Author: 3rdgal PM
Written for the 50 Ways to Hurt Your Wilson challenge on LJ. Prompt 12. cerebral aneurysm. Not a happy fic but no character death.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - J. Wilson & G. House - Words: 622 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 5 - Follows: 2 - Published: 01-07-10 - Status: Complete - id: 5649776
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: I don't own them. *sigh*
Beta: The wonderful rslworks!
It was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen.
At some point in its miserable existence it might have been attractive. The dingy brown color might have once been blindingly white; the dull, scratched marbles a glistening ebony; the matted coat an angora-soft wool.
Now it was just a hideous shell of its former self – not unlike the man holding it.
His gaze traveled up the bed to study what had once been a handsome, witty man who could hold his own against caustic barbs and devious pranks. The formerly well-groomed, luxurious brown hair had grown too long, lying limp against pale skin. The twinkling brown eyes had long ago sunken into their orbits and now appeared infrequently, usually glazed with confusion. As the mind wasted away, so too, had the body, until all that remained was a scrawny figure that looked more skeletal than human.
Sometimes he wondered why he still bothered to come.
The man – if he could be called that – on the bed stirred, his arm tightening on the grungy object he hugged to his chest. Eyelids fluttered open to half-mast and mud-colored eyes sought out his visitor.
"You in there today?"
A faint grunt issued forth from the bedridden man's throat.
"You know who I am?"
The visitor smiled at the name he'd grown accustomed to in the past six months. "That's right."
"Sing? Gee, no 'how was your day'?"
The visitor grinned at the familiar scolding and frustration in the voice. That's why he still came; his friend was still alive inside the wreck that used to be his body.
"Okay, I'll sing." He carefully rested his hand on the well-loved stuffed lamb in his friend's grasp, gently brushing his fingers along thin, cool ones. Taking a deep breath, he conjured the melody of an old childhood song.
"Wilson loved a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Wilson loved a little lamb who kept him nice and sane."
Brown eyes disappeared beneath alabaster eyelids as a contented sigh whispered from translucent lips.
"I'll be back tomorrow, okay?"
The slight figure on the bed stretched his fingers to rub along House's palm; his silent way of saying good-bye.
House quietly withdrew his hand and limped from the room. He leaned against the wall outside, angrily wiping at the moisture that burned in his eyes. If only they had known, had some warning sign… But no, leave it to Wilson – Mister Ordinary – to be in the ninety percent of people who show no symptoms of a cerebral aneurysm until it's too late.
After treatment and three of the longest weeks of House's life, Wilson had finally emerged from his coma, seemingly none the worse for wear. For almost a full week, he'd bantered with House, complained about hospital food, and reassured every concerned soul who visited that he was feