Secret Language Of Names 2/? House/Wilson Hurt/Comfort
Title/Chapter: The Secret Language Of Names (tentative) 2/?
Fandom: House MD
Word Count: 1120
Rating: Average
Warnings: Angst and woe.
Summary: This chapter sees the boys waking up in the morning, and there's a shock at the end of the chapter. Be prepared.
Author's Notes: Future Fic. House/Wilson. Hurt/Comfort. Angst fic. If you read the untitled ficlet I wrote yesterday, this is an extention of that. Those voices demanded elaboration. I may have an epic fic on my hands here.
Chapter One
Five minutes or five hours, time had no meaning. He couldn't do anything about the traffic , or the ticking of the seconds on the watch he wore. The watch House had given him five months earlier to recognize five years together. The car clock showed 47 minutes since he'd answered the call from Cuddy, since he'd seen House's bike at the side of the road, until he pulled into the staff parking lot at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
His hair was a mess, his eyes wide and unfocused, his tie undone and hanging about his shoulders. How he'd managed to avoid causing a wreck himself, he couldn't be sure. Nor did he care. He had a one track mind, a full-steam mission to find House.
Brenda met him just inside the door, clearly waiting for him. He steeled himself with a deep breath, the sight of someone familiar threatening to crack the very thin veil of self control he so carefully held in place. Brenda touched his arm. "Come on," was all she said, saving him from saying anything at all, and she led him through the hospital halls he knew well.
She took him to the observation deck at OR 4. Dr Harris from Pediatrics stood, nodded at Wilson, and joined Brenda to retreat from the small room. Cuddy stood and silently embraced Wilson. Wilson's taller frame curled around her, as if seeking to lose himself in her arms. She whispered soothing words and rubbed his back while the emotions overwhelmed him.
He looked past her shoulder to the surgery below. House was unrecognizable on the table, and it was impossible to see how extensive the damage might be. Wilson straightened and wiped both hands across his face. His left hand made its way to the back of his neck. "How…" he started, but his voice cracked and disintegrated to tears.
"Sit down." Cuddy tried to guide him to a chair. He shook her off his arm, his focus too intent on the table and the surgery in progress. Impossible to tell what was happening down there, they had sheets draped over House, and his head turned to face the opposite direction.
"Tell me," Wilson managed to whisper. He turned from the window to make eye contact with her for a moment or two. "How bad is it?" He knew it was bad. He'd seen the bike. He'd seen the other cars involved. The fact House was alive at all had to be a miracle in itself.
"Let's go talk in my office."
"No." He didn't glance back at her. He didn't have to. She knew he wasn't going to budge.
She steeled her nerves with a deep breath, shifting in to professional mode. As professional as she could be when one of her best friends lay on the operating table. "Witnesses say the car beside him drifted," her voice broke and she had to pause. Wilson didn't react. "He swerved, and crossed the yellow line. An oncoming car hit him," she paused again to catch her breath, to regroup.
Wilson's back stiffened, and his watch ticked off another minute. Roughly an hour and a half since House had kissed his lips and slipped out the door. "How bad is it?"
"He was dragged several hundred feet. There's head trauma, but his helmet would have protected him. We won't know, until he wakes up."
"His left side was crushed, James." Emotion wavered in her voice again. She tilted her head, looking to meet his eyes. "Dr Lawson wants to amputate." Her voice was low, tentative, apprehensive.
"No." His eyes flashed dark and disbelieving at her. She'd been his primary, when the infarction was diagnosed, when he'd fought for his right to refuse amputation of his leg. She knew how he felt about that. He'd nearly died because he'd been so adamant. Wilson wouldn't take that right away from him now. "No. You tell them. You tell them, Cuddy. You tell them no."
Cuddy placed both her hands on his arm. He shifted, but didn't look at her, didn't look away from the surgery in progress below. "His arm," she stopped herself, held her breath for a moment to regain her composure. She'd seen his arm. She knew there was no hope. "His arm was ruined, James. There's nothing left to put back together."
