Tentative Indeed
Feb. 1st, 2010 06:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hibernia1 if it's shit. She made me post it.
Title: Slow Motion
Characters: House, Wilson and OMC (no slash here)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1726
Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans. But I do own the OMC, goatee and all.
A/N: I dunno whether this classes as a second part, or a bloody sequel, or what...but it stems from this THING that I wrote (which is in turn was based on a Sick!Wilson prompt from here 50 Ways to Hurt Your Wilson.) If you haven't read that then there will be a lot of 'wtf-ing' while reading this. I did write this last week but got the heebie jeebies, then I got distracted by applying for jobs all over the place, and thus I didn't post it. (Oh yeah and the title and words on the LJ cut or from Slow Motion by David Gray)
Summary: At first, he wasn't sure of this ever-present being casting a troubled stare in his direction.
The man would visit all the time. Sometimes he'd be there when Wilson woke up, sometimes he'd be there when Wilson went to sleep.
At first, he wasn't sure of this ever-present being casting a troubled stare in his direction. He convinced himself it was an hallucination from whatever drug regime the doctors had put him on. He'd only been here a few days so there were bound to a few odd side affects as his body adjusted. But when he saw the man interact with Cliff the orderly before leaving one evening his hallucination theory was thrown into a tailspin.
The man wasn't there the next morning, not immediately anyway.
He woke up cold, his shuffling in the night had left his back exposed to the harsh drafts that slipped under the door, and his jaw was sore. Probably a by-product of his new teeth-grinding habit. He cast a glance to the dull, mud coloured chair where the man would usually sit, glaring and thumbing his chin in deep thought. The chair was empty bar a strip of light glaring down through the crack between the curtains, highlighting the dust dancing in the bare air.
He shifted uncomfortably on his side, pulling his knees up closer to his chest. Not seeing the man when he woke up was weird, an uncomfortable change that didn't sit well with him at all. He'd grown accustomed the constant, if distant, company. Languidly, he reached over and pressed the red button attached to his night stand and before long Cliff was crossing the breach from the corridor into his room.
He liked Cliff. He liked the toothy smile, the seemingly perpetual joy that radiated from gleeful blue eyes, and the wispy, pointless goatee that framed his squared chin. He liked the chesty laugh and the penchant for telling dirty jokes, not that he understood them all. But Wilson smiled all the same, even if it was brief. He didn't talk much to Cliff. No, no. Cliff talked enough for both of them, cracking obscene jokes, waxing lyrical, wild tales about his time working as a youth in the Deep South in that drawling, Southern twang. He had guessed Cliff was from Maine but when he offered his thought he was met with bemusement before a smile took its place.
"Naw. I'm from Arkansas. Home o' Bill Clinton." Cliff had leaned in and whispered. "Maine's in the North East."
"Oh." He had known that. Geography had been a strong point at one time in his life.
"Don't worry Mr. J. We'll get all that knowledge back for ya in no time. I can promise you that."
Wilson rolled onto his back, turning his head to acknowledge the incoming orderly. Sure enough, there stood Cliff, goofy grin and goatee in place.
"What can I do for ya this morning Mr. J?"
He limply gestured to the empty chair, his mind and body too tired to work in tandem to form any sort of speech.
"Oh yaw friend? He should be here soon so don't worry yawself about him." Cliff wandered around the bed and pulled open the curtains, bathing the dank room in a warm, morning glow. "Well that's much better."
He lifted a hand to block the blinding light; his eyes still yet to adjust to the fact it was morning. His hand was doing little to help so he went a step further and buried his head into the top pillow. In all honesty, he could do with a few more hours sleep, but the last time he tried that hours had turned into an entire day, and he didn't want to relive the experience of being forcibly removed from his bed.
"Mr. J?"
But maybe a half hour wouldn't hurt.
"Mr. J?"
An hour perhaps.
"Hey! Ya gotta get dressed for yaw friend."
