From the Ward Part 2
Jun. 11th, 2020 05:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alivehawk1701 posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
house_wilson_ghcFrom the Ward (Part 2 of 5)
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Wilson, House
Warnings: I'll say M further on
Summary: Written during Series 3 during House's time detoxing/admitting himself to hospital after Christmas Eve. He is struggling with his roomate and looking forward to a visit from Wilson . . .
It’s funny. Funny in the way that something completely and utterly void of all humor or semblance of an intention to amuse is funny. That’s why I’m laughing so much. And by laughing I mean forced into the grey and bitter hopeless silence of a man pushed to the edge then asked to start building a platform to be even more over the edge without actually falling.
The joke is cream-of-wheat. It’s all I can eat right now. So I’m sitting here, staring at it, on this lovely morning, trying to decide if the hard part is eating mush or eating mush that I’ll just be puking back up in another hour. The idea is to keep it down though, apparently. I glanced across the room, over the heads of some other happy breakfast-eaters, and saw one of the nurses somehow turn her eyes right toward me at that exact moment. She had an “eat your damn breakfast look on her face”.
Grudgingly, I brought my hands up from under the table and reached for the plastic spoon, hoisting it over the top of the plastic cream-of-wheat filled bowl. Steam rolled almost lazily off the glossy, sludgy surface as I spooned some out of the bowl, globes falling back into the bowl, onto the table, as my hand shook violently. I decided I’d be determined today. I clamped the spoon between my teeth and made all efforts not to gag. The heat almost felt good against my skin which I swear felt cold, like ice, though it was covered in a sheen of sweat.
The cream-of-wheat slid down my throat and my stomach almost immediately rejected it. I haven’t even wanted to think about eating. Once a favourite past time, now a mandatory obligation. When I do resume daily caloric intake, though, it sure as hell won’t be with cream-of-wheat. Pizza would be great. God, I can’t believe Wilson eats pineapple on pizza, it’s revolting.
I bent over the table top, squeezing my eyes shut from the swirl of nausea coming up my throat. It’s a sad day when a man realizes he can’t even eat mush. The spoon hit the side of the bowl and sank halfway into what was supposed to be breakfast as I fought my own body to swallow even the smallest bit of food or even be able to sit still without shaking the legs of my chair loose. Didn’t take long to realize I was gasping for breath, my chest unwilling to expand for my lungs that felt like they were being crushed even as my heart pounded a million miles a minute. I felt like my body was shutting down. Like someone had somehow gone through it and switched all the “on” switches “off”, crossed wires, and dumped the proverbial cup of coffee over my controls. I couldn’t even eat. Not that I exactly ate well before. Except with Wilson. Not even Stacy had been that good to me. But then again cooking didn’t really come naturally to her. Only things that did were being a lawyer and hating me.
“Greg,” I heard my name, “Feeling okay?”
I barely looked up, “Fine.”
Bill. Billiam? I wasn't sure. Another patient. Also my roommate. Also a meth addict.
“It’ll be alright,” he offered, the faint twang of his childhood in Georgia slurring the edge of his words, nonetheless like knives scraping against my skull, making me cringe, hiding my eyes behind my hand, “I was just like you, just as you are now, worse even, when I first got here,” he took a bite of toast, crunching satisfyingly, “Now I’m so close to discharge I can taste it.”
“Already booked your ticket to Mexico?” I asked, irritated, hand dropping from my eyes,
“Remember to send me a postcard—Mexico; where the good meth is.”
“I ain’t going to Mexico,” he said, suddenly solemn for some reason that might have something to do with the fact that he was lying, no longer smiling.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to sit?!” I demanded.
“Boy, you’re a ray of sunshine,” he scowled, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together absentmindedly in a way that meant he’d stop at nothing for a cigarette, “You don’t look too hot either.”
“Yeah well, nice teeth,” I shot back. A hand went to his mouth and he shut up. Finally. Meth had eaten away most of his teeth. Otherwise great kid, early thirties, relatively healthy besides the drug addiction and a haircut verging on a mullet. He was going to Mexico. It was his plan B, he knew it, I knew it.
“For that I’m gonna tell them what happened last night,” Bill said, sitting back, coffee cup up in his hand.
Patronizing bastard. So glad to have him for a roommate. It’s not like just a couple days ago he’d been dragged from his bed, sheets and all, screaming that he didn’t belong here, and definitely wasn’t hallucinating. His green, watery eyes blinked lazily at me, his mouth quirked in a small grin, “What exactly were you yelling for?” he sucked at his teeth, “Lucky none of the nurses heard you.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, I just wanna good night’s sleep, like everybody else—instead I got you screaming over some nightmare or other, waking me up damn near three in the morning.”
“You didn’t wake up,” I said, glaring, remembering he’d been more or less still snoring when I’d shot straight up in bed, tangled in sweaty sheets, clasping a hand over my mouth to stay quiet.
“Sure did,” he corrected, “Sounds like something you need to talk to Dr. Fox about.”
“It’s not.”
“Who the hell is Wilson?”
My throat tightened, “No one.”
“You were screaming his name.”
“Look, Billiam, unless you want to get puked on, I’d go sit somewhere else really fast.”
He scoffed, returning to his toast, “That shit doesn’t work on me, I ain’t scared of you.”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
“No, because I share a room with you,” he shook his head, speaking past the food in his mouth, “Because I heard this nightmare of yours—I’ve got front row seats to your soft underbelly, my friend.”
“I really am going to throw up.” My leg was red searing hot pain, magnified tenfold by the detoxing, making every moment miserable, I hadn’t eaten in several days, and I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks and due to whatever misfires are happening in my brain right now, whatever meds they have me on, I’m having very vivid dreams. Which means I don’t need this. I reached for my cane hooked on the tabletop.
“I suppose it was about him, then?” Bill inquired, making me look at him. He was playing a game. And I had both hands tied behind my back. I couldn’t exactly fight back and he knew it. God, I wanted to kill him. Do not go any further, I thought fiercely.
“This Wilson guy?”
“You’re not going to make it to craft time today if don’t shut up, Bill.”
“What?” he laughed, “Just chatting over breakfast—it’s easy, therapeutic, like, hey Greg, how’d you sleep last night?”
I pushed the bowl away from me, planted my cane on the floor and got up, leaning heavily on both my cane and the back of my chair.
