Title: Leave Me To Lay
Mar. 13th, 2011 04:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmic_tuesdaysTitle: Leave Me To Lay
Author: Hannah Orlove
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Notes: Written fordeelaundry’s birthday. Follows Fight Down Height, Heart Thrown Open, and Coming In Fast, and is set after “Last Resort.” Thanks to nightdog_barks for beta-reading. Title comes from the R.E.M. song “I Don’t Sleep I Dream.”
In retrospect, it’d been a pretty bad idea to begin with, but what Wilson couldn’t wrap his head around was why the guy thought he could pull it off. A hospital was a damn stupid place to be waving a gun around, especially a hospital like this one. He was lucky Brenda hadn’t been there to set him on fire from across the lobby. He’d pulled the gun out and waved it over his head for maximum effect, and then, in rapid succession, gotten it distally yanked out of his hands by Driscoll, been tackled three times at once by Garrity, and would have stayed curled up in a corner until the police arrived if he’d been able to hear Cuddy properly.
Wilson had recognized the guy, enough to remember the EIS had called him a null set. A pediatrics patients had been the first to pick up on what the guy could do – she’d started crying, just from sitting next to him. They couldn’t figure out what he’d done to the kid, but when they did, the EIS started joking he did nothing, which Wilson guessed was the gold standard of government humor.
Right now, the would-be shooter was in a private room with Foreman and Rowell and two police officers standing guard outside, waiting for the Dexamethasone treatment to show some result. Cameron had relayed the news that House had walked in, looked at the guy for all of three seconds, and walked right out. He’d also refused to talk to him except over the phone.
And now, of course, House was nowhere to be found. Not that he’d be around anyway with all the news crews – not that anyone could blame him, but his team needed him and he wasn’t picking up his cell.
Wilson spotted him outside, in the park by the water; as soon as a jogger or walker got at all close, they’d shift their course and curve around. He could feel House’s sulk grinding at the base of his brain, House’s new way of keeping other people away by letting them know exactly how he was feeling. It was more effective than his reputation, as long as they weren’t willing to keep on pressing through it to get to its source.
He set himself down on the table next to House, who took another drag on what was the latest of several cigarettes; Wilson pulled himself up and set himself back down, upwind this time. House shook his head and flicked some ash away. “Look, you know I wouldn’t do well back there right now, so just float on back and keep everyone entertained until they leave.”
Wilson knew there weren’t any cigarettes in their apartment; he must’ve filched it from someone at work. It was impossible to keep anything out of his hands anymore; he got into everything. “So who’s going to be missing those?” House wasn’t complaining about him speaking out loud, which told him even more than the butts around his shoes.
“One of the EMTs. Anyone who uses their mother’s birthday for their locker combination is asking for trouble.” The grind was dropping away, slowly, but Wilson didn’t know if it was for everyone or just him. House took another drag and blew the smoke out slowly. “And if you want me to stop, all you need to do is ask.”
“House, would you please stop?”
“Eventually, when I’m done with these. There’s only a couple left.”
Wilson sighed and turned around so that he was facing away from House. He leaned against him as he stubbed the cigarette out and pulled out a new one, and looked up at the clouds drifting past, letting himself drift open to let House in. Ignoring the grinding was like ignoring a tension headache at the end of a long day.
“I couldn’t see him,” House said, halfway into another cigarette.
He turned back. House was rubbing his free hand against his forehead, looking down at the ground. “The shooter. I couldn’t see him, even when he was right there and talking to me.”
“What do you mean?”
House kept looking down; suddenly the grinding dropped away entirely, shifting from bad gear-work to sliding over polished marble so abruptly that Wilson shot up – there was absolutely nothing he could grab hold of, nothing with any texture or shape. “That’s what I mean. And when was the last time you touched ground?”
Wilson didn’t say anything; House knew he still had nightmares, even though it was clear nothing was going to go away.
“You want me to take you home?” he asked, setting himself back down. It was a cool fall day, one of the best for enjoying the feel of the sky.
