Fic : Recovery
Jun. 16th, 2011 05:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
menolly_auTitle: Recovery
Words: 1248 (total)
Rating : PG
Spoilers :No
Characters : House & Wilson friendship
Summary : Four linked ficlets, Wilson is involved in a terrible accident, this is the aftermath. Ficlet title is the prompt from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic . Set during the beginning of the sixth season although diverging from canon.
Author's Notes : I found these on my hard drive - originally posted incomment_fic back in the dark ages (at least a year ago:) and never posted anywhere else. As they are sick!Wilson I thought I might as well post them here.
Hurt
House waited until the trail of visitors had gone. While they had all clucked and fussed over Wilson he had lurked in his office. Now when the corridors were quiet and the lights were dim he ventured out and stood at the door of Wilson's room.
He stared at the man in the bed. In all the years he had known Wilson the man had rarely been as much as sick. Never had he been injured, never had he spent time in a hospital bed as a patient. It had always been House. Wilson had always been the one to visit, to sit by the bedside and provide food, entertainment and comfort.
Wilson was pale, his sleep unsettled, his breathing rough. Although the monitors reported that he was in no danger House felt a tightening in his chest as he regarded his injured friend. He thought about how easily Wilson could have died today, he thought about what his own life would be without Wilson in it. He had lost him once, he never wanted to lose him again.
Slowly he approached the bed. His eyes flicked over the tubes, over the IV, over the dressings on Wilson's body. Hesitantly he reached out and slipped the blanket down slightly, exposing more of his friend's body. He took in the bruises, the lacerations, the cast on one leg. Wilson was damned lucky to be alive.
As he reached out one hand to a livid bruise on Wilson's cheek Wilson's eyes snapped open. He drew his hand back quickly, pretended he was checking the monitors. Wilson's eyes followed him, his dry lips open as if to say something but his breath and strength failing him.
There was pain in those eyes, a pain that House often saw reflected in the mirror but never wanted to see in Wilson. He reached out and adjusted the flow on the drip, sending some more painkillers into the battered body. Wilson blinked and then his lips cracked into something resembling a smile and his hand moved towards House, inching along the sheet. House let his fingers drop lightly onto Wilson's and met his gaze. Wilson's eyes slipped shut.
House slowly let go off Wilson's fingers and sank back into the chair by the bed. It was stupid to stay, Wilson was sleeping and wouldn't know whether he was here or not. He should go back to his office, or back home. He didn't have to stay close to show he cared. It was stupid to stay.
He stayed anyway.
Terror
He doesn't remember much while he's awake. He keeps himself busy thinking of other things, refuses to let his mind go there. While he sleeps he has no such defense.
People yelling, running. Screams. Falling chunks of metal and concrete, pain as it hits his body. Falling to the ground, choking in the clouds of dust. People running over him, desperate to escape. Hands clutching at him and then being torn away. Waking to darkness, to a quiet only punctuated by his own moans of pain and harsh breathing. Feeling his blood trickling away. Pressure on his body. Buried alive. Voices calling out for help, help that takes a long time coming. Falling in and out of consciousness. Knowing he will die, that this is it. He had always expected to feel relieved when he knew death was on its way. Instead he just feels despair and terror. Hopes for rescue that he is not sure will ever come. Giving in to panic and screaming, screaming out for help....
He wakes in the hospital bed, heart pounding and monitors screeching their alarm. A hand silences them and limping footsteps make their way to his bedside. Blue eyes stare down at him.
"Just a dream Jimmy. Go back to sleep."
He stares back and nods. Just a dream. Rescue had come, he will live, he is safe now. The darkness has gone and House is here.
Laughter
When Wilson didn't turn up for his trauma conselling session the counsellor went looking for her reluctant patient. She found him in the patient's lounge. He'd transferred from the wheelchair to the couch and was watching some silly children's cartoon on the television. Sitting next to him was his partner-in-crime Doctor House. House wouldn't go near Wilson's physical therapy sessions but had taken a liking to the lounge, its big screen television and video game machines. He could be found lurking around at all hours.
The floor around the men, and the table, was littered with junk food wrappers, what looked suspiciously like 'mens' magazines and various other debris. She was about to enter and reprimand Wilson and drag him off to his session when she paused as she heard Wilson break into laughter at something on the television. She recalled the pale and broken man who had wheeled himself to her office last week, his quiet muttered responses, the strain in his face. She smiled as he laughed again, this time House joining in. Some healing could take place outside of formal counselling sessions. Wilson seemed to be getting what he needed right here.
