Title: To Be Annoyed
Rating: PG
Summary: House is annoyed.
A/N: Trying to kill the block. Kill it dead.



You were annoyed. Which is why you'd gone to Wilson's office in the first place.

Originally, you were annoyed thanks to some moron in the clinic who let their kid spill soda all over the floor and then didn't even bother with cleaning it up. You'd nearly slipped. Nearly fallen right on your ass, almost dropped your cane when your arms shot out in an attempt to grab something and steady yourself. Came close to cracking your god damned tailbone. So you'd made your way to the elevator, stalked moodily down the hall, and walked into Wilson's office with a mind to yell at him about it. Or, technically, yell to him about it.

Now, you were annoyed for a number of different reasons. Discovering Wilson asleep on his couch was one of them. His lips were slightly parted, one arm hanging off the edge of the cushion and the other resting on his chest. You could tell he hadn't intended to sleep for very long because he had one shoe propped on top of the other and there was a file on the floor that he'd obviously dropped upon losing consciousness. It didn't occur to you most of the time just how late Wilson worked in the evenings. Or how early he came in each morning. Or even how uncomfortable that hotel bed of his must've been. That was just... Wilson. He'd always worked too much and you'd tried to show him the error of his ways but he was simply the stubborn type.

When you realized you'd closed the door gently behind you and walked across his office without thudding your cane against the floor in an attempt to keep quiet for him, it annoyed you. Limping slowly just so he wouldn't stir. Keeping your mouth shut despite the temptation to shout his name at the top of your lungs and make him roll off the couch all together. You told yourself you were just waiting for the opportune moment. You considered stopping right next to him, leaning over so that your lips were inches from his ear and then exploding at him. This wasn't something to be annoyed by; finding Wilson asleep was the opportunity of a lifetime. To scare the living shit out of your best friend was to truly live life to the fullest.

But you were a mere foot from the couch at this point and you were walking gingerly. All but tip-toeing—not that you were capable of it. And you couldn't stop staring at his face. He looked so much older to you than he had a year ago. The ebb and flow of his breathing made the gentle expression he was already wearing seem close to vulnerable and why couldn't you stop looking at him? His chin was pointed down toward his neck and judging from the angle of his head he'd probably wake up extremely sore. The sad part was that Wilson slept better on couches than he did in beds. He'd told you so. One night back when he was living at your place, you were both halfway to drunk and he'd already changed into his pajamas. He thanked you that night.

Thanked you for letting him sleep on the damn sofa. The sofa you'd both sat on for almost a decade. The one you'd burned a hole in with your cigar while laughing at one of his jokes. And he thanked you for letting him stretch out on it. Then he told you he slept better on couches than he did in beds. You can remember the way you laughed at him for saying it, too.

Christ, this annoyed you. Really it did. Because at this point you were standing there, right next to the couch, looking down at him and you knew you were never actually going to startle him. From the moment you'd seen his sleeping face you were never ever going to wake him.

You just kept standing there for a few minutes. Listening to him. Looking at him. Remembering him. Annoyed by him.

It wasn't until you'd quietly limped back across his office and slowly turned the doorknob that you realized you weren't annoyed with him. You were annoyed with you. How the hell had that happened? It had shifted from idiotic-patient-induced anger to this weird, subdued feeling you couldn't place and didn't care to place, thanks very much.

You chanced another long look at him before stepping out of his office and gently pulling the door shut once again. Maybe you'd come back in an hour or two. Wilson would probably be awake by that time. Or not. Either way, you could scream at him then.

A part of you knew, though, that you wouldn't be going anywhere near Wilson's office again that day. And that annoyed you, too.