storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2009-06-16 08:01 pm
storypaint) wrote2009-06-16 08:01 pm
Entry tags:
Ghosts of Past, Present, Future (House/Wilson)
Title: Ghosts of Past, Present, Future
Length: 933 words
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic: House, House/Wilson, House hallucinates girl!Wilson
Pairing: House/Wilson
Other: Spoilers for season finale of House.
Excerpt: When Wilson appears in the corner of his room, leaning on the wall, relaxed and smiling, House laughs. His voice echoes hollowly in the room, rolling around the medicinal quiet.
House doesn't sleep well in the hospital, and he's not surprised to awaken suddenly at this hour, feeling the pain rush through his leg. He grits his teeth and stares pointedly across the room at the television on the wall, which is off but at least something to focus on. The hospital is mostly quiet, the work-noises far off, and the moonlight paints dark shadows into the corners. The nurse hadn't drawn the curtain while he'd slept, for some reason. He appreciates the laziness.
When Wilson appears in the corner of his room, leaning on the wall, relaxed and smiling, House laughs. His voice echoes hollowly in the room, rolling around the medicinal quiet.
"Now that I've got three, do I get the lecture about letting my employees off for Christmas?"
He tosses his ball up and catches it once. The nurses can't figure out how he keeps getting new ones. When they catch him with a ball, they take it away, as if they expect him to swallow it and try to commit suicide or something. Just as dumb as the nurses at Princeton-Plainsboro, in House's opinion.
All it takes is bribing just one of them to bring it back when she makes her rounds. Everyone has a price. He doesn't mind paying a little towards her designer shoe budget if it means he has something to do during the day besides lie in this bed and try to decide what parts of the world are actually real.
Wilson can't be real. He's not the type of guy to break into psychiatric facilities in the unholy hours of the a.m. just to say hello. (If House had been doing it with him, maybe.)
"Marley," Wilson says, and his voice is oddly high. House cocks his head to one side, staring into the shadow of the room. The Wilson-hallucination steps forward a little bit into the moonlight, obligingly.
It's Wilson, no doubt about it. House recognizes the humor in the other's eyes, the youthful features, the thick, expressive eyebrows.
He does not, however, recognize the nice rack, which he is pretty sure that Wilson has never had. He is just as positive that Wilson has never had slender but still curvy hips, or a ponytail.
At least he is still wearing the labcoat.
"Marley?" House says, staring.
"I think I'd be Marley, come to warn you about your lack of moral fiber." She laughs, and it's the same way Wilson laughs, that stupid bright grin that makes her look twenty years younger than she is, the lowering of the head as if her giggle is a private joke.
"You're missing the chains," House says, instead of asking the stupid question. Female Wilson answers it anyway.
"It's easier for you to deal with me when I look like this," she says, running a hand through her bangs. She steps closer to the bed, her heels clicking on the floor. This is a pretty good hallucination to include the sound effects, House thinks. He is proud of his subconscious.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks her.
"You want Wilson, but your latent homosexual tendency makes you uncomfortable," she says matter-of-factly, climbing onto the bed, carefully not disturbing House's leg. Wilson's boobs are in House's face, suddenly, and he doesn't know what to do.
"And you don't think this does?" he asks his hallucination, as her hand slips up around his neck. Her fingers are cool and short and thick. They are Wilson's hands. He's seen them every day for years, drumming impatiently on a desk, steepled with concern, flickering with his gestures.
"Not as much," she sighs against his neck. House thinks that she's going to kiss him and he's not quite sure where his brain is going with this (an utter lie, he knows as soon as he tries to think that; he knows right where this is going and he doesn't want to deal with it, especially not here, maybe never).
She kisses his neck, but it's oddly chaste, and when she relaxes against him, it's more of a cuddle or a full-body hug. He can feel the press of her breasts against his chest, can smell something like Wilson's aftershave but a little more feminine, sweeter-scented.
"You know," House says after a long moment, not moving, trying not to breathe, trying to ignore the way her pelvis and legs are resting, pressed to his good side. "Hallucinations are not an acceptable way of coping."
"House," she says, and this time it is Wilson's voice, exactly, the exasperated tone he uses when House has committed a particularly offensive prank or just stolen his lunch one too many times in the same month.
House shuts his eyes. After a moment, his arm creeps up and pats her back (there, he feels her bra hooks, and this is still odd). He knows that Wilson is having trouble dealing with this-- not as much as he is, himself, of course-- but Wilson hates this hospital, hated bringing him here, and hates leaving him here every time. He tells House the hospital gossip, but he doesn't get all of it, and sometimes they watch the soaps, if he comes at the right time, but it burns him to leave, every time. House is waiting for the day the visits stop.
Female Wilson sobs against his collarbone, just once, and he pats her again.
"Ssh," he says uselessly.