"No. No." Wilson shook his head. "No. He was fine. He kissed me before he left. He promised he'd be careful."
"This wasn't his fault."
Wilson turned his head abruptly, looking at Cuddy as if she'd told him to go to hell. He raised his hands to beat against his forehead. "You tell them no, Dr Cuddy."
Cuddy shook her head. "I'm sorry, James." She lifted one hand up to push the hair off his forehead. He looked down, resisting her touch. "I'm so sorry." She attempted to silently urge him toward the chairs.
"No." He rubbed his face with both hands, pressed the heels against his eyes, fingers gripping his hair. "I can't," he murmured. Cuddy circled her arms around him. He sagged against her, nearly throwing them both off balance, but she managed to steel her weight against him and keep him upright. Hands in his hair, she tried to comfort him when she knew there was no comfort.
"I need you to listen to me, James," Cuddy said after several minutes. Wilson's breath hitched with sobs he tried to suppress. "We can't save his arm, and no matter what we do about his leg, he's never going to walk. His right knee is blown out too, and the femur is broken."
"No. Not," Wilson met Cuddy's eyes. Anguish made the irises darker than usual. He blinked, and the promise of tears glistened bright. It took him a moment to find the strength to speak again, with tears sliding down each cheek. "Not his legs."
"I'm sorry, James."
Wilson nodded, and turned back to the observation window. "You tell them." He raised one hand, his left hand, to the spot where he could see just the back of House's head, the salt and pepper of his hair against the blue sheet. Cuddy gave his arm a supportive squeeze to say she'd go down and talk to Lawson. Her shoes echoed on the linoleum floor, and the creak of the door sounded loud as fireworks in the silence of Wilson's grief.
As soon as she was gone, his hand slid down the glass, and he turned his back to the window to slide his body down to the floor, knees drawn up and head pressed forward, arms clasped around his legs. "Not his legs," he whispered again, to the empty room. "Not his legs."
Fandom: House MD
Word Count: 1120
Rating: Average
Warnings: Angst and woe.
Summary: This chapter sees the boys waking up in the morning, and there's a shock at the end of the chapter. Be prepared.
Author's Notes: Future Fic. House/Wilson. Hurt/Comfort. Angst fic. If you read the untitled ficlet I wrote yesterday, this is an extention of that. Those voices demanded elaboration. I may have an epic fic on my hands here.
Chapter One
Five minutes or five hours, time had no meaning. He couldn't do anything about the traffic , or the ticking of the seconds on the watch he wore. The watch House had given him five months earlier to recognize five years together. The car clock showed 47 minutes since he'd answered the call from Cuddy, since he'd seen House's bike at the side of the road, until he pulled into the staff parking lot at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
His hair was a mess, his eyes wide and unfocused, his tie undone and hanging about his shoulders. How he'd managed to avoid causing a wreck himself, he couldn't be sure. Nor did he care. He had a one track mind, a full-steam mission to find House.
Brenda met him just inside the door, clearly waiting for him. He steeled himself with a deep breath, the sight of someone familiar threatening to crack the very thin veil of self control he so carefully held in place. Brenda touched his arm. "Come on," was all she said, saving him from saying anything at all, and she led him through the hospital halls he knew well.
She took him to the observation deck at OR 4. Dr Harris from Pediatrics stood, nodded at Wilson, and joined Brenda to retreat from the small room. Cuddy stood and silently embraced Wilson. Wilson's taller frame curled around her, as if seeking to lose himself in her arms. She whispered soothing words and rubbed his back while the emotions overwhelmed him.
He looked past her shoulder to the surgery below. House was unrecognizable on the table, and it was impossible to see how extensive the damage might be. Wilson straightened and wiped both hands across his face. His left hand made its way to the back of his neck. "How…" he started, but his voice cracked and disintegrated to tears.
