This has no relation to the first chapter. They are definitely separate. Yep. I never thought I would do this, but, these are drabbles. A collection of them, I daresay. But I like the summary of the first one, so, hell with it, it's staying.
Summary of this one: House likes writing on things. Good plan. HouseWilson. It morphed into almost an epilogue of something else I wrote.
Rating: Low-key. Go with K plus, because swear words burn children's ears.
No one had gone inside. No one was really planning on it. There were nurses still inside from the night shift, presumably taking care of the people who needed it, but, through the window-façade of the hospital, a whole bunch of those could be seen. And, inside or out, every single person was looking at the windows between the two groups.
The handwriting was scrawled, but reasonably straight, and it was small enough to have to squint from ten feet back. It started from eight feet up – like a six-foot guy had reached up as high as he could – and continued. It had to be read from inside, but, even backwards, words could be strung together.
At the beginning, it said, I am addicted, a druggie. I know this. I accept this. I'm hooked on painkillers, on alcohol, on attention. Those are old habits, and I have come to terms with my imperfections.
After that, there were just more and more words. It went on forever, almost. Words happened frequently, and caught the eye; 'James T. Kirk', 'Capone', 'Jimmy grin'… and, drawing the most attention, 'I love you'. A woman on the inside had a laptop out, and her fingers were flying across the keys, trying to get it all down.
And here I was, an hour after I was supposed to be in my office, staring from the outside. I could see some of my own patients, no longer caring about me. I couldn't bring myself to approach them; I had to give myself more time to take it in.
Cameron moved closer to me, and, in a whisper, said, "I'm sorry, Wilson. When I said, 'What the hell are you going to do with a hundred markers?' like that, I didn't think…"
I waved her away, and went back to staring and working out the reversed words in my head. But, logically, everyone has that one thing which will be their downfall, and I've found mine…
Then, he marched right out of the doors, scowling as though he hadn't written the story of how we had gotten together across the world in florescent orange. "Come on, people, I've got people to waste and money to save."
Everyone sort of shook themselves, looked directly at me, and trickled through the doors, not wanting to touched them and smudge something.
This was insane. Everyone knew.
It was, literally, the most and only romantic thing he had ever done.
I loved him, sometimes, especially when he stayed out all night, told me he was with a hooker, and wrote the long equivalent of a love poem out.
Damn you, Gregory House.