{Fic} May 11: Darling, Make it Go Away (House; House/Wilson)
Darling, Make it Go Away
By Clarity Scifiroots
Regular disclaimers apply. Title from Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work”
Fandom/Pairing: House MD - implied House/Wilson
Rated: FRT (for language, basically)
Summary: House loses a patient; this is the aftermath, and Wilson sorts out the pieces. (Watched “Autopsy” tonight and in a Without a Trace episode there was this beautiful song “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush; this story is the result.)
May!fic 11 of 31
---
He blames the family. Their inability to make a decision costs them their daughter’s life. He doesn’t lose patients! He feels little for his patients, usually even less when it’s a child because everyone else goes into pitiful emotional overdrive. But the failures make an impact he can’t ignore.
God damn idiotic parents took too long to decide! Fuck them.
When the hell did he start following the rules? Why the hell did he follow them this time? Legal bullshit isn’t his worry when he’s on a case. Why didn’t he press harder?
---
Wilson is gone, away at the conference, the day Marie Henderson dies on the operating table as the surgeons are sewing her stomach back together. Earlier in the week House does his usual complaining, working out the issues aloud as Wilson attempts to get his own work done.
Wilson takes off early to make a dent in the distant he’s driving; he leaves while House’s team settles in confidently as their treatment seems to drastically improve Marie’s condition.
On the last day of the conference, Wilson receives a call during brunch. Seeing that it’s Cuddy, he answers the phone with, “What did House do now?”
Her silence makes something twist in his gut. “Lisa, what’s going on?”
---
Stupid bastard, he snorts contemptuously. You know whose fault it is.
House finishes the last of his beer and flings it into the sink. The bottle breaks diagonally, three big pieces and small slivers of glass scattering on the stainless steel. He shuts his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds, stabbing pain shoots through his leg, and he feels like he’s swallowed a gallon of ice water. Fuck.
He reaches for another Vicodin-they’re all over the counter, spilled when he had trouble opening the damn cap. He chokes it down and throws open a cupboard. A stack of perfectly matched plates-a gift from someone he can’t remember-wait within. He grabs the top one and hefts it in his hand, analyzing.
Abruptly he throws it like a Frisbee and it crashes against the wall next to the fridge. The porcelain shatters and drops to the floor, pieces of a puzzle. He limps over and stares at the mess. To put it together again is perilous with all the sharp edges; requires exact precision so that every piece is perfectly aligned and joined in the correct place; takes more time than he’s willing to dedicate.
House’s jaw tightens and he smashes his cane down on the pieces, listening intently to the crunch as the porcelain is ground into power.
Didn’t keep on top of it. Didn’t care about the timing. Too fucking slow.
---
Wilson picks up a fourth cup of coffee in just as many hours before turning onto House’s street. The lights are on. He parks and gets out. He has his keys in hand, fairly certain House won’t be in the mood to get the door no matter who it is.
He knocks before using the key. There’s no answer as he steps in and calls a quiet “hello?” The TV is on mute, some old western playing out its drama in black and white on the screen. Wilson walks to the couch and sees signs of recent occupation: wrinkled and twisted blanket, crumbs, a bear bottle, and a torn issue of TV Guide; some of the pages appear to be shredded and littering the floor. He winces and tries the kitchen next. He startles when something crunches beneath his feet. Remnants of a broken dish and a mark on the wall...
Tendrils of worry begin to knot in his gut. He looks up and sees the cap of a pill bottle and a spill of pills across the counter. Shit!
He rushes to the bedroom and finds the bed actually made. What the hell?
Blood’s rushing in his ears and he wonders if he’ll be able to hear if House demands to know who’s running around his rooms.
Swallowing the sense of panic, Wilson reminds himself that he saw the bike out front. He looks around the bedroom and notices the cane laying next to the dresser. House can’t get far without the support so...