“Hey just repaying all the kindness you’ve given me, pal,” he continued fiercely, standing up so fast his chair rocked back on his heels, getting in my face, “You’re a real fucking asshole, you know that? I’m just getting back at you, it’s only fair—and I ain’t no idiot. You’re mad because I heard you crying, too bad for you.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” I growled.
“Sure it was a nightmare, you were screaming like a wuss, but you think I’m deaf? Think I didn’t hear how it started? You were moaning that guy’s name, squirming around in your sheets long before you started shouting,” he met my eyes, squaring his shoulders, “Fucking faggot.”
His words came to a sputtering halt as my cane hit him square in the stomach, making him double over, clutching his gut. Next hit was to the back of his thick neck, making him crash to the floor, crying out in pain. Nurses were all over me in less than five seconds.
They forced me back to my room, two big nurses on either arm. Trust me, it doesn’t do any good to resist. When I got back to my room they let me go.
I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. Nothing even came up as one after another spasm racked my body, leaving me drained and shaking and empty lying on top of the toilet bowl. I moaned miserably, spit and blood dripping from my lower lip, my chest heaving as I breathed. One of the nurses was at the outer door. I don’t know how long I laid there. She stepped forward and I barely registered the motion.
“I—,” I gasped, taking several shuddering breaths, “Need my medication changed,” my eyes rolled up to look at her.
“You need to not get in fights during breakfast, that’s what you need,” she said, kneeling down, shaking her head. Her name was Maria. She had dark hair pulled tightly back into a puffy pony-tail. Huge arms. And a genuine enough attitude that I wasn’t completely put off by her.
“He started it,” I heard myself say, eyes falling shut again, vomit sour in my mouth. I bit at my lower lip and realized it was trembling.
“Right,” she said and I felt her hand hook under my upper-arm, “Let’s get you cleaned up, just in case there’s a second round.”
I almost jerked my arm away. Would have any other time. She all but lifted me off the floor, slowly, carefully. Guessing she had a lot of practice picking people up off bathroom floors. Probably part of the required skills for the job. Standing on one leg was fine until she tried maneuvering me toward the sink and I braced all my muscles, right foot barely touching the floor. She stopped pulling and I felt tremors race up and down my back, across my shoulders. Felt like I should melt into a pathetic puddle on the floor. But she didn’t let me stop. Didn’t say anything, just held me up as I took baby steps to the sink. I kept my head down, away from my reflection, breaths shallow and tight in my chest.
“What was it about?” she asked, turning on the water, “The fight.”
“I’m not talking to you,” I said, in case it wasn’t clear, “Not in therapy.”
She pushed my hands under the water and covered them with hers, rinsing away vomit and blood. I’d puked one too many times and my throat was starting not to appreciate it, must have torn some tissue. When she touched my hands they stopped shaking, held steady for the first time in days.
“Do I look like a doctor?” she responded in an amused, almost insulted voice, “I just wanted to know in case I have to separate you two.”
“Would you?”
“Can’t without valid reason,” she said, reaching for a towel, “Only so many beds.”
I nodded, knowing she was right but also knowing I had a legitimate reason to ask for him to be reassigned, if I wanted to tell her the truth, which I didn’t. I let my hands drip in the sink before taking the towel she offered me.
“Get your face, rinse your mouth,” she ordered, watching me, pausing before saying, “If there’s a problem with Bill I can mention it to the doctors.”
I shook my head, wiping the towel over my face, down my neck.
“Why’d you hit him then?”
Because he called me a faggot, I thought, eyes closing, mind scrambling over something sarcastic to say, throat so raw it was painful to speak, “Misplaced anger,” I said, reaching for the plastic cup, eyes fleeting to her dark ones for a moment, “I’ll miss him when he’s gone,” I filled the cup and took a drink, swirling it in my mouth before spitting it out.
Maria said nothing. Just nodded. She didn’t believe me. What are the chances I get the one smart nurse in the hospital? She took my arm again and helped me to my bed where I sat down. She leaned my cane up against the side. Stood. I looked up at her.
“Something you need?” I asked, annoyed, wanting to be alone.
“You’ve got a visitor penciled in for today. Well enough to see them?”
“Depends who them is,” I said, holding my head in my hands.
“Dr. Wilson called this morning to make sure it’d be okay,” she walked to the door,
“He’ll be here visiting hours,” she glanced back at me, for affirmation.
I paused, meeting her eyes hesitantly, then nodded. She left.
>>>>>
It was a nightmare. The dream. Anyway, you always end up remembering the nightmare part of dreams more than the good parts. The fact that I‘d been dreaming about Wilson isn’t my fault. You can’t control what you dream and you can’t control how quiet or how loud you are when you’re doing it. You’re asleep. It’s private. And yeh I’ve dreamt about him. It’s not wholly unreasonable. He’s my best sometimes worst friend all the time partner in sometimes crime. And it’s all perfect of course until suddenly you’re not dreaming about anything happy, you’re dreaming about something terrible. And bad things happen. Then you wake up.
Christ . . . why’d he have to hear that? Why had he been awake? All he does is sleep most of the time.
I sat on my bed and felt my stomach start to calm. Remnants of the dream swam through my head and I let them. Starts with Wilson. And I’m not mad at him. I don’t hate him in the dream. More importantly he doesn’t hate me. We’re happy. Together. I’m whole with him. It’s more than just sex. And then he’s torn away from me. I keep seeing him in the distance, in black and white, too far to reach and I run after him, run on two strong legs, as fast as I can, but can’t get to him.
This is maybe the fourth time I’ve dreamt about him in recent months? This is the first nightmare. Usually I’m alone at home, where I can wake up, sheets soaked with sweat, and jerk off and move on. Pretend it never happened. Not like here where it becomes a public spectacle. Nothing I can do to stop it, I try to ignore it. Only choice. Didn’t happen. Because it didn’t. Except those few times when it did. But that was a long time ago. We’re both different people now.
He’s coming during visiting hours. That’s two hours from now.
>>>>>>
It doesn’t matter if someone is your truly for-real best friend or your sometimes, it-really-depends best friend, no one likes to visit rehab. It’s really only fun for those within the program. The kind of exclusive totally cool club with fridges full of prune juice and restrictions on draw-string pants.
