In spite of being sick now, myself, I did promise...
Since apparently, I'm...*tries to think of a non-sexual metaphor and fails at first*...appreciated and have been asked to continue, have at it...
Disintegration
By Angelfirenze
Disclaimer: Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. The books/book quotes mentioned belong to the authors who wrote them. Oh, and there's more for my fellow X-Files fans. Don't look at me. The writers started it with "Cane and Able". *cackles*
Summary: "I wanted his help. He didn't think I was desperate enough. Am I desperate enough now?"
Rating: R for reasons that are possibly locked away in that other part of Zaphod Beeblebrox's brain (yes, I was reading The Restaurant at the End of the Universe last night. The first four chapters were as lovely as the preceding book).
Notes: I really appreciate the response this story has had so far and I'm glad everyone who's read it seems to be enjoying it. It gives me a happy.
And it came to me, then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time...as I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409...
Wilson crumpled the empty paper cup in his left hand and turned it over his right to watch the remaining drops of coffee pool in his palm. He felt his stomach churn, plainly protesting against the unwanted contents he'd just forced down, but he welcomed the pain. If this was even a tenth of what House had felt over the past year, then he wanted it.
He shuddered and bit his lip for the countless time that night, glancing up at the clock to check the time. Two forty-two, am, and counting. House had been in his room here for nearly a day and a half. He felt his stomach drop through some sort of portal when he realized that in all the time House had been here, no one had thought to call his parents.
Some friend you are, he berated himself silently for the millionth time. Some brother... Here, House was lingering--yet again--on the brink of death and no one had thought to notify his parents. What the hell has he been thinking for the last year, anyway? He had no excuses. His job, his divorces, Cuddy, and House seemed to be the only things approaching a constant in his life and he'd just about screwed them all into the ground.
Boy Wonder Oncologist, indeed. He shoved himself into a standing position, forcing himself to walk despite the exhaustion trying valiantly to pull him back down. If this was anything like House had endured...
"James!" Lisa's voice rang out and he turned to face her, but his lack of equilibrium got the best of him and he began to topple over. Lisa surged forward and gripped the lapels of his lab coat before shoving him against the wall behind them. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You're going to wind up right next to him if you don't get some sleep soon." Lisa's voice was stern but soft. Nothing like he deserved. His stomach burned and he welcomed it.
"Left him all alone," he mumbled, trying to force his eyes back open again. He could vaguely feel Lisa's hands around his shoulders, propelling him somewhere. Then, abruptly, in his opinion, he felt himself being pushed back down onto something soft.
"James," Lisa commanded, her voice clear and firm again. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you when they get here."
"You called them?" His own voice sounded far away, vacant. "House's...huh...parents?"
"Yes, now sleep. I called Chase. He's coming in to monitor House's stats until you're able to do it yourself."
"He doesn't...want my...help..." James forced his eyes open and they burned as Lisa's lamplight came into view. He sniffled and turned away so that Lisa couldn't see his face.
"Shouldn't."
"He's always wanted our help. We just didn't notice." Her voice sounded funny, then. Different. But he was too tired to investigate why.
"You called his parents?" He asked, again, just to be sure.
"I promise, James."
I promised him, too. James thought miserably and then the heaviness took him.
***
...Guessing that it's better that I can't keep myself together because all of this stress gave me something to write on...The pain gave me something I could set my sights on...
He awoke to the feeling of a warm hand on his cheek. He couldn't open his eyes but couldn't get up the effort to care. He was just so...tired. He always was, now. He thought he'd get used to it eventually, but it seemed his short-term memory had made a pact to fail him.
"Open your eyes, Greg, dear," her voice said and he felt his brow furrow.
What?
"Greg, honey, can you hear me?"
"Hai," he grunted and he heard a laugh.
"Greg, speak English, hon," the soft voice said again and he swallowed.
"Gnuh sss.."
