Hey, another new fic. Sorry to have two WIPs at once, but I just felt like it. This is my first House fic, so I may have got the characters completely wrong – let me know! If anyone has any good suggestions for sarcastic comments to deflect the attention away from his illness, please leave them in a review, or IM me. I could do with the help!
Disclaimer: Don't own, so I'd like it if you didn't sue me…and so would you, as I have no money…
Hope you enjoy – I'd like any comments, good or bad…but particularly good!
"Greg, you look like shit" Dr Gregory House didn't even bother turning towards his friend, just continued his limp towards the elevator, throwing a "And a good morning to you too Wilson" over his shoulder. The oncologist sighed, falling into step beside his friend.
"What are you even doing in work? You look like you're going to collapse any minute!"
"Well, the floor does look a lot more comfortable than my latest hooker…knees like knives…" House stuck out his cane to push the button for the elevator and turned to leer at his friend, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Wilson refused to be put off, however.
"Seriously House – is your leg bothering you?"
"No, that would be you."
House limped into the elevator and stabbed at the 'close doors' button, but Wilson stuck his clipboard in the gap, waiting patiently for the doors to re-open before joining his friend in the otherwise empty elevator. He didn't say anything for a full minute, instead choosing to scrutinise his friend, looking for the signs of increased pain – or a hangover. What he saw surprised him. In addition to the dark shadows under his eyes that he'd noticed when the man entered the lobby, House was deathly pale, save for a crimson blush on his cheeks, and his hands were trembling ever so slightly on his cane, which he was gripping so tightly his knuckles were white. Though he appeared to be staring at the floor numbers flashing on the screen, his eyes had a glazed look to them, and his lips were dry and cracked.
Wilson blinked, surprised. He hadn't known House to be sick in years, apart from his infarction, and he never looked this bad, not even in withdrawal. But there was no doubt that he was sick. What he had thought was increased pain in House's leg combined with a hangover – House's own personal painkiller - seemed instead to be some kind of illness that had come upon his friend over the weekend. The man looked to be running a fever – and a pretty high one at that.
Wilson paused a moment, thinking, then asked to the elevator in general
"What's your temp?".
As expected, House ignored him, continuing to stare at the numbers on the wall. The elevator seemed to be stuck between the fifth and sixth floor at the moment, noted Wilson as he turned to his friend, reaching out to feel his forehead, only for his arm to be caught in a firm grip and placed back to his side, his friend never taking his eyes off the wall. Struggling to release his arm, he sighed, exasperated, "Greg, you're sick, for Christ's sake! I need to see how high your fever is,"
For the first time, House turned to face him, smirking at his friend's expression of irritation at being ignored. "I'm fine Mother. Don't you have better things to do, like playing God to little bald kids?" The elevator ground to a halt at his floor, and he jabbed the button for the ground level, stepping out quickly, between the closing doors. This time Wilson wasn't quick enough, and House could hear his irritated sigh as the elevator took him back down to the lobby.
Checking the corridor to make sure that nobody was watching, he slumped against the wall by the elevator doors, massaging the bridge of his nose in an attempt to push away the terrible headache he'd had for the past few days, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his hand was shaking and his throat was killing him from all the coughing he'd been doing that morning. It's just a cold, he told himself. Good reason to get out of clinic duty, but not a reason to spend the day in bed. Besides, he didn't get sick. Hung-over, drugged, yes, but never sick. And anyway, what would his ducklings do without him? Pushing himself away from the cool support of the wall, he strode, or limped, determinedly down the corridor to his office, ready to entertain his ducklings with his wit and sarcasm, and possibly smack someone in the shins with his cane…that would make him feel much better…
Hope you enjoyed…I'll update when I can, but that may be tomorrow or next year, so don't hold your breath. Reviews may speed me up, so you could try if you like it, but no promises…I am extremely lazy!