The ducklings had come to visit, I was seriously relieved because I was really worried I’d never see a white coat again. That, and there’s no better therapy than being visited, while detoxing, by your overly emotional moronic subordinates, which they did, and they are. Out of all three of them it didn’t occur to any of them that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to come see me here. They needed my help. And I couldn’t help them. Instead I got to suffer under Chase’s distraught gaze at seeing his hero fallen and disgraced, Foreman with a big enough I-told-you-so smirk written across his face that you could have sold half a million copies in virtually a second, and Cameron whose pity was palpable, gushing off her like melted ice-cream from a busted grocery bag in August.
We’d been dancing around the whole pet-the-poor-puppy thing since she walked in the door and I almost made it too, until the last minute, when she threw her thin arms around me, hanging onto me like she was the one that needed support. Chase might have been resisting a similar urge. Her sweet smelling hair filled my nostrils for a moment as Foreman’s dark eyes regarded me coldly from over her shoulder like it was my fault she’d ever cared about me, my fault she was so disappointed now, then she pulled back, squaring her small shoulders and I scowled at her. They’d have to figure the case out without me.
I first sat in the common room to wait to wait for Wilson. Triple paned glass windows reluctantly leaked in light from a long forgotten place called the “outside world”, even without the metallic finality of iron bars this place still managed to feel like a cage. Two people were doing puzzles, another was reading the paper. They knew all the pieces weren’t there. God only knows where they went. Some disgruntled patient liked the picture of the sunny beach of somewhere-in-the-Caribbean a bit too much and decided to eat a few of the choice pieces, who knows. Sad for the rest of us though, having to deal with the totally anticlimactic finish of squaring the last piece away and only seeing an incomplete beach of a place we’re a million miles away from. Feelings of accomplishment would really aid in recovery. Obviously it’s a conspiracy. Cleverly hidden too.
After an hour, I went back to my room, slowly—my leg screaming at every toe that hit the floor, making the barely one hundred feet to my room seem like an eternity. I was anxious to see him again. I missed him. I sat on my bed, surveying the gray walls, pale light, strong smell of industrial strength cleaners in constant combat with body odor and misery. Anywhere but here. But at least he could see I was trying. At least he could see me sober.
I bowed my head, hand clamped over my thigh. I wasn’t like I was happy on the drugs. I mean, I must have been happy at some point in my life, all the conditions were right. I’d had a girlfriend, a promising new career, ideal by most standards. But things hadn’t turned out like I thought they would. I’d tried to make all the right choices, thinking that the universe worked according to some sort of input, output system. It doesn’t. It’s impartial. In a matter of days it had chewed me up and spit me out, completely indifferent to the gold stars and supposed goal posts, leaving me broken.
Looking up suddenly I saw Wilson behind the glass doors, finally. At first I let my eyes lock onto his, an almost sigh of relief escaping my lips, then, modulating my own expectations, I looked back down to my slipper-ed feet.
Part of me didn’t want him to see me like this. The other part wanted it to be years ago when he didn’t know what he knew and everything felt easy. Too much had happened maybe. I’d been snarky, insensitive, increasingly cantacoris and reclusive and he’d stumbled through a few more marriages and adapted to my new quirks, no matter how much they hurt, but somehow we’d always found our way back to each other, pulled toward the same constant gravitational center. Which was a hopeful thought. But maybe I didn’t deserve forgiveness. Didn’t deserve comfort. I’d gone too far. Comfort wasn’t really something I accepted easily anyway. Briefly, didn’t want to remember, a long time ago, my mom stroking my hair after he’d re-looped his belt and left me on the floor.
When I saw a pair of laced brown Italian shoes planted on the grey carpet in front of me I looked up at him.
“House,” Wilson greeted before sitting slowly, carefully taking a seat on my bed, to my left, leaning his briefcase against the side of the bed. He cleared his throat, hesitancy laced in his voice like he was reading from a very blurry cue card, “How are you?”
I thought for a moment, swallowing warm spit down my raw, painful throat before saying in a slightly hoarse voice, “Hungry, actually—food sucks here.”
“Right now you probably can’t even stand the sight of food,” he replied correctly, “Which will make getting out even better,” a hand rubbed at the back of his neck, taking another nervous breath, “You can pick any place and we’ll go.”
My hand hadn’t moved from my thigh and my eyes hadn’t looked up from his shoes but after that moment, after hearing his voice for the first time in days I chanced looking up. He looked neat, hair combed, shaved, wearing a red and white striped tie, the one I’d given him for his birthday three years ago. Maybe someone else wouldn’t have noticed the dark circles under his eyes but I did.
I swallowed again, wincing at the coppery taste of blood still in my mouth, “Is that place on 46th still open?” I mused after a moment, drawing a thoughtful breath, “Forty dollars is a reasonable price for a steak.”
Wilson smiled. Silence. His eyes wandered back to me from where they’d glanced out at the common room, at the puzzle and the paper and their respective people and I returned the gaze for a moment before asking, “Why did you come?”
“What do you mean?”
“Not in the mood to play footsie under the table with the nurse du jour—or did Cuddy send you?”
“I wasn’t playing footsie with anyone and no, Cuddy didn’t send me,” he answered wearily, “I . . . wanted to see you.”
I said nothing, bowing my head. I’m a jerk. Always checking for ulterior motives. Parinoid fuck.
Obviously he didn’t have any cue cards. Neither of us knew what to say. There was silence until he spoke again.
“I heard about this place uptown,” he started, “Somewhere where they make alcoholic milk-shakes or something,” he said in a forced conversational tone,
“Apparently expensive, I don’t know, never been there.”
I hadn’t intended to join in on such a pointless conversation, a perfect example of the kind of casual conversation that was somehow a requirement for mingling with the festering masses of humanity, but as I liked hearing his voice and I heard myself say, “I’d rather just have a beer.”
Wilson seemed happy I’d said anything back at all and it might be he relaxed a fraction of an inch and it might be my heart obliged to beat at a somewhat more reasonable pace.
“It does sound a little gross . . . but it's chocolate, desert and a drink in one—I
thought you’d like that.”
“Are you sure . . . ” I said, licking dry lips, “ . . . it’s such a great idea to bring up not only food, which I can’t eat, but alcohol after the empty bottle of scotch and pills?”
Wilson’s mouth fell open, liquid brown eyes blinking in a shocked expression like someone who had just missed a collision in a busy intersection, “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, with a defeated sigh, “I’m an idiot.”
