Fic: Storm
Title: Storm
Rating: T
Spoilers: General Season 5
Pairing: Wilson/Cuddy and some House/Wilson angst
Prompt: Wilson/Cuddy/House: The five senses.
A/N: I've never really written Wilson so...be nice.
Sense: Sight
The day began gray, dismal. At 9 a.m, he signed the papers to send a child to the morgue. Death by leukemia. Some days he thinks its the most depressing profession ever, with a low cure rate. With every death, there seems to be retribution around the corner though and he only hopes that his absolution is somewhere on the horizon.
Instead, he sees only the trickle of rain down the pane of the window to his office.
Sense: Taste
There's water everywhere. In his eyes, dropping off of the strands of his hair, running down his throat without voluntary intake. It tastes cold with a strange mix of freshness and pollution. His feet make squishing noises in his soaked shoes. Idly, he tries to think of anything but the coming ambulance. Clean socks, warm sheets, hot coffee.
Nothing rids him of the overwhelming amount of rain, the growing puddles almost the size of lakes. He picks up his foot and dips it into the water, kicking and creating ripples on the surface. The storm seems to intensify around him and he silently curses his eagerness to aid, to help where he is needed.
If he were any other man, he wouldn't be standing here under the deluge.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cuddy shift beside him but she is little more than a wet blur. He attempts to remove the puddles in his eyes but fails. It seems like a better idea just to keep them closed, ambivalent to everything.
Sense: Touch
Oncology tonight is quiet but the ER is alive- pulsing, throbbing, screaming. He walks beside the gurney, shaking the liquid opaque from his hair. Across from him, eyes fixed ahead, she grips the metal bars of the bed so hard her fingers turn from pink to white. Her hair has lost its curl and she, like him, is soaked to the bone. They wheel to a stop and she motions over more bodies, more matter to fill already tiny spaces.
House's fellows buzz around like moths, landing under the lamps and inside the gauzy curtains covering the sick and wounded. House, of course, is nowhere to be found.
He listens to the patient's lungs but hears them failing to intake air. Thirteen stands close by and he pulls her near him.
“Ever done a chest tube?” he asks, just for some conversation, to say anything other than “This one's dead.”
“Um...” she stammers, taking the plastic into her hands.
“Wilson!”
He turns to see Taub and Foreman doing compressions, feeling his own breath pushed all the way out as he sighs in exasperation.
As he begins his way to them, Cuddy catches him by the arm and drags him behind a curtain. He says nothing but can see the creases around her eyes becoming more prominent. They're both tired and there is no end in sight.
His fingers lightly skim the outline of her shoulder in a gesture of comfort and she retracts slightly because she isn't used to the contact, isn't used to the touch. She needs this, he thinks but honestly, he isn't really sure about anything where she is concerned.
Thunder rumbles and shakes the walls, the lights flickering with fiery particles of luminescence. He sees her blue eyes travel to the ceiling, avoiding, escaping. She watches above and he can see the look, can read it on her face.
The sky is falling.
He captures her on her way down, just as the world crackles and the illumination fails. He kisses her between the darkness and light, grazing his lips against hers.
As his hand weaves itself around her frame, he can't help but feel the insane idea that the skin he is now touching has the words “House was here” emblazoned on it. He intends to wash the words away with his saliva and the rain.
Sense: Hear
The rain drops sound like the repetition of tiny footsteps all along the expanse of the roof.
The bustling world becomes less about the cries, the screams, the moans. His cell vibrates on his waist and he ducks behind a vending machine to answer it.
“House,” he growls into the receiver. “Where the hell are you?”
“In a land far, far away,” his friend answers. He can almost hear him smile.
“It's coming a flood and you are nowhere to be found,” he says, exasperated.
“Be nice and I just might tell you the coordinates to the ark.”
He punches his phone off and puts it back into his pocket. Sighing, he walks back to hell.
Sense: Smell
“So,” House begins. It's not his usual greeting.
Wilson braces but keeps his attention on the tabletop, on the ceramic mug, on the uneaten sweet roll beside him. House seems to pick up on his last movement and deposits the roll into his mouth, chomping noisily.
“What do you want House?” he says, trying his best to find a tone of irritation. Even as he says it, he realizes it just sounds tired.
“Who says I want anything?”
“You never come to me without wanting something. There's always an ulterior motive.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see my BFF. You know, since he's been spending a lot of time down in the ER with all the peeps I normally try to avoid.”
“There's a storm. Lots of accidents were called in. Cameron needed the help.”
“The sentence 'Cameron needed help' roughly translates to 'Cuddy ordered me to do it.' She does the same to me. I just ignore it.”
“I know. I didn't see lurking in any corners or anything while I was down there the past five hours.” He stops and then does his best to put on a face of someone deep in thought. “But come to think of it, I did see every member of your old and new team, along with our boss down there. Funny how everyone was there, except you.”
“If you're trying to say you missed me, I understand. The moments were almost too much to bear without you too,” House frowns melodramatically.
With a shake of his head, Wilson stands and walks to throw away the Styrofoam plate and dirty napkins. He takes one last swig of his coffee and chunks it as well. As he makes his way to the door, he feels House close on his heels.
“Tell me,” he begins, so low Wilson isn't even sure he hears it.
He stops and House is so close to him he can smell the sugary icing on his breath and the cologne fading slowly off of his jacket and shirt.
“What was it like to kiss her?” House asks.
He is sure the color drains from his face and his mouth hangs open, agape. House has him cornered and he doesn't know where to turn. It's confrontation, it's reclamation.
“I would think you would already know,” is all that comes out of his mouth.
House's hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
“It's be so long, Jimmy Boy, that I don't even remember.”
They walk out together through the double doors, a limp and a lilt in their step. The memory keeps in step with the present.