Wilson detected the stern edge in Cliff's voice. One more step out of line then Cliff would have to come over and get him up. That meant touching. That meant a hand on his shoulder, on his back, on his chest, on his arms. He shuddered violently at the thought before wearily lifting his head away from the pillow and propping himself upright in the middle of the bed.
"Okay. We got blue, green or grey." Cliff held up three t-shirts into the air, investigating the items himself with his eyes. "Actually, ya know what? I think this grey one's a little dour."
"Blue." He didn't really give a shit. The shirt could have been yellow and purple polka dots and he still wouldn't care. He just wanted this scratchy, white one off his back.
"Blue it is." Cliff settled the green one back into the drawer and rested the blue one on the edge of the bed. "D'ya need a hand getting that one off?"
Wilson shook his head and began sifting his arms from the holes, pulling the shirt from his torso and over his head. The material popped from his head with a satisfying whoosh. It was amazing how well upping a medication by a milligram had done so much for his concentration and coordination. He grasped the blue t-shirt from the bed and slipped his head through. It took all of his reserves to get it on properly, the right arm proving the most difficult as he caught his elbow in the crook of the sleeve material.
It wasn't long after he had managed to coerce his sweatpants up and around his waist, that the man arrived. Wilson sat on the side of his bed, part relieved, part curious, part apprehensive. The man was carrying a bag. A see through plastic bag. He couldn't see what was in it but could make out flashes of red and blue. The man exchanged a few words with Cliff, who patted him on the upper arm and smiled before leaving the room.
The man hung a dark rubber-tipped cane onto the end of the bed and limped to the chair, depositing the bag onto the table next to him. Drumming his fingers against the plastic arms, he tapped his his chin, eyeing Wilson up and clocking the surroundings.
Wilson felt as if he was being investigated, searched and interrogated by silent stares. He could only manage an uncomfortable clearing of the throat to break the painful silence. It looked like the man didn't want to talk today, not that they talked much anyway. He went to lie back down on top of his bedsheets, straightened out by Cliff as he dressed, hoping then he'd feel a little less tense.
"I have something for you." The man grumbled, his voice calm and laced with caution.
Wilson froze, all the muscles in his body contracted in perfect harmony. Surely this could only be bad thing.
The man reached his hand out and pulled open the flap on the bag. "Relax. It's a present. For you." The man cautiously limped over to the bed, sending Wilson cowering further into the upper corner. But to Wilson's surprise the man didn't try to touch him or grab him or come anywhere near him, the man merely placed an item onto the bed sheet. "For you." The man limped back to the chair.
He stretched his legs out on the bed, keeping a beady eye on whatever was on his bed. The man stared blankly.
"You don't have to take it." The man rubbed his thigh and ghosted a hand across his unruly stubble.
Wilson wouldn't deny that he was curious. He poked the item with his foot and when nothing happened he shot a hand out and grabbed it. He eyed it curiously, like a child with a new toy.
It was a truck. One of those truck things, the precise name escapes him. He used to like these when he was a kid. The truck had big, dark, rubber wheels and flames licking up the side of the paintwork. He ran the wheels over his hand, the embossed tyre grips tickled his skin.
"Thanks." He managed to produce a weak, awkward smile, which garnered a nod from the man.
"I've got something else." The man yanked the last item from the bag, leaving the empty plastic on the table. "Here." The man outstretched his hand, a red card pinched between his index finger and middle finger. "Take it."
He's freezes again. He's not sure about this. Not sure at all. Gingerly, he reaches out and grips the card. The man lets go as soon as he touches it, nearly sending it floating to the floor. He flips the card over and sees his name scrawled on the front. He flicks a look back at the man, whose attentions are centered on wiping a bit of dust from his pants. Turning the card over in his hands, he peels the flap away to get at the card underneath.
"Happy birthday Wilson."
It's his birthday? He pulls the card from the envelope and thumbs it open. There were signatures and messages scribbled on every inch of card and on every conceivable angle and gradient. He recognises a few of the signatures, but depressingly most of them mean nothing to him. He feels he should know them, they cared enough about him to sign this card after all, so why can't he recognise them? Why can't he remember?