He sat and agonized and it turns out I couldn’t just watch like I was hoping I could. I pressed my lips together and gritted my teeth, “You really just wanted to come to see me?”
“Why else would I come?”
“Maybe Tritter sent you.”
This time it was a semi that almost hit him.
“House . . . ” he ran a hand over his forehead, through his hair.
I didn’t know what to believe. I wanted to trust him.
“Or maybe you just felt guilty and— ”
“I told him I wouldn’t testify against you, House!” he shouted, then worried he would disturb the ailing masses he quieted, “I’m not working for him and I’m not spying on you or whatever you think’s going on.”
“And I’m just supposed to believe you?”
“I’m not working with Tritter anymore—I tried to back out of the deal and he threatened to send me to jail!”
“Right.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I don’t know.”
“House . . . I know you don’t want to hear this—”
“Wilson—”
“But sometimes people can start experiencing a certain level of paranoia while detoxing, it’s normal—”
“You’re calling me paranoid when you and I both know that someone had to tell Tritter about the scripts, someone had to go behind my back and make a deal with the devil, someone had to tell the fucking doctors about Christmas Eve—”
“You tried to commit suicide!”
“They didn’t know that! They weren't supposed to know about it!”
“I had to. God, what do you think it was like for me? What if I’d come in there and you were already—”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“House, you just have to get through this—”
“For what? For us?”
He laughed bitterly, frustrated, “You know who called me yesterday? Your parents. You hadn’t answered your phone and they heard some message you left them and god, what would I have told them?”
Of course they called him. “What did you tell them?”
“What I had to,” he said, “I’m not going to lie to your parents. You’re mom was worried sick, you’re dad was—”
“Thrilled?”
“He was threatening to come up here—I had to tell them that you were getting help and you were going to be okay.”
I kicked myself for actually thinking I could keep this a secret. I tried to keep her out of all this, she didn’t deserve any of this, “My mom didn’t know, I didn’t want her to know, you didn’t have the right to tell her, or him, anything.”
“Take a minute, House, just a moment to think about how your actions affect the people around you, the people that love you. I can’t keep watching you spiral out of control, I can’t, I-I used to be enough, somehow, to stop you, but then--,” his voice cracked and he shifted his weight in restless anger, throwing his eyes across the room then down to the floor, hands clasped together between his knees, “You didn’t even leave a note,” his voice shook and ended abruptly, lifting one of his hands over his eyes, voice forced into tense evenness, “I told her you were sick—that’s it. She must have known it was more than that. I played dumb,” his eyes turned up to me after a second and though he blinked several times I could still see the sheen of barely hidden tears, the light from the common room’s windows shinning dully in his eyes, “You could have died, House—and you didn’t even leave a note.”
I met his eyes. And something cracked. My throat twisted and I was suddenly unable to breathe, body tense, feeling like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The hotness in my eyes became overwhelming and I felt like I was falling. I couldn't breathe. Panic. Oh god. No, no, no. I raised both my hands to my face, covering my eyes. I gasped desperately for air, eyes squeezed shut.
“House,” I heard my name.
Couldn’t respond. Fuck. I wanted to tell him to leave. Get out of here. Please Wilson.
I’m barely aware of him putting his hand on my shoulder, tears running silently down my face, shaking in a struggle to breathe. He’s moved closer, shushing soothingly under his breath, putting his arm around me, somehow I’ve leaned into him and can take a few breaths. Whether it was his or mine, someone’s heartbeat was incredibly loud in my ears, the feeling of his chest rising and falling, pulling me back.
“It’s okay, just breathe,” Wilson said and it might have been several times. His hand kept running over my back and I heard him sigh.
I didn’t want to move. His hand rose to smooth over my hair, fingers clumsy and sincere and perfect. I missed him. I missed him so much. My eyes opened slightly as I heard the humming of more meaningless platitudes resonating in his chest, barely making it past his lips. I felt a warm kiss near my temple, lingering tenderly. Then he held me tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry for making that deal, I’m—”
He stopped talking when I pulled back, our eyes level, noses nearly touching. I don’t want to hear him say he’s sorry. I don't know what I want to hear.
I locked my eyes with his, aware of the tears drying on my face. My eyelashes were heavy and wet when they lowered, looking down at his parted lips, sniffing my nose slightly. I leaned forward slowly, closing the distance between us, breathing steadily over his mouth. When he didn’t move, the rest of the distance between us fell away and I caught his lips in mine. He held the warm wet contact for one shuddering second then slowly, cautiously, returned the kiss. One of his hands slid up from my back to hold the back of my head as one of mine lifted to his jaw, pulling him closer. The warmth, the hurried breaths, the smack of our lips, lasted barely enough time for me to realize I was kissing Wilson and he was kissing back and we pulled apart.
Breathing heavily, foreheads together,, “House, I--” he breathed, warm over my mouth.
I closed my eyes, my hand tickling the soft hair at the base of his neck, not wanting to hear him say whatever he was going to say. Just kiss me again.
“What the fuck is this?!” came a roar from my doorway and Wilson snapped around, scooting away from me on the bed to reveal Bill standing right there. And the nurse. Maria.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson was stammering, standing up, reaching for his briefcase, “I was just—”
“Greg hits me with his cane and still gets visitors?” he demanded of the nurse who remained objectively silent. Why he didn’t mention seeing me, us, on the bed, I didn't know.
“His visitor was scheduled yesterday, Bill,” Maria answered him, arms crossed.
Wilson had sat up, grabbed his briefcase, holding it in front of him. He cleared his throat, “I, gotta get going anyhow,” I looked at him, eyes wide as he backed out the door, saying a quick “excuse me” to the nurse and then was gone. Fuck Wilson. Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck.
And I was left in pain. And with an erection. Almost pill time. Which would take care of the pain part of it. But the other part . . . harder to ignore. God, he smelled and tasted just like I remember.
Apparently it’s true—you always hurt the ones you love the most.
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Wilson, House
Warnings: I'll say M further on
Summary: Written during Series 3 during House's time detoxing/admitting himself to hospital after Christmas Eve. He is struggling with his roomate and looking forward to a visit from Wilson . . .
It’s funny. Funny in the way that something completely and utterly void of all humor or semblance of an intention to amuse is funny. That’s why I’m laughing so much. And by laughing I mean forced into the grey and bitter hopeless silence of a man pushed to the edge then asked to start building a platform to be even more over the edge without actually falling.