Wilson turns to the bathroom. The light’s off. He turns it on. Finally House says something. More like groans, protesting the burst of light. A sigh of relief passes Wilson’s lips as he squats beside the bathtub.
“God, you scared me,” Wilson says. In usual circumstances he knows House wouldd tear into him for being pathetic. House grunts and buries his face in his arms. He’s curled up, knees to his chest. The tub is filled with about four inches of water, not really a proper depth for a bath. “Suddenly a concerned environmentalist?” Wilson teases, smiling a little.
“No,” House growls.
Wilson shakes his head and reaches in to check the temperature. He pulls his hand back in surprise. “Jeez! This is freezing! Come on, stand up and get out.”
House whacks away Wilson’s hands and shifts enough that one blue eye glares warningly at his friend.
“House,” Wilson says in a no-nonsense tone. “You’ve been sufficiently self-destructive for the night. Get up.” He stands up and holds a hand out. House stares at it blankly for long moments.
Finally he scowls and claws at the wall and side of the tub to lever himself up. Wilson reaches out and grabs him before his slips and falls. “You’re shivering!” With his free hand Wilson snags the towel off the bar. He gets House to stand on the floor and wraps the towel around his shoulders.
“You’re such an idiot,” Wilson whispers, his head bent forward so that they nearly touch. He rubs House’s arms with the towel and feels the small tremors as House’s body attempts to warm itself.
---
House lies in bed staring with half-lidded eyes at the ceiling. He’s wearing sweatpants and a soft, worn T-shirt. Wilson’s covered him with a layer of blankets. Pretty soon he’s going to start sweating. He doesn’t move, though.
Wilson’s somewhere in another room. Knowing him, probably the kitchen with a broom, dustpan, and a bucket. The guy’s too sympathetic for his own good. House sighs and wriggles a bit until the blankets slip a little from his shoulders. He turns his head to look at the clock. It’s almost two in the morning. It’s already Monday and they’re both supposed to be at the hospital in eight hours. (Okay, Wilson will be in at eight.)
He closes his eyes and turns his face toward the ceiling again. Wilson shouldn’t be here, picking up his shit. House is usually more than happy to let his friend have at it. When Wilson picks up after the things he admits to doing wrong, it’s discomforting. House tightens his fists, wishing he had the energy to get up and chase Wilson off. Like this he’s... vulnerable. He hates it.
---
Wilson enters the bedroom barefoot. He’s stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. The kitchen is straightened, the broken porcelain and glasses sitting in a bucket to take out to the trash. He’s turned off the TV and picked up the shredded paper. On his way to the bedroom he turned off all the lights.
Even in the dark he can make his way without hesitating to the bed. He knows what side of the bed House eventually settles on, so he crawls under the blankets on the other side.
House snores faintly and when Wilson leans over he catches a whiff of the man’s breath; when he wakes up, he’ll need to brush his teeth and rinse with mouthwash more than once. Wilson lies back, eyes open and still very much awake.
After a few minutes he puts his hand over House’s. He turns onto his side facing the other man in the dark. As he listens to House breathe he remembers Cuddy’s call. She’d sounded more surprised than worried about House’s current moodiness in reaction to the latest patient case. Wilson clenches his teeth in frustration. Yes, House is a real bastard and a hell of guy to figure out. He also has feelings, recognizable emotions, no matter how much he denies it. Wilson wishes someone else could see that and truly understand it.
A dead girl, little Marie, is hard for anyone to handle. Especially for parents and the doctors who aren’t able to save her when they finally realize what to do.
Wilson moves closer and tucks his head under House’s chin. Soon enough things will return to normal. House will be throwing out sarcastic criticisms at his ducklings, mocking patients, belaboring patient’s families, and getting deeply engrossed with other medical mysteries. But for now, and sometime again in the future, Wilson has an opportunity to slip through the crack and touch the man inside the solid shield of sarcasm.
--- ---
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.
