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100songs and fanfic100: The Da
I've been feeling so uninspired lately. Any bit of writing is good, right? Even if it's just a fifteen-minute job? I seem to be on a dark!Wilson kick at the moment. I posted this twice before and then changed my mind, because I'm being all fickle about my writing.
Title: The Dark Side of Need
Pairing: James Wilson/Greg House
Rating: PG-13
Words: 890
Disclaimer: David Shore =/= meHouse, M.D.
Notes: Ehh, I signed up for these things, might as well actually contribute: for100songs, using the prompt 'private emotion'; for fanfic100, using the prompt 'orange'.
Wilson slid his hand underneath House’s head and lifted it from the pillow, angling the glass of orange juice towards his dry, chapped lips. He was standing by the bed, House lying on his back, doped up with morphine to try and kill the pain in his leg. Two months and counting since the infarction; the pain lingered like a ghost that couldn’t be exorcised.
“I don’t want a drink,” House said bitterly against the edge of the glass.
“You need a drink, I don’t care if you don’t want it,” Wilson murmured. He pressed the glass more insistently against House’s mouth.
House reacted by trying to turn his head away. “I don’t want a drink,” he said, louder, angrier. Wilson merely pressed his lips together and gripped the back of House’s head, forcing him to keep his head level. “I don’t want a fucking drink,” House repeated even louder still, the movement of his lips against the glass causing a few drops of the orange juice to slosh out and land on his chin and the sheets.
Wilson gave a look of frustration and gripped his head even harder, trying to force the juice against his mouth. He could feel himself starting to shake slightly, just take a sip, one god damned sip, Jesus Christ. One god damned fucking sip.
House wrestled against him, more orange juice spilling out. “Stop it,” House spat.
“No,” Wilson shot back, his tone suddenly as venomous as House’s was getting. He tried again, more juice sloshing out. God, the frustration of it all, the agonising frustration of it all. Seeing House like this all the time, seeing him suffer, House constantly rejecting his help. Rejecting his help like House was rejecting him.
“Stop it.” House gave a sharp jerk of his head as Wilson forced the glass harder against his lips, and the sudden movement caused most of the contents to pour forth. Wilson uttered a sound of anguish just as House abruptly snatched the glass and threw it from him.
Wilson watched the glass shatter against the wall opposite. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the glass tumbling through the air haphazardly and it was like watching House discarding his help, as though House was telling him he didn’t need him. Didn’t need him.
His fingers tightened against the back of House’s head when the sound of glass splintering pierced the air and Wilson felt something snap inside him. He was suddenly filled with an urge to hurt House, to hit him in frustration. He turned his eyes down to House and saw that House was looking back up at him with a look of pure hatred. Hatred for how much pain he was in, hatred for how incapacitated he was, hatred for himself. All’s it would take was one hard lob of his fist, one hard strike of his knuckles against House’s face. Punch that god damn hatred out of him, hurt him the way it hurt Wilson every single time House threw his help back in his face like he didn’t need him. God, he was so frustrated, so god damned frustrated. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
“I’m trying to help you,” Wilson said between gritted teeth.
“I don’t want your fucking help,” House hissed.
Wilson could feel his hand that had been holding the glass slowly balling into a fist. One strike was all it would take. One hard, painful strike. “If I don’t help you, who will?” He was surprised by how cool his voice was, given how much rage he could feel simmering beneath the surface.
House held his gaze evenly. “I don’t want anybody’s help. I don’t need you. Fuck off.”
Wilson peered down at him, the image of slamming his fist into House’s face flashing through his mind like snatches of light that was too bright to look at. Somehow, he loosened his hand from the back of House’s skull. Somehow he pulled back from him. Somehow. How he did without hitting him, he didn’t know.
“House--”
“Fuck off.”
He stared at House for a long, hard moment before he silently retreated from the room; his hand still balled into a fist and the shattered glass forgotten. The anger and frustration and worry simmered in him, simmered silently beneath the surface as he went about doing what needed doing as though nothing had happened, his anger showing only through the way he kept his jaw clenched.
It was still clenched and the anger was still simmering in him when he returned to the bedroom an hour later, dustpan and brush in his hand. He quietly cleared up the glass, plucking shards up from the carpet and just before he left the room, he heard House say in a weak, pain-filled voice, “Wilson… I need you.”
The anger instantly dissipated, like water flooding from a catchment. The anger suddenly didn’t matter; hearing House say that he needed him was what mattered. That was all that mattered.
After he’d discarded of the glass, he returned to the room and climbed onto the bed beside House. His hand was seized by House’s, which was sweaty and trembling slightly and when House drew Wilson’ arm around him like a security blanket, Wilson pressed his lips to House’s hair and whispered, “I know you need me.”
House squeezed his hand weakly in response.
Wilson smiled.
Title: The Dark Side of Need
Pairing: James Wilson/Greg House
Rating: PG-13
Words: 890
Disclaimer: David Shore =/= meHouse, M.D.
