loud. House is waiting in the hall, tapping out a tune on the door with his cane, utterly and cheerfully unrepentant.
“Hey, you ditched me. Doesn’t bowling night mean anything any more? I had to get a ride from idiotic hostage kid.”
So this is how it's going to go. “Idiotic hostage kid stuck around?”
“Said it was the best high of his life. Even better than crushing Oxy. So why’d you leave without me?”
“Forgot my stuff.” Wilson waves hazily toward a duffle full of bowling gear by the door. “What do you want to bet we’re too late for Beer for a Buck?”
“You worry too much. They’ll make an exception for the heroic crippled doctor, and you’re with me.” House leans on his cane and smiles his predatory smile. “I get away with everything.”
“You’ll have to drive my car. I’m a little drunk.”
“A little? Couldn’t wait for the cheap beer, Jimmy?” House is giving him the once-over he usually reserves for patients. “And you want me to drive your Volvo?” House maligns the word like it's a particularly distasteful STD. But there is real concern in the way he studies Wilson before taking the keys. It's almost endearing.
House heads toward the entry, glancing over his shoulder as if to check that Wilson hasn’t collapsed into a drunken puddle by the door. It's shameless really, how much Wilson enjoys being the object of House’s scrutiny. Being “The One House Loved Best” is one hell of a job title, but it's most likely Wilson’s life calling.
Wilson steps out on the front stoop and realizes that he’s forgotten to lock up. It's dark already, and he fumbles in his pocket for his keys before remembering that he’s already given them to House. Daringly, he decides not to bother locking up. Life is short…he can afford to live dangerously. Besides, House is already in the car, leaning on the horn. Bad things happen when House is bored. He's drunk and should watch where he's going, but Wilson takes the stairs two at a time. It doesn't escape his attention that House has the passenger door open before he makes it down.
The End
Author: debbiel
Characters: Wilson, House, Cuddy
Rating: PG
Words: 2200
Post episode: Last Resort
Author's Note: Thanks to
nightdog_barks and deelaundry for the beta read.Summary: The hostage situation is over and House is nowhere to be found. Wilson finds his own way to cope.
Excerpt: They’d had plans to go out that night, but Wilson will be damned if he goes bowling with that lunatic. There are no excuses this time. House has taken things too far.
He's finally home. Wilson winces when the front door slams into the wall and chips the wintergreen plaster. Amber had loved those walls. She'd loved Wilson more, but she'd have killed him for messing them up – good thing House is around to do it for her. Wilson doesn't think he can survive another day like this one.
It's been hours since the standoff ended, but Wilson's not sure whether he's angry or terrified now that it's over. When it comes to House, those two emotions enjoy conjugal relations. He’d looked for House at the hospital, had tried his cell again and again, and had finally given up altogether, driving back to his apartment alone. They’d had plans to go out that night, but he'll be damned if he goes bowling with that lunatic. There are no excuses this time. House has taken things too far.
The day had started off well. Grief still woke him up in his empty bed, but coffee tasted good with cream and sugar. Life was getting back to normal, and for that, Wilson was glad.
That morning, he'd gone to pick House up because they were going out after work. Monday was Beer For A Buck Night at the Galaxy Bowl, and shockingly, House was paying. Because House always insisted, they’d stopped for jelly donuts and bad coffee on the way, even though they were running late. The delay and the mess were almost worth House's good mood. He was humming as he traced powdered sugar snowflakes on the dash.
All the same, Wilson was suspicious. House was not a morning person. He had to be up to something. Probably had to do with Cuddy. Wilson figured he could warn her, but whatever it was seemed to be keeping House entertained. Wilson let it go. At this point in the game, Cuddy had to know what she was getting into. Once he and House went their separate ways at the hospital, Wilson quickly forgot about it, and he covered up the residue of powdered sugar with his lab coat.
It was a good day to be an oncologist. Test results came back, and it turned out that two of his patients had gone into remission. His difficult lymphoma case was accepted for a randomized clinical trial, and most thrilling of all, Wilson got word that his immunotherapy research was going to be published in the American Journal of Clinical Oncology. All this required documentation, authorization, and a lot of paperwork, which was why Wilson was still at his desk when the announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“Code Gray-Clinic. Code Gray-Clinic.”
