FF: In One Way; Out The Other
Dec. 14th, 2006 03:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adelineI... wrote fic!
Title: In One Way; Out The Other
Author: Adeline (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gossy16)
Fandom: House, M.D.
Summary: gen little gap-filler for Merry Little Christmas, after Wilson leaves
Characters/Paring: House, Wilson by reference, gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I keep asking Santa for ownership over the show House M.D. and its characters, but no luck, so far...
Wordcount: 901
A/N: Unbeta'ed, approximate syntax fully intentional, you can all blame me. ;)
In One Way; Out The Other
Wilson.
Was that real? Did the door just slam shut? What time is it?
Wilson? Wilson always comes. Come back, Wilson.
How did he end up on his back? There's pain in his leg but he doesn't feel it, and he turns on his side again, and there's puke right there but he doesn't smell it, barely even sees it, and it doesn't matter so much what is or wasn't real anymore. It's Christmas morning, he thinks, maybe afternoon, and sure, he's pathetic (this even might be a new low), but they're always pathetic together, even though Jimmy's married and even when he's jewish. It's Christmas. Wilson always comes.
Was there even pounding on his door? He'd like to remember but it's so far away. Were there hands grabbing him, how did he end up on his back, did he see what he thought he saw - who cares? He's on his side now - this he knows; and sweaty, and there's pain in his leg that's drifting in and out of sleep, and he's going to puke again if this goes on any longer (he knows it will) and where the hell is the damn cane; where the hell are his damn pills?
He scrambles to his knees, cursing himself and the world, and he'll crawl to the bathroom if he has to because - he scoffs sourly: this is so damn ridiculous - not even this is bad enough that he'll just lie there and wet himself. What would Wilson think when he got there and found him like that?
The tiny blinking light in the kitchen is giving him a headache and he'll navigate all the way over through barely slit eyelids, struggle with his balance and lack thereof, just to stop the blinking. Maybe his mom called back. Maybe it's earlier than he thought. He really only expects to kill the throbbing in his head. Just that would be worth the detour.
Surprisingly, he's already standing at the toilet bowl when the messages start playing and Wilson's in his space again (this he knows is real, because he's taking a piss and he's not waking up) and he almost makes a grab for the door frame, spins on his heels (his feet are so, so cold) to pick up the damn phone, but he's awake and he can't make himself believe that this is happening right now. Jimmy says to call back and sighs audibly, doesn't say anything about being worried or sorry or lonely or hurt, but he can hear all of that, all the same.
There are two more messages from Wilson (none from his mother) (none from anyone else) and it's hard to focus on the exact words - people shouldn't talk so fast or at the very least enunciate better - but it's Wilson for sure, filling the apartment in ways empty bottles and stray objects and messes on the floor can hardly compete with; and his headache's not all gone, but leaning on walls, it turns out, really helps to stay upright enough sometimes.
He's almost limped all the way back to the couch when silence settles again, and things slowly become less of vague blurs in his eyes, more of the shapes are getting clear, and oh, hey, there's the cane in a corner over there (he'll need it if the phone rings again, he should answer his mom's call maybe) by the door (did he hear pounding on the door? did he see what he thought he saw?)
It's a minute or two (eight) until he gets all the way over to it, and he's painfully aware how much of an idiot he's being, but the light outside tells him it's only mid-morning - still plenty of time for Wilson to show up - and right now there's no one to bitch at or whine to about his bottomless misery; not yet. Bending slightly to fetch the wooden stick, he catches his reflection in the mirror and, jesus christ, yes, this must be a new low, and he'd laugh at himself or tell the image to go to hell and never come back, maybe even break the mirror, if he thought it'd achieve anything.
Instead, he pauses and waits. His leg's fully awoken now, and he can't do a thing but seethe and squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deeply and rub fervently at his thigh and wonder where the hell Wilson is anyway. He's not lonely or worried or hurt, just surprised, maybe impatient and where's the harm in that? He opens his eyes again for the millionth time this second and finally sees that the door is unlocked, and that's weird because he remembers turning the bolt after pouring the first glass last night, still feels the cold metal, hears the click, tastes the whiskey.
And so it falls into place (he really shouldn't have taken this detour; his mom's used to getting the answering machine by now anyway) and it makes sense.
Wilson was here before (still has the key), it wasn't a dream, wasn't a withdrawal-induced figment of his imagination, hallucination or any of the dozen things it could have been. Wilson was really here; it's Christmas, it makes sense. His own face mocks him in the mirror and he's going to puke again (are you okay? I called three times!) - Wilson's never coming back.
.fin.