"You should ask the therapist about this homosexual oppression," she says, her voice deep and teasing, before House drifts into sleep.
Length: 933 words
Prompt:
comment_fic: House, House/Wilson, House hallucinates girl!WilsonPairing: House/Wilson
Other: Spoilers for season finale of House.
Excerpt: When Wilson appears in the corner of his room, leaning on the wall, relaxed and smiling, House laughs. His voice echoes hollowly in the room, rolling around the medicinal quiet.
House doesn't sleep well in the hospital, and he's not surprised to awaken suddenly at this hour, feeling the pain rush through his leg. He grits his teeth and stares pointedly across the room at the television on the wall, which is off but at least something to focus on. The hospital is mostly quiet, the work-noises far off, and the moonlight paints dark shadows into the corners. The nurse hadn't drawn the curtain while he'd slept, for some reason. He appreciates the laziness.
When Wilson appears in the corner of his room, leaning on the wall, relaxed and smiling, House laughs. His voice echoes hollowly in the room, rolling around the medicinal quiet.
"Now that I've got three, do I get the lecture about letting my employees off for Christmas?"
He tosses his ball up and catches it once. The nurses can't figure out how he keeps getting new ones. When they catch him with a ball, they take it away, as if they expect him to swallow it and try to commit suicide or something. Just as dumb as the nurses at Princeton-Plainsboro, in House's opinion.
All it takes is bribing just one of them to bring it back when she makes her rounds. Everyone has a price. He doesn't mind paying a little towards her designer shoe budget if it means he has something to do during the day besides lie in this bed and try to decide what parts of the world are actually real.
Wilson can't be real. He's not the type of guy to break into psychiatric facilities in the unholy hours of the a.m. just to say hello. (If House had been doing it with him, maybe.)
"Marley," Wilson says, and his voice is oddly high. House cocks his head to one side, staring into the shadow of the room. The Wilson-hallucination steps forward a little bit into the moonlight, obligingly.
It's Wilson, no doubt about it. House recognizes the humor in the other's eyes, the youthful features, the thick, expressive eyebrows.
He does not, however, recognize the nice rack, which he is pretty sure that Wilson has never had. He is just as positive that Wilson has never had slender but still curvy hips, or a ponytail.
At least he is still wearing the labcoat.
"Marley?" House says, staring.
"I think I'd be Marley, come to warn you about your lack of moral fiber." She laughs, and it's the same way Wilson laughs, that stupid bright grin that makes her look twenty years younger than she is, the lowering of the head as if her giggle is a private joke.
"You're missing the chains," House says, instead of asking the stupid question. Female Wilson answers it anyway.
"It's easier for you to deal with me when I look like this," she says, running a hand through her bangs. She steps closer to the bed, her heels clicking on the floor. This is a pretty good hallucination to include the sound effects, House thinks. He is proud of his subconscious.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks her.
"You want Wilson, but your latent homosexual tendency makes you uncomfortable," she says matter-of-factly, climbing onto the bed, carefully not disturbing House's leg. Wilson's boobs are in House's face, suddenly, and he doesn't know what to do.
"And you don't think this does?" he asks his hallucination, as her hand slips up around his neck. Her fingers are cool and short and thick. They are Wilson's hands. He's seen them every day for years, drumming impatiently on a desk, steepled with concern, flickering with his gestures.
"Not as much," she sighs against his neck. House thinks that she's going to kiss him and he's not quite sure where his brain is going with this (an utter lie, he knows as soon as he tries to think that; he knows right where this is going and he doesn't want to deal with it, especially not here, maybe never).
She kisses his neck, but it's oddly chaste, and when she relaxes against him, it's more of a cuddle or a full-body hug. He can feel the press of her breasts against his chest, can smell something like Wilson's aftershave but a little more feminine, sweeter-scented.
"You know," House says after a long moment, not moving, trying not to breathe, trying to ignore the way her pelvis and legs are resting, pressed to his good side. "Hallucinations are not an acceptable way of coping."
"House," she says, and this time it is Wilson's voice, exactly, the exasperated tone he uses when House has committed a particularly offensive prank or just stolen his lunch one too many times in the same month.
House shuts his eyes. After a moment, his arm creeps up and pats her back (there, he feels her bra hooks, and this is still odd). He knows that Wilson is having trouble dealing with this-- not as much as he is, himself, of course-- but Wilson hates this hospital, hated bringing him here, and hates leaving him here every time. He tells House the hospital gossip, but he doesn't get all of it, and sometimes they watch the soaps, if he comes at the right time, but it burns him to leave, every time. House is waiting for the day the visits stop.
Female Wilson sobs against his collarbone, just once, and he pats her again.
"Ssh," he says uselessly.
"You should ask the therapist about this homosexual oppression," she says, her voice deep and teasing, before House drifts into sleep.