cindylouwho: (autopsy)
more of [livejournal.com profile] arhh 's Amnesia AU for [personal profile] bishojo_kitsune 

                House nor Wyatt followed Wilson to the front door.  They heard his footsteps echo through the apartment and the front door close shut.   House reclined against the headboard, his breathing labored, as he had to breathe through his mouth since he was so congested.   He attempted to blow his nose again, but it was too much effort and caused him too much pain. 

                Wyatt poured him a glass of juice and gave him some Sudafed.  “This should help,” he said.  House downed the pills and the juice and snorted at Wyatt, which caused him to sneeze again.  “Bless you,” Wyatt said, slightly concerned.  “I should have taken your temperature before you drank the juice.  Oh well.  It will have to wait.  Why don’t you try to rest?”

                “Whabt, no lectdure about whabt was gobing on width Wilsond?”

                “Would it matter, Gregory if I were to offer my opinion on the matter?”

                House rolled his eyes at the use of his proper name. 

                “No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Wyatt continued.  “You need to get some rest.  Sleep now and I’ll have some nice soup ready for you for when you wake up.”  Wyatt gathered the bags he had brought in and headed out, closing the door gently behind him.

                House laid back and stared at the ceiling.  His head was killing, his leg was killing, and he felt like shit.  He hated being sick in general, and being sick and in pain just made him even more irritable.  Tack on a bus crash, killing his best friend’s girlfriend, and now losing said best friend, and it made for an unusually miserable House.  He sighed, and continued to stare at the ceiling, and waited for sleep to overtake him. 



cindylouwho: (autopsy)

A tiny bit more for [personal profile] bishojo_kitsune , who I think needs something to cheer her up <3 <3 <3

     House sneezed violently.  Wilson and Wyatt, locked in a heated gaze, turned and said “bless you” to him at the same time.  “You should be in bed asleep, Gregory, not up and talking.  You’ve got a nasty cold, not to mention recovering from a dangerous operation,” Wyatt said with a glare in Wilson’s direction.   “Let’s get you some juice, and I shall see your guest out.”    

     Wilson held up his hand in Wyatt’s direction.  “Wait just a minute,” Wilson said.  “House, you really have no idea what’s going on; what’s happened in the past week?”  House blew his nose carefully while he contemplated his words to Wilson.  Part of him wanted to confess it all; but he felt so miserable at this point it was easier to keep up with the lie instead of trying to explain it all to Wilson and to Wyatt. 

     House sniffled and wiped his nose and looked miserable.  “I dob’t know.  I dob’t remember mubch of adything.   Bits and piedses, forebn lands and voices.  A lot of it is a blur.”  He coughed weakly and rubbed his head.   He grabbed for the handkerchief again and sneezed as gently as he possibly could, to spare his severely aching head.

     “Bless you,” Wyatt and Wilson said in unison once again.  House shut his eyes and leaned back against the headboard.  “That’s quite enough now.  It’s time you were leaving, Doctor Wilson.  Gregory obviously needs some rest.”  Wilson glared at Wyatt, and looked back at House.  He still wasn’t sure if House was messing with him or not, but one thing was obvious.  He was in a lot of pain and feeling miserable.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly and turned and walked out the door. 

Sick II

Aug. 14th, 2009 09:05 pm
cindylouwho: (autopsy)
Written for [livejournal.com profile] bishojo_kitsune, who is a pest wonderful friend and wanted more Amnesia fic. This story is part of [livejournal.com profile] arhh's Amnesia series and goes AU during the events of Sick

No doctors were harmed in the writing of this story.


Wilson let himself, hesitantly, into House’s apartment. It was as untidy as usual; with the addition of crumpled tissues, water bottles, and a half empty glass of juice on the coffee table in the living room. House was nowhere to be seen, but he could hear what sounded like congested snoring coming from the direction of House’s bedroom.

Wilson quietly walked down the hall, and opened the partially closed door. House was sprawled across the bed, his forehead glistening with sweat. There were once again crumpled tissues everywhere, and a water bottle on the night stand, along with House’s ever present Vicodin. It didn’t look like it was helping the fever the older man obviously had. Wilson wondered how long House had been alone; how long since it had been since his last dose.