"Gregory, wake up," another voice said and his heart hurt. Something started beeping and the soft voice changed.
"John, don't you dare come in here snapping at him, do you hear me? You heard as much as I did what Lisa said." The voice wavered then and he felt his hand being squeezed a little more.
"I'm not--" The harder voice cut itself off and he felt himself sinking again. He frowned and opened his eyes. The room was blurry and indistinct.
"You need your glasses, sweetie," the soft voice said and his head turned toward it. He felt the cold, thin metal of the frames sliding over his face and blinked. Everything came into focus again. His parents were here. Here was the hospital.
"S-s..." he tried to speak, but his mother pressed a finger over his mouth. She looked at his father and the grey-haired Marine stared at him a second before going to the table across the room and filling a cup with water and a straw. His father handed it to his mother, who positioned the straw in his mouth. The water hit his mouth and he spat it back out, shivering violently and coughing. "Ahhh," he moaned, tears coming back to his eyes again. God, he was so tired of crying, but it was so cold.
"It's too cold, John," Mom was saying, wiping his face with another washcloth like Lisa had done when he'd thrown up. "He hates cold, you know that."
He damned well should, he thought then and all the strength went out of him again. He began to slide forward but Mom caught him, pushing him gently back to the pillow.
"Tell Cuddy to stop pretending to be you," he whispered, glad the torment could at least serve a purpose. "It's freaking me out."
"What?" his mother asked, a little smile on her face and he wanted to shake his head but he was getting dizzy again. "Mom...Mom...tired..."
"I know, baby," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry," he said as loudly as he could, hating the way his eyes were burning again. "Didn't believe..."
She squeezed his hand again and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. "They thought I was lying. Maybe you did, too."
"Greg, no," Mom said, her voice firm and he opened his eyes again. She was blurry and he blinked. Still crying, God damn it. "You wouldn't lie about this. This isn't your fault. It never could be."
"Make him stay out," he muttered, his eyes closing again and he tried to force them back open. His mother moved her hand further up his arm and gave his bicep a little squeeze.
"Greg, if you want to sleep, dear, it's fine. You need to sleep. You're exhausted." Mom sighed. "Make who stay out?"
Both of them, he wanted to say, but that would mean admitting the bastard was even here, so he amended his statement. "Wilson."
It was a minute before Mom answered and when she did, she was crying. "He's so sorry."
"Not sorry enough to listen."
"Does that include Lisa, too?"
"She's sorry," he said, and Mom wiped his face with the washcloth again.
"You think James isn't?"
It was back, then, the anger and the pain. "'I didn't want your wings to melt.' Bullshit. What wings? No wings at all. But lying's supposed to make things better." He felt himself sinking further and used what little momentum he had to curl into something resembling a ball. "I wanted his help. He didn't think I was desperate enough. Am I desperate enough now?"
He was shuddering again and everything was cold. He could feel his mother's arms squeezing him. Could feel his father's eyes on him.
"And you..."
"Me?" Dad was asking and he shivered some more.
"I'm the...one with the...'blem. Never tying...try...hard...'nough." He couldn't think anymore. "Tied...try...always...burden. Going 'way now. You'll happy, soon."
"What?!" Dad was saying something, coming closer. "No, Gregory, that's not--you think I don't love you? You think I want you to die?"
"Love...so much...you--" he took a deep breath and forced his eyes back open. "They hurt you and you couldn't return the favor. I'm not Prince Hamlet. I'm not Jesus Christ. Dad. I'm not even Ralph Nader. I am Gregory John
(for I am John, named after a toilet for reasons I do not know) Christopher House. Too bad. So sad. I'm going to die for no good reason and there's nothing anybody can do about it, so it's a good thing no one ever tried."
Then he goes back to sleep and doesn't know anything after that.
...I remember what was taught to me...Remember condescending thoughts of who I ought to be...Remember listening to all of that and this again...