The joke is cream-of-wheat. It’s all I can eat right now. So I’m sitting here, staring at it, on this lovely morning, trying to decide if the hard part is eating mush or eating mush that I’ll just be puking back up in another hour. The idea is to keep it down though, apparently. I glanced across the room, over the heads of some other happy breakfast-eaters, and saw one of the nurses somehow turn her eyes right toward me at that exact moment. She had an “eat your damn breakfast look on her face”.
Grudgingly, I brought my hands up from under the table and reached for the plastic spoon, hoisting it over the top of the plastic cream-of-wheat filled bowl. Steam rolled almost lazily off the glossy, sludgy surface as I spooned some out of the bowl, globes falling back into the bowl, onto the table, as my hand shook violently. I decided I’d be determined today. I clamped the spoon between my teeth and made all efforts not to gag. The heat almost felt good against my skin which I swear felt cold, like ice, though it was covered in a sheen of sweat.
The cream-of-wheat slid down my throat and my stomach almost immediately rejected it. I haven’t even wanted to think about eating. Once a favourite past time, now a mandatory obligation. When I do resume daily caloric intake, though, it sure as hell won’t be with cream-of-wheat. Pizza would be great. God, I can’t believe Wilson eats pineapple on pizza, it’s revolting.
I bent over the table top, squeezing my eyes shut from the swirl of nausea coming up my throat. It’s a sad day when a man realizes he can’t even eat mush. The spoon hit the side of the bowl and sank halfway into what was supposed to be breakfast as I fought my own body to swallow even the smallest bit of food or even be able to sit still without shaking the legs of my chair loose. Didn’t take long to realize I was gasping for breath, my chest unwilling to expand for my lungs that felt like they were being crushed even as my heart pounded a million miles a minute. I felt like my body was shutting down. Like someone had somehow gone through it and switched all the “on” switches “off”, crossed wires, and dumped the proverbial cup of coffee over my controls. I couldn’t even eat. Not that I exactly ate well before. Except with Wilson. Not even Stacy had been that good to me. But then again cooking didn’t really come naturally to her. Only things that did were being a lawyer and hating me.
“Greg,” I heard my name, “Feeling okay?”
I barely looked up, “Fine.”
Bill. Billiam? I wasn't sure. Another patient. Also my roommate. Also a meth addict.
“It’ll be alright,” he offered, the faint twang of his childhood in Georgia slurring the edge of his words, nonetheless like knives scraping against my skull, making me cringe, hiding my eyes behind my hand, “I was just like you, just as you are now, worse even, when I first got here,” he took a bite of toast, crunching satisfyingly, “Now I’m so close to discharge I can taste it.”
“Already booked your ticket to Mexico?” I asked, irritated, hand dropping from my eyes,
“Remember to send me a postcard—Mexico; where the good meth is.”
“I ain’t going to Mexico,” he said, suddenly solemn for some reason that might have something to do with the fact that he was lying, no longer smiling.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to sit?!” I demanded.
“Boy, you’re a ray of sunshine,” he scowled, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together absentmindedly in a way that meant he’d stop at nothing for a cigarette, “You don’t look too hot either.”
“Yeah well, nice teeth,” I shot back. A hand went to his mouth and he shut up. Finally. Meth had eaten away most of his teeth. Otherwise great kid, early thirties, relatively healthy besides the drug addiction and a haircut verging on a mullet. He was going to Mexico. It was his plan B, he knew it, I knew it.
“For that I’m gonna tell them what happened last night,” Bill said, sitting back, coffee cup up in his hand.
Patronizing bastard. So glad to have him for a roommate. It’s not like just a couple days ago he’d been dragged from his bed, sheets and all, screaming that he didn’t belong here, and definitely wasn’t hallucinating. His green, watery eyes blinked lazily at me, his mouth quirked in a small grin, “What exactly were you yelling for?” he sucked at his teeth, “Lucky none of the nurses heard you.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, I just wanna good night’s sleep, like everybody else—instead I got you screaming over some nightmare or other, waking me up damn near three in the morning.”
“You didn’t wake up,” I said, glaring, remembering he’d been more or less still snoring when I’d shot straight up in bed, tangled in sweaty sheets, clasping a hand over my mouth to stay quiet.
“Sure did,” he corrected, “Sounds like something you need to talk to Dr. Fox about.”
“It’s not.”
“Who the hell is Wilson?”
My throat tightened, “No one.”
“You were screaming his name.”
“Look, Billiam, unless you want to get puked on, I’d go sit somewhere else really fast.”
He scoffed, returning to his toast, “That shit doesn’t work on me, I ain’t scared of you.”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
“No, because I share a room with you,” he shook his head, speaking past the food in his mouth, “Because I heard this nightmare of yours—I’ve got front row seats to your soft underbelly, my friend.”
“I really am going to throw up.” My leg was red searing hot pain, magnified tenfold by the detoxing, making every moment miserable, I hadn’t eaten in several days, and I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks and due to whatever misfires are happening in my brain right now, whatever meds they have me on, I’m having very vivid dreams. Which means I don’t need this. I reached for my cane hooked on the tabletop.
“I suppose it was about him, then?” Bill inquired, making me look at him. He was playing a game. And I had both hands tied behind my back. I couldn’t exactly fight back and he knew it. God, I wanted to kill him. Do not go any further, I thought fiercely.
“This Wilson guy?”
“You’re not going to make it to craft time today if don’t shut up, Bill.”
“What?” he laughed, “Just chatting over breakfast—it’s easy, therapeutic, like, hey Greg, how’d you sleep last night?”
I pushed the bowl away from me, planted my cane on the floor and got up, leaning heavily on both my cane and the back of my chair.
“Hey just repaying all the kindness you’ve given me, pal,” he continued fiercely, standing up so fast his chair rocked back on his heels, getting in my face, “You’re a real fucking asshole, you know that? I’m just getting back at you, it’s only fair—and I ain’t no idiot. You’re mad because I heard you crying, too bad for you.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” I growled.
“Sure it was a nightmare, you were screaming like a wuss, but you think I’m deaf? Think I didn’t hear how it started? You were moaning that guy’s name, squirming around in your sheets long before you started shouting,” he met my eyes, squaring his shoulders, “Fucking faggot.”
