Angst time.
Title: When the Devil Beats His Wife
Author: magie_05
Word Count: 1,076
Characters: House and Wilson and this weird form of narration.
Rating/Warnings: Possibly disturbing themes. Spoilers for the end of S4.
Summary: Post-ep for 4x16: Wilson's Heart, which I never intended to write for. There's this old Southern saying, that when it rains in the sunshine, it means the devil's beating his wife. It always struck me, such an odd way to describe such an eerie event. I'm not really sure what I wrote, but it deals with confusion, indecision, and maybe a little bit of a bright side in the aftermath of the episode.
The sun is shining through the rain.
The horizon is washed in gold, even while heavy, cool drops fall stubbornly to dry earth. It’s an eerie, alien world. Nature, contradicting herself. Rain is supposed to be the absence of color. It’s supposed to be everything blurring together in a dull gray, shades of green and blues and browns drowned beneath cold, unforgiving drops. Yet overhead, through a part in black clouds, sunlight dances playfully. As if, somewhere, it’s warm.
Stranger things have happened.
Her casket was white, with gold detailing on the sides. Was white. Built to represent peace and purity; built to hold her remains. Gold and white, the color of her hair as it fell into her eyes, symbolic of some white, far-off place she never believed in, evocative of a certain dress she’ll never wear. Light, extinguished under freshly churned dirt. At least the weather is appropriate. A wet, runny mix of polar opposites.
He watches the white disintegrate under a black rain. At his side, his hands hang limply, the left dark and muddy, after he tossed in that first handful of dirt, the sounds of soil and finality thudding like rocks off gleaming white wood. He doesn’t feel the rain in his hair, the contradictory sun on the back of his neck. Dry eyes see both nothing and everything. Before the rain, strangers filed past him, dropping white roses into her grave, with their hands on his shoulder and life-affirming murmurs in his ear. He’s numb, but his muscles are tight with pain. All in all, it’s fitting. It makes sense, that nothing makes sense, that it’s raining in the sunshine as he watches them bury his girlfriend.
He shouldn’t be here. He’s not leaving, but he shouldn’t be here; never should have been here. Never should have let this happen. If she hadn’t loved him, she wouldn’t have died, if he’d never met her, if his life hadn’t been so hopelessly entangled with the name he’s too afraid to voice.
Too afraid to blame.
He remembers when she told him to take care of himself. To get what he wanted. Now he’s staring at fresh earth over her grave, watching as confused rain turns it to mud. Borrowed sunlight sparkles off a growing puddle at his feet. The sky can’t make a decision. He knows the feeling.
He doesn’t know what to expect, whether he should be preparing for a fight, whether or not he wants a fight. He doesn’t understand why the one person he can’t face is the only one he wants to see. He doesn’t even know if he cares.
He can’t feel the cold raindrops splattering onto his cheek as the Earth takes a moist, shuddering breath.
Over his shoulder, far across a field of yellow, dying grass, another figure stands. He could be part of the old, leafless tree he’s supporting his weight against, silent and unmoving, could have been here for years. Will be here for years, if that’s what it takes.
He watched her funeral from this spot. Or rather, he watched his friend watch her funeral. He’s not wearing a suit and he didn’t bring flowers and he’s not going to walk up to his friend and tell him it’ll be okay.
He just watches.
It’s been too long, and he’s aching, old and tired and lopsided, like the faded gravestones around him. In his pocket, his fingers are curled around a plastic cylinder, something he wants, something he needs, something he can’t disconnect from the quiet, pathetic scene in front of him. Can’t forget the way a different orange bottle looked in her hand, can’t forget it’s what led them here.
He pulls his hand away. It’s easier to be in pain.
He doesn’t want to be here. Never understood the point of having parades for corpses, wrapping them in thousand-dollar sheets as if the dead care about thread counts and comfort. He’s here for the same reason as his friend. He’s staring at something he’s lost.
Thunder claps, and he tries to tell himself that his being here isn’t useless; he’s not staring blankly at a lost cause like the black-clad crowd long since departed to their cars. She’s gone, and he’s sorry, god, he’s sorry. But dressing in black and buying flowers won’t change anything. He wishes to God he knew what would.
