Title: Jimmy Wilson sat on a Wall
Author: metaallu
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Minor character death
Summary: House doesn't like to listen: Not to people, or facts, or common sense, or even to himself. He'll listen, sometimes, to the quiet buzz of the voices on television, or the wind in a storm. He'll also listen to Wilson, curled up on his side, dragging in shaking breaths. Originally written in
selfmadesuperhero's askbox.
Personal Disclaimer: The author of this fan fiction is unstable. Comments have enabled, but will be disabled at the author's discretion.
House doesn't like to listen: Not to people, or facts, or common sense, or even to himself. He'll listen, sometimes, to the quiet buzz of the voices on television, or the wind in a storm. He'll also listen to Wilson, curled up on his side, dragging in shaking breaths. 'James' is on his tongue, heavy and thick like syrup, sticking like molasses and caught in his throat like a lemon seed or a ventilator tube. He doesn't say it, lets it sit there, weighty and forgotten.
He has a list of chemicals related to grief, and the molecular makeup of tears. Words are something that he doesn't have any of, for once in his life. There is nothing cold or biting or blunt he can say. He opens his mouth, breathes in, breathes out, shuts it again. He has no words. He can't even lift a hand. He's just sitting there, silent in a cheap plastic chair, Wilson's back to him.
"Jimmy," he says instead, because it's light like a feather. Wilson makes a gurgling sound. House leans over and grabs a fresh tissue, then leans his arm over Wilson's shoulder until WIlson takes the tissue and blows his nose, loud and obnoxious. House holds back the urge to remind him that every time he sniffles he is swallowing his own mucus. "Wilson, you can't just... lie here weeping like some 14th century maiden."
"Shut up," Wilson gurgles. People die. Wilson's job is people dying; so is House's. This one had been a little girl with short blonde curls. Incurable, deep in her lungs. She had wanted to be a ballerina. It had gotten to her eyes, spreading through her and eating her from the inside out. She had been five years old and she'd never cried, even when she had gone blind. On her last day or life she'd sat in her hospital bed, rocking back and forth, singing: "Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream..." House knows because he'd sat at the end of her hospital bed and listened. Her voice was high and reedy, breathless. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a—"
"Dream," said House as her eyes slid shut one final time.
"Okay, yeah," House acknowledges now, handing Wilson another tissue. "It's sad, but people die, Jimmy. That's the way it goes. This is a waste of tissues, and also you are killing trees."
Wilson snuffles indignantly. "If it bugs you so much, then why don't you just leave?"
House raps his cane against the floor. "Can't do that," he says. "It'd be bad bedside manner."
Wilson cackles, choking on spit and mucus. He throws a used tissue at House's face, turning to face him, and the finally, finally, he smiles. His face is wet, and his eyes are red. He look sleep-deprived and his hair is a bedheaded mess.
"You look like you got hit by a truck," House tells him.
"At least I don't look that way every day," Wilson parries.
House picks up the used tissues one by one and tosses them into the trash. He gets Wilson a pair of pyjamas, and then he kicks off his shoes and settles on the bed.
"Jimmy Wilson sat on a wall," House says as Wilson lays his head in his lap. "Jimmy Wilson had a great fall." Wilson smirks, but he closes his eyes and lets House's fingers card through his hair. "And of all Cuddy's doctors, and all Cuddy's men, only Gregory House could put him back together again."