Quietly she backed away and left them alone.
Home
Wilson paused at the door to his apartment, awkwardly balancing himself on his cane. This was his first time home since the accident and the long weeks in the hospital and rehab. House was supposed to have been with him but had been called away on a case. He'd actually offered to break away and take Wilson home but Wilson had waved him off.
He finally managed to fumble his key out and let himself in, apprehensive about what he would find. House had been living here alone for eight weeks now, alone in the apartment that had been Amber's and Wilson's. Wilson expected to find it completely rearranged, all of Amber's things gone, to find chaos where there had been order, empty spaces where there had been ghosts.
Nothing had changed. The place was immaculate, clean and fresh. Not a trace of House in the living areas, just Amber & Wilson. When he glanced into their old bedroom, House's room now, her pictures were still displayed, her diplomas on the wall. His bed was neatly made. Wilson sat down and stared around. For the first time he thought what it must be like for House to lie in here and see this.
Wilson thought of the last few weeks, with House being there for him. Most of his colleagues had come in, smiled, exchanged a few nervous words and moved on quickly. House had stayed. He'd been there for the nights of pain, for the anger and depression. Never saying much, not needing to say much. Just someone who understood. Someone who cared.
Wilson levered himself to his feet and left the room. He would always remember Amber, would always love her but it was time to move on. His world had changed, his future was different now.
Slowly he limped to his bedroom, the trip home had taken more out of him than he thought possible. A quick nap and then House would be home.
He laid down with a sigh and glanced towards the bedstand. Abandoned there were a pair of reading glasses and a bottle of House's anti-depressants. A neon sign screaming out to him - House was Here. Had been sleeping in his bed. He smiled and tucked himself around the pillow.
It was good to be home.
Words: 1248 (total)
Rating : PG
Spoilers :No
Characters : House & Wilson friendship
Summary : Four linked ficlets, Wilson is involved in a terrible accident, this is the aftermath. Ficlet title is the prompt from
comment_fic . Set during the beginning of the sixth season although diverging from canon.Author's Notes : I found these on my hard drive - originally posted in
comment_fic back in the dark ages (at least a year ago:) and never posted anywhere else. As they are sick!Wilson I thought I might as well post them here.Hurt
House waited until the trail of visitors had gone. While they had all clucked and fussed over Wilson he had lurked in his office. Now when the corridors were quiet and the lights were dim he ventured out and stood at the door of Wilson's room.
He stared at the man in the bed. In all the years he had known Wilson the man had rarely been as much as sick. Never had he been injured, never had he spent time in a hospital bed as a patient. It had always been House. Wilson had always been the one to visit, to sit by the bedside and provide food, entertainment and comfort.
Wilson was pale, his sleep unsettled, his breathing rough. Although the monitors reported that he was in no danger House felt a tightening in his chest as he regarded his injured friend. He thought about how easily Wilson could have died today, he thought about what his own life would be without Wilson in it. He had lost him once, he never wanted to lose him again.
Slowly he approached the bed. His eyes flicked over the tubes, over the IV, over the dressings on Wilson's body. Hesitantly he reached out and slipped the blanket down slightly, exposing more of his friend's body. He took in the bruises, the lacerations, the cast on one leg. Wilson was damned lucky to be alive.
As he reached out one hand to a livid bruise on Wilson's cheek Wilson's eyes snapped open. He drew his hand back quickly, pretended he was checking the monitors. Wilson's eyes followed him, his dry lips open as if to say something but his breath and strength failing him.
There was pain in those eyes, a pain that House often saw reflected in the mirror but never wanted to see in Wilson. He reached out and adjusted the flow on the drip, sending some more painkillers into the battered body. Wilson blinked and then his lips cracked into something resembling a smile and his hand moved towards House, inching along the sheet. House let his fingers drop lightly onto Wilson's and met his gaze. Wilson's eyes slipped shut.
House slowly let go off Wilson's fingers and sank back into the chair by the bed. It was stupid to stay, Wilson was sleeping and wouldn't know whether he was here or not. He should go back to his office, or back home. He didn't have to stay close to show he cared. It was stupid to stay.
He stayed anyway.