The rain picks up, but the sun is still out, orange light breaking through dull clouds. He’s got no clue why he presses the cane into damp ground, pushes off the tree, weaves his way through headstones. He’s not even sure where he’s going. He wants to go someplace where his head will stop pounding and his leg will stop throbbing and he won’t have to listen to the rain. He doesn’t want his friend to turn around, doesn’t want to see his face, doesn’t want to hear what he knows he deserves. He doesn’t want to have to say goodbye.
But he keeps walking, because he knows. She told him. This isn’t about what he wants.
Above a low hill, a rainbow is spread garishly against gray clouds. It’s a by-product, an accident, a simple physical consequence of rain in the sunshine. A colorful irony that neither man sees, as a cripple slowly rests his palm on the mourner’s shoulder.
Blue eyes turned away, because he’s afraid to see, afraid that the drops on his companion’s face aren’t just rain. Afraid because he’s here and it won’t do any good, afraid because he’s useless at this, angry that he’s powerless, unsettled by the cold skin he can feel against his fingers.
And under it all, he’s waiting for the end.
The man in black takes a deep breath. Drops of rain hang off the tips of brown hair, but he doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t react to the hand that moves to the back of his neck.
There’s nothing to say. Fault and blame and transgressions from both sides. But for now it seems irrelevant, as the downpour fades to sprinkles; it’s something else that lies interred between them.
He can’t forget, and he wouldn’t want to, but the hand that’s gentling turning him away is enough. This, being here, this touch is another answer his friend has risked everything to give him.
The rain has stopped by the time the two men make their way across flat, colorless ground. Perhaps when they return, the field will be in bloom.
Note:: So I'm trying to do different things; I took a suggestion from phinnia and wrote something with no dialogue. I feel like the way it's constructed, with no mention of their names and the whole weird third-person-omniscient thing I've got going on is really clumsy (like this sentence). Anyway. Just a shot at something new. Personally, I find this whole thing rather lame. Advice is amazing.
Author: magie_05
Word Count: 1,076
Characters: House and Wilson and this weird form of narration.
Rating/Warnings: Possibly disturbing themes. Spoilers for the end of S4.
Summary: Post-ep for 4x16: Wilson's Heart, which I never intended to write for. There's this old Southern saying, that when it rains in the sunshine, it means the devil's beating his wife. It always struck me, such an odd way to describe such an eerie event. I'm not really sure what I wrote, but it deals with confusion, indecision, and maybe a little bit of a bright side in the aftermath of the episode.
The sun is shining through the rain.
The horizon is washed in gold, even while heavy, cool drops fall stubbornly to dry earth. It’s an eerie, alien world. Nature, contradicting herself. Rain is supposed to be the absence of color. It’s supposed to be everything blurring together in a dull gray, shades of green and blues and browns drowned beneath cold, unforgiving drops. Yet overhead, through a part in black clouds, sunlight dances playfully. As if, somewhere, it’s warm.
Stranger things have happened.
Her casket was white, with gold detailing on the sides. Was white. Built to represent peace and purity; built to hold her remains. Gold and white, the color of her hair as it fell into her eyes, symbolic of some white, far-off place she never believed in, evocative of a certain dress she’ll never wear. Light, extinguished under freshly churned dirt. At least the weather is appropriate. A wet, runny mix of polar opposites.
He watches the white disintegrate under a black rain. At his side, his hands hang limply, the left dark and muddy, after he tossed in that first handful of dirt, the sounds of soil and finality thudding like rocks off gleaming white wood. He doesn’t feel the rain in his hair, the contradictory sun on the back of his neck. Dry eyes see both nothing and everything. Before the rain, strangers filed past him, dropping white roses into her grave, with their hands on his shoulder and life-affirming murmurs in his ear. He’s numb, but his muscles are tight with pain. All in all, it’s fitting. It makes sense, that nothing makes sense, that it’s raining in the sunshine as he watches them bury his girlfriend.