Code Gray was unusual. It was a code designated for a security emergency, usually involving a combative person using physical force or violence. Wilson suddenly flashed back to the last time he’d heard it called. Heart pounding, he bolted out of his office and checked House’s office. It was empty. No shots fired, no darkening pool of blood. Wilson told himself to calm down. What were the chances a Code Gray could involve House this time?
“Dr. Strong to the dean's office. Dr. Strong to the dean's office.” The loudspeaker was sounding off again.
Crap. Another code, this time directing armed security to Cuddy’s office. Wilson thought back to House’s good mood in the car that morning. It was too much of a coincidence. It had to be House.
Wilson was half way to the clinic when the SWAT team charged past him, shouting at him to stay back. They’d entered the hospital through the cardiology wing, most likely setting off a dozen cardiac monitors in their wake. He'd seen SWAT teams on TV but never in person, and his instinct for self-preservation almost kicked in. Wilson kept going but tried hard not to notice that everyone else was going the other way.
Coming around the corner, he almost bumped into Cameron who grabbed him by the arm.
“It’s House,” she announced with breathless gravity.
“Of course it’s House,” Wilson said, with undue irritation.
The FBI had cordoned off the affected areas but deemed the rest secure and didn’t evacuate the entire hospital. Wilson hated waiting. There was nothing he could do for House by standing around, so he returned to oncology, finished up some paperwork, and then found his way to triage, helping out where he could. He was with a patient when House called him on his cell wanting a consult. Wilson did his best to respond coherently while wanting to scream into the phone, “Why does it always have to be you?”
The second time House called, Wilson wasn’t nearly so self-possessed.
Wilson could have forgiven House anything until he found out about the gun. Wilson had to repeat the allegations to himself several times before he could believe it: The patient had the gun. The patient gave House the gun. House gave the gun back to the patient.
It made perfect sense, in an insane sort of way. House was trying to buy time. House had always been willing to die for an answer, but Wilson planned to kill him first. But before he had the chance, the whole thing ended as dramatically as it began. The SWAT team stormed the CT room, apprehending the gunman and ending the standoff. Nobody but Cuddy and authorized personnel were allowed on the scene, and somewhere in the ensuing confusion, House slipped away.
The hostage situation at Princeton-Plainsboro made the first page of Google News. The initial reports lauded House as “the heroic disabled doctor who saved the day as well as the deranged patient.” There was some mention of an ambiguous situation involving the gunman’s weapon, but it certainly appeared to Wilson that House was going to get away with it again.
He eventually found Cuddy in her wrecked office. The room reeked of vomit and blood, and Wilson could read House’s writing on the wall of everything. Cuddy was behind her desk, improbably trying to put a drawer back together. Fixing a desk drawer didn’t really seem like much of a priority, but Wilson noticed the sheared bolts on the desktop and understood. It had taken him hours to figure out how to put his chair back together again.
Cuddy gazed at him wearily. “You have any bright ideas or spare parts?”
Wilson shook his head. “You can’t invite House over to play without accepting the fact that he’s going to mess with your stuff.”
“He invited himself. Don’t tell me you’re going to make excuses for him this time.”
“He’s House. And he didn’t cause this to happen.”
Cuddy was not happy. “He risked innocent lives.”
“Nobody died. The patient got his diagnosis.” Wilson was being careful. Cuddy would always put her hospital first, but Wilson’s loyalties were not so conflicted.
“Doctor Hadley was almost killed. And the gunman was not a patient. He hadn’t even been admitted.”
The fact that House had spent billable hours diagnosing a gunman who hadn’t even had the decency to be admitted was the sort of thing that would really irk the dean of a large teaching hospital. Wilson tried to suppress a smile but couldn’t and started to laugh instead. There was a distinct possibility he was going to crack up altogether. But then Cuddy joined in. Leaning against the desk, they laughed until they were wiping away tears, but it felt good to do it together. Sharing House sometimes felt like surviving a common disaster.
Wilson tried again, his voice still shaky. “House did his best.”
Cuddy wasn’t laughing any more. She wasn’t even smiling. “He would have sacrificed any one of those hostages for his obsessive need to know. That’s not doing his best.”
“He would have died for any one of those hostages.”
“It was dangerous, and it was wrong.”
“He’s House. He has his own interpretation of right and wrong.”
“Yeah.” Cuddy gave him a withering glare. “He’s right and everyone else is wrong.”
“He needed more time for the diagnosis.”
“Oh yes, the sacred diagnosis. And yet, I can remember a time when the diagnosis didn’t come first. It was for you, Dr. Wilson, just to get you to stay. Blackmail at its very best. And it must have worked because here you are, making excuses for him again. You and I are quite the pair, aren't we, enabling House to get whatever the hell he wants.”
“I chose to come back,” Wilson said quietly. “I knew what I was getting into. Do you?”
Cuddy looked away, but Wilson sympathized. A relationship with House had never been one for beginners. Wilson kissed her on the cheek this time, before he left. He didn’t try to help her put the desk back together...
There are things you just have to figure out for yourself.
Back in his own tidy apartment, Wilson checks the answering machine and tries not to worry. While no news is usually good news, House has a habit of screwing with platitudes.
It's been a day for waiting, but Wilson can't sit still. He puts his dishes away, organizes his journals, and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash cold water over his face. He studies his features somewhat grimly in the mirror. There’d been a time when the mirror was his friend. Easy on the eyes… that’s how his great Aunt Ruth used to put it, embarrassing her nephew in an agreeable sort of way. But the past year has taken its toll.
In the unforgiving light, Wilson looks disheveled and a little baffled. He will be going gray before long, and worry lines are already forming around his eyes. Wilson's not the kind of man who's meant to live alone, and it's beginning to show.
Time to break out the scotch, the expensive kind he ordinarily saves for celebrations. He downs the first one while still standing at the kitchen counter. It goes down fast and easy with a smooth finish, but it's not nearly enough, so he pours himself another and drinks it down as well. For the most part, he's a social drinker who rarely drinks alone, but it seems like a good day for breaking some rules. Genially sloshed and starting on his third drink, the apartment feels too warm and he decides he's wearing way too much clothing. He takes his tie off first and starts unbuttoning his shirt but that seems like too much of an effort. He stumbles to the couch. It really doesn't matter what happens next. Wilson isn't even worried any more. It's only a matter of time.
House will show up eventually, and he'll forgive House everything because that’s what he does. House is an infuriating ass, but Wilson is House’s person…maybe his only person if this thing with Cuddy doesn't work out. There's a guilty pleasure in being chosen by someone who doesn't really like people.
The knock on the door isn't a surprise, but it is loud. House is waiting in the hall, tapping out a tune on the door with his cane, utterly and cheerfully unrepentant.
“Hey, you ditched me. Doesn’t bowling night mean anything any more? I had to get a ride from idiotic hostage kid.”
So this is how it's going to go. “Idiotic hostage kid stuck around?”
“Said it was the best high of his life. Even better than crushing Oxy. So why’d you leave without me?”
“Forgot my stuff.” Wilson waves hazily toward a duffle full of bowling gear by the door. “What do you want to bet we’re too late for Beer for a Buck?”
“You worry too much. They’ll make an exception for the heroic crippled doctor, and you’re with me.” House leans on his cane and smiles his predatory smile. “I get away with everything.”
“You’ll have to drive my car. I’m a little drunk.”
“A little? Couldn’t wait for the cheap beer, Jimmy?” House is giving him the once-over he usually reserves for patients. “And you want me to drive your Volvo?” House maligns the word like it's a particularly distasteful STD. But there is real concern in the way he studies Wilson before taking the keys. It's almost endearing.
House heads toward the entry, glancing over his shoulder as if to check that Wilson hasn’t collapsed into a drunken puddle by the door. It's shameless really, how much Wilson enjoys being the object of House’s scrutiny. Being “The One House Loved Best” is one hell of a job title, but it's most likely Wilson’s life calling.
Wilson steps out on the front stoop and realizes that he’s forgotten to lock up. It's dark already, and he fumbles in his pocket for his keys before remembering that he’s already given them to House. Daringly, he decides not to bother locking up. Life is short…he can afford to live dangerously. Besides, House is already in the car, leaning on the horn. Bad things happen when House is bored. He's drunk and should watch where he's going, but Wilson takes the stairs two at a time. It doesn't escape his attention that House has the passenger door open before he makes it down.