Terror
He doesn't remember much while he's awake. He keeps himself busy thinking of other things, refuses to let his mind go there. While he sleeps he has no such defense.
People yelling, running. Screams. Falling chunks of metal and concrete, pain as it hits his body. Falling to the ground, choking in the clouds of dust. People running over him, desperate to escape. Hands clutching at him and then being torn away. Waking to darkness, to a quiet only punctuated by his own moans of pain and harsh breathing. Feeling his blood trickling away. Pressure on his body. Buried alive. Voices calling out for help, help that takes a long time coming. Falling in and out of consciousness. Knowing he will die, that this is it. He had always expected to feel relieved when he knew death was on its way. Instead he just feels despair and terror. Hopes for rescue that he is not sure will ever come. Giving in to panic and screaming, screaming out for help....
He wakes in the hospital bed, heart pounding and monitors screeching their alarm. A hand silences them and limping footsteps make their way to his bedside. Blue eyes stare down at him.
"Just a dream Jimmy. Go back to sleep."
He stares back and nods. Just a dream. Rescue had come, he will live, he is safe now. The darkness has gone and House is here.
Laughter
When Wilson didn't turn up for his trauma conselling session the counsellor went looking for her reluctant patient. She found him in the patient's lounge. He'd transferred from the wheelchair to the couch and was watching some silly children's cartoon on the television. Sitting next to him was his partner-in-crime Doctor House. House wouldn't go near Wilson's physical therapy sessions but had taken a liking to the lounge, its big screen television and video game machines. He could be found lurking around at all hours.
The floor around the men, and the table, was littered with junk food wrappers, what looked suspiciously like 'mens' magazines and various other debris. She was about to enter and reprimand Wilson and drag him off to his session when she paused as she heard Wilson break into laughter at something on the television. She recalled the pale and broken man who had wheeled himself to her office last week, his quiet muttered responses, the strain in his face. She smiled as he laughed again, this time House joining in. Some healing could take place outside of formal counselling sessions. Wilson seemed to be getting what he needed right here.
Quietly she backed away and left them alone.
Home
Wilson paused at the door to his apartment, awkwardly balancing himself on his cane. This was his first time home since the accident and the long weeks in the hospital and rehab. House was supposed to have been with him but had been called away on a case. He'd actually offered to break away and take Wilson home but Wilson had waved him off.
He finally managed to fumble his key out and let himself in, apprehensive about what he would find. House had been living here alone for eight weeks now, alone in the apartment that had been Amber's and Wilson's. Wilson expected to find it completely rearranged, all of Amber's things gone, to find chaos where there had been order, empty spaces where there had been ghosts.
Nothing had changed. The place was immaculate, clean and fresh. Not a trace of House in the living areas, just Amber & Wilson. When he glanced into their old bedroom, House's room now, her pictures were still displayed, her diplomas on the wall. His bed was neatly made. Wilson sat down and stared around. For the first time he thought what it must be like for House to lie in here and see this.
Wilson thought of the last few weeks, with House being there for him. Most of his colleagues had come in, smiled, exchanged a few nervous words and moved on quickly. House had stayed. He'd been there for the nights of pain, for the anger and depression. Never saying much, not needing to say much. Just someone who understood. Someone who cared.
Wilson levered himself to his feet and left the room. He would always remember Amber, would always love her but it was time to move on. His world had changed, his future was different now.
Slowly he limped to his bedroom, the trip home had taken more out of him than he thought possible. A quick nap and then House would be home.
He laid down with a sigh and glanced towards the bedstand. Abandoned there were a pair of reading glasses and a bottle of House's anti-depressants. A neon sign screaming out to him - House was Here. Had been sleeping in his bed. He smiled and tucked himself around the pillow.
It was good to be home.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 01:29 am (UTC)It was stupid to stay, Wilson was sleeping and wouldn't know whether he was here or not. He should go back to his office, or back home. He didn't have to stay close to show he cared. It was stupid to stay.
He stayed anyway.
This reminded me of House accusing Stacy when her husband was in surgery of thinking that being nearby meant she cared more. And she put him in his place by sarcastically announcing that she wouldn't leave until EVERYONE saw her there. It was so perfect. I think House was feeling what Stacy knew that day. And of course we saw House by Wilson's die in 'Wilson' too.
I enjoyed your fic every much. I liked how well you painted the 'feeling' for each entry.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 11:09 am (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it, thanks so much for reading and commenting.