Nothing
Title: Nothing
Author: goldfeathers_hq
Pairing: House/Wilson
Warning: Possible season 5 finale spoilers!
Summary: They think there's nothing there when they look at him... they are wrong.
A vibrant red stain moves across the room. House imagines it to be Cuddy... it could be Wilson if that wouldn't be painfully gay.
That would be... funny? It should be. That would be something for House to laugh about if this were any other orchestrated chain of days and not this... strangely chaotic void of frozen time.
House has been depleted of all things innate to him: He can't do the math, he can't mock anyone for their questionable attire and... he can't feel.
Nothing rivals the sheer terror that radiates off the unnatural sensation of absolutely nothing at all: He would be perfectly able to deal with this if there were anything to actually deal with, but nothing is... transparent, and slippery, and deceitful.
Not to mention House is tired... not to the point of sleeping yet, but certainly adrift.
Feels like drugs...
Feels like cotton candy.
Feels like teen spirit. And rusted spirit. And unnerved spirit.
He wants... white coats and monster trucks, and couches, and grindhouse movies and playful banter. He wants idiocy around him... something to yell overly loudly at. Or someone.
There are people in the other dimension. He can't hear them talk though.
For some reason he hears the narrator of animal planet talk about waterbears: they can survive idiotic temperatures and nuclear warfare and... maybe even nothing.
He can.
But it's not easy.
The more time he spends in the vacuum with his tamed waterbears and frantic penis fish that happen to wander in (from Travel & Living... someone left it on), the more of life actually penetrates:
One day, a day, House... hears something. It's different from the steady rush of national geographic waterfalls and mythbuster coke fountains or monk's nervous chattering:
A voice.
"Hey, House... it's me. Are you hungry?"
A name. He knows this! Of course he does. Okay... white coats, ties, people from accounting, need & neediness... Wil... Wilson?
Wilson?
"Wilson!" He almost shouts. He's just happy; happy to have something.
"House? Yes, yes it's me. Can... can you hear me?"
"Yes I can... I mean, you are really there, aren't you?" He cannot help but be suspicious.
After all: John House has been scolding him for his tardiness all week and he's dead and buried and eaten by worms and rotten to nothing but a skeleton. It shouldn't matter to his bones that he was late to the funeral. It sure as hell doesn't matter he gave that stupid eulogy as the dutiful son.
Amber is there too; she's abandoned the nice bus to come and talk to him. She only traded nothing for nothing with a view though...
"Yes... I am. Can you look at me?"
"'Well... where are you?" There's still nothing to see. The waterbears depart. He'll miss them, actually: if his place got nuked he could hide underneath them, and they were fun to watch too, out of necessity more than anything else, but still.
He's pretty screwed up.
Wilson probably knows this.
It's better than House's previous assumption that he has kicked the bucket though... or, well, it will be better if it doesn't last. Which it might.
"I'm right in front of you, House... What do you see?"
"My dad?"
"He's dead, House..."
"I know that. I didn't invite him."
"Anyone else?"
"You sound like... God, Wilson. Can you help me?"
"Ah, you flatter me! I'm trying, House, so who else?"
"Amber. And I know she's dead." House pauses, he grasps into thin air until his fingers latch on to a shirt. Wilson magically materialises when House comes across a patch of skin. "Hey, Wilson?"
"You see me now? What's up?" Wilson smiles. House has somehow missed that, that and the brown eyes he sports with verve.
"I'm nuts. I can't remember why."
He can however see just where he has been all this time: it's his bed. His own room. With Wilson in it.
And he hasn't been eating: they are IV feeding him.
He's further gone than he thought he would be.
Wilson grabs his shoulders and House recoils violently off his fingertips: what the hell is that?
"Did... did I hurt you?" Wilson looks slightly startled, waiting.
"What did you do? What is this? What happened?" House stares at his own apartment in confusion and bewilderment. He doesn't remember anything.
"House... calm down, I touched you. Do you remember the drug trial?"
House shakes his head. Not really. He hardly remembers half the stuff in his room.
"You... went to New York and entered a drug trial. We didn't know about it until you collapsed. You scared the fuck out of me, you idiot! Stupid quacks..."
"I saw Kutner kill himself... it's my fault." House bows his head and averts his eyes, leaving Wilson in panicked confusion.
"But... House... He was here just yesterday, if he really was dead you would've seen him." Everything makes little sense to House now... so this is Wilson's way of making little sense make sense. It actually works.
House laughs... he toys around with the bedclothes until his thigh hits the rail and then he stills, curls up, actually cries.
Where has the nothing gone? This is pain... it... hurts? He liked not knowing what hurt, liked unintentionally freaking Wilson out by burning himself through things he didn't perceive as hot even though he has no recollection of it at all.
Wilson rubs his back and smooths back his hair. His bite reflex is gone. "My... my leg hurts!"
"I know... I need to tell you something."
"What?"
"Remember the vicodin? The drugs? You've... detoxed off of them while you were under. We'll find you something else: This won't happen ever again, okay?"
"But... but it hurts!" The blue orbs that have been unfocussed and empty for so long search desperately for Wilson's brown counterparts.
This destructs a part of Wilson's heart, but constructs another. "I know... I know. It's okay though. What did you feel in there?"
"Nothing."
"And that wasn't boring?" Wilson asks, curious.
"It's all I ever wanted."