Rating: T
Spoilers: General Season 5
Pairing: Wilson/Cuddy and some House/Wilson angst
Prompt: Wilson/Cuddy/House: The five senses.
A/N: I've never really written Wilson so...be nice.
Sense: Sight
The day began gray, dismal. At 9 a.m, he signed the papers to send a child to the morgue. Death by leukemia. Some days he thinks its the most depressing profession ever, with a low cure rate. With every death, there seems to be retribution around the corner though and he only hopes that his absolution is somewhere on the horizon.
Instead, he sees only the trickle of rain down the pane of the window to his office.
Sense: Taste
There's water everywhere. In his eyes, dropping off of the strands of his hair, running down his throat without voluntary intake. It tastes cold with a strange mix of freshness and pollution. His feet make squishing noises in his soaked shoes. Idly, he tries to think of anything but the coming ambulance. Clean socks, warm sheets, hot coffee.
Nothing rids him of the overwhelming amount of rain, the growing puddles almost the size of lakes. He picks up his foot and dips it into the water, kicking and creating ripples on the surface. The storm seems to intensify around him and he silently curses his eagerness to aid, to help where he is needed.
If he were any other man, he wouldn't be standing here under the deluge.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cuddy shift beside him but she is little more than a wet blur. He attempts to remove the puddles in his eyes but fails. It seems like a better idea just to keep them closed, ambivalent to everything.
Sense: Touch
Oncology tonight is quiet but the ER is alive- pulsing, throbbing, screaming. He walks beside the gurney, shaking the liquid opaque from his hair. Across from him, eyes fixed ahead, she grips the metal bars of the bed so hard her fingers turn from pink to white. Her hair has lost its curl and she, like him, is soaked to the bone. They wheel to a stop and she motions over more bodies, more matter to fill already tiny spaces.
House's fellows buzz around like moths, landing under the lamps and inside the gauzy curtains covering the sick and wounded. House, of course, is nowhere to be found.
He listens to the patient's lungs but hears them failing to intake air. Thirteen stands close by and he pulls her near him.
“Ever done a chest tube?” he asks, just for some conversation, to say anything other than “This one's dead.”
“Um...” she stammers, taking the plastic into her hands.
“Wilson!”
He turns to see Taub and Foreman doing compressions, feeling his own breath pushed all the way out as he sighs in exasperation.
As he begins his way to them, Cuddy catches him by the arm and drags him behind a curtain. He says nothing but can see the creases around her eyes becoming more prominent. They're both tired and there is no end in sight.
His fingers lightly skim the outline of her shoulder in a gesture of comfort and she retracts slightly because she isn't used to the contact, isn't used to the touch. She needs this, he thinks but honestly, he isn't really sure about anything where she is concerned.
Thunder rumbles and shakes the walls, the lights flickering with fiery particles of luminescence. He sees her blue eyes travel to the ceiling, avoiding, escaping. She watches above and he can see the look, can read it on her face.
The sky is falling.
He captures her on her way down, just as the world crackles and the illumination fails. He kisses her between the darkness and light, grazing his lips against hers.
As his hand weaves itself around her frame, he can't help but feel the insane idea that the skin he is now touching has the words “House was here” emblazoned on it. He intends to wash the words away with his saliva and the rain.
Sense: Hear
The rain drops sound like the repetition of tiny footsteps all along the expanse of the roof.
The bustling world becomes less about the cries, the screams, the moans. His cell vibrates on his waist and he ducks behind a vending machine to answer it.
“House,” he growls into the receiver. “Where the hell are you?”
“In a land far, far away,” his friend answers. He can almost hear him smile.
“It's coming a flood and you are nowhere to be found,” he says, exasperated.
“Be nice and I just might tell you the coordinates to the ark.”
He punches his phone off and puts it back into his pocket. Sighing, he walks back to hell.
Sense: Smell
“So,” House begins. It's not his usual greeting.
Wilson braces but keeps his attention on the tabletop, on the ceramic mug, on the uneaten sweet roll beside him. House seems to pick up on his last movement and deposits the roll into his mouth, chomping noisily.
“What do you want House?” he says, trying his best to find a tone of irritation. Even as he says it, he realizes it just sounds tired.
“Who says I want anything?”
“You never come to me without wanting something. There's always an ulterior motive.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see my BFF. You know, since he's been spending a lot of time down in the ER with all the peeps I normally try to avoid.”
“There's a storm. Lots of accidents were called in. Cameron needed the help.”
“The sentence 'Cameron needed help' roughly translates to 'Cuddy ordered me to do it.' She does the same to me. I just ignore it.”
“I know. I didn't see lurking in any corners or anything while I was down there the past five hours.” He stops and then does his best to put on a face of someone deep in thought. “But come to think of it, I did see every member of your old and new team, along with our boss down there. Funny how everyone was there, except you.”
“If you're trying to say you missed me, I understand. The moments were almost too much to bear without you too,” House frowns melodramatically.
With a shake of his head, Wilson stands and walks to throw away the Styrofoam plate and dirty napkins. He takes one last swig of his coffee and chunks it as well. As he makes his way to the door, he feels House close on his heels.
“Tell me,” he begins, so low Wilson isn't even sure he hears it.
He stops and House is so close to him he can smell the sugary icing on his breath and the cologne fading slowly off of his jacket and shirt.
“What was it like to kiss her?” House asks.
He is sure the color drains from his face and his mouth hangs open, agape. House has him cornered and he doesn't know where to turn. It's confrontation, it's reclamation.
“I would think you would already know,” is all that comes out of his mouth.
House's hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
“It's be so long, Jimmy Boy, that I don't even remember.”
They walk out together through the double doors, a limp and a lilt in their step. The memory keeps in step with the present.