~ This Woman’s Work ~ Kate Bush
(this is a beautiful song, available on iTunes, too.)
By Clarity Scifiroots
Regular disclaimers apply. Title from Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work”
Fandom/Pairing: House MD - implied House/Wilson
Rated: FRT (for language, basically)
Summary: House loses a patient; this is the aftermath, and Wilson sorts out the pieces. (Watched “Autopsy” tonight and in a Without a Trace episode there was this beautiful song “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush; this story is the result.)
May!fic 11 of 31
---
He blames the family. Their inability to make a decision costs them their daughter’s life. He doesn’t lose patients! He feels little for his patients, usually even less when it’s a child because everyone else goes into pitiful emotional overdrive. But the failures make an impact he can’t ignore.
God damn idiotic parents took too long to decide! Fuck them.
When the hell did he start following the rules? Why the hell did he follow them this time? Legal bullshit isn’t his worry when he’s on a case. Why didn’t he press harder?
---
Wilson is gone, away at the conference, the day Marie Henderson dies on the operating table as the surgeons are sewing her stomach back together. Earlier in the week House does his usual complaining, working out the issues aloud as Wilson attempts to get his own work done.
Wilson takes off early to make a dent in the distant he’s driving; he leaves while House’s team settles in confidently as their treatment seems to drastically improve Marie’s condition.
On the last day of the conference, Wilson receives a call during brunch. Seeing that it’s Cuddy, he answers the phone with, “What did House do now?”
Her silence makes something twist in his gut. “Lisa, what’s going on?”
---
Stupid bastard, he snorts contemptuously. You know whose fault it is.
House finishes the last of his beer and flings it into the sink. The bottle breaks diagonally, three big pieces and small slivers of glass scattering on the stainless steel. He shuts his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds, stabbing pain shoots through his leg, and he feels like he’s swallowed a gallon of ice water. Fuck.
He reaches for another Vicodin-they’re all over the counter, spilled when he had trouble opening the damn cap. He chokes it down and throws open a cupboard. A stack of perfectly matched plates-a gift from someone he can’t remember-wait within. He grabs the top one and hefts it in his hand, analyzing.
Abruptly he throws it like a Frisbee and it crashes against the wall next to the fridge. The porcelain shatters and drops to the floor, pieces of a puzzle. He limps over and stares at the mess. To put it together again is perilous with all the sharp edges; requires exact precision so that every piece is perfectly aligned and joined in the correct place; takes more time than he’s willing to dedicate.
House’s jaw tightens and he smashes his cane down on the pieces, listening intently to the crunch as the porcelain is ground into power.
Didn’t keep on top of it. Didn’t care about the timing. Too fucking slow.
---
Wilson picks up a fourth cup of coffee in just as many hours before turning onto House’s street. The lights are on. He parks and gets out. He has his keys in hand, fairly certain House won’t be in the mood to get the door no matter who it is.
He knocks before using the key. There’s no answer as he steps in and calls a quiet “hello?” The TV is on mute, some old western playing out its drama in black and white on the screen. Wilson walks to the couch and sees signs of recent occupation: wrinkled and twisted blanket, crumbs, a bear bottle, and a torn issue of TV Guide; some of the pages appear to be shredded and littering the floor. He winces and tries the kitchen next. He startles when something crunches beneath his feet. Remnants of a broken dish and a mark on the wall...
Tendrils of worry begin to knot in his gut. He looks up and sees the cap of a pill bottle and a spill of pills across the counter. Shit!
He rushes to the bedroom and finds the bed actually made. What the hell?
Blood’s rushing in his ears and he wonders if he’ll be able to hear if House demands to know who’s running around his rooms.
Swallowing the sense of panic, Wilson reminds himself that he saw the bike out front. He looks around the bedroom and notices the cane laying next to the dresser. House can’t get far without the support so...
Wilson turns to the bathroom. The light’s off. He turns it on. Finally House says something. More like groans, protesting the burst of light. A sigh of relief passes Wilson’s lips as he squats beside the bathtub.
