Fic : Stone Walls
May. 21st, 2012 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
menolly_auTitle: Stone Walls
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 8.21 – Holding On, ignores promos for 8.22
Words: Approx. 1700
Summary: House has a visitor while he's in prison.
A/N - With many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
damigella_314 who helped me find the end to this story.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
To Althea, from Prison, Richard Lovelace 1642
House is escorted to the visitor's room by a prison officer. At the door his cane is taken from him, in case he decides to hit his visitor with it presumably. He limps into the room, one hand supporting his leg, it's a bad pain day and they're still being skimpy with his meds.
Wilson is sitting at a table, dressed in what he probably thinks of as 'smart casual'. He's looking around at the other inmates and visitors, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck periodically in a typical Wilson display of uneasiness. When he sees House approaching there's a look of relief and then one of concern.
"House? What happened, did you get into a fight?"
House drops heavily into a chair and rubs a hand over his bruised cheek. It was a minor altercation, he was shoved against a wall, nothing to get excited about, but Wilson is probably imagining all sorts of atrocities. He'd never asked about House's previous prison experience, and House had never volunteered anything, but House has heard the jokes around the hospital, and Wilson has probably heard them too.
House flicks a glance at the officer, who has retreated to stand by a side wall but is still watching them, and all the other visitors and inmates in the large room.
"Got hit by a flying saw in woodworking class," he says.
"You have woodworking ... " Wilson starts to question him and then he catches on and sighs, "never mind. I'm sure you can handle it."
House shrugs, whether he can handle it or not makes no difference, he’s here – there’s no way of calling for a time out, unless he wants to go into protective custody, which he does not. Thirty days of solitary, of being locked into a tiny cell for twenty three hours a day, was enough to convince him of that.
"The parole revocation hearing is on Monday," Wilson reminds him, cutting across his thoughts. As if House could have forgotten, he's already had two meetings with his less than enthusiastic lawyer. "Foreman is going to be there, he's going to make a plea for leniency, based on the good work that you've been doing at the hospital, and... " he waves a hand vaguely in the air.
"And the fact that my BFF has five months left to live," House finishes for him. The idea of Foreman appearing on his behalf is nauseating but House does want to get out of here. He's not convinced it's going to happen however. There have been other breaches of his parole conditions, not all of which Wilson knows about. House used up his last warning several warnings ago. There'll still need to be a trial for the felony vandalism charge, but if he doesn't get let out after the revocation hearing he'll be locked up here until then. With the the speed that the judicial system moves at the six months will be up long before then, and Wilson's five months will also be gone.
The irony is that this visit by Wilson is occurring on the day that his parole, and therefore his jail sentence, would have been officially finished. He'd only had to make it ten more days and he'd screwed it up.
"Who knew the plumbing at PPTH was so bad? They should be thanking me for discovering that it's about to fall apart."
Wilson isn't amused, House can tell because he has his 'I am not amused' expression on.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm a moron," House says, "spare me the lecture. I should have known better, I'm a juvenile idiot."
A corner of Wilson's mouth twitches, "well, we did establish that I'm smarter than you. And you could have come up with something more original than an overflowing toilet."
"It's not like they were even good tickets, Foreman didn't spring for the centre ice ones." Truthfully House doesn't even know what Foreman was thinking. Did he think that House would shrug off Wilson's impending death because at least he'd have someone to go the hockey with? Foreman was lucky that House had decided to shove the tickets down a toilet and not down Foreman's throat.
They fall silent, and House realises that they very rarely just sit and talk, without the cover of food, or medicine, or crappy shows on TV. There's something very intimate about being seated so close, with no distractions. And of course, there's the elephant of Wilson's cancer and death sentence in the room with them. Every interaction he's had with Wilson since that day in his office has been about that, even when it hasn't been.
"I'm sorry, " House blurts out, before he can stop himself, and Wilson hears it before he can take it back.
Wilson doesn't pretend he doesn't know what House means. Instead he looks around the room, at the greyness of the wall, at the prison inmates in their denim shirts and jeans, a uniform sea of humanities degenerates. House wonders what this must look like to him, Wilson's made mistakes in his life, his choice of friends and wives amongst them, but he's never done anything that required him to be locked away from the rest of humanity. House looks down at the dingy table, suddenly ashamed to be seen here, like this.
"Adams told me why you received an additional eight months on your sentence," Wilson says, his voice soft, cutting across House's thoughts. He looks back up to see his friend staring at him, no condemnation in his expression.
"Adams should keep her mouth shut." He's surprised that Wilson didn't already know, he's assumed that it was general knowledge - that Adams would have been dined out on her stories of House the Convict.
"You saved a guy's life, your patient. If it hadn't been for that you wouldn't have still been on parole and this wouldn't have happened. We'll get you out of here, House, and then we're going hiking."
House doubts that he could hike up a flight of stairs, the way his leg feels at the moment, let alone an eight thousand feet peak, but for some more time with Wilson he'd be willing to try.
A discordant bell sounds, a five minutes warning. The level of noise in the room picks up as the visitors try to cram as many words as possible into the last five minutes.