-The End-
Author: goldfeathers_hq
Pairing: House/Wilson
Warning: Possible season 5 finale spoilers!
Summary: They think there's nothing there when they look at him... they are wrong.
A vibrant red stain moves across the room. House imagines it to be Cuddy... it could be Wilson if that wouldn't be painfully gay.
That would be... funny? It should be. That would be something for House to laugh about if this were any other orchestrated chain of days and not this... strangely chaotic void of frozen time.
House has been depleted of all things innate to him: He can't do the math, he can't mock anyone for their questionable attire and... he can't feel.
Nothing rivals the sheer terror that radiates off the unnatural sensation of absolutely nothing at all: He would be perfectly able to deal with this if there were anything to actually deal with, but nothing is... transparent, and slippery, and deceitful.
Not to mention House is tired... not to the point of sleeping yet, but certainly adrift.
Feels like drugs...
Feels like cotton candy.
Feels like teen spirit. And rusted spirit. And unnerved spirit.
He wants... white coats and monster trucks, and couches, and grindhouse movies and playful banter. He wants idiocy around him... something to yell overly loudly at. Or someone.
There are people in the other dimension. He can't hear them talk though.
For some reason he hears the narrator of animal planet talk about waterbears: they can survive idiotic temperatures and nuclear warfare and... maybe even nothing.
He can.
But it's not easy.
The more time he spends in the vacuum with his tamed waterbears and frantic penis fish that happen to wander in (from Travel & Living... someone left it on), the more of life actually penetrates:
One day, a day, House... hears something. It's different from the steady rush of national geographic waterfalls and mythbuster coke fountains or monk's nervous chattering:
A voice.
"Hey, House... it's me. Are you hungry?"
A name. He knows this! Of course he does. Okay... white coats, ties, people from accounting, need & neediness... Wil... Wilson?
Wilson?
"Wilson!" He almost shouts. He's just happy; happy to have something.
"House? Yes, yes it's me. Can... can you hear me?"
"Yes I can... I mean, you are really there, aren't you?" He cannot help but be suspicious.
After all: John House has been scolding him for his tardiness all week and he's dead and buried and eaten by worms and rotten to nothing but a skeleton. It shouldn't matter to his bones that he was late to the funeral. It sure as hell doesn't matter he gave that stupid eulogy as the dutiful son.
Amber is there too; she's abandoned the nice bus to come and talk to him. She only traded nothing for nothing with a view though...
"Yes... I am. Can you look at me?"
"'Well... where are you?" There's still nothing to see. The waterbears depart. He'll miss them, actually: if his place got nuked he could hide underneath them, and they were fun to watch too, out of necessity more than anything else, but still.
He's pretty screwed up.
Wilson probably knows this.
It's better than House's previous assumption that he has kicked the bucket though... or, well, it will be better if it doesn't last. Which it might.
"I'm right in front of you, House... What do you see?"
"My dad?"
"He's dead, House..."
"I know that. I didn't invite him."
"Anyone else?"
"You sound like... God, Wilson. Can you help me?"
"Ah, you flatter me! I'm trying, House, so who else?"
"Amber. And I know she's dead." House pauses, he grasps into thin air until his fingers latch on to a shirt. Wilson magically materialises when House comes across a patch of skin. "Hey, Wilson?"
"You see me now? What's up?" Wilson smiles. House has somehow missed that, that and the brown eyes he sports with verve.
"I'm nuts. I can't remember why."
He can however see just where he has been all this time: it's his bed. His own room. With Wilson in it.
And he hasn't been eating: they are IV feeding him.
He's further gone than he thought he would be.
Wilson grabs his shoulders and House recoils violently off his fingertips: what the hell is that?
"Did... did I hurt you?" Wilson looks slightly startled, waiting.
"What did you do? What is this? What happened?" House stares at his own apartment in confusion and bewilderment. He doesn't remember anything.
"House... calm down, I touched you. Do you remember the drug trial?"
House shakes his head. Not really. He hardly remembers half the stuff in his room.
"You... went to New York and entered a drug trial. We didn't know about it until you collapsed. You scared the fuck out of me, you idiot! Stupid quacks..."
"I saw Kutner kill himself... it's my fault." House bows his head and averts his eyes, leaving Wilson in panicked confusion.
"But... House... He was here just yesterday, if he really was dead you would've seen him." Everything makes little sense to House now... so this is Wilson's way of making little sense make sense. It actually works.
House laughs... he toys around with the bedclothes until his thigh hits the rail and then he stills, curls up, actually cries.
Where has the nothing gone? This is pain... it... hurts? He liked not knowing what hurt, liked unintentionally freaking Wilson out by burning himself through things he didn't perceive as hot even though he has no recollection of it at all.
Wilson rubs his back and smooths back his hair. His bite reflex is gone. "My... my leg hurts!"
"I know... I need to tell you something."
"What?"
"Remember the vicodin? The drugs? You've... detoxed off of them while you were under. We'll find you something else: This won't happen ever again, okay?"
"But... but it hurts!" The blue orbs that have been unfocussed and empty for so long search desperately for Wilson's brown counterparts.
This destructs a part of Wilson's heart, but constructs another. "I know... I know. It's okay though. What did you feel in there?"
"Nothing."
"And that wasn't boring?" Wilson asks, curious.
"It's all I ever wanted."
-The End-