The man hobbles over, his shadow looms over the bed, darkening Wilson's view. The man points an index finger into the card, and picks out a scrappy signature in black ink in the bottom right corner. "That's me."
He squints at the ink that loops to spell House before gazing back at the man. House. "That's you?"
House nods and looks away, his skin stretching as he clenches his jaw.
"House is a...odd name." He fiddles nervously with edge of the card.
"Yeah." House pauses before rubbing his eyes. "Can you promise me something?" House stares intently, his eyes bloodshot, the edges red and angry.
"What?" The protracted silence that followed stung in Wilson's ears.
"Promise me you will remember me."
He knew he couldn't promise anything. He couldn't because he didn't know if he would even remember this properly tomorrow. But Wilson could see from the look on House's face that he needed a promise, however small and meaningless. "I promise...I'll try."
hibernia1 if it's shit. She made me post it.Title: Slow Motion
Characters: House, Wilson and OMC (no slash here)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1726
Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans. But I do own the OMC, goatee and all.
A/N: I dunno whether this classes as a second part, or a bloody sequel, or what...but it stems from this THING that I wrote (which is in turn was based on a Sick!Wilson prompt from here 50 Ways to Hurt Your Wilson.) If you haven't read that then there will be a lot of 'wtf-ing' while reading this. I did write this last week but got the heebie jeebies, then I got distracted by applying for jobs all over the place, and thus I didn't post it. (Oh yeah and the title and words on the LJ cut or from Slow Motion by David Gray)
Summary: At first, he wasn't sure of this ever-present being casting a troubled stare in his direction.
The man would visit all the time. Sometimes he'd be there when Wilson woke up, sometimes he'd be there when Wilson went to sleep.
At first, he wasn't sure of this ever-present being casting a troubled stare in his direction. He convinced himself it was an hallucination from whatever drug regime the doctors had put him on. He'd only been here a few days so there were bound to a few odd side affects as his body adjusted. But when he saw the man interact with Cliff the orderly before leaving one evening his hallucination theory was thrown into a tailspin.
The man wasn't there the next morning, not immediately anyway.
He woke up cold, his shuffling in the night had left his back exposed to the harsh drafts that slipped under the door, and his jaw was sore. Probably a by-product of his new teeth-grinding habit. He cast a glance to the dull, mud coloured chair where the man would usually sit, glaring and thumbing his chin in deep thought. The chair was empty bar a strip of light glaring down through the crack between the curtains, highlighting the dust dancing in the bare air.
He shifted uncomfortably on his side, pulling his knees up closer to his chest. Not seeing the man when he woke up was weird, an uncomfortable change that didn't sit well with him at all. He'd grown accustomed the constant, if distant, company. Languidly, he reached over and pressed the red button attached to his night stand and before long Cliff was crossing the breach from the corridor into his room.
He liked Cliff. He liked the toothy smile, the seemingly perpetual joy that radiated from gleeful blue eyes, and the wispy, pointless goatee that framed his squared chin. He liked the chesty laugh and the penchant for telling dirty jokes, not that he understood them all. But Wilson smiled all the same, even if it was brief. He didn't talk much to Cliff. No, no. Cliff talked enough for both of them, cracking obscene jokes, waxing lyrical, wild tales about his time working as a youth in the Deep South in that drawling, Southern twang. He had guessed Cliff was from Maine but when he offered his thought he was met with bemusement before a smile took its place.
"Naw. I'm from Arkansas. Home o' Bill Clinton." Cliff had leaned in and whispered. "Maine's in the North East."
"Oh." He had known that. Geography had been a strong point at one time in his life.
"Don't worry Mr. J. We'll get all that knowledge back for ya in no time. I can promise you that."
Wilson rolled onto his back, turning his head to acknowledge the incoming orderly. Sure enough, there stood Cliff, goofy grin and goatee in place.
"What can I do for ya this morning Mr. J?"
He limply gestured to the empty chair, his mind and body too tired to work in tandem to form any sort of speech.
