Author: Regency

Title: Passerby

Fandom: House, M.D.

Pairing: loosely House/Wilson

Rating: G

Word count: 436

Summary:  He knows nothing goes past him, so he leaves a crack in the door when he showers.

Author’s Note: Written for the comment_fic prompt He knows nothing goes past him, so he leaves a crack in the door when he showers.

AN II: Constructive criticism is always welcome, folks. Hit me with your best shot.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable as being from House, M.D. They are the property of their respective producers, writers, and studios, not me.  No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.

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He knows nothing goes past him, so he leaves a crack in the door when he showers.

He's used to hygiene in an empty apartment. There's no need for modesty without company, no necessary concession to locked doors when the chance of an unwanted intrusion is nil.

He doesn't secure his bedroom door unless Wilson's in one of his moods. He doesn't shut his bathroom unless the other man’s staying the night. That he does is a matter of courtesy; he'd hate for the oncologist to be overcome with envy at the sight of his spectacular ass.

More than that, he'd rather not have to endure that face--the one that Wilson makes when he remembers that House isn't just an asshole with a limp. The damage done by lesser physicians is lasting; there's a wound to match. He'd rather not have to feel it when he bathes, but it's there. It's there when he sleeps and when he eats. It's there when he works and it screams loudest when he has places to be.

Today, it positively screeched as he lurched from his office to the OR.  For what’s supposed to be a preeminent institution, Princeton Plainsboro is in possession of an embarrassment of stupidity. That, or they’re ground zero for an outbreak of 'Don't Listen to the Diagnostician'-itis.  Either way, they nearly killed a patient today and if his leg had given out as it had threatened to do, they would have.

He’d saved them hundreds of thousands of dollars in malpractice settlements.  For a change, he’d saved this hospital’s ass. Cuddy had been grateful, though resistant to showing how much. His interns, the numbers, had been left standing with stupid looks on their faces. 

He might be giving them too much credit. They make the same expressions when unconscious.  It’s disasters like this that make him miss his old team.  They were street-stupid, Foreman the Gangbanger excepted, but they seemed as if they’d actually read their textbooks in med school.  He’s convinced this new team had read the Cliff Notes version and nothing more. His leg withstood the strain today, but next time?

He rests his head against the slick tile and respires steam.  His pores open, his lungs clear; he should be cleansed of all the crap inside. Only steam doesn’t evacuate Vicodin. He’s still full of crap and his leg begins to twitch in exertion.  He feels the cooler air blow in and the steam begin to clear.

The door’s swung open and Wilson’s standing there.  He closes his eyes against that face.

Sometimes, he forgets that he isn’t alone now.