Plaster
Diclaimer: I don't own them, don't be mad for borrowing.
My first House one-shot ever written, now translated to English by myself, un-beta-ed, so be gentle with me.
It lasted three days. It was only a miracle that the hospital didn't fall apart. Cuddy held together probably only because of her willpower, Diagnostics treated the patient with swollen tongue thanks to Foreman's strong will (although Cameron was nearly useless, but her colleagues gave her a break), Oncology worked normally thanks to its Head, who knew that showing too much affection to his friend would meet with crooked smile and harshly croaked "you're an idiot".
Media noise stopped the next day after the shooting, when the hospital administration announced that shot doctor's chances for survival considerably increased and there's nothing to worry about. Just sometimes out of ICU was thrown some nosey reporter, who tried to prove that the victim asked for it. Finally they managed to convince public opinion that the shot doctor, despite being an ass, cured much more people than insulted.
Cameron kept sitting beside him. She was more in dispersion than anyone else.
And House was lying in hospital bed, growing graying beard. With oxygen mask on his face, pulse oximeter on finger and EKG electrodes on his chest. And plaster on his neck.
Fucking plaster on his neck.
Wilson hit his desk with fist when he remembered that plaster.
Fucking plaster.
Affection is affection, but noone is going to forbid him visiting ICU at least once a day.
On the third day he noticed some change. 'He refined,' he thought. Breathing rate and pulse slightly increased.
Wilson opened room's glass door.
"Cameron?"
The young doctor lifted her eyes from the book she'd read, looked at him with eyes swollen with tears.
"Get some rest. Drink some coffee," he said. He continued before she managed to protest. "Nothing will happen to him if you leave for half an hour. I'll stay here for a while."
Cameron nodded, stood up.
"Thank you," she said with weak smile.
"No problem," he replied. She went past him and to their office.
Wilson waited until she was gone from his sight, then moved towards the bed. He sat down on the chair Cameron abandoned.
House very slowly, very weakly, opened his eyes. He looked around without moving his head.
"Hi," Wilson said lightly. It wasn't hard. He felt like huge stone was lifted from his shoulders.
"Hi," House croaked weakly.
"How do you feel?"
What a stupid question.
"How do I look?"
"In the scale of hopelessness, from zero to ten?"
Slight smile behind five-days-old beard.
"Eleven," Wilson finished.
"That would fit, more or less," House murmured and shifted in bed, sighing heavily.
"Cuddy asked to tell you that if you move out of bed without permission, she won't hesitate to cuff you to it. I would add that you'd probably like it, but it's better not to challenge her."
If he felt a little bit better, he would probably laugh. Instead he smiled and lifted two fingers of his left hand, free from IVs and pulse oxymeter.
"I promise to behave."
Wilson noticed that House would fall asleep again pretty soon. He patted his friend's shoulder and stood up.
"I'll drop by later."
"Wilson," House spoke with stronger voice when his friend was getting ready to leave. Wilson looked at him again and saw him reaching his right hand towards him. The oncologist took it and squeezed firmly.
"I'm glad you're alive."
"Me too," House replied and closed his eyes slowly.