“In a minute,” House said. “When I’m done with this.”
Author: Hannah Orlove
Fandom: House, MD
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for
deelaundry’s birthday. Follows Fight Down Height, Heart Thrown Open, and Coming In Fast, and is set after “Last Resort.” Thanks to nightdog_barks for beta-reading. Title comes from the R.E.M. song “I Don’t Sleep I Dream.”In retrospect, it’d been a pretty bad idea to begin with, but what Wilson couldn’t wrap his head around was why the guy thought he could pull it off. A hospital was a damn stupid place to be waving a gun around, especially a hospital like this one. He was lucky Brenda hadn’t been there to set him on fire from across the lobby. He’d pulled the gun out and waved it over his head for maximum effect, and then, in rapid succession, gotten it distally yanked out of his hands by Driscoll, been tackled three times at once by Garrity, and would have stayed curled up in a corner until the police arrived if he’d been able to hear Cuddy properly.
Wilson had recognized the guy, enough to remember the EIS had called him a null set. A pediatrics patients had been the first to pick up on what the guy could do – she’d started crying, just from sitting next to him. They couldn’t figure out what he’d done to the kid, but when they did, the EIS started joking he did nothing, which Wilson guessed was the gold standard of government humor.
Right now, the would-be shooter was in a private room with Foreman and Rowell and two police officers standing guard outside, waiting for the Dexamethasone treatment to show some result. Cameron had relayed the news that House had walked in, looked at the guy for all of three seconds, and walked right out. He’d also refused to talk to him except over the phone.
And now, of course, House was nowhere to be found. Not that he’d be around anyway with all the news crews – not that anyone could blame him, but his team needed him and he wasn’t picking up his cell.
Wilson spotted him outside, in the park by the water; as soon as a jogger or walker got at all close, they’d shift their course and curve around. He could feel House’s sulk grinding at the base of his brain, House’s new way of keeping other people away by letting them know exactly how he was feeling. It was more effective than his reputation, as long as they weren’t willing to keep on pressing through it to get to its source.
He set himself down on the table next to House, who took another drag on what was the latest of several cigarettes; Wilson pulled himself up and set himself back down, upwind this time. House shook his head and flicked some ash away. “Look, you know I wouldn’t do well back there right now, so just float on back and keep everyone entertained until they leave.”
Wilson knew there weren’t any cigarettes in their apartment; he must’ve filched it from someone at work. It was impossible to keep anything out of his hands anymore; he got into everything. “So who’s going to be missing those?” House wasn’t complaining about him speaking out loud, which told him even more than the butts around his shoes.
“One of the EMTs. Anyone who uses their mother’s birthday for their locker combination is asking for trouble.” The grind was dropping away, slowly, but Wilson didn’t know if it was for everyone or just him. House took another drag and blew the smoke out slowly. “And if you want me to stop, all you need to do is ask.”
“House, would you please stop?”
“Eventually, when I’m done with these. There’s only a couple left.”
Wilson sighed and turned around so that he was facing away from House. He leaned against him as he stubbed the cigarette out and pulled out a new one, and looked up at the clouds drifting past, letting himself drift open to let House in. Ignoring the grinding was like ignoring a tension headache at the end of a long day.
“I couldn’t see him,” House said, halfway into another cigarette.
He turned back. House was rubbing his free hand against his forehead, looking down at the ground. “The shooter. I couldn’t see him, even when he was right there and talking to me.”
“What do you mean?”
House kept looking down; suddenly the grinding dropped away entirely, shifting from bad gear-work to sliding over polished marble so abruptly that Wilson shot up – there was absolutely nothing he could grab hold of, nothing with any texture or shape. “That’s what I mean. And when was the last time you touched ground?”
Wilson didn’t say anything; House knew he still had nightmares, even though it was clear nothing was going to go away.
“You want me to take you home?” he asked, setting himself back down. It was a cool fall day, one of the best for enjoying the feel of the sky.
“In a minute,” House said. “When I’m done with this.”
