A/N: I wasn't particularly sure how I wanted this chapter to play out or anything like that, it just popped out of nowhere, kind of like this whole story did. Anyways, I wanted to say thank you to anyone who has reviewed - they've all been really positive and encouraging and I'm feeling a bit more comfortable with writing this story now, because I wasn't sure how the FanFic community was going to respond to a thirteen-year-old trying to write anything meaningful. Please keep reviewing, I love to hear your thoughts!
Disclaimer: Don't own House, M.D., don't own Scars.
And with that, here comes chapter three!
"God damn it!" House whisper-screamed under his breath while he attempted to massage out his uncooperative thigh as it seized up under his strong hands. Standing in essentially the same spot as he did forty-five minutes ago, the still-hungover man with a headache that could have topped his leg pain on a good day when drowning in Vicodin reevaluated his current situation.
"Alright, obviously if Wilson and I came here straight from PPTH in that short amount of time, I have to be somewhat close, maybe on someone's way. If I limp my sorry-ass, hungover self in the direction I think is of the hospital, the closer I get, the bigger chance that someone's going to see me stumbling around on the side of the road and pick me up," the diagnostician reasoned to himself under his breath before realizing what a complete and utter disaster that plan was.
Seeing as he hadn't moved two steps in forty-five minutes, the fact that it was Sunday and nobody at the hospital was probably even thinking about going in, and the problem that just about anyone who was heading to work wanted to see him miserable and in breakthrough pain, House realized he was most absolutely screwed. Limping off in hopefully the right direction and dragging his pain-radiating thigh behind him anyway, the brilliant mind with the intelligent eyes started off in hopes of getting to PPTH.
[Line Break]
After dialing House's number and hitting call no less than ten times with no answer, James Wilson finally gave up on reaching his (at the moment, absolutely stupid) friend by phone and resorted to taking a shower in hopes that would make him feel a little more put together.
Showering, brushing his teeth, fluffing his hair in that ridiculous way that House hated but he impulsively did, and downing another aspirin to keep the hangover at bay, the brown-eyed oncologist kept himself busy for about forty minutes before becoming frustrated with the lack of messages on his phone's screen. Wilson quickly got dressed in his work-appropriate attire and lazily tied another awful tie before ripping it off and going at it again, still wondering where the hell his probably comatose friend was. If anything, the older man should be banging on Wilson's door as loud as possible to spike another, more painful headache. The fact that he wasn't was what worried Wilson, but he told himself House was an adult and could take care of himself before checking himself in the mirror one last time and heading out the door to catch up on paperwork after explaining to Cuddy why he left early the day before.
"You are the absolute scum of the earth. I hate you, your mother hates you, everyone hates you. You are unloveable Gregory, you hear me?" Gregory House's military father barked down on him.
"Yes sir, I-I'm sorry, I'll do better next time, I p-promise, please just don't make me run this drill again, please," a thirteen-year-old House stuttered at his father before he cried out in pain at the next blow directly to his jaw.
"Knock your shit off, Gregory. I'll beat your face in until you drop that stutter and can efficiently move yourself down a hallway without making a sound and tripping over yourself," John House breathed in his son's face before delivering a quick slap to back of the boy's head and questioning him, "got it?" The underweight boy nodded quickly and yelped as his father twisted his arm behind his back a bit tighter and quickly barked a "yes, sir!"
Pushed down the long hallway by his father again, the small boy with the bright blue eyes took off at a sprint, trying to jump over traps of sharp nails set by his father in order to teach his son to "avoid the enemy." Almost the entire way down the pathway, Gregory took one faltered step when he twisted his already fractured rib the wrong way and brought his foot down on a particularly rusty patch of nails and cried out, then hobbled his way to the finish line of the drill in hopes of not angering his father. Of course, that never worked, and only gave the boy a bloody nose and promises of half-food rations for the next week before being dragged, falling behind all the way, down the hall and back outside for the night.
Back in the present and recovering from his flashback that reminded him so much of himself now, some thirty years later and still dragging himself down a path to a promise of more pain, House quickly faked steady breathing and hobbled on.
[Line Break]
Finally on his way into work, Wilson sighed and waited at the bus stop, deciding to stop at the bar him and House had went to last night to pick up his keys that the bartender confiscated. Jumping on and off the bus within ten minutes, the oncologist looked at the outside of the building and regretted the last night but still knowing he'd do it again and stepped inside, his mind on House the whole time.
"Sir?" Wilson called to the man cleaning up and restocking shelves.
"Yep, what can I do for you?" the tall, built man called back at the brown-eyed oncologist.
"I left my keys here last night, just came by to pick them up."
"Alright, look through this basket and find yours. Shouldn't be hard, there's not too many here," the employee, apparently named "Willie" according to his nametag, quipped as he handed Wilson a container with a few sets of keys in it.
Finding them quickly, Wilson pulled his out and called a "thanks" over his shoulder and was ready to reclaim his car and hopefully, some of his life before he paused and turned back to Willie. "Hey, have you seen a taller guy with a cane at all since about midnight or one last night?" Wilson inquired.
"Yeah, there was kind of an older looking man with a cane wandering around outside and down that sidewalk this morning," Willie answered, blankly pointing out the window before getting back to cleaning off tables from the night prior.
"Thanks, I appreciate it!" the oncologist called while walking out the door, deciding to take his car and travel down the way Willie had directed him in hopes of finding House, reasoning that his friend could not get overly far on his own. His theory held true, and within ten minutes of finding his keys and pulling out of Wild Willie's (makes sense now, huh?) Bar, Wilson had seen the older diagnostician sweating, struggling, and soaked and attempting to haul himself down the sidewalk. Not realizing House was just coming out of a flashback or even knowing that he could send House spiraling straight into one with an unexpected noise, Wilson parked his car and sharply yelled down the path, "House!"
A/N: Longest chapter yet! Honestly, I am three chapters in and I am already understanding what my favorite FanFiction writers are talking about when they ask for reviews because they're awesome! Please keep reviewing, it makes me smile to see a new review pop up!