Wilson left the bedroom and headed into the bathroom, and returned with a damp, cool facecloth. He placed it on House’s forehead, as he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for House’s wrist to take his pulse, to make sure it wasn’t too rapid.

The coolness of the cloth and the sudden touch woke House. He startled, practically jumping out of his skin. He croaked out “Who are you? Where’s Wyatt?” He began to cough and reached for the water bottle on the nightstand and drained a fair amount of it.

Wilson watched with a mixture of amusement and worry. What if House really didn’t know who he was? No, he thought to himself, this was just one of House’s poor excuses of a practical joke. “House, it’s me Wilson. You know that, obviously. Knock off the game. It isn’t funny.”

House stared at Wilson, not understanding, or seemingly recognizing the man at all. He quickly reached for one of the crumpled tissues on the bedside table and sneezed violently several times. Wilson looked around to see if there were any more tissues, which of course there weren’t, and reluctantly pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to House. “Here.”

House took the soft cloth and sneezed twice, cringing in pain. He attempted to blow his nose after, but found that it just made his head ache and gave up. He sniffled and stared at Wilson once again. “Wby are you here? Wyadd tolb me whad I did, what happed. Why would you cobe here?” He winced, his leg and his head causing him considerable pain. He reached for the Vicodin bottle and dry swallowed three, not even recognizing the look of disappointment that quickly crossed Wilson’s face.

“I came here; I came here because Cuddy told me to. She told me you had no memory of what happened to Amber.” He paused on saying her name. Amber. “She said maybe if I forgive you, you’d get your memory back. But I don’t think you’ve lost your memory. I think you’re just doing what you always do, acting like an ass!” Wilson’s voice rose as he had gone on and was practically shouting. At that moment, Dr. Wyatt returned from the store and barged in to the bedroom. “What in the bloody hell is going on here?”
cindylouwho: (whatnow)
Someday You Will Be Loved
Spoilers for S4 and S5 up to "Joy"

      After Wilson left PPTH, he had a lot of time on his hands. Granted a lot of that time was spent just trying to cope and function on everyday tasks. The bereavement time had just not been enough. He had lost the wind in his sails and the bounce in his step. He had lost his sense of self, the love of his life, and his best friend in one fell swoop.

      Time slowly passed however, in grief counseling, in visiting his family, in receiving visitors to his apartment like Cameron and Cuddy. And slowly the ache in his heart that had been so present since Amber died in his arms, the pain that had been imprinted on him since he had told House they were no longer friends began to slowly slip away.

      And when Cuddy came to him talking of the future and children, he was terrified and alarmed, but for the first time began to think the future may not be so bleak after all. He was unsure if she was going to request a donation, or if she, after an appropriate time, was going to pursue a relationship with him. After all, they weren't getting any older, and they did share many common interests. A spark ignited in him that he may finally have something to live for once again, love.

      He began to shower and shave every morning; he knew he would have to soon, as he'd be starting his new position soon. He began walking, and talking his anti-depressant regularly. He thoroughly cleaned the apartment, sans one mug, that still adorned the kitchen counter. On one of her many visits, Cuddy helped Wilson with the overwhelming task of settling Amber's affairs and her belongings which still haunted him.

       A week passed after the apartment began to take on more of Wilson's personality, he asked Cuddy over for dinner, to show his appreciation of how much she had helped him. She amicably accepted. Wilson threw himself into making a special meal, something he hadn't had the motivation or desire to do in some time.

      Each course was prepared with love and care, and when she arrived the apartment was filled with a delightful aroma. They enjoyed the meal of fresh vegetable lasagna and fancy green salad with perfectly chilled wine. They talked and laughed, and Wilson felt more like his own self than he had in months.

      Once the dishes were cleared, and they had moved their wine glasses to the living room, Wilson decided that now was the time to bring up the possibility of taking this further. He loved Amber and he always would, but he was so alone, and the hurt of being alone, was taking its toll.

       Wilson reached over and took Cuddy's hand in his. “Lisa, you have been so wonderful through all of this, so supportive. I can't thank you enough.” Cuddy smiled at Wilson. “Wilson, you don't need to thank me. I wanted to be there for you, it was the least I could do. You needed a friend, and I was glad I could do something for you. It was so hard to see you struggling.”

      Wilson's eyes became downcast, and he felt them filling with tears. He willed them away, and looked into Cuddy's eyes. “Were you serious before? When you were talking about kids?”

