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Post by Dr. Gregory House on Feb 14, 2009 18:50:51 GMT -7
House slept okay in his nice large and warm bed. Sleep was his escape from his life. In dreams he was whole, able to run and fly and love and laugh. In dreams, he could be happy. He was in the void between dreaming and waking, when it started. That annoying whirr of Wilson's damned hair styling procedure that could last for hours. He grabbed a pillow and used it to create a barrier against the sound. Either that or to smother himself.
He was leaning closer to the smothering part when he chanced a glance at the clock. His brain writhed away in horror at the ungodly hour at which he was awake and partially aware. It was Sunday, for crying out loud. Sunday was for sleeping half the day away and drink copious amounts coffee and reading the newspaper and either spending the afternoon watching dirty movies or on his motorcycle in the countryside. What amounted to one anyway, in Jersey.
Cursing inwardly, he forced himself up, grabbing his cane and shuffling to the bathroom. "Wilson, for the love of my sanity, I will break your prissy little hairdryer before I proceed on to breaking your very soul. It is too insanely early for a Sunday. I didn't even know the sun even rises. It's always just there when I wake up. Thank you so very, much for enlightening me on the cycles of the earth as it revolves around the sun."
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Post by indiansfan01 on Feb 14, 2009 19:57:37 GMT -7
Wilson couldn't help but smile at House's predictable reaction. He turned off his hairdryer and turned toward House. "Oh, I...am...so...sorry," he said, spacing out each word for exaggeration. "I didn't know you were still asleep." Bothering House could be so much fun. "How can I ever get you to forgive me for my blatant disregard for your well-being?" He unplugged his hairdryer and stuck it back in his duffel bag, making a mental note to himself to hide it later because House really would destroy it.
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Post by Dr. Gregory House on Feb 17, 2009 22:01:32 GMT -7
House just wrinkled his face in disgust at Wilson. He waved his hand at Wilson, dismissive, limping away to his bedroom to pull on a robe. He tucked the vicodin in a handy pocket and headed to the kitchen.
"Are you making breakfast? You better make breakfast to make this up to me. Practically up at the butt crack of dawn," House muttered, "there is no God." He went straight to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup of the steaming hot cup of joe.
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Post by indiansfan01 on Feb 18, 2009 7:07:35 GMT -7
Wilson tidied up his belongings in the bathroom and followed House into the kitchen. "I'll make breakfast after I go shopping. You've got no food in this place, House." And that was the truth. "Anything you would like me to pick up for you?" Wilson was going to be nice to House just this once and make House whatever he wanted him to.
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Post by Dr. Gregory House on Feb 18, 2009 11:14:35 GMT -7
House watched Wilson standing opposite him and rolled his eyes as the other man complained that he had no food in his House, even though it was true enough. He just needed coffee and booze these days. Wait, that even sounded bad to him. Grudgingly, House accepted Wilson's offer.
"The latest copy of Maxim; it's the annual swimsuit edition." House's eyebrows conveyed his lurid thoughts, "I like scantily clad babes with my breakfast." House smirked, watching Wilson's face. He took a sip of his hot coffee and sighed, "ah, the nectar of mortal men. How can we ever survive without this sweet, sweet coffee?"
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Post by indiansfan01 on Feb 18, 2009 12:25:45 GMT -7
Wilson rolled his eyes. The man was impossible. He was trying to be nice and House clearly didn't care. Oh, well. It just meant Wilson could make whatever he wanted to today. House might learn a valuable lesson from this.
"I'll see what I can do," he finally said, having no real intention of looking for the magazine. "Be back soon." Wilson exited Houses's apartment and drove away.
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Post by Dr. Gregory House on Feb 19, 2009 22:56:24 GMT -7
House finished his coffee, wondering why he ever even actually got up. Now that Wilson had left, he was bored. Very bored. Setting his mug in the sink, he made his way to the couch and turned on the tv. Just as he started watching the L-word, though, he became bored with that too, and shut the television off. Getting up, he moved to his piano and began playing on it.
