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house_wilson2011-03-16 07:21 pm
nightdog_barks) wrote in house_wilson2011-03-16 07:21 pm
Entry tags:
Last Known Address
Title: Last Known Address
Author:nightdog_barks
Characters: Wilson. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Yes, for episode 7.16 ("Out of the Chute").
Summary: Sometimes it's best to move on. 542 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Another follow-on toblackmare's episode tag Cannonball, begins with the last two lines of that fic. Cut-text is from the song Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of, by U2. Full lyrics are here.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks totopaz_eyes.
Last Known Address
He sets Sarah gently on the floor, and pours himself a tumbler of scotch.
The ringing stops.
He stands there for a moment. The amber liquid trembles in the glass; the scent of peat smoke tickles his nostrils, and he throws back the full measure in one swift gulp. His eyes water, and he thinks he might vomit, but he chokes down the bitter bile and makes his way to the couch. Sarah follows, mrring softly, and winds around his ankles as he sits down. Wilson closes his eyes, but House falls and he opens them immediately. "Fuck," he mumbles, and scrubs at his face with his hands. House falls again, this time waving on the way down, and he takes his hands away. He stares into the middle distance, allowing Sarah to buffet softly against his shins.
This will never end. Who knows what House will do next? There's deep-sea diving and nitrogen narcosis, jumping out of planes and chutes failing to open, Russian roulette and triggers to pull. This will never end, and Wilson will be there to see it, every damn time. Except he won't.
He gets up and moves into the kitchen. On some level he notes he's walking with all the stiffness of a man old before his time, but Sarah is excited at his opening the refrigerator door and starts to meow. He takes out the little tray of pre-measured insulin doses and counts how many are left. Twelve pens -- should be more than enough until he can walk into a new vet's office, get a new scrip.
His hands are steady now as he readies the shot and hoists Sarah onto the counter. He'll need to pull her carrier out of the closet, put the insulin doses in the portable cooler along with some Zip-loc ice bags. Cat food, treats, toys. Suitcases, his laptop, a couple of sandwiches. Stamps and envelopes -- he can write the letter from a rest stop once he's out of the city, mail it from a post office in Boston, or over the border in Kittery. Portland would be even better, give him more of a cushion. The simplest thing would be to just send an email, but he can't shake the uneasy feeling that House could trace his whereabouts from an electronic signature. That is, if he cared enough to do that, but who knows? He might do it just to prove he could.
"Stupid," Wilson murmurs. He's not sure whom he's referring to, but it doesn't really matter. Sarah twitches her tail and looks up at him.
He puts one hand over Sarah's face, gently covers her eyes. The cat purrs and leans into him. He'll let Sandy know he's gone -- a death in the family, yes, very sudden. He doubts he'll be employable at any major hospital after this, not even as an orderly, but at least he'll be out of the rescue business. It was a losing bet to begin with.
The last thing he'll do before he leaves is call Bonnie, tell her to sell the place as is. He can always rent new stuff, wherever he washes up.
Besides, it's not like anything here is really his, anyway.
~ fin
Author:
nightdog_barks Characters: Wilson. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Yes, for episode 7.16 ("Out of the Chute").
Summary: Sometimes it's best to move on. 542 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: Another follow-on to
blackmare's episode tag Cannonball, begins with the last two lines of that fic. Cut-text is from the song Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of, by U2. Full lyrics are here. Beta: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
topaz_eyes.Last Known Address
He sets Sarah gently on the floor, and pours himself a tumbler of scotch.
The ringing stops.
He stands there for a moment. The amber liquid trembles in the glass; the scent of peat smoke tickles his nostrils, and he throws back the full measure in one swift gulp. His eyes water, and he thinks he might vomit, but he chokes down the bitter bile and makes his way to the couch. Sarah follows, mrring softly, and winds around his ankles as he sits down. Wilson closes his eyes, but House falls and he opens them immediately. "Fuck," he mumbles, and scrubs at his face with his hands. House falls again, this time waving on the way down, and he takes his hands away. He stares into the middle distance, allowing Sarah to buffet softly against his shins.
This will never end. Who knows what House will do next? There's deep-sea diving and nitrogen narcosis, jumping out of planes and chutes failing to open, Russian roulette and triggers to pull. This will never end, and Wilson will be there to see it, every damn time. Except he won't.
He gets up and moves into the kitchen. On some level he notes he's walking with all the stiffness of a man old before his time, but Sarah is excited at his opening the refrigerator door and starts to meow. He takes out the little tray of pre-measured insulin doses and counts how many are left. Twelve pens -- should be more than enough until he can walk into a new vet's office, get a new scrip.
His hands are steady now as he readies the shot and hoists Sarah onto the counter. He'll need to pull her carrier out of the closet, put the insulin doses in the portable cooler along with some Zip-loc ice bags. Cat food, treats, toys. Suitcases, his laptop, a couple of sandwiches. Stamps and envelopes -- he can write the letter from a rest stop once he's out of the city, mail it from a post office in Boston, or over the border in Kittery. Portland would be even better, give him more of a cushion. The simplest thing would be to just send an email, but he can't shake the uneasy feeling that House could trace his whereabouts from an electronic signature. That is, if he cared enough to do that, but who knows? He might do it just to prove he could.
"Stupid," Wilson murmurs. He's not sure whom he's referring to, but it doesn't really matter. Sarah twitches her tail and looks up at him.
He puts one hand over Sarah's face, gently covers her eyes. The cat purrs and leans into him. He'll let Sandy know he's gone -- a death in the family, yes, very sudden. He doubts he'll be employable at any major hospital after this, not even as an orderly, but at least he'll be out of the rescue business. It was a losing bet to begin with.
The last thing he'll do before he leaves is call Bonnie, tell her to sell the place as is. He can always rent new stuff, wherever he washes up.
Besides, it's not like anything here is really his, anyway.
~ fin