      “Of course, you know I've always wanted a child of my own. I'm getting too old to keep trying, especially since I haven't been able to carry past the first trimester.”

      Wilson nodded, his hand still holding hers. He struggled through the next words, his voice thick with emotion. “If you were willing to try again, Lisa, I'd be there for you. I, I'd like to have a child with you.”

      For a moment there was dead silence. Cuddy slowly pulled her hand away. “James, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean, I wasn't looking for . . .” Cuddy’s voice trailed off as she tried desperately to find the right words. “I wasn't looking for a partner or a donation.” She smiled, trying to make this as easy as possible. “James, I want to adopt, and I was hoping you would write my letter of recommendation to the agency. That was why I was talking it up, I was so excited to find an agency that was really willing to invest the time and help me do this. I've wanted this for so long and now, it is so close.” Cuddy tried to read the look on Wilson's face at this point and was unsure if he was going to laugh or cry.

       “I'm so sorry you misinterpreted this. I didn't mean to hurt you, James. You are a good friend, and you will make a wonderful father I am sure. But right now you need to be taking care of yourself, not taking on any more obligations, relationship-wise.”

      Wilson nodded slowly. He felt a fool. He couldn't believe that he had misinterpreted and misconstrued all of this. “I'm so sorry, Lisa. I feel foolish.”

      “Don't. It's ok, and forgotten.” She paused a moment. “Would it be horrible of me to still ask you to write up the letter of recommendation?”

      “No, of course not. I would love to; I'd be honored to do it.” Wilson smiled, his coping face back into place as if he hadn’t been heartbroken.

       An awkward silence filled the air, until Cuddy said something about having an early meeting and Wilson rose to walk her to the door. She gave him the information for the letter, and bade him a good night, with a gentle kiss on the cheek.

      The door closed behind him, Wilson rested his forehead against it for a moment, summoning up the energy to go on. He felt foolish and sad and devastated. Finally he pushed himself away from the door, and headed into the kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of scotch and a single glass. He retreated back into the living room, poured two fingers, and began to think where all of this went wrong.

      He was so alone, which he wasn't used to. He had his family growing up, and then his wives, and of course House. And then Amber, who changed his life, who loved him for who he was, and who could even tolerate House. He drained the glass and poured two fingers more.

       And as he sat there in the dark all he could think about was how wrong it all was, how wrong and unfair life was, and how much his heart ached without Amber. Tears slid down his cheeks, and deep sobs wracked his body as he gave over to the foolishness of the evening and the grief of losing the only person, wait two people who had ever cared about him at all.

      When he had finally drunk all he could stomach, he stumbled into the bedroom. Seeing the perfect bed there, reminded him of coming home that fateful evening and finding Amber's letter. Dejected, he collapsed to the bed in sobs that carried on long after he fell asleep.

Alone.
cindylouwho: (broken)
Wine
written for [livejournal.com profile] prompted_quill 

      At some point Wilson had abandoned drinking from the wine glass and reverted to drinking straight from the bottle. He wished he had something stronger, but even in the aftermath of Chase’s bachelor party all he could dredge up was wine. He smiled wistfully at the memory of a happier time, even though he should have realized something was wrong then. Very wrong. Of course he never saw House reclining in his tub talking to “Amber.” He was wandering around Princeton in his underwear, drunk off his ass.

      He ran his hand absently through his hair as he took another swig and tried to forget. He won’t, he can’t.

      When he woke up in the morning, awkwardly positioned on the couch, he was cotton mouthed and hung over. He saw the wine bottle on its side on the floor. Two teardrops of wine shone perfectly on the hardwood.

      For the first time in a long time, Amber wasn’t his first thought upon waking.

      It was the look of longing and utter terror in the last gaze House gave him before the heavy, old door closed in front of him that crossed his mind first.

      Wilson’s tears fell and mixed with the drops of wine on the floor. Outside, the rain began to soak the ground as the heavens grieved along with him.
cindylouwho: (Default)
An alternate ending to Not Cancer
written for [livejournal.com profile] prompted_quill 

In giving advice, seek to help, not please, your friend.” ~Solon

 

      After House left and the door closed behind him, Wilson rested his forehead against it for a moment, summoning up the energy to go on. He felt angry and sad and devastated. Finally he pushed himself away from the door, and headed into the kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of scotch and a single glass. He retreated back into the living room, poured two fingers, and began to think where all of this went wrong.