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no subject
Date: 2008-11-29 09:25 pm (UTC)I missed the hostage-taking episode of House and have been attempting not to get too spoiled for it.
Gah.
Is there someone else who might be willing to give you a read-through? Deelaundry is great at that if she's got a few minutes, and I know she really likes your work.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-29 10:16 pm (UTC)I sent an email to both Deelaundry and Nightdog, who also said she'd be willing to read if she had time. Thanks so much - I'll be interested in knowing what you think of the episode once you watch it. It definitely left me unsatisfied - thus the story.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 05:09 pm (UTC)Loved your story though. I think the characterizations are spot-on. :3
no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 06:58 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for your feedback - I'm so glad you liked the story!
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 12:36 am (UTC)Wilson could have forgiven House anything until he found out about the gun. Wilson had to repeat the allegations to himself several times before he could believe it: The patient had the gun. The patient gave House the gun. House gave the gun back to the patient.
Hee.
Honestly, I only tripped over a few things in the story.
"Scotch" doesn't need to be capitalized.
I don't think one and a half (or even two) drinks would make Wilson drunk enough so that he would forget what he was doing when he was unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe have that first drink go down fast and easy, like a refreshing drink of water, and then he pours himself another, but it goes down just as quickly? That way he's had two strong drinks, very fast, and is starting on his third when he starts having trouble with his clothes.
The only other question I had was here:
Besides, House was already in the car, playing taps with the Volvo’s horn.
Is House playing "Taps" the song, or is he just tapping randomly at the horn? If it's the former, it should be capitalized and in quotes.
Again, I really do like this. It's nice to get a look at this from Wilson's POV, and I like how he's come to reluctantly accept the price of being House's friend. I also like it that he kept going even though everyone else was running the other way.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 12:58 am (UTC)I will get Wilson a little more drunk. *smiles* I'd been thinking of him having two drinks in quick succession but probably didn't make it clear enough. And I agree about the last line being unclear - I'll go in and work on that.
Again, thank you for your feedback. I think there's a price to being House's friend, but like Birthmarks showed, there's quite a bit of gain as well for someone like Wilson. I really appreciate you giving the story a read-through.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 01:29 am (UTC)Since then I've seen it both ways; Merriam-Webster has it capitalized, but also says "often not capitalized." *g*
It's my pleasure to provide read-throughs. I figure the more folks help each other, there'll be exponentially that much more good fic for everyone to read. So it's really base self-interest on my part. Hee!
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 01:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 03:35 am (UTC)Your tenses confuse me a little. You start out in the evening and then go back over the rest of the day, which is fine. But if the evening is in past tense ("winced"), then the going back should be in past perfect ("House had been paying"). Would you consider having the current action being in present tense, so that the prior-time action could just be in past?
call it repression, but he still felt guilty because Amber had loved those walls.
I don't know why you would call it repression. Projection, instead? Also, the first time I read it, I read it as Wilson feeling guilty about the fact that Amber the loved the walls. But he's really feeling guilty about chipping the paint, right? So I would put Amber loving the walls in a separate sentence.
Grief still woke him up in his empty bed, but coffee tasted good with cream and sugar. - I love that phrasing.
“Of course it’s House,” Wilson said, with undue irritation. - Heh!
The FBI had cordoned off the affected areas but deemed the rest of the hospital secure and didn’t evacuate. Wilson hated waiting. There was nothing he could do for House by standing around, so he returned to oncology, finished up some paperwork, and started his rounds. - This is my perspective only, but I remember a scene of nurses, patients, and doctors going out the front doors of the hospital. I also remember Kutner, Taub, and Cameron treating or checking patients in a corridor. So I think at least part of the hospital was evacuated. I don't think Wilson was on regular rounds; I think he was doing emergency triage and treatment. You, of course, may have another opinion.
“Yeah.” Cuddy gave him a withering glare. “He’s right and everyone else is wrong. Except when it comes to you. Have you even thought about the fact that none of this would have happened if you’d been the one trapped with him? If you were there, he would have found a way to end the standoff as quickly as possible. It would never have taken a SWAT team breaking in.” - Do you think Cuddy would be this blunt with Wilson, about House's feelings toward Wilson? I don't know.
