Toxicity
"It's not Cirrhosis."
Staring into his coffeecup, House was once more addressing his Ducklings on the subject of Wilson's wife. The hormone tests were negative, meaning it wasn't the menopause. Meaning they were both screwed and back to square one. Nobody was offering any further suggestions, not even a slight comment to the next diagnosis. Each of those they had put out into the open were now viciously scrawled over on the white board.
"There's something... something we're missing." House was still musing into his drink rather than actually swallowing it. The coffee was no longer hot by now, anyway – they had been discussing this matter for the past hour, and his cup had become something to merely occupy his hands while speaking. Sighing, he made a slight whirlpool in the milky brown liquid.
"New symptoms. Abnormal bone growths over the radius – X-Ray confirms as much. Skin peeling, especially over the shoulders. Foreman says she was complaining of dry eyes, probably stemming from Diabetes."
Chase continued chewing the top of his pencil, mind ticking over. He didn't want to speak, give House another idea to shred. The man didn't seem to be in a particularly good mood, and he'd already been called a 'poncy British jackass' three times that morning. Perhaps it was the lack of Dr. Cameron that was getting House so irate – he had merely brushed off their questions about her with some story about some appointment with Cuddy.
"We need to get that out of the equation. It's not... fitting."
Absentmindedly scratching a constant itch to the back of his hair, House shuffled to face the white board directly, standing mere inches from the writing. There was something they were all blatantly missing, yet he couldn't fathom what – all the clues refused to add up into one, neat answer.
His train of thought was sharply derailed as the door opened. House didn't need to turn around to see who had entered, as he knew full well who it was. There wasn't the stab-stabbing of Cuddy's heels, or Cameron's voice forcing out an explanation for her lateness. Just muffled footsteps, padding around the desk without a word. Wilson.
"Welcome to the house of fun, grab a seat." House muttered, a slight smile forming on his lips as he stared at the markings on the board. It was a pretty low remark, a jab below the belt, but House found the temptation too much. As he expected, Wilson pointedly ignored the remark, yet remained standing.
"This isn't working. Chase – give her a shot of Retinyl Palmitate for the eyes. Get that out of the way." House pinched the bridge of his nose, vexed at the fact that they still had no differential diagnosis to fit the symptoms. There was something, obviously something, but they kept skimming right over it. "Foreman, go... yeah."
Taking a large gulp of the lukewarm coffee, House continued standing in front of his notes, hearing them shuffle about and scuff chairs before leaving the room. They both looked incredibly tired, energy drawn out of them by just sitting in a room with House.
For about half a minute, neither House nor Wilson spoke. The former continued looking, words now merging in and out of each other, the latter examining the palms of his hands. There wasn't even any movement until House shuffled over to the sink, tipping away the rest of his drink and shoving the mug onto the draining board.
"Listen..." Wilson finally splintered the silence, "Just say what you need to say. Get it out of your system, because I'm not going to put up with you passing snide comments."
"I have nothing to say, unless you want an essay on the boredom and suckyness that occupies my everyday life." House twisted the tap on to full blast, the crashing of the water giving him something to concentrate on. Something to block out Wilson.
"You ran out of your own apartment." Wilson padded closer, hands stuffed into his pockets. "That's low. Out of somebody else's apartment? Not so bad. But your own?"
"I can't get to work unless I actually step out of the door." Thrusting the mug under the gushing cold torrent, beads of water flying everywhere from the obstruction, House fixed his gaze firmly on the tap. He had no reason to be having this conversation with Wilson.
"But you didn't wake me." He persisted, by now standing next to House. He could feel the water droplets hitting him and ruffled his hair, shaking them away.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I must have missed the memo about me becoming your carer." House ground his back teeth, now rinsing a clean mug.
"House." Wilson gripped the edge of the sink, both flustered and frustrated. He had woken up to an empty apartment, no sign of Greg. He had still been in the same position, although the space around him had been considerably more tidy than the peanut-and-scotch atmosphere of the night prior. House had evidently preferred actual cleaning than just kicking him into a state of wakefulness.
"House, just drop the uncaring bastard act."
Without warning, House let the mug drop from his hands, a loud clunk sounding as it hit the bottom of the sink. Twisting the tap off, he turned to face Wilson, expression one of incredible sarcasm.
"If you're expecting a hug, I recommend Cuddy."
"An explanation would be better."
"For what?" Pulling out the infamous Vicodin bottle, House shook two pills into the palm of his hands, swallowing them down quickly. He had gone the morning on only one dose, but suddenly his thigh was shooting sparks.
"You just run off. For that." Wilson found himself watching the bottle without even realizing it. It unnerved him, worried him for some reason.
"My hooker was off sick. I wanted to get laid. End of explanation." Wiping his hand on his pants, House hobbled past Wilson, but was stopped by a firm grasp on his forearm. Trying to shake himself free, he only succeeded in almost overbalancing, and scowled.
"Don't say that." Wilson's voice had dropped considerably, leaning closer to House as he gripped the man's arm.
Wrenching his forearm away, House continued to the clear door of the office, muttering a single phrase as he pulled it open.
"I just did."