Aftershocks 21.1: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
TITLE: Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces
SUMMARY: When the bough breaks ...
CHARACTERS: Wilson
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
SPOILERS: No.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
In the past two weeks, Wilson has slept more than he's ever slept in his life. He thinks he hasn't slept this much since he was a baby. It's the kind of sleep he yearned for when he was a student, an intern, a resident. The kind of sleep he would have killed for, if he could've figured out who to kill-sometimes it was a complete toss-up between his fellow students, the professors, the doctors who had driven him unmercifully to perform. He'd even wished he could've killed some of the more difficult patients sometimes. Instead all he'd been able to catch was fifteen minutes here, a half-hour there-never enough to feel completely rested and alert.
Now he sleeps a steady eight hours through the night, and often another six into the diurnal rhythm of the day. He hates to think what his circadian cycle will look like after this-he'll be like one of those blind cave crickets, living a static life in twenty-five-hour intervals.
You'd think he'd be rested with all this sleep, but Wilson knows better. Almost every night he dreams, and sometimes now (finally) they're good dreams, and sometimes (less often, thank God) they're bad dreams, but he's always dreaming, and he can't seem to stop.
It's probably one of the drugs he's on that's causing it, but he's always too tired to check and so he forgets until that night, and then he's dreaming again, and there's no relief in any of it.
He dreams of all kinds of shit now; it's like his mind is trying to disgorge everything he's ever done in a brain dump that takes place every night.
He dreams of being a kid and playing with his brothers, except they're always in California or on the moon, and he doesn't know which is weirder. He dreams of winning his first Little League trophy, only he's playing with a hockey stick instead of a bat and the trophy is a sand castle. He dreams of the first girl he ever kissed, and the only boy (almost as long ago), and then they merge into one and their mouths lengthen and transform, and he's kissing a wolf.
He dreams of being alone in House's apartment, and no one ever comes. He dreams of the long black limousine, and being pulled into it. They drive and drive and never stop.
Sometimes it's his brother being pulled into the car instead of him.
"Jamie," his brother says. "Help me."
But he never can.
SUMMARY: When the bough breaks ...
CHARACTERS: Wilson
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
SPOILERS: No.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
In the past two weeks, Wilson has slept more than he's ever slept in his life. He thinks he hasn't slept this much since he was a baby. It's the kind of sleep he yearned for when he was a student, an intern, a resident. The kind of sleep he would have killed for, if he could've figured out who to kill-sometimes it was a complete toss-up between his fellow students, the professors, the doctors who had driven him unmercifully to perform. He'd even wished he could've killed some of the more difficult patients sometimes. Instead all he'd been able to catch was fifteen minutes here, a half-hour there-never enough to feel completely rested and alert.
Now he sleeps a steady eight hours through the night, and often another six into the diurnal rhythm of the day. He hates to think what his circadian cycle will look like after this-he'll be like one of those blind cave crickets, living a static life in twenty-five-hour intervals.
You'd think he'd be rested with all this sleep, but Wilson knows better. Almost every night he dreams, and sometimes now (finally) they're good dreams, and sometimes (less often, thank God) they're bad dreams, but he's always dreaming, and he can't seem to stop.
It's probably one of the drugs he's on that's causing it, but he's always too tired to check and so he forgets until that night, and then he's dreaming again, and there's no relief in any of it.
He dreams of all kinds of shit now; it's like his mind is trying to disgorge everything he's ever done in a brain dump that takes place every night.
He dreams of being a kid and playing with his brothers, except they're always in California or on the moon, and he doesn't know which is weirder. He dreams of winning his first Little League trophy, only he's playing with a hockey stick instead of a bat and the trophy is a sand castle. He dreams of the first girl he ever kissed, and the only boy (almost as long ago), and then they merge into one and their mouths lengthen and transform, and he's kissing a wolf.
He dreams of being alone in House's apartment, and no one ever comes. He dreams of the long black limousine, and being pulled into it. They drive and drive and never stop.
Sometimes it's his brother being pulled into the car instead of him.
"Jamie," his brother says. "Help me."
But he never can.