...TBC...
part one
x-posted to house_cuddy, housefic, and my journal
Disintegration
By Angelfirenze
Disclaimer: Shore, Jacobs, Singer, et al., own everything. The lyrics belong to various bands. The books/book quotes mentioned belong to the authors who wrote them. Oh, and there's more for my fellow X-Files fans. Don't look at me. The writers started it with "Cane and Able". *cackles*
Summary: "I wanted his help. He didn't think I was desperate enough. Am I desperate enough now?"
Rating: R for reasons that are possibly locked away in that other part of Zaphod Beeblebrox's brain (yes, I was reading The Restaurant at the End of the Universe last night. The first four chapters were as lovely as the preceding book).
Notes: I really appreciate the response this story has had so far and I'm glad everyone who's read it seems to be enjoying it. It gives me a happy.
And it came to me, then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time...as I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409...
Wilson crumpled the empty paper cup in his left hand and turned it over his right to watch the remaining drops of coffee pool in his palm. He felt his stomach churn, plainly protesting against the unwanted contents he'd just forced down, but he welcomed the pain. If this was even a tenth of what House had felt over the past year, then he wanted it.
He shuddered and bit his lip for the countless time that night, glancing up at the clock to check the time. Two forty-two, am, and counting. House had been in his room here for nearly a day and a half. He felt his stomach drop through some sort of portal when he realized that in all the time House had been here, no one had thought to call his parents.
Some friend you are, he berated himself silently for the millionth time. Some brother... Here, House was lingering--yet again--on the brink of death and no one had thought to notify his parents. What the hell has he been thinking for the last year, anyway? He had no excuses. His job, his divorces, Cuddy, and House seemed to be the only things approaching a constant in his life and he'd just about screwed them all into the ground.
Boy Wonder Oncologist, indeed. He shoved himself into a standing position, forcing himself to walk despite the exhaustion trying valiantly to pull him back down. If this was anything like House had endured...
"James!" Lisa's voice rang out and he turned to face her, but his lack of equilibrium got the best of him and he began to topple over. Lisa surged forward and gripped the lapels of his lab coat before shoving him against the wall behind them. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You're going to wind up right next to him if you don't get some sleep soon." Lisa's voice was stern but soft. Nothing like he deserved. His stomach burned and he welcomed it.
"Left him all alone," he mumbled, trying to force his eyes back open again. He could vaguely feel Lisa's hands around his shoulders, propelling him somewhere. Then, abruptly, in his opinion, he felt himself being pushed back down onto something soft.
"James," Lisa commanded, her voice clear and firm again. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you when they get here."
"You called them?" His own voice sounded far away, vacant. "House's...huh...parents?"
"Yes, now sleep. I called Chase. He's coming in to monitor House's stats until you're able to do it yourself."
"He doesn't...want my...help..." James forced his eyes open and they burned as Lisa's lamplight came into view. He sniffled and turned away so that Lisa couldn't see his face.
"Shouldn't."
"He's always wanted our help. We just didn't notice." Her voice sounded funny, then. Different. But he was too tired to investigate why.
"You called his parents?" He asked, again, just to be sure.
"I promise, James."
I promised him, too. James thought miserably and then the heaviness took him.
***
...Guessing that it's better that I can't keep myself together because all of this stress gave me something to write on...The pain gave me something I could set my sights on...
He awoke to the feeling of a warm hand on his cheek. He couldn't open his eyes but couldn't get up the effort to care. He was just so...tired. He always was, now. He thought he'd get used to it eventually, but it seemed his short-term memory had made a pact to fail him.
"Open your eyes, Greg, dear," her voice said and he felt his brow furrow.
What?
"Greg, honey, can you hear me?"
"Hai," he grunted and he heard a laugh.
"Greg, speak English, hon," the soft voice said again and he swallowed.
"Gnuh sss.."
"Gregory, wake up," another voice said and his heart hurt. Something started beeping and the soft voice changed.