His words came to a sputtering halt as my cane hit him square in the stomach, making him double over, clutching his gut. Next hit was to the back of his thick neck, making him crash to the floor, crying out in pain. Nurses were all over me in less than five seconds.
They forced me back to my room, two big nurses on either arm. Trust me, it doesn’t do any good to resist. When I got back to my room they let me go.
I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. Nothing even came up as one after another spasm racked my body, leaving me drained and shaking and empty lying on top of the toilet bowl. I moaned miserably, spit and blood dripping from my lower lip, my chest heaving as I breathed. One of the nurses was at the outer door. I don’t know how long I laid there. She stepped forward and I barely registered the motion.
“I—,” I gasped, taking several shuddering breaths, “Need my medication changed,” my eyes rolled up to look at her.
“You need to not get in fights during breakfast, that’s what you need,” she said, kneeling down, shaking her head. Her name was Maria. She had dark hair pulled tightly back into a puffy pony-tail. Huge arms. And a genuine enough attitude that I wasn’t completely put off by her.
“He started it,” I heard myself say, eyes falling shut again, vomit sour in my mouth. I bit at my lower lip and realized it was trembling.
“Right,” she said and I felt her hand hook under my upper-arm, “Let’s get you cleaned up, just in case there’s a second round.”
I almost jerked my arm away. Would have any other time. She all but lifted me off the floor, slowly, carefully. Guessing she had a lot of practice picking people up off bathroom floors. Probably part of the required skills for the job. Standing on one leg was fine until she tried maneuvering me toward the sink and I braced all my muscles, right foot barely touching the floor. She stopped pulling and I felt tremors race up and down my back, across my shoulders. Felt like I should melt into a pathetic puddle on the floor. But she didn’t let me stop. Didn’t say anything, just held me up as I took baby steps to the sink. I kept my head down, away from my reflection, breaths shallow and tight in my chest.
“What was it about?” she asked, turning on the water, “The fight.”
“I’m not talking to you,” I said, in case it wasn’t clear, “Not in therapy.”
She pushed my hands under the water and covered them with hers, rinsing away vomit and blood. I’d puked one too many times and my throat was starting not to appreciate it, must have torn some tissue. When she touched my hands they stopped shaking, held steady for the first time in days.
“Do I look like a doctor?” she responded in an amused, almost insulted voice, “I just wanted to know in case I have to separate you two.”
“Would you?”
“Can’t without valid reason,” she said, reaching for a towel, “Only so many beds.”
I nodded, knowing she was right but also knowing I had a legitimate reason to ask for him to be reassigned, if I wanted to tell her the truth, which I didn’t. I let my hands drip in the sink before taking the towel she offered me.
“Get your face, rinse your mouth,” she ordered, watching me, pausing before saying, “If there’s a problem with Bill I can mention it to the doctors.”
I shook my head, wiping the towel over my face, down my neck.
“Why’d you hit him then?”
Because he called me a faggot, I thought, eyes closing, mind scrambling over something sarcastic to say, throat so raw it was painful to speak, “Misplaced anger,” I said, reaching for the plastic cup, eyes fleeting to her dark ones for a moment, “I’ll miss him when he’s gone,” I filled the cup and took a drink, swirling it in my mouth before spitting it out.
Maria said nothing. Just nodded. She didn’t believe me. What are the chances I get the one smart nurse in the hospital? She took my arm again and helped me to my bed where I sat down. She leaned my cane up against the side. Stood. I looked up at her.
“Something you need?” I asked, annoyed, wanting to be alone.
“You’ve got a visitor penciled in for today. Well enough to see them?”
“Depends who them is,” I said, holding my head in my hands.
“Dr. Wilson called this morning to make sure it’d be okay,” she walked to the door,
“He’ll be here visiting hours,” she glanced back at me, for affirmation.
I paused, meeting her eyes hesitantly, then nodded. She left.
>>>>>
It was a nightmare. The dream. Anyway, you always end up remembering the nightmare part of dreams more than the good parts. The fact that I‘d been dreaming about Wilson isn’t my fault. You can’t control what you dream and you can’t control how quiet or how loud you are when you’re doing it. You’re asleep. It’s private. And yeh I’ve dreamt about him. It’s not wholly unreasonable. He’s my best sometimes worst friend all the time partner in sometimes crime. And it’s all perfect of course until suddenly you’re not dreaming about anything happy, you’re dreaming about something terrible. And bad things happen. Then you wake up.
Christ . . . why’d he have to hear that? Why had he been awake? All he does is sleep most of the time.
I sat on my bed and felt my stomach start to calm. Remnants of the dream swam through my head and I let them. Starts with Wilson. And I’m not mad at him. I don’t hate him in the dream. More importantly he doesn’t hate me. We’re happy. Together. I’m whole with him. It’s more than just sex. And then he’s torn away from me. I keep seeing him in the distance, in black and white, too far to reach and I run after him, run on two strong legs, as fast as I can, but can’t get to him.
This is maybe the fourth time I’ve dreamt about him in recent months? This is the first nightmare. Usually I’m alone at home, where I can wake up, sheets soaked with sweat, and jerk off and move on. Pretend it never happened. Not like here where it becomes a public spectacle. Nothing I can do to stop it, I try to ignore it. Only choice. Didn’t happen. Because it didn’t. Except those few times when it did. But that was a long time ago. We’re both different people now.
He’s coming during visiting hours. That’s two hours from now.
>>>>>>
It doesn’t matter if someone is your truly for-real best friend or your sometimes, it-really-depends best friend, no one likes to visit rehab. It’s really only fun for those within the program. The kind of exclusive totally cool club with fridges full of prune juice and restrictions on draw-string pants.
The ducklings had come to visit, I was seriously relieved because I was really worried I’d never see a white coat again. That, and there’s no better therapy than being visited, while detoxing, by your overly emotional moronic subordinates, which they did, and they are. Out of all three of them it didn’t occur to any of them that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to come see me here. They needed my help. And I couldn’t help them. Instead I got to suffer under Chase’s distraught gaze at seeing his hero fallen and disgraced, Foreman with a big enough I-told-you-so smirk written across his face that you could have sold half a million copies in virtually a second, and Cameron whose pity was palpable, gushing off her like melted ice-cream from a busted grocery bag in August.