"Sit down." Cuddy tried to guide him to a chair. He shook her off his arm, his focus too intent on the table and the surgery in progress. Impossible to tell what was happening down there, they had sheets draped over House, and his head turned to face the opposite direction.
"Tell me," Wilson managed to whisper. He turned from the window to make eye contact with her for a moment or two. "How bad is it?" He knew it was bad. He'd seen the bike. He'd seen the other cars involved. The fact House was alive at all had to be a miracle in itself.
"Let's go talk in my office."
"No." He didn't glance back at her. He didn't have to. She knew he wasn't going to budge.
She steeled her nerves with a deep breath, shifting in to professional mode. As professional as she could be when one of her best friends lay on the operating table. "Witnesses say the car beside him drifted," her voice broke and she had to pause. Wilson didn't react. "He swerved, and crossed the yellow line. An oncoming car hit him," she paused again to catch her breath, to regroup.
Wilson's back stiffened, and his watch ticked off another minute. Roughly an hour and a half since House had kissed his lips and slipped out the door. "How bad is it?"
"He was dragged several hundred feet. There's head trauma, but his helmet would have protected him. We won't know, until he wakes up."
"His left side was crushed, James." Emotion wavered in her voice again. She tilted her head, looking to meet his eyes. "Dr Lawson wants to amputate." Her voice was low, tentative, apprehensive.
"No." His eyes flashed dark and disbelieving at her. She'd been his primary, when the infarction was diagnosed, when he'd fought for his right to refuse amputation of his leg. She knew how he felt about that. He'd nearly died because he'd been so adamant. Wilson wouldn't take that right away from him now. "No. You tell them. You tell them, Cuddy. You tell them no."
Cuddy placed both her hands on his arm. He shifted, but didn't look at her, didn't look away from the surgery in progress below. "His arm," she stopped herself, held her breath for a moment to regain her composure. She'd seen his arm. She knew there was no hope. "His arm was ruined, James. There's nothing left to put back together."
"No. No." Wilson shook his head. "No. He was fine. He kissed me before he left. He promised he'd be careful."
"This wasn't his fault."
Wilson turned his head abruptly, looking at Cuddy as if she'd told him to go to hell. He raised his hands to beat against his forehead. "You tell them no, Dr Cuddy."
Cuddy shook her head. "I'm sorry, James." She lifted one hand up to push the hair off his forehead. He looked down, resisting her touch. "I'm so sorry." She attempted to silently urge him toward the chairs.
"No." He rubbed his face with both hands, pressed the heels against his eyes, fingers gripping his hair. "I can't," he murmured. Cuddy circled her arms around him. He sagged against her, nearly throwing them both off balance, but she managed to steel her weight against him and keep him upright. Hands in his hair, she tried to comfort him when she knew there was no comfort.
"I need you to listen to me, James," Cuddy said after several minutes. Wilson's breath hitched with sobs he tried to suppress. "We can't save his arm, and no matter what we do about his leg, he's never going to walk. His right knee is blown out too, and the femur is broken."
"No. Not," Wilson met Cuddy's eyes. Anguish made the irises darker than usual. He blinked, and the promise of tears glistened bright. It took him a moment to find the strength to speak again, with tears sliding down each cheek. "Not his legs."
"I'm sorry, James."
Wilson nodded, and turned back to the observation window. "You tell them." He raised one hand, his left hand, to the spot where he could see just the back of House's head, the salt and pepper of his hair against the blue sheet. Cuddy gave his arm a supportive squeeze to say she'd go down and talk to Lawson. Her shoes echoed on the linoleum floor, and the creak of the door sounded loud as fireworks in the silence of Wilson's grief.
As soon as she was gone, his hand slid down the glass, and he turned his back to the window to slide his body down to the floor, knees drawn up and head pressed forward, arms clasped around his legs. "Not his legs," he whispered again, to the empty room. "Not his legs."