Doesn’t bowling night mean something any more? - "mean anything any more"?
Wilson stepped out on the porch - on the stoop? "Porch" implies a covered area.
Wilson took the stairs two at a time, - With two quick drinks in him, I'd be worried about him heading down those steep steps two at a time.
Wonderful!
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 04:14 am (UTC)I wonder if there's any other device - italics for flashback, etc... that would work. I really like reading present tense stories but they always feel a bit awkward when I try to write them. I might give it another try, just because I was so conflicted in the first place.
Agree with you on the "repression" line. It was a last minute addition, which is always hit or miss.
The "coffee tasted good" line was the first thing I started with - I'm glad you liked it.
Interesting about the word, "stoop" - I'm in California and we don't use that word. But I like it just the same. Will switch.
Thanks so much for the excellent feedback. I think I might go ahead and try present tense again.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 04:33 am (UTC)I'm wondering if that's a regional thing, because here "porch" just denotes the area immediately in front of the front door to a house (usually uncovered).
I do love the word "stoop," though. *g*
no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 07:27 am (UTC)That morning, he'd gone to pick House up because they were going out after work. Monday was Beer For A Buck Night at the Galaxy Bowl, and shockingly, House was paying. Because House always insisted, they’d stopped for jelly donuts and bad coffee on the way, even though they were running late. The delay and the mess were almost worth House's good mood. He was humming as he traced powdered sugar snowflakes on the dash.
All the same, Wilson was suspicious. House was not a morning person. He had to be up to something. Probably had to do with Cuddy. Wilson figured he could warn her, but whatever it was seemed to be keeping House entertained. Wilson let it go. At this point in the game, Cuddy had to know what she was getting into. Once he and House went their separate ways at the hospital, Wilson quickly forgot about it, and he covered up the residue of powdered sugar with his lab coat.
I loved the fact Wilson was puzzled at House's seemingly good mood given he's not a monring person and I loved the fact he had thought about maybe warning Cuddy. If he had he may have spared her the aggrevation of putting that desk drawer back together *snerk*
Coming around the corner, he almost bumped into Cameron who grabbed him by the arm.
“It’s House,” she announced with breathless gravity.
“Of course it’s House,” Wilson said, with undue irritation.
Yeah that's what I say O COURSE it's going to be House since he attracts trouble like a magnet to metal. And even if he hadn't already been in Cuddy's office already when it all started the guy did say he wanted the best doctor in the hospital and that is House hands down.
And this just makes me smile:
House heads toward the entry, glancing over his shoulder as if to check that Wilson hasn’t collapsed into a drunken puddle by the door. It's shameless really, how much Wilson enjoys being the object of House’s scrutiny. Being “The One House Loved Best” is one hell of a job title, but it's most likely Wilson’s life calling.
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Date: 2008-11-30 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 01:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 04:04 pm (UTC)I agree with you about the scotch line, and I fiddled with it. It was an inside joke that didn't belong there - thanks for pointing it out!
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Date: 2008-11-30 03:48 pm (UTC)Very well written. :D
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Date: 2008-11-30 04:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 06:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-30 07:21 pm (UTC)Nice phrasemaking:
I love that you attended to Cuddy's drawer, in my mind the best part of this episode. House's version of courtship. Cuddy and Wilson giving up and laughing, very nice.
Well put. I enjoy your writing very much. *mem*
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Date: 2008-11-30 07:31 pm (UTC)Thanks again - I'm so glad you enjoyed it!
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Date: 2008-12-01 01:30 am (UTC)I especially like There's a guilty pleasure in being chosen by someone who doesn't really like people
it's most likely Wilson’s life calling, and
And yet, I can remember a time when the diagnosis didn’t come first. It was for you, Dr. Wilson, just to get you to stay. Blackmail at its very best. And it must have worked because here you are, making excuses for him again.
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Date: 2008-12-01 03:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-06 01:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-01 07:39 am (UTC)Everyone already pretty much quoted the parts I like :) but the end is especially awesome so I'll mention it again: James Wilson, The One House Loved Best.
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Date: 2008-12-05 06:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-01 08:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 06:56 pm (UTC)And I'm especially glad to know you liked that line - poor Wilson!
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Date: 2008-12-09 07:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 02:44 am (UTC)