To Heal a Heart, a House fic
Title: To Heal a Heart
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Wilson (friendship or pre-slash)
Rating: G
Summary: House carried all of his pain on this hand. Wilson wondered if it could take his too.
Note:
Evil Plot Bunny: You have to write a Wilson’s Heart tag. It’s a fandom law.
Me: What?! I can’t do that. It’s all…angsty.
EPB: Resistance is futile. Write it or I’ll nibble on your toes until you do.
Me: ::dreamily:: Toe nibbling
EPB: Just for that, I’m gonna multiply and make you write two.
Me: No fair!
EPB: We’re bunnies, it’s what we do.
Me: Fine. Just bring back my fluffy bunnies when we’re done.
Here's the shorter one. I think I managed to circumvent the evil bunny with a hopeful ending.
To Heal a Heart
Wilson had no idea how he’d gotten here. His last clear memory was of lying in a too-empty bed, staring at the ceiling and keeping his mind carefully blank. He had no knowledge of the chain of events that had led him here, the Princeton-Plainsboro ICU, staring down at the pale, drawn face of his best friend.
Best friend. Everyone always wondered at that, and for the first time, Wilson wondered too. Could he keep doing this? Was the forgiveness inside him? House would probably think so. That used to be enough. Right at this moment, it was hard to imagine.
Some part of his mind was dimly aware that Cuddy was no longer dozing in the chair, but mostly he was acting on instinct. Wilson took House’s right hand in his own. He flipped it over to stare blankly at the palm, his mind stupidly focusing on palm reading and lifelines. House carried all of his pain on this hand. Wilson wondered if it could take his too.
Operating on autopilot, Wilson pulled the privacy curtain closed. He shoved the abandoned chair tightly against House’s bed and laced their fingers together. The weight of grief and exhaustion pulled his head toward the bed and he laid there - half on the chair, half on the bed - and let himself be pulled into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
When Cuddy returned with a fresh cup of coffee, she wasn’t surprised to find Wilson sleeping with his head perched on the bed level with House’s hip. It didn’t look comfortable, and Cuddy weighed the threat of a sore neck against the need for peaceful sleep. As she watched, House woke and the decision was taken away from her.
House blinked rapidly a few times, and Cuddy had the impression he was taking a moment to assess his condition. He tightened his right hand around Wilson’s before finding the courage to glance down at the man himself.
House slowly extracted his hand and cautiously began stroking his fingers through Wilson’s hair. The raw look in his eyes made Cuddy’s chest tighten painfully. She felt like an intruder but remained rooted to the spot.
“I’m sorry, Wilson. Don’t hate me. Forgive me just one more time,” House’s deep voice was so low, Cuddy could almost think she was hearing things. But she couldn’t ignore the pleading pain in his eyes.
Wilson stirred without waking. His hand came up to rest on House’s hip, offering comfort in sleep that he wasn’t ready to offer while awake. The diagnostician smiled, and Cuddy felt an echo of it on her own face. It would take some time, but she had a feeling that everything was going to be okay.
If you're interested, a list of all my (much fluffier) House fiction can be found here.
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Wilson (friendship or pre-slash)
Rating: G
Summary: House carried all of his pain on this hand. Wilson wondered if it could take his too.
Note:
Evil Plot Bunny: You have to write a Wilson’s Heart tag. It’s a fandom law.
Me: What?! I can’t do that. It’s all…angsty.
EPB: Resistance is futile. Write it or I’ll nibble on your toes until you do.
Me: ::dreamily:: Toe nibbling
EPB: Just for that, I’m gonna multiply and make you write two.
Me: No fair!
EPB: We’re bunnies, it’s what we do.
Me: Fine. Just bring back my fluffy bunnies when we’re done.
Here's the shorter one. I think I managed to circumvent the evil bunny with a hopeful ending.
To Heal a Heart
Wilson had no idea how he’d gotten here. His last clear memory was of lying in a too-empty bed, staring at the ceiling and keeping his mind carefully blank. He had no knowledge of the chain of events that had led him here, the Princeton-Plainsboro ICU, staring down at the pale, drawn face of his best friend.
Best friend. Everyone always wondered at that, and for the first time, Wilson wondered too. Could he keep doing this? Was the forgiveness inside him? House would probably think so. That used to be enough. Right at this moment, it was hard to imagine.
Some part of his mind was dimly aware that Cuddy was no longer dozing in the chair, but mostly he was acting on instinct. Wilson took House’s right hand in his own. He flipped it over to stare blankly at the palm, his mind stupidly focusing on palm reading and lifelines. House carried all of his pain on this hand. Wilson wondered if it could take his too.
Operating on autopilot, Wilson pulled the privacy curtain closed. He shoved the abandoned chair tightly against House’s bed and laced their fingers together. The weight of grief and exhaustion pulled his head toward the bed and he laid there - half on the chair, half on the bed - and let himself be pulled into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
When Cuddy returned with a fresh cup of coffee, she wasn’t surprised to find Wilson sleeping with his head perched on the bed level with House’s hip. It didn’t look comfortable, and Cuddy weighed the threat of a sore neck against the need for peaceful sleep. As she watched, House woke and the decision was taken away from her.
House blinked rapidly a few times, and Cuddy had the impression he was taking a moment to assess his condition. He tightened his right hand around Wilson’s before finding the courage to glance down at the man himself.
House slowly extracted his hand and cautiously began stroking his fingers through Wilson’s hair. The raw look in his eyes made Cuddy’s chest tighten painfully. She felt like an intruder but remained rooted to the spot.
“I’m sorry, Wilson. Don’t hate me. Forgive me just one more time,” House’s deep voice was so low, Cuddy could almost think she was hearing things. But she couldn’t ignore the pleading pain in his eyes.
Wilson stirred without waking. His hand came up to rest on House’s hip, offering comfort in sleep that he wasn’t ready to offer while awake. The diagnostician smiled, and Cuddy felt an echo of it on her own face. It would take some time, but she had a feeling that everything was going to be okay.
If you're interested, a list of all my (much fluffier) House fiction can be found here.