"Oh yaw friend? He should be here soon so don't worry yawself about him." Cliff wandered around the bed and pulled open the curtains, bathing the dank room in a warm, morning glow. "Well that's much better."
He lifted a hand to block the blinding light; his eyes still yet to adjust to the fact it was morning. His hand was doing little to help so he went a step further and buried his head into the top pillow. In all honesty, he could do with a few more hours sleep, but the last time he tried that hours had turned into an entire day, and he didn't want to relive the experience of being forcibly removed from his bed.
"Mr. J?"
But maybe a half hour wouldn't hurt.
"Mr. J?"
An hour perhaps.
"Hey! Ya gotta get dressed for yaw friend."
Wilson detected the stern edge in Cliff's voice. One more step out of line then Cliff would have to come over and get him up. That meant touching. That meant a hand on his shoulder, on his back, on his chest, on his arms. He shuddered violently at the thought before wearily lifting his head away from the pillow and propping himself upright in the middle of the bed.
"Okay. We got blue, green or grey." Cliff held up three t-shirts into the air, investigating the items himself with his eyes. "Actually, ya know what? I think this grey one's a little dour."
"Blue." He didn't really give a shit. The shirt could have been yellow and purple polka dots and he still wouldn't care. He just wanted this scratchy, white one off his back.
"Blue it is." Cliff settled the green one back into the drawer and rested the blue one on the edge of the bed. "D'ya need a hand getting that one off?"
Wilson shook his head and began sifting his arms from the holes, pulling the shirt from his torso and over his head. The material popped from his head with a satisfying whoosh. It was amazing how well upping a medication by a milligram had done so much for his concentration and coordination. He grasped the blue t-shirt from the bed and slipped his head through. It took all of his reserves to get it on properly, the right arm proving the most difficult as he caught his elbow in the crook of the sleeve material.
It wasn't long after he had managed to coerce his sweatpants up and around his waist, that the man arrived. Wilson sat on the side of his bed, part relieved, part curious, part apprehensive. The man was carrying a bag. A see through plastic bag. He couldn't see what was in it but could make out flashes of red and blue. The man exchanged a few words with Cliff, who patted him on the upper arm and smiled before leaving the room.
The man hung a dark rubber-tipped cane onto the end of the bed and limped to the chair, depositing the bag onto the table next to him. Drumming his fingers against the plastic arms, he tapped his his chin, eyeing Wilson up and clocking the surroundings.
Wilson felt as if he was being investigated, searched and interrogated by silent stares. He could only manage an uncomfortable clearing of the throat to break the painful silence. It looked like the man didn't want to talk today, not that they talked much anyway. He went to lie back down on top of his bedsheets, straightened out by Cliff as he dressed, hoping then he'd feel a little less tense.
"I have something for you." The man grumbled, his voice calm and laced with caution.
Wilson froze, all the muscles in his body contracted in perfect harmony. Surely this could only be bad thing.
The man reached his hand out and pulled open the flap on the bag. "Relax. It's a present. For you." The man cautiously limped over to the bed, sending Wilson cowering further into the upper corner. But to Wilson's surprise the man didn't try to touch him or grab him or come anywhere near him, the man merely placed an item onto the bed sheet. "For you." The man limped back to the chair.
He stretched his legs out on the bed, keeping a beady eye on whatever was on his bed. The man stared blankly.
"You don't have to take it." The man rubbed his thigh and ghosted a hand across his unruly stubble.
Wilson wouldn't deny that he was curious. He poked the item with his foot and when nothing happened he shot a hand out and grabbed it. He eyed it curiously, like a child with a new toy.
It was a truck. One of those truck things, the precise name escapes him. He used to like these when he was a kid. The truck had big, dark, rubber wheels and flames licking up the side of the paintwork. He ran the wheels over his hand, the embossed tyre grips tickled his skin.
"Thanks." He managed to produce a weak, awkward smile, which garnered a nod from the man.
"I've got something else." The man yanked the last item from the bag, leaving the empty plastic on the table. "Here." The man outstretched his hand, a red card pinched between his index finger and middle finger. "Take it."