He shouldn’t be here. He’s not leaving, but he shouldn’t be here; never should have been here. Never should have let this happen. If she hadn’t loved him, she wouldn’t have died, if he’d never met her, if his life hadn’t been so hopelessly entangled with the name he’s too afraid to voice.
Too afraid to blame.
He remembers when she told him to take care of himself. To get what he wanted. Now he’s staring at fresh earth over her grave, watching as confused rain turns it to mud. Borrowed sunlight sparkles off a growing puddle at his feet. The sky can’t make a decision. He knows the feeling.
He doesn’t know what to expect, whether he should be preparing for a fight, whether or not he wants a fight. He doesn’t understand why the one person he can’t face is the only one he wants to see. He doesn’t even know if he cares.
He can’t feel the cold raindrops splattering onto his cheek as the Earth takes a moist, shuddering breath.
Over his shoulder, far across a field of yellow, dying grass, another figure stands. He could be part of the old, leafless tree he’s supporting his weight against, silent and unmoving, could have been here for years. Will be here for years, if that’s what it takes.
He watched her funeral from this spot. Or rather, he watched his friend watch her funeral. He’s not wearing a suit and he didn’t bring flowers and he’s not going to walk up to his friend and tell him it’ll be okay.
He just watches.
It’s been too long, and he’s aching, old and tired and lopsided, like the faded gravestones around him. In his pocket, his fingers are curled around a plastic cylinder, something he wants, something he needs, something he can’t disconnect from the quiet, pathetic scene in front of him. Can’t forget the way a different orange bottle looked in her hand, can’t forget it’s what led them here.
He pulls his hand away. It’s easier to be in pain.
He doesn’t want to be here. Never understood the point of having parades for corpses, wrapping them in thousand-dollar sheets as if the dead care about thread counts and comfort. He’s here for the same reason as his friend. He’s staring at something he’s lost.
Thunder claps, and he tries to tell himself that his being here isn’t useless; he’s not staring blankly at a lost cause like the black-clad crowd long since departed to their cars. She’s gone, and he’s sorry, god, he’s sorry. But dressing in black and buying flowers won’t change anything. He wishes to God he knew what would.
The rain picks up, but the sun is still out, orange light breaking through dull clouds. He’s got no clue why he presses the cane into damp ground, pushes off the tree, weaves his way through headstones. He’s not even sure where he’s going. He wants to go someplace where his head will stop pounding and his leg will stop throbbing and he won’t have to listen to the rain. He doesn’t want his friend to turn around, doesn’t want to see his face, doesn’t want to hear what he knows he deserves. He doesn’t want to have to say goodbye.
But he keeps walking, because he knows. She told him. This isn’t about what he wants.
Above a low hill, a rainbow is spread garishly against gray clouds. It’s a by-product, an accident, a simple physical consequence of rain in the sunshine. A colorful irony that neither man sees, as a cripple slowly rests his palm on the mourner’s shoulder.
Blue eyes turned away, because he’s afraid to see, afraid that the drops on his companion’s face aren’t just rain. Afraid because he’s here and it won’t do any good, afraid because he’s useless at this, angry that he’s powerless, unsettled by the cold skin he can feel against his fingers.
And under it all, he’s waiting for the end.
The man in black takes a deep breath. Drops of rain hang off the tips of brown hair, but he doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t react to the hand that moves to the back of his neck.
There’s nothing to say. Fault and blame and transgressions from both sides. But for now it seems irrelevant, as the downpour fades to sprinkles; it’s something else that lies interred between them.
He can’t forget, and he wouldn’t want to, but the hand that’s gentling turning him away is enough. This, being here, this touch is another answer his friend has risked everything to give him.
The rain has stopped by the time the two men make their way across flat, colorless ground. Perhaps when they return, the field will be in bloom.
Note:: So I'm trying to do different things; I took a suggestion from phinnia and wrote something with no dialogue. I feel like the way it's constructed, with no mention of their names and the whole weird third-person-omniscient thing I've got going on is really clumsy (like this sentence). Anyway. Just a shot at something new. Personally, I find this whole thing rather lame. Advice is amazing.