Wilson sighs and scrubs at his face with his hand and House studies him. It's only been ten days since he last saw him but Wilson is looking tired, a little pale, and his clothes seem loose on him. House frowns as he mulls it over in his head, then the answer clicks.
"You're doing chemo," he says flatly.
Wilson doesn't even bother trying to deny it. Instead he shrugs, "just one cycle, to see how it goes. Maybe it will buy some time."
In case we can't get you out of here. House hears the unvoiced thought.
"That isn't what you wanted," House says flatly.
"I want to spend time with you," there's a faint tremor in his voice, "and I don't want to die alone."
House swallows hard at the lump in his throat. "You won't." He holds Wilson's gaze and nods, glad to receive an answering nod.
The final bell sounds and Wilson stands up, House stays seated as required by prison regulations, until all the visitors are cleared from the room.
"I'll see you at the hearing on Monday," Wilson says, turning to go. His shirt sleeve shifts as he moves and House sees that he's wearing a beaded bracelet on his right wrist. House's bracelet, that he's worn since his first stint in prison. The bracelet that helps him remember where he's been, and where he hopes to go.
Wilson follows his gaze and fingers the bracelet, twisting it nervously around his wrist. "You left it on your desk, when they came for you, and well... " he looks flustered and House smirks at him.
"You're such a girl, Wilson, do you want a piece of my hair as well?"
"You don't have any to spare."
"Nor will you soon."
Wilson touches his own hair and smiles ruefully as a couple of strands come out in his hand. He's about to answer when a prison officer approaches him.
"Time to leave."
House watches Wilson until he's nearly out the door and then yells at him.
"Hey, Wilson!"
Wilson turns around, startled.
"I love you!" There's dead silence in the room, House looks around at the expressions on the faces of his fellow inmates, some shocked, some speculative, he smirks at them and then looks back at Wilson who's still standing there, his eyes wide, his face growing paler by the second. House sits back with a satisfied grin, aware of all the eyes on him.
The guard tugs on Wilson's arm, trying to get him to leave. Wilson shakes him off and stares straight into House's eyes, doubt and confusion all over his face. House sobers and tilts his head, meeting Wilson's gaze. His hand touches his bare right wrist. Wilson looks down at his own wrist, encircled with House's bracelet and the doubt fades from his face. A small rueful smile appears.
"Now you tell me!" he calls out as he's politely but firmly hustled out of the room.
House sits back, pleased. He ignores the prison officer looming over his chair, waiting to take him back to his cell.
They haven't hiked any mountains yet, but maybe they have their feet on the trail.
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 8.21 – Holding On, ignores promos for 8.22
Words: Approx. 1700
Summary: House has a visitor while he's in prison.
A/N - With many thanks to
damigella_314 who helped me find the end to this story. Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
To Althea, from Prison, Richard Lovelace 1642
House is escorted to the visitor's room by a prison officer. At the door his cane is taken from him, in case he decides to hit his visitor with it presumably. He limps into the room, one hand supporting his leg, it's a bad pain day and they're still being skimpy with his meds.
Wilson is sitting at a table, dressed in what he probably thinks of as 'smart casual'. He's looking around at the other inmates and visitors, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck periodically in a typical Wilson display of uneasiness. When he sees House approaching there's a look of relief and then one of concern.
"House? What happened, did you get into a fight?"
House drops heavily into a chair and rubs a hand over his bruised cheek. It was a minor altercation, he was shoved against a wall, nothing to get excited about, but Wilson is probably imagining all sorts of atrocities. He'd never asked about House's previous prison experience, and House had never volunteered anything, but House has heard the jokes around the hospital, and Wilson has probably heard them too.
House flicks a glance at the officer, who has retreated to stand by a side wall but is still watching them, and all the other visitors and inmates in the large room.
"Got hit by a flying saw in woodworking class," he says.
"You have woodworking ... " Wilson starts to question him and then he catches on and sighs, "never mind. I'm sure you can handle it."
House shrugs, whether he can handle it or not makes no difference, he’s here – there’s no way of calling for a time out, unless he wants to go into protective custody, which he does not. Thirty days of solitary, of being locked into a tiny cell for twenty three hours a day, was enough to convince him of that.
"The parole revocation hearing is on Monday," Wilson reminds him, cutting across his thoughts. As if House could have forgotten, he's already had two meetings with his less than enthusiastic lawyer. "Foreman is going to be there, he's going to make a plea for leniency, based on the good work that you've been doing at the hospital, and... " he waves a hand vaguely in the air.
"And the fact that my BFF has five months left to live," House finishes for him. The idea of Foreman appearing on his behalf is nauseating but House does want to get out of here. He's not convinced it's going to happen however. There have been other breaches of his parole conditions, not all of which Wilson knows about. House used up his last warning several warnings ago. There'll still need to be a trial for the felony vandalism charge, but if he doesn't get let out after the revocation hearing he'll be locked up here until then. With the the speed that the judicial system moves at the six months will be up long before then, and Wilson's five months will also be gone.
