Nomad [fic]
Title: Nomad
Characters: Foreman, House, Chase & Wilson
Rating: G
Word Count: 400
Summary: I'm home again, but it's not the same.
A/N: This was my go at the Clinic's song title challenge (really late in the game I know). Not entirely happy with them, but here they are.
Foreman
Cabin Music [Due South]
Eric hasn’t felt at home in this house in years. It used to feel like clothes he’d out-grown; familiar, but too small now, too childish to fit him. It was hard to believe his family home existed in the world he walked in now. But then his Mom pulled him into a warm hug. He’d never out-grow her.
And he didn’t outgrow her - rather she grew old and became threadbare; no longer able to offer shelter and love. Even as he helped clear away the food from the wake and promised Dad to visit he knew he’d never come again.
House
While my guitar gently weeps [The Beatles]
It’s a bitter pill to swallow (ha ha) when House realises they’re not working anymore. They still take away his pain, but in smaller loads, moving more slowly. As if they too are aging, too old to do the work of three years ago.
He briefly tries to wrap himself in music to distract him, but his concentration is brittle nowadays.
He trundles on, popping a few extra to make sure the work gets done, and waits for his day off before bringing out the heavy duty stuff, the last resort hoarded away at the top of the bookcase.
Chase
I am Siam [The Grates]
You keep your eyes closed, blocking out the unholy trinity of faces you’re supposed to recognise and their litany of questions, trying to wring more satisfactory answers from you.
You know your name and D.O.B. because they’re on your bracelet, and about the accident because the doctor you saw on waking wouldn’t shut up about how lucky you’d been.
You don’t feel lucky. Not when all you can remember the other side of the crash - as you tell them, hoping in vain that they’ll leave you the hell alone - is staring at the page as Sonny Corleone got blown away.
Wilson
Angel [Sarah Mclachlan]
It’s Christmas Eve and Wilson’s sitting on the step. He comes here often, hoping somehow that David will be here, or else some clue or message from him. Telling Wilson he’s alright. Telling him where he can find him.
He watches the snow fall and thinks of Vicodin and Oxycodone and then of House lying on the floor, overdosed on a dead man’s pills and of his practice, car and accounts. He looks around and wonders which way David went - uninterested (not for the first time) in finding him, talking to him, but wondering if he too can just disappear.
Characters: Foreman, House, Chase & Wilson
Rating: G
Word Count: 400
Summary: I'm home again, but it's not the same.
A/N: This was my go at the Clinic's song title challenge (really late in the game I know). Not entirely happy with them, but here they are.
Foreman
Cabin Music [Due South]
Eric hasn’t felt at home in this house in years. It used to feel like clothes he’d out-grown; familiar, but too small now, too childish to fit him. It was hard to believe his family home existed in the world he walked in now. But then his Mom pulled him into a warm hug. He’d never out-grow her.
And he didn’t outgrow her - rather she grew old and became threadbare; no longer able to offer shelter and love. Even as he helped clear away the food from the wake and promised Dad to visit he knew he’d never come again.
House
While my guitar gently weeps [The Beatles]
It’s a bitter pill to swallow (ha ha) when House realises they’re not working anymore. They still take away his pain, but in smaller loads, moving more slowly. As if they too are aging, too old to do the work of three years ago.
He briefly tries to wrap himself in music to distract him, but his concentration is brittle nowadays.
He trundles on, popping a few extra to make sure the work gets done, and waits for his day off before bringing out the heavy duty stuff, the last resort hoarded away at the top of the bookcase.
Chase
I am Siam [The Grates]
You keep your eyes closed, blocking out the unholy trinity of faces you’re supposed to recognise and their litany of questions, trying to wring more satisfactory answers from you.
You know your name and D.O.B. because they’re on your bracelet, and about the accident because the doctor you saw on waking wouldn’t shut up about how lucky you’d been.
You don’t feel lucky. Not when all you can remember the other side of the crash - as you tell them, hoping in vain that they’ll leave you the hell alone - is staring at the page as Sonny Corleone got blown away.
Wilson
Angel [Sarah Mclachlan]
It’s Christmas Eve and Wilson’s sitting on the step. He comes here often, hoping somehow that David will be here, or else some clue or message from him. Telling Wilson he’s alright. Telling him where he can find him.
He watches the snow fall and thinks of Vicodin and Oxycodone and then of House lying on the floor, overdosed on a dead man’s pills and of his practice, car and accounts. He looks around and wonders which way David went - uninterested (not for the first time) in finding him, talking to him, but wondering if he too can just disappear.