We’d been dancing around the whole pet-the-poor-puppy thing since she walked in the door and I almost made it too, until the last minute, when she threw her thin arms around me, hanging onto me like she was the one that needed support. Chase might have been resisting a similar urge. Her sweet smelling hair filled my nostrils for a moment as Foreman’s dark eyes regarded me coldly from over her shoulder like it was my fault she’d ever cared about me, my fault she was so disappointed now, then she pulled back, squaring her small shoulders and I scowled at her. They’d have to figure the case out without me.
I first sat in the common room to wait to wait for Wilson. Triple paned glass windows reluctantly leaked in light from a long forgotten place called the “outside world”, even without the metallic finality of iron bars this place still managed to feel like a cage. Two people were doing puzzles, another was reading the paper. They knew all the pieces weren’t there. God only knows where they went. Some disgruntled patient liked the picture of the sunny beach of somewhere-in-the-Caribbean a bit too much and decided to eat a few of the choice pieces, who knows. Sad for the rest of us though, having to deal with the totally anticlimactic finish of squaring the last piece away and only seeing an incomplete beach of a place we’re a million miles away from. Feelings of accomplishment would really aid in recovery. Obviously it’s a conspiracy. Cleverly hidden too.
After an hour, I went back to my room, slowly—my leg screaming at every toe that hit the floor, making the barely one hundred feet to my room seem like an eternity. I was anxious to see him again. I missed him. I sat on my bed, surveying the gray walls, pale light, strong smell of industrial strength cleaners in constant combat with body odor and misery. Anywhere but here. But at least he could see I was trying. At least he could see me sober.
I bowed my head, hand clamped over my thigh. I wasn’t like I was happy on the drugs. I mean, I must have been happy at some point in my life, all the conditions were right. I’d had a girlfriend, a promising new career, ideal by most standards. But things hadn’t turned out like I thought they would. I’d tried to make all the right choices, thinking that the universe worked according to some sort of input, output system. It doesn’t. It’s impartial. In a matter of days it had chewed me up and spit me out, completely indifferent to the gold stars and supposed goal posts, leaving me broken.
Looking up suddenly I saw Wilson behind the glass doors, finally. At first I let my eyes lock onto his, an almost sigh of relief escaping my lips, then, modulating my own expectations, I looked back down to my slipper-ed feet.
Part of me didn’t want him to see me like this. The other part wanted it to be years ago when he didn’t know what he knew and everything felt easy. Too much had happened maybe. I’d been snarky, insensitive, increasingly cantacoris and reclusive and he’d stumbled through a few more marriages and adapted to my new quirks, no matter how much they hurt, but somehow we’d always found our way back to each other, pulled toward the same constant gravitational center. Which was a hopeful thought. But maybe I didn’t deserve forgiveness. Didn’t deserve comfort. I’d gone too far. Comfort wasn’t really something I accepted easily anyway. Briefly, didn’t want to remember, a long time ago, my mom stroking my hair after he’d re-looped his belt and left me on the floor.
When I saw a pair of laced brown Italian shoes planted on the grey carpet in front of me I looked up at him.
“House,” Wilson greeted before sitting slowly, carefully taking a seat on my bed, to my left, leaning his briefcase against the side of the bed. He cleared his throat, hesitancy laced in his voice like he was reading from a very blurry cue card, “How are you?”
I thought for a moment, swallowing warm spit down my raw, painful throat before saying in a slightly hoarse voice, “Hungry, actually—food sucks here.”
“Right now you probably can’t even stand the sight of food,” he replied correctly, “Which will make getting out even better,” a hand rubbed at the back of his neck, taking another nervous breath, “You can pick any place and we’ll go.”
My hand hadn’t moved from my thigh and my eyes hadn’t looked up from his shoes but after that moment, after hearing his voice for the first time in days I chanced looking up. He looked neat, hair combed, shaved, wearing a red and white striped tie, the one I’d given him for his birthday three years ago. Maybe someone else wouldn’t have noticed the dark circles under his eyes but I did.
I swallowed again, wincing at the coppery taste of blood still in my mouth, “Is that place on 46th still open?” I mused after a moment, drawing a thoughtful breath, “Forty dollars is a reasonable price for a steak.”
Wilson smiled. Silence. His eyes wandered back to me from where they’d glanced out at the common room, at the puzzle and the paper and their respective people and I returned the gaze for a moment before asking, “Why did you come?”
“What do you mean?”
“Not in the mood to play footsie under the table with the nurse du jour—or did Cuddy send you?”
“I wasn’t playing footsie with anyone and no, Cuddy didn’t send me,” he answered wearily, “I . . . wanted to see you.”
I said nothing, bowing my head. I’m a jerk. Always checking for ulterior motives. Parinoid fuck.
Obviously he didn’t have any cue cards. Neither of us knew what to say. There was silence until he spoke again.
“I heard about this place uptown,” he started, “Somewhere where they make alcoholic milk-shakes or something,” he said in a forced conversational tone,
“Apparently expensive, I don’t know, never been there.”
I hadn’t intended to join in on such a pointless conversation, a perfect example of the kind of casual conversation that was somehow a requirement for mingling with the festering masses of humanity, but as I liked hearing his voice and I heard myself say, “I’d rather just have a beer.”
Wilson seemed happy I’d said anything back at all and it might be he relaxed a fraction of an inch and it might be my heart obliged to beat at a somewhat more reasonable pace.
“It does sound a little gross . . . but it's chocolate, desert and a drink in one—I
thought you’d like that.”
“Are you sure . . . ” I said, licking dry lips, “ . . . it’s such a great idea to bring up not only food, which I can’t eat, but alcohol after the empty bottle of scotch and pills?”
Wilson’s mouth fell open, liquid brown eyes blinking in a shocked expression like someone who had just missed a collision in a busy intersection, “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, with a defeated sigh, “I’m an idiot.”
He sat and agonized and it turns out I couldn’t just watch like I was hoping I could. I pressed my lips together and gritted my teeth, “You really just wanted to come to see me?”
“Why else would I come?”
“Maybe Tritter sent you.”
This time it was a semi that almost hit him.
“House . . . ” he ran a hand over his forehead, through his hair.
I didn’t know what to believe. I wanted to trust him.
“Or maybe you just felt guilty and— ”
“I told him I wouldn’t testify against you, House!” he shouted, then worried he would disturb the ailing masses he quieted, “I’m not working for him and I’m not spying on you or whatever you think’s going on.”
“And I’m just supposed to believe you?”
“I’m not working with Tritter anymore—I tried to back out of the deal and he threatened to send me to jail!”