"John, don't you dare come in here snapping at him, do you hear me? You heard as much as I did what Lisa said." The voice wavered then and he felt his hand being squeezed a little more.
"I'm not--" The harder voice cut itself off and he felt himself sinking again. He frowned and opened his eyes. The room was blurry and indistinct.
"You need your glasses, sweetie," the soft voice said and his head turned toward it. He felt the cold, thin metal of the frames sliding over his face and blinked. Everything came into focus again. His parents were here. Here was the hospital.
"S-s..." he tried to speak, but his mother pressed a finger over his mouth. She looked at his father and the grey-haired Marine stared at him a second before going to the table across the room and filling a cup with water and a straw. His father handed it to his mother, who positioned the straw in his mouth. The water hit his mouth and he spat it back out, shivering violently and coughing. "Ahhh," he moaned, tears coming back to his eyes again. God, he was so tired of crying, but it was so cold.
"It's too cold, John," Mom was saying, wiping his face with another washcloth like Lisa had done when he'd thrown up. "He hates cold, you know that."
He damned well should, he thought then and all the strength went out of him again. He began to slide forward but Mom caught him, pushing him gently back to the pillow.
"Tell Cuddy to stop pretending to be you," he whispered, glad the torment could at least serve a purpose. "It's freaking me out."
"What?" his mother asked, a little smile on her face and he wanted to shake his head but he was getting dizzy again. "Mom...Mom...tired..."
"I know, baby," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry," he said as loudly as he could, hating the way his eyes were burning again. "Didn't believe..."
She squeezed his hand again and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. "They thought I was lying. Maybe you did, too."
"Greg, no," Mom said, her voice firm and he opened his eyes again. She was blurry and he blinked. Still crying, God damn it. "You wouldn't lie about this. This isn't your fault. It never could be."
"Make him stay out," he muttered, his eyes closing again and he tried to force them back open. His mother moved her hand further up his arm and gave his bicep a little squeeze.
"Greg, if you want to sleep, dear, it's fine. You need to sleep. You're exhausted." Mom sighed. "Make who stay out?"
Both of them, he wanted to say, but that would mean admitting the bastard was even here, so he amended his statement. "Wilson."
It was a minute before Mom answered and when she did, she was crying. "He's so sorry."
"Not sorry enough to listen."
"Does that include Lisa, too?"
"She's sorry," he said, and Mom wiped his face with the washcloth again.
"You think James isn't?"
It was back, then, the anger and the pain. "'I didn't want your wings to melt.' Bullshit. What wings? No wings at all. But lying's supposed to make things better." He felt himself sinking further and used what little momentum he had to curl into something resembling a ball. "I wanted his help. He didn't think I was desperate enough. Am I desperate enough now?"
He was shuddering again and everything was cold. He could feel his mother's arms squeezing him. Could feel his father's eyes on him.
"And you..."
"Me?" Dad was asking and he shivered some more.
"I'm the...one with the...'blem. Never tying...try...hard...'nough." He couldn't think anymore. "Tied...try...always...burden. Going 'way now. You'll happy, soon."
"What?!" Dad was saying something, coming closer. "No, Gregory, that's not--you think I don't love you? You think I want you to die?"
"Love...so much...you--" he took a deep breath and forced his eyes back open. "They hurt you and you couldn't return the favor. I'm not Prince Hamlet. I'm not Jesus Christ. Dad. I'm not even Ralph Nader. I am Gregory John
(for I am John, named after a toilet for reasons I do not know) Christopher House. Too bad. So sad. I'm going to die for no good reason and there's nothing anybody can do about it, so it's a good thing no one ever tried."
Then he goes back to sleep and doesn't know anything after that.
...I remember what was taught to me...Remember condescending thoughts of who I ought to be...Remember listening to all of that and this again...
...TBC...
part one
x-posted to house_cuddy, housefic, and my journal