The irony is that this visit by Wilson is occurring on the day that his parole, and therefore his jail sentence, would have been officially finished. He'd only had to make it ten more days and he'd screwed it up.
"Who knew the plumbing at PPTH was so bad? They should be thanking me for discovering that it's about to fall apart."
Wilson isn't amused, House can tell because he has his 'I am not amused' expression on.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm a moron," House says, "spare me the lecture. I should have known better, I'm a juvenile idiot."
A corner of Wilson's mouth twitches, "well, we did establish that I'm smarter than you. And you could have come up with something more original than an overflowing toilet."
"It's not like they were even good tickets, Foreman didn't spring for the centre ice ones." Truthfully House doesn't even know what Foreman was thinking. Did he think that House would shrug off Wilson's impending death because at least he'd have someone to go the hockey with? Foreman was lucky that House had decided to shove the tickets down a toilet and not down Foreman's throat.
They fall silent, and House realises that they very rarely just sit and talk, without the cover of food, or medicine, or crappy shows on TV. There's something very intimate about being seated so close, with no distractions. And of course, there's the elephant of Wilson's cancer and death sentence in the room with them. Every interaction he's had with Wilson since that day in his office has been about that, even when it hasn't been.
"I'm sorry, " House blurts out, before he can stop himself, and Wilson hears it before he can take it back.
Wilson doesn't pretend he doesn't know what House means. Instead he looks around the room, at the greyness of the wall, at the prison inmates in their denim shirts and jeans, a uniform sea of humanities degenerates. House wonders what this must look like to him, Wilson's made mistakes in his life, his choice of friends and wives amongst them, but he's never done anything that required him to be locked away from the rest of humanity. House looks down at the dingy table, suddenly ashamed to be seen here, like this.
"Adams told me why you received an additional eight months on your sentence," Wilson says, his voice soft, cutting across House's thoughts. He looks back up to see his friend staring at him, no condemnation in his expression.
"Adams should keep her mouth shut." He's surprised that Wilson didn't already know, he's assumed that it was general knowledge - that Adams would have been dined out on her stories of House the Convict.
"You saved a guy's life, your patient. If it hadn't been for that you wouldn't have still been on parole and this wouldn't have happened. We'll get you out of here, House, and then we're going hiking."
House doubts that he could hike up a flight of stairs, the way his leg feels at the moment, let alone an eight thousand feet peak, but for some more time with Wilson he'd be willing to try.
A discordant bell sounds, a five minutes warning. The level of noise in the room picks up as the visitors try to cram as many words as possible into the last five minutes.
Wilson sighs and scrubs at his face with his hand and House studies him. It's only been ten days since he last saw him but Wilson is looking tired, a little pale, and his clothes seem loose on him. House frowns as he mulls it over in his head, then the answer clicks.
"You're doing chemo," he says flatly.
Wilson doesn't even bother trying to deny it. Instead he shrugs, "just one cycle, to see how it goes. Maybe it will buy some time."
In case we can't get you out of here. House hears the unvoiced thought.
"That isn't what you wanted," House says flatly.
"I want to spend time with you," there's a faint tremor in his voice, "and I don't want to die alone."
House swallows hard at the lump in his throat. "You won't." He holds Wilson's gaze and nods, glad to receive an answering nod.
The final bell sounds and Wilson stands up, House stays seated as required by prison regulations, until all the visitors are cleared from the room.
"I'll see you at the hearing on Monday," Wilson says, turning to go. His shirt sleeve shifts as he moves and House sees that he's wearing a beaded bracelet on his right wrist. House's bracelet, that he's worn since his first stint in prison. The bracelet that helps him remember where he's been, and where he hopes to go.
Wilson follows his gaze and fingers the bracelet, twisting it nervously around his wrist. "You left it on your desk, when they came for you, and well... " he looks flustered and House smirks at him.
"You're such a girl, Wilson, do you want a piece of my hair as well?"
"You don't have any to spare."
"Nor will you soon."
Wilson touches his own hair and smiles ruefully as a couple of strands come out in his hand. He's about to answer when a prison officer approaches him.
"Time to leave."
House watches Wilson until he's nearly out the door and then yells at him.
"Hey, Wilson!"
Wilson turns around, startled.
"I love you!" There's dead silence in the room, House looks around at the expressions on the faces of his fellow inmates, some shocked, some speculative, he smirks at them and then looks back at Wilson who's still standing there, his eyes wide, his face growing paler by the second. House sits back with a satisfied grin, aware of all the eyes on him.
The guard tugs on Wilson's arm, trying to get him to leave. Wilson shakes him off and stares straight into House's eyes, doubt and confusion all over his face. House sobers and tilts his head, meeting Wilson's gaze. His hand touches his bare right wrist. Wilson looks down at his own wrist, encircled with House's bracelet and the doubt fades from his face. A small rueful smile appears.
"Now you tell me!" he calls out as he's politely but firmly hustled out of the room.
House sits back, pleased. He ignores the prison officer looming over his chair, waiting to take him back to his cell.
They haven't hiked any mountains yet, but maybe they have their feet on the trail.
