This was completely random, and I've no idea what spawned it. Enjoy anyway.
A trip back into the world of angst, because angst comes to me more easily than humor, or anything else for that matter.
Disclaimer: I called David Shore, he said no, I may NOT have it.
And that's why I'm writing angst.
--
When House stomped – as effectively as a cripple can stomp, anyway – into the conference room, demanding a diagnosis now, dammit, they had wasted enough time on this one patient, Foreman actually looked up from his crossword (a habit he seemed to have picked up from Chase), and the rest of the 'new ducklings' looked up as guiltily as a bunch of foxes caught in the henhouse, right in the middle of their midnight snack. They had, in fact, been doing nothing wrong, but the sheer anger that House's tone of voice and persona was giving off was, quite literally, frightening.
They all assumed he had just had a run-in with Cuddy or a particularly thick clinic patient (House was not known for his tolerance skills), and tried their best to look unfazed and wall themselves off from the waves of anger emanating from their boss.
When House had established, some 9 minutes later, that his team had not had any great epiphanies in his absence, he loaded himself into the chair by the door and sighed, working on calming himself down so that he could think.
Probably a bad idea to clear his mind. Where, a few minutes before there had been only a red, whirling fog, now there was an unwelcome memory surfacing.
--
He thought, looking down at his white knuckles, that if he clenched the phone any tighter, it might just splinter into a million little pieces.
He was standing just outside the clinic, forgetting that letting Cuddy see him shirking his work again would undoubtedly be seen as an invitation for a spanking. And not of the fun variety.
He had left the clinic when Wilson had called him on his cell, completely abandoning the old witch he had been 'treating' (mocking her for seeking medical help for an itch on her nose), intending to invite Wilson over for beer and tell anyone who asked that he had an emergency at home, and had to leave immediately.
He just hadn't realized how completely pissed Wilson was.
If it had been something even remotely worthy of Wilson to be yelling at him for, he would have just conceded his point after a while and chalked it up as his personal victory anyway, but it was completely ridiculous that Wilson should be blaming him for forgetting to pick up his best friend from the airport after his conference in California. He had been busy with cases and clinic hours, and it had been pushed completely pushed out of his mind. Completely understandable! And what business did he have laying a guilt trip on him anyway? For the past week, he had been lounging in the sun, no doubt picking up a few Californian beauties on the beach while he was at it.
There was silence on the other end; silence that lost none of it's dangerous potential despite the miles. House was then informed, in a very low tone of voice, that it had not been a conference, it had been a funeral, and he was a little too busy mourning his dead father to spend much time on the beach, picking up women.
His anger wavering for a moment, House could have smacked himself on the forehead, had he not been in a very public place. He hadn't forgotten that, it had just slipped his mind in the heat of the banter. Wilson had been in rough shape when he left for California last week, letting no one help him, in true Houseian fashion. Not that House had really tried. He had just left the anti-depressants to do their work on his best friend.
And so, instead of apologizing, asking how he was, or anything that might have had a chance of helping, he informed the man on the other line that if he acted really, really drunk, he might get a free cab ride out of it. And hung up.
--
Two hours later, he was completely caught off guard when he was cornered in the clinic (four more hours clinic duty was Cuddy's punishment for leaving Mrs. Old Witch in clinic room 2, thinking she had an incurable cancer of the nostril) by his soaking wet, disgruntled, and very pissed-looking best friend, looking fit to draw no little amount of blood.
Heads turned, and swiftly turned back as they realized the situation. House had done something stupid again, and he might be finally getting his come-uppance. Or Wilson was just getting wound up for one of his famous 'You're a real ass sometimes but pushing me away won't work because I believe you're a better person than this' speeches. Either way, everyone who had been to the free clinic within the past 9 years knew the story, had seen it before. It was nothing new. Maybe the younger one was looking a bit worse for the wear, but still nothing new.
That popular opinion was swiftly disproved when the sopping wet Oncologist reached the Diagnostician with his eyes closed tightly and slammed (or smacked, a more accurate description of the sound House's head made against the glass wall would have been smacked) him against the wall that separated the Clinic from the rest of the hospital.
The whispers and hushed conversations being held stopped as they were interrupted by first the thin glass wall shaking as 180 pounds of doctor were forcibly thrown against it, and then again as the yelling started.