     He was so alone, which he wasn't used to. He had his family growing up, and then his wives, and of course House. And then Amber, who changed his life, who loved him for who he was, and who could even tolerate House. He drained the glass and poured two fingers more.

      And as he sat there in the dark all he could think about was how wrong it all was, how wrong and unfair life was, and how much his heart ached without Amber. Tears slid down his cheeks, and deep sobs wracked his body as he gave over to the foolishness of the evening and the grief of losing the only person, wait two people who had ever cared about him at all.

     He was well on his way to being drunk, when he heard a familiar knock. “House, go away,” he bellowed. He couldn't deal with House anymore, he needed to move on.

     There was some slight scratching sounds, and then a few moments later, Wilson felt the couch cushions shift and settle, as House sat down next to him. Neither of them said a word for some time. House, seeing Wilson in such despair, was for once at a loss for words. Finally, he was able to say what he had came to say. “Solon once said, '“In giving advice, seek to help, not please, your friend.' I know anything I say right now won't matter. But I am so sorry.” House placed another bottle of scotch down on the table, along with a refill of Wilson's antidepressants along side of it. “For tomorrow. I trust you not to mix the two.” He then placed an white envelope down on the table, and using his cane to push himself to his feet, he left Wilson's apartment silently as he came.

     When he had finally drunk all he could stomach, he stumbled into the bedroom. Seeing the perfect bed there, reminded him of coming home that fateful evening and finding Amber's letter. Dejected he collapsed to the bed in sobs that carried on long after he fell asleep. Alone.

     Wilson woke up the next morning with an acrid stomach and a killer headache. He headed into the kitchen for some water and asprin, and as he was walking back to the bedroom, he again saw the contents of his coffee table. He walked over and picked up the white envelope and opened it. He found several candid pictures of Amber, when she was trying out for House's team, and he had to smile at the openness of her smile, her expressions. There was also several pieces of sheet music, entitled what looked like 'jr high,' and a cd. Swallowing a mouthful of water, Wilson curiously took the cd to the stereo and inserted it.

     Soft piano music began to play. It took Wilson a moment to recognize it, but once he did he realized it was the piece that House had started in junior high that had been finished by his patient Patrick, before he lost his genius.

     Wilson sat down and listened, and continued to look through the pictures of Amber. The last one wasn't of Amber, but of he and House laughing over something, both unaware the picture was being taken. Wilson put the pictures down and put his head in his hands, and let the tears flow. And he sat alone again, with the pieces of his past that brought him here, and sobbed.



cindylouwho: (amber)
Wilson/Amber love for Kenzie

Wilson arrived home, late.  He hoped Amber wouldn’t think it was because of House, because for once, it actually wasn’t.  He had a young patient who had a reaction to her chemo treatment, and as usual he got involved and stayed until everything was settled and as back to normal as cancer could be for a 10 year old.

cindylouwho: (Default)
First I have to say, that without the help of [profile] analytical_47 this mix would have never come to fruition.  While I may be somewhat blessed with words, art and graphics I am not.  She did an amazing, wonderful, and brilliant job, and I thank her. 

This mix contains MAJOR spoilers for Wilson's Heart, and includes the three songs used in the episode. 

cindylouwho: (Default)

House’s head pounds out a steady, incessant rhythm of pain.  In his mind, memories run black and white, with snippets of color, over and over, like a long forgotten movie reel.  It beats, pounds, and comes to a crescendo, like right before the end of Sgt. Pepper.  He wants to open his eyes, but the last time he did it only brought pain in the form of Wilson’s tear filled eyes.

His mouth is as dry as the Gobi, and tastes of long forgotten scotch and Vicodin.  He steadies himself internally and opens his eyes.  There is no one there.  There is a cup in front of him, and he grapples with it in order to get it to his mouth.  He wonders how long he has been out. His thirst isn’t quenched.

                He shuts his eyes again, and the movie reel in his mind plays the same film.  He wonders how long it will be, until he can close his eyes without seeing her dying, without seeing Wilson’s heart breaking into tiny, little pieces.  He wonders if Wilson will forgive him.  He knows he can never forgive himself.  The movie plays on.

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