Ficlet : Reflection
Title: Reflection
Characters: alt!Wilson (House & Wilson in a dream)
Rating: PG
Words: 550
Summary: This is set in the universe of Looking Glass which was invented/written by Blackmare and Nightdog_barks. While our Wilson was sharing some of the memories of his counterpart, his counterpart was sharing memories of a friend he never had.
Thanks to Blackmare and Nightdog for opening their universe for others to play in! This uses the 'dream' prompt from the sick!wilson bingo card.
He's led out of the filthy cell and into the small room where he was booked a few hours before. A tall, lanky, man with unkempt hair is standing there, leaning laconically against a wall, fingers drumming out a rhythm on the surface.
"Your friend bailed you out," a bored looking police officer says, pushing over a form for him to sign.
He glances over at the stranger. He vaguely recalls seeing him in the bar before the fight broke out. He has no idea why the man would come and get him out of jail but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and quickly completes the paperwork.
Once they're outside he lets out a relieved sigh and takes a deep breath of the fresh air.
He turns to the man beside him. "Thanks, I don't know why you did that but I'll pay you back." He sticks out his hand. "James Wilson."
His saviour looks at him for a moment, bright blue eyes assessing him. Wilson is about to drop his hand down by his side when the man nods and holds out his own.
"Greg House."
"House?" He wakes up with the strange name on his lips and a shiver going down his spine. There's a presence in the room. A feeling of someone else being there.
He rolls over in bed and turns on the light. There's nobody there. Jennifer. He was looking for Jennifer. Except she isn't here. He has a flash of memory. Of a bus crash and watching her slip away in a hospital bed.
He shakes his head. No. She's not dead. She's just gone. She left him. Like they all have.
He turns quickly, but there's nothing there. The impression of a hand ghosting on his shoulder was a trick of the mind, brought on by two restless nights, filled with strange dreams of another man. A James Wilson who is content with his life. Somebody who could never be him.
He reaches into the pocket of his labcoat and pulls out the small flask he keeps there. It feels strange in his hand, unfamiliar. Which is ridiculous because it's been his constant companion for a long time. His grip tightens and he takes off the cap and takes a long swallow. At least the burn of the liquor is well known.
He tucks the flask back into its hiding place.
He wanders the hospital corridors and can almost hear the footsteps beside him; in unison with his own and close enough that a hand sometimes brushes his sleeve as they walk.
He looks to his left but no-one is there. There is never anyone there.
The pizza box from Dominic's lies open on the coffee table, sitting on top of two others. Empty bottles line the table.
He reaches for his drink, wanting the comforting numbness it will bring. Maybe he'll forget the doppelganger that's haunting his dreams, and the friend who walks beside him. He holds the glass and stares into its depths. So easy.
He picks up the phone with his other hand and dials the number of the brother he hasn't talked to since Danny's funeral.
"It's James," he says, when his brother answers. His voice is shaky and he puts his drink down. "I'm in trouble. I need help."
He wants that better life.
~ End
Characters: alt!Wilson (House & Wilson in a dream)
Rating: PG
Words: 550
Summary: This is set in the universe of Looking Glass which was invented/written by Blackmare and Nightdog_barks. While our Wilson was sharing some of the memories of his counterpart, his counterpart was sharing memories of a friend he never had.
Thanks to Blackmare and Nightdog for opening their universe for others to play in! This uses the 'dream' prompt from the sick!wilson bingo card.
He's led out of the filthy cell and into the small room where he was booked a few hours before. A tall, lanky, man with unkempt hair is standing there, leaning laconically against a wall, fingers drumming out a rhythm on the surface.
"Your friend bailed you out," a bored looking police officer says, pushing over a form for him to sign.
He glances over at the stranger. He vaguely recalls seeing him in the bar before the fight broke out. He has no idea why the man would come and get him out of jail but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and quickly completes the paperwork.
Once they're outside he lets out a relieved sigh and takes a deep breath of the fresh air.
He turns to the man beside him. "Thanks, I don't know why you did that but I'll pay you back." He sticks out his hand. "James Wilson."
His saviour looks at him for a moment, bright blue eyes assessing him. Wilson is about to drop his hand down by his side when the man nods and holds out his own.
"Greg House."
"House?" He wakes up with the strange name on his lips and a shiver going down his spine. There's a presence in the room. A feeling of someone else being there.
He rolls over in bed and turns on the light. There's nobody there. Jennifer. He was looking for Jennifer. Except she isn't here. He has a flash of memory. Of a bus crash and watching her slip away in a hospital bed.
He shakes his head. No. She's not dead. She's just gone. She left him. Like they all have.
He turns quickly, but there's nothing there. The impression of a hand ghosting on his shoulder was a trick of the mind, brought on by two restless nights, filled with strange dreams of another man. A James Wilson who is content with his life. Somebody who could never be him.
He reaches into the pocket of his labcoat and pulls out the small flask he keeps there. It feels strange in his hand, unfamiliar. Which is ridiculous because it's been his constant companion for a long time. His grip tightens and he takes off the cap and takes a long swallow. At least the burn of the liquor is well known.
He tucks the flask back into its hiding place.
He wanders the hospital corridors and can almost hear the footsteps beside him; in unison with his own and close enough that a hand sometimes brushes his sleeve as they walk.
He looks to his left but no-one is there. There is never anyone there.
The pizza box from Dominic's lies open on the coffee table, sitting on top of two others. Empty bottles line the table.
He reaches for his drink, wanting the comforting numbness it will bring. Maybe he'll forget the doppelganger that's haunting his dreams, and the friend who walks beside him. He holds the glass and stares into its depths. So easy.
He picks up the phone with his other hand and dials the number of the brother he hasn't talked to since Danny's funeral.
"It's James," he says, when his brother answers. His voice is shaky and he puts his drink down. "I'm in trouble. I need help."
He wants that better life.
~ End