Notes: Ehh, I signed up for these things, might as well actually contribute: for
100songs, using the prompt 'private emotion'; for fanfic100, using the prompt 'orange'.+++
Wilson slid his hand underneath House’s head and lifted it from the pillow, angling the glass of orange juice towards his dry, chapped lips. He was standing by the bed, House lying on his back, doped up with morphine to try and kill the pain in his leg. Two months and counting since the infarction; the pain lingered like a ghost that couldn’t be exorcised.
“I don’t want a drink,” House said bitterly against the edge of the glass.
“You need a drink, I don’t care if you don’t want it,” Wilson murmured. He pressed the glass more insistently against House’s mouth.
House reacted by trying to turn his head away. “I don’t want a drink,” he said, louder, angrier. Wilson merely pressed his lips together and gripped the back of House’s head, forcing him to keep his head level. “I don’t want a fucking drink,” House repeated even louder still, the movement of his lips against the glass causing a few drops of the orange juice to slosh out and land on his chin and the sheets.
Wilson gave a look of frustration and gripped his head even harder, trying to force the juice against his mouth. He could feel himself starting to shake slightly, just take a sip, one god damned sip, Jesus Christ. One god damned fucking sip.
House wrestled against him, more orange juice spilling out. “Stop it,” House spat.
“No,” Wilson shot back, his tone suddenly as venomous as House’s was getting. He tried again, more juice sloshing out. God, the frustration of it all, the agonising frustration of it all. Seeing House like this all the time, seeing him suffer, House constantly rejecting his help. Rejecting his help like House was rejecting him.
“Stop it.” House gave a sharp jerk of his head as Wilson forced the glass harder against his lips, and the sudden movement caused most of the contents to pour forth. Wilson uttered a sound of anguish just as House abruptly snatched the glass and threw it from him.
Wilson watched the glass shatter against the wall opposite. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the glass tumbling through the air haphazardly and it was like watching House discarding his help, as though House was telling him he didn’t need him. Didn’t need him.
His fingers tightened against the back of House’s head when the sound of glass splintering pierced the air and Wilson felt something snap inside him. He was suddenly filled with an urge to hurt House, to hit him in frustration. He turned his eyes down to House and saw that House was looking back up at him with a look of pure hatred. Hatred for how much pain he was in, hatred for how incapacitated he was, hatred for himself. All’s it would take was one hard lob of his fist, one hard strike of his knuckles against House’s face. Punch that god damn hatred out of him, hurt him the way it hurt Wilson every single time House threw his help back in his face like he didn’t need him. God, he was so frustrated, so god damned frustrated. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
“I’m trying to help you,” Wilson said between gritted teeth.
“I don’t want your fucking help,” House hissed.
Wilson could feel his hand that had been holding the glass slowly balling into a fist. One strike was all it would take. One hard, painful strike. “If I don’t help you, who will?” He was surprised by how cool his voice was, given how much rage he could feel simmering beneath the surface.
House held his gaze evenly. “I don’t want anybody’s help. I don’t need you. Fuck off.”
Wilson peered down at him, the image of slamming his fist into House’s face flashing through his mind like snatches of light that was too bright to look at. Somehow, he loosened his hand from the back of House’s skull. Somehow he pulled back from him. Somehow. How he did without hitting him, he didn’t know.
“House--”
“Fuck off.”
He stared at House for a long, hard moment before he silently retreated from the room; his hand still balled into a fist and the shattered glass forgotten. The anger and frustration and worry simmered in him, simmered silently beneath the surface as he went about doing what needed doing as though nothing had happened, his anger showing only through the way he kept his jaw clenched.
It was still clenched and the anger was still simmering in him when he returned to the bedroom an hour later, dustpan and brush in his hand. He quietly cleared up the glass, plucking shards up from the carpet and just before he left the room, he heard House say in a weak, pain-filled voice, “Wilson… I need you.”
The anger instantly dissipated, like water flooding from a catchment. The anger suddenly didn’t matter; hearing House say that he needed him was what mattered. That was all that mattered.
After he’d discarded of the glass, he returned to the room and climbed onto the bed beside House. His hand was seized by House’s, which was sweaty and trembling slightly and when House drew Wilson’ arm around him like a security blanket, Wilson pressed his lips to House’s hair and whispered, “I know you need me.”
House squeezed his hand weakly in response.
Wilson smiled.
+++
no subject
The anger and frustration of House refusing the juice had me tensed up in my chair. I didn't even realize it until the end when I had to consciously relax. Whew.
no subject
And I aimed to demonstrate all that you've said above in the seemingly simple act of Wilson cleaning up the glass. Had it been about House's need, Wilson would've ignored the glass altogether and gone straight to him. But no -- he cleaned up the glass first, and then went to House. And then capped it off by saying that he knows House needs him. He's a highly pathologically selfish man. And he struggles with it, big time.
Thanks for reading. Glad you enjoyed it!
no subject
Ah, but you did, in the fic! Without actually saying any of it. Like you say in your second paragraph in your comment.
Pathological, now there's an adverb House likes to throw at his friend. Or was it just the once? Either way, it's totally appropriate, all the more so for Wilson seeming to be completely normal/high-functioning/healthy/well-adjusted etc. to most people. (Er, including a lot of House viewers, too, judging by some of the shocked reactions after "House vs. God"...)