Title: In One Way; Out The Other
Author: Adeline (
gossy16)Fandom: House, M.D.
Summary: gen little gap-filler for Merry Little Christmas, after Wilson leaves
Characters/Paring: House, Wilson by reference, gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I keep asking Santa for ownership over the show House M.D. and its characters, but no luck, so far...
Wordcount: 901
A/N: Unbeta'ed, approximate syntax fully intentional, you can all blame me. ;)
In One Way; Out The Other
Wilson.
Was that real? Did the door just slam shut? What time is it?
Wilson? Wilson always comes. Come back, Wilson.
How did he end up on his back? There's pain in his leg but he doesn't feel it, and he turns on his side again, and there's puke right there but he doesn't smell it, barely even sees it, and it doesn't matter so much what is or wasn't real anymore. It's Christmas morning, he thinks, maybe afternoon, and sure, he's pathetic (this even might be a new low), but they're always pathetic together, even though Jimmy's married and even when he's jewish. It's Christmas. Wilson always comes.
Was there even pounding on his door? He'd like to remember but it's so far away. Were there hands grabbing him, how did he end up on his back, did he see what he thought he saw - who cares? He's on his side now - this he knows; and sweaty, and there's pain in his leg that's drifting in and out of sleep, and he's going to puke again if this goes on any longer (he knows it will) and where the hell is the damn cane; where the hell are his damn pills?
He scrambles to his knees, cursing himself and the world, and he'll crawl to the bathroom if he has to because - he scoffs sourly: this is so damn ridiculous - not even this is bad enough that he'll just lie there and wet himself. What would Wilson think when he got there and found him like that?
The tiny blinking light in the kitchen is giving him a headache and he'll navigate all the way over through barely slit eyelids, struggle with his balance and lack thereof, just to stop the blinking. Maybe his mom called back. Maybe it's earlier than he thought. He really only expects to kill the throbbing in his head. Just that would be worth the detour.
Surprisingly, he's already standing at the toilet bowl when the messages start playing and Wilson's in his space again (this he knows is real, because he's taking a piss and he's not waking up) and he almost makes a grab for the door frame, spins on his heels (his feet are so, so cold) to pick up the damn phone, but he's awake and he can't make himself believe that this is happening right now. Jimmy says to call back and sighs audibly, doesn't say anything about being worried or sorry or lonely or hurt, but he can hear all of that, all the same.
There are two more messages from Wilson (none from his mother) (none from anyone else) and it's hard to focus on the exact words - people shouldn't talk so fast or at the very least enunciate better - but it's Wilson for sure, filling the apartment in ways empty bottles and stray objects and messes on the floor can hardly compete with; and his headache's not all gone, but leaning on walls, it turns out, really helps to stay upright enough sometimes.
He's almost limped all the way back to the couch when silence settles again, and things slowly become less of vague blurs in his eyes, more of the shapes are getting clear, and oh, hey, there's the cane in a corner over there (he'll need it if the phone rings again, he should answer his mom's call maybe) by the door (did he hear pounding on the door? did he see what he thought he saw?)
It's a minute or two (eight) until he gets all the way over to it, and he's painfully aware how much of an idiot he's being, but the light outside tells him it's only mid-morning - still plenty of time for Wilson to show up - and right now there's no one to bitch at or whine to about his bottomless misery; not yet. Bending slightly to fetch the wooden stick, he catches his reflection in the mirror and, jesus christ, yes, this must be a new low, and he'd laugh at himself or tell the image to go to hell and never come back, maybe even break the mirror, if he thought it'd achieve anything.
Instead, he pauses and waits. His leg's fully awoken now, and he can't do a thing but seethe and squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deeply and rub fervently at his thigh and wonder where the hell Wilson is anyway. He's not lonely or worried or hurt, just surprised, maybe impatient and where's the harm in that? He opens his eyes again for the millionth time this second and finally sees that the door is unlocked, and that's weird because he remembers turning the bolt after pouring the first glass last night, still feels the cold metal, hears the click, tastes the whiskey.
And so it falls into place (he really shouldn't have taken this detour; his mom's used to getting the answering machine by now anyway) and it makes sense.
Wilson was here before (still has the key), it wasn't a dream, wasn't a withdrawal-induced figment of his imagination, hallucination or any of the dozen things it could have been. Wilson was really here; it's Christmas, it makes sense. His own face mocks him in the mirror and he's going to puke again (are you okay? I called three times!) - Wilson's never coming back.
.fin.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-12-15 12:54 am (UTC)Meme'd. ♥
no subject
Date: 2006-12-17 11:31 pm (UTC)♥ right back at'cha. ;)