He's freezes again. He's not sure about this. Not sure at all. Gingerly, he reaches out and grips the card. The man lets go as soon as he touches it, nearly sending it floating to the floor. He flips the card over and sees his name scrawled on the front. He flicks a look back at the man, whose attentions are centered on wiping a bit of dust from his pants. Turning the card over in his hands, he peels the flap away to get at the card underneath.
"Happy birthday Wilson."
It's his birthday? He pulls the card from the envelope and thumbs it open. There were signatures and messages scribbled on every inch of card and on every conceivable angle and gradient. He recognises a few of the signatures, but depressingly most of them mean nothing to him. He feels he should know them, they cared enough about him to sign this card after all, so why can't he recognise them? Why can't he remember?
The man hobbles over, his shadow looms over the bed, darkening Wilson's view. The man points an index finger into the card, and picks out a scrappy signature in black ink in the bottom right corner. "That's me."
He squints at the ink that loops to spell House before gazing back at the man. House. "That's you?"
House nods and looks away, his skin stretching as he clenches his jaw.
"House is a...odd name." He fiddles nervously with edge of the card.
"Yeah." House pauses before rubbing his eyes. "Can you promise me something?" House stares intently, his eyes bloodshot, the edges red and angry.
"What?" The protracted silence that followed stung in Wilson's ears.
"Promise me you will remember me."
He knew he couldn't promise anything. He couldn't because he didn't know if he would even remember this properly tomorrow. But Wilson could see from the look on House's face that he needed a promise, however small and meaningless. "I promise...I'll try."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 07:08 pm (UTC)And you've got a tag with my name yay!
Also, hey, blame me for everything you post, wow. I'll be flattered!
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 07:18 pm (UTC)I'm sorry for making you cry...eep. Have a gratuitous hug to make up for it. I'm so glad you didn't think this was shit. I re-read over and over and I convinced myself it was a steaming turd. It's good to hear it's not. Phew.
Cheers for reading and commenting XD
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 07:41 pm (UTC)I do very much hope for a sequel.
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 07:37 pm (UTC)Love how you wrote House here - 'very IC' - worn out term, but still true!!
no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:00 am (UTC)Cheers for reading and commenting. XD
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:02 am (UTC)(saying that, most things I have written recently have been :( so I'm on somewhat of a roll, as it were.)
Cheers for reading and commenting.
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 08:43 pm (UTC)Now that there are two parts to the story, I'd love to see a third.
no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:04 am (UTC)I was tempted to do bits of it from House POV but it didn't fit quite right. It seemed to work better seeing it all from Wilson's.
Cheers for reading and commenting. Yay!
no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:23 am (UTC)Seriously, Wilson's pov was brilliant choice. It gave a better understanding about Wilson's state of mind, and allowed a different perspective to viewing caring!House.
no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:29 am (UTC)But I am totally considering doing more. Just need to find a good hook, or ending line, or starting point or whatever.
And stop with all this flattery. You make me blush
no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:41 am (UTC)Well, please take your time on your continuation. I suck at prompts, so I don't have the right to be pushy.
...And I'm just saying what's on my mind. :)
no subject
Date: 01/02/2010 10:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 12:06 am (UTC)Cheers for reading and commenting. Much appreciated.
no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 02/02/2010 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 04/02/2010 09:12 pm (UTC)The whole story was perfect. I loved when Wilson asked for him and missed him. House giving Wilson a Monster Truck for his birthday was priceless. The card was brilliant and I loved the way House pointed to his signature to show Wilson who he was. That really got to me.
You have such a great imagination. The whole description of Wilson putting his shirt and pants on was perfect. Your descriptions are spot on. Loved it! :D
no subject
Date: 04/02/2010 10:26 pm (UTC)And I'm glad the monster truck thing worked, I spent ages trying to think of something that had enough meaning and was believable for Wilson to be allowed to have.
Thanks for reading and commenting XD
no subject
Date: 05/02/2010 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 06/02/2010 11:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 06/02/2010 08:38 pm (UTC)Cheers for reading and commenting. Much appreciated.