“Right.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I don’t know.”
“House . . . I know you don’t want to hear this—”
“Wilson—”
“But sometimes people can start experiencing a certain level of paranoia while detoxing, it’s normal—”
“You’re calling me paranoid when you and I both know that someone had to tell Tritter about the scripts, someone had to go behind my back and make a deal with the devil, someone had to tell the fucking doctors about Christmas Eve—”
“You tried to commit suicide!”
“They didn’t know that! They weren't supposed to know about it!”
“I had to. God, what do you think it was like for me? What if I’d come in there and you were already—”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“House, you just have to get through this—”
“For what? For us?”
He laughed bitterly, frustrated, “You know who called me yesterday? Your parents. You hadn’t answered your phone and they heard some message you left them and god, what would I have told them?”
Of course they called him. “What did you tell them?”
“What I had to,” he said, “I’m not going to lie to your parents. You’re mom was worried sick, you’re dad was—”
“Thrilled?”
“He was threatening to come up here—I had to tell them that you were getting help and you were going to be okay.”
I kicked myself for actually thinking I could keep this a secret. I tried to keep her out of all this, she didn’t deserve any of this, “My mom didn’t know, I didn’t want her to know, you didn’t have the right to tell her, or him, anything.”
“Take a minute, House, just a moment to think about how your actions affect the people around you, the people that love you. I can’t keep watching you spiral out of control, I can’t, I-I used to be enough, somehow, to stop you, but then--,” his voice cracked and he shifted his weight in restless anger, throwing his eyes across the room then down to the floor, hands clasped together between his knees, “You didn’t even leave a note,” his voice shook and ended abruptly, lifting one of his hands over his eyes, voice forced into tense evenness, “I told her you were sick—that’s it. She must have known it was more than that. I played dumb,” his eyes turned up to me after a second and though he blinked several times I could still see the sheen of barely hidden tears, the light from the common room’s windows shinning dully in his eyes, “You could have died, House—and you didn’t even leave a note.”
I met his eyes. And something cracked. My throat twisted and I was suddenly unable to breathe, body tense, feeling like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The hotness in my eyes became overwhelming and I felt like I was falling. I couldn't breathe. Panic. Oh god. No, no, no. I raised both my hands to my face, covering my eyes. I gasped desperately for air, eyes squeezed shut.
“House,” I heard my name.
Couldn’t respond. Fuck. I wanted to tell him to leave. Get out of here. Please Wilson.
I’m barely aware of him putting his hand on my shoulder, tears running silently down my face, shaking in a struggle to breathe. He’s moved closer, shushing soothingly under his breath, putting his arm around me, somehow I’ve leaned into him and can take a few breaths. Whether it was his or mine, someone’s heartbeat was incredibly loud in my ears, the feeling of his chest rising and falling, pulling me back.
“It’s okay, just breathe,” Wilson said and it might have been several times. His hand kept running over my back and I heard him sigh.
I didn’t want to move. His hand rose to smooth over my hair, fingers clumsy and sincere and perfect. I missed him. I missed him so much. My eyes opened slightly as I heard the humming of more meaningless platitudes resonating in his chest, barely making it past his lips. I felt a warm kiss near my temple, lingering tenderly. Then he held me tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry for making that deal, I’m—”
He stopped talking when I pulled back, our eyes level, noses nearly touching. I don’t want to hear him say he’s sorry. I don't know what I want to hear.
I locked my eyes with his, aware of the tears drying on my face. My eyelashes were heavy and wet when they lowered, looking down at his parted lips, sniffing my nose slightly. I leaned forward slowly, closing the distance between us, breathing steadily over his mouth. When he didn’t move, the rest of the distance between us fell away and I caught his lips in mine. He held the warm wet contact for one shuddering second then slowly, cautiously, returned the kiss. One of his hands slid up from my back to hold the back of my head as one of mine lifted to his jaw, pulling him closer. The warmth, the hurried breaths, the smack of our lips, lasted barely enough time for me to realize I was kissing Wilson and he was kissing back and we pulled apart.
Breathing heavily, foreheads together,, “House, I--” he breathed, warm over my mouth.
I closed my eyes, my hand tickling the soft hair at the base of his neck, not wanting to hear him say whatever he was going to say. Just kiss me again.
“What the fuck is this?!” came a roar from my doorway and Wilson snapped around, scooting away from me on the bed to reveal Bill standing right there. And the nurse. Maria.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson was stammering, standing up, reaching for his briefcase, “I was just—”
“Greg hits me with his cane and still gets visitors?” he demanded of the nurse who remained objectively silent. Why he didn’t mention seeing me, us, on the bed, I didn't know.
“His visitor was scheduled yesterday, Bill,” Maria answered him, arms crossed.
Wilson had sat up, grabbed his briefcase, holding it in front of him. He cleared his throat, “I, gotta get going anyhow,” I looked at him, eyes wide as he backed out the door, saying a quick “excuse me” to the nurse and then was gone. Fuck Wilson. Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck.
And I was left in pain. And with an erection. Almost pill time. Which would take care of the pain part of it. But the other part . . . harder to ignore. God, he smelled and tasted just like I remember.
Apparently it’s true—you always hurt the ones you love the most.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-12 03:47 am (UTC)I'm curious about something. Are you into the due South and Canadian Six Degrees fandom at all? I'm asking because there are two things in this fic that make me think of dSC6D.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-12 09:17 pm (UTC)Thank you so so much for the compliment, I very much enjoy writting and do wonder, really, how I can write House so well, considering it may mean there is a grumpy, inappropriate yet brilliant gimp inside of me somewhere .. . and that line/paragraph in particular, what a lovely sonnet to put together, words are my play thing . . .
no subject
Date: 2020-06-13 01:00 am (UTC)due South on Fanlore
Canadian Six Degrees on Fanlore
I thought you might be into due South because you have pineapple pizza in your fic and that's a signigicant food item in canon due South.
I thought you might be into Canadian Six Degrees because you have the name "Billiam" in your fic and that's a significant name in the C6D movie "Hard Core Logo".
no subject
Date: 2020-06-22 10:24 pm (UTC)I got temporary locked out of my Dreamwidth account, having changed my password without remembering to write it down and then, well, never mind. Back now. :-D
I have Stuff To Do today but will be catching up as I can.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-22 11:32 pm (UTC)