“God, you scared me,” Wilson says. In usual circumstances he knows House wouldd tear into him for being pathetic. House grunts and buries his face in his arms. He’s curled up, knees to his chest. The tub is filled with about four inches of water, not really a proper depth for a bath. “Suddenly a concerned environmentalist?” Wilson teases, smiling a little.
“No,” House growls.
Wilson shakes his head and reaches in to check the temperature. He pulls his hand back in surprise. “Jeez! This is freezing! Come on, stand up and get out.”
House whacks away Wilson’s hands and shifts enough that one blue eye glares warningly at his friend.
“House,” Wilson says in a no-nonsense tone. “You’ve been sufficiently self-destructive for the night. Get up.” He stands up and holds a hand out. House stares at it blankly for long moments.
Finally he scowls and claws at the wall and side of the tub to lever himself up. Wilson reaches out and grabs him before his slips and falls. “You’re shivering!” With his free hand Wilson snags the towel off the bar. He gets House to stand on the floor and wraps the towel around his shoulders.
“You’re such an idiot,” Wilson whispers, his head bent forward so that they nearly touch. He rubs House’s arms with the towel and feels the small tremors as House’s body attempts to warm itself.
---
House lies in bed staring with half-lidded eyes at the ceiling. He’s wearing sweatpants and a soft, worn T-shirt. Wilson’s covered him with a layer of blankets. Pretty soon he’s going to start sweating. He doesn’t move, though.
Wilson’s somewhere in another room. Knowing him, probably the kitchen with a broom, dustpan, and a bucket. The guy’s too sympathetic for his own good. House sighs and wriggles a bit until the blankets slip a little from his shoulders. He turns his head to look at the clock. It’s almost two in the morning. It’s already Monday and they’re both supposed to be at the hospital in eight hours. (Okay, Wilson will be in at eight.)
He closes his eyes and turns his face toward the ceiling again. Wilson shouldn’t be here, picking up his shit. House is usually more than happy to let his friend have at it. When Wilson picks up after the things he admits to doing wrong, it’s discomforting. House tightens his fists, wishing he had the energy to get up and chase Wilson off. Like this he’s... vulnerable. He hates it.
---
Wilson enters the bedroom barefoot. He’s stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. The kitchen is straightened, the broken porcelain and glasses sitting in a bucket to take out to the trash. He’s turned off the TV and picked up the shredded paper. On his way to the bedroom he turned off all the lights.
Even in the dark he can make his way without hesitating to the bed. He knows what side of the bed House eventually settles on, so he crawls under the blankets on the other side.
House snores faintly and when Wilson leans over he catches a whiff of the man’s breath; when he wakes up, he’ll need to brush his teeth and rinse with mouthwash more than once. Wilson lies back, eyes open and still very much awake.
After a few minutes he puts his hand over House’s. He turns onto his side facing the other man in the dark. As he listens to House breathe he remembers Cuddy’s call. She’d sounded more surprised than worried about House’s current moodiness in reaction to the latest patient case. Wilson clenches his teeth in frustration. Yes, House is a real bastard and a hell of guy to figure out. He also has feelings, recognizable emotions, no matter how much he denies it. Wilson wishes someone else could see that and truly understand it.
A dead girl, little Marie, is hard for anyone to handle. Especially for parents and the doctors who aren’t able to save her when they finally realize what to do.
Wilson moves closer and tucks his head under House’s chin. Soon enough things will return to normal. House will be throwing out sarcastic criticisms at his ducklings, mocking patients, belaboring patient’s families, and getting deeply engrossed with other medical mysteries. But for now, and sometime again in the future, Wilson has an opportunity to slip through the crack and touch the man inside the solid shield of sarcasm.
--- ---
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.
~ This Woman’s Work ~ Kate Bush
(this is a beautiful song, available on iTunes, too.)