The music that he played, however, was interesting. Lackluster, but still creative. He poked at the keys some more, brain picking and choosing melodies and notes that complemented each other. Then he played the fourth and fifth, minor fall and major lift, just because, and he growled.
Discordant notes jangled as he mashed the keyboard, gently, gently, but still venting his frustration. Finally he pulled out his vicodin and swallowed a couple of pills, because the pain that was always there, testing his limits even as he tested them against the pain, flared as he waited too long. He knew it would get worse before it got better. Not better, but less painful.
So many things he used to do on a Sunday. His world was getting smaller. He rubbed his leg, harder. The pain was taking longer to become less strident, the vicodin less effective. Some day his liver would get tired of filtering the vicodin. He knew he could only measure his life in years, not decades.
He plucked at the keys some more, before he began playing. Morosely. A sad, tinkering song that reflected his mood. His fingers skillfully plucked the notes, b sharp there, b flat here. Sharp C. His life was sharp these days. Sharp pain. Sharp tongue. Sharp observation. He worried that eventually his skills would become less sharp... more flat. Because of the vicodin... no. Because of the pain. Pain let one know they were alive, sure, but chronic pain eventually made one just want to die. House had lived with the pain for years, but he wasn't sure he could ever let go of his existence, painful as it was.
The sad song continued, playing out from his fingers. The mournful tune speaking out from his heart. His mind telling the fingers what his heart wanted, the soul giving the music form. Whatever the fanciful words, the music was just there. The music was the balm to his tortured soul, though the wound still lay open, bleeding the catharsis, but didn't seem like it would ever heal.
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Post by indiansfan01 on Feb 20, 2009 13:19:12 GMT -7
Wilson came back an hour later. Holding two paper grocery bags with one arm, he used his free hand to open up the apartment door. Ignoring House for the time-being, Wilson headed straight to the kitchen and placed the bags down on the counter. He had been in a kind of nice mood so he had decided he wasn't going to torture House that much. He was going to make cheddar pancakes and cheese and bacon squares this morning.
He emptied out the bags and laid all of the necessary ingredients before himself. He rummaged around in the kitchen until he had out all of the necessary pans and bowls. Wasting no time, he got straight to work.
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Post by Dr. Gregory House on Feb 21, 2009 14:22:09 GMT -7
House tinkered with the piano, his melancholic mood lifting now that Wilson had returned. His simple presence changing the pall that had seemed to settle at 221 Baker street. Instead, Wilson's sounds of clattering dishes and banging pans were comforting, cheerful even. His mood changed the music. Then he started thinking about Cuddy and their unborn child.
Eventually, though, the smell of cooking food drew him away from the piano and the alluring music. He grasped his hand in hand as he stood in the doorway. Much like he did last night, he simply watched Wilson take over his kitchen. Though since the food was smelling pretty good, he supposed he would have to be lenient on the interloper.
"Smells good," House finally said to break the comfortable silence. "My kind of breakfast. High cholesterol, greasy bacon, mmm." His fingers twitched out, reaching for a piece of bacon to filch.
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Post by indiansfan01 on Feb 21, 2009 15:20:30 GMT -7
Wilson was quick to react. He slapped House's hand away before he could get to the bacon. "You can wait another ten minutes, House." House was like a little kid. It was both annoying and cute at the same time.
He finished his cooking up in silence and then took out two plates, putting two pancakes and a few of the squares on each. He was about to hand House one of those plates but held it back while he asked, "I cooked, you clean, right?" If House couldn't agree to those simple conditions he didn't deserve to eat.
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Post by Dr. Gregory House on Feb 21, 2009 21:36:15 GMT -7
House withdrew his hand, obligingly enough and let the incident pass with little fuss. When Wilson had given voice his ultimatum, House had to arch an eyebrow at that, "why, Wilson, so distrustful." He secretly thrilled at this display of assertiveness. It meant that Wilson was quite willing to stand up for himself.
He capitulated though, and nodded, grudgingly. "Yes, mother. I'll clean in the hopes that you will cook me more food in the future." All in all, it seemed to him that it was a fair trade. House seated himself at the kitchen counter, pleased about the meal set before him.
"So what are your plans for the day?" House asked. Just making conversation.
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