Untitled Fic [House, M.D.]
Apr. 26th, 2006 07:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darktrent182TITLE: Untitled
DISCLAIMER: These characters doesn't belong to me -- they belong to David Shore. Written for entertainment purposes, no money made, please don't sue, yadda.
FANDOM: House
WORD COUNT: 545
RATING: G
WARNING: Minor character death.
SUMMARY: He'd been expecting this news, but it still blindsided him.
SPOILERS: Sort of for HOUSE VS. GOD (2x19)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: At 3am this morning, my uncle died in a hospital, and I held my mother as she cried. Blame my twisted imagination for coming up with this.
***
It was sickening, how laughter and crying sounded so alike. Wilson could close his eyes, feeling the trembling form in his arms, and hear the sobs. Men, women, they sounded alike in their pain. Words like "three months" or "a matter of weeks" had the same swish as the guillotine coming down, aiming for the fragile neck at the bottom.
This was the first time, though, that he'd been the one on the chopping block.
The call came at 6:17 in the morning. His brother, Edward. Eddie, the one that always grinned and taught him how to fight back with words so that he wouldn't get his clothes dirty. Who fought with him over comic books and called him a shrimp.
Gone.
It had been cirrhosis. He'd been checked into the hospital in Frankfurt the week before. He'd been bad off. Gwen had called him, let him know that Eddie was bad off, would he come, please? Of course he would. Jimmy always did what was asked of him, like a good son should.
James found himself clutching the wall, his eyes squeezed tight, the sound of sobbing in his ears, somewhere off in the distance or so it felt.
He could feel a knife twisting in his gut. His brother was dead, and all he could do was stand there, the phone dangling from nerveless fingers, and sob like Eddie told him he shouldn't do, because men didn't do that. Real men didn't cry.
The absurd memory from when he was five and had skinned his knee, spiking out of nowhere, hit with the force of a bucket of ice dumped on his head. Eddie, there to pick him up from where he'd fallen, admonishing him in that low voice...
A hand touched his shoulder, pulling him away from the wall where he'd somehow managed to hide his face. He grit his teeth for a moment before he remembered he wasn't with Julie anymore.
"James?"
He turned to look at her, taking in the face narrowed by cancer, blonde hair sticking every which way.
"James?" She tried again, frowning a little as she saw more of his face. "What's wrong?"
He cleared his throat, trying to get some measure of calm back, but nearly falling apart again. "My brother... he just..."
She looked at him for a moment before two and two added up, and she almost flinched, eyes wide, looking embarrassed. "Oh, no."
She'd never known him, Wilson had never talked to her about him. He'd only ever gone on about House, and even then, it had been angry retorts about how House had never told him about his stupid poker game. Now, it all just seemed so... pointless.
He didn't remember her reaching out to him, but he remembered the feel of her in his arms, the thin arms wrapping around his shoulders and back, the terry cloth of her bathrobe. When she rested her head against his shoulder, it was as though a dam had broken, and fresh sobs were ripped out of him, weird laughing hacking sobs that hurt his throat and stung his eyes.
How freakish it was, to be on the other side of a reassuring hug, and realize just how much more empty they made him feel.
END
DISCLAIMER: These characters doesn't belong to me -- they belong to David Shore. Written for entertainment purposes, no money made, please don't sue, yadda.
FANDOM: House
WORD COUNT: 545
RATING: G
WARNING: Minor character death.
SUMMARY: He'd been expecting this news, but it still blindsided him.
SPOILERS: Sort of for HOUSE VS. GOD (2x19)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: At 3am this morning, my uncle died in a hospital, and I held my mother as she cried. Blame my twisted imagination for coming up with this.
***
It was sickening, how laughter and crying sounded so alike. Wilson could close his eyes, feeling the trembling form in his arms, and hear the sobs. Men, women, they sounded alike in their pain. Words like "three months" or "a matter of weeks" had the same swish as the guillotine coming down, aiming for the fragile neck at the bottom.
This was the first time, though, that he'd been the one on the chopping block.
The call came at 6:17 in the morning. His brother, Edward. Eddie, the one that always grinned and taught him how to fight back with words so that he wouldn't get his clothes dirty. Who fought with him over comic books and called him a shrimp.
Gone.
It had been cirrhosis. He'd been checked into the hospital in Frankfurt the week before. He'd been bad off. Gwen had called him, let him know that Eddie was bad off, would he come, please? Of course he would. Jimmy always did what was asked of him, like a good son should.
James found himself clutching the wall, his eyes squeezed tight, the sound of sobbing in his ears, somewhere off in the distance or so it felt.
He could feel a knife twisting in his gut. His brother was dead, and all he could do was stand there, the phone dangling from nerveless fingers, and sob like Eddie told him he shouldn't do, because men didn't do that. Real men didn't cry.
The absurd memory from when he was five and had skinned his knee, spiking out of nowhere, hit with the force of a bucket of ice dumped on his head. Eddie, there to pick him up from where he'd fallen, admonishing him in that low voice...
A hand touched his shoulder, pulling him away from the wall where he'd somehow managed to hide his face. He grit his teeth for a moment before he remembered he wasn't with Julie anymore.
"James?"
He turned to look at her, taking in the face narrowed by cancer, blonde hair sticking every which way.
"James?" She tried again, frowning a little as she saw more of his face. "What's wrong?"
He cleared his throat, trying to get some measure of calm back, but nearly falling apart again. "My brother... he just..."
She looked at him for a moment before two and two added up, and she almost flinched, eyes wide, looking embarrassed. "Oh, no."
She'd never known him, Wilson had never talked to her about him. He'd only ever gone on about House, and even then, it had been angry retorts about how House had never told him about his stupid poker game. Now, it all just seemed so... pointless.
He didn't remember her reaching out to him, but he remembered the feel of her in his arms, the thin arms wrapping around his shoulders and back, the terry cloth of her bathrobe. When she rested her head against his shoulder, it was as though a dam had broken, and fresh sobs were ripped out of him, weird laughing hacking sobs that hurt his throat and stung his eyes.
How freakish it was, to be on the other side of a reassuring hug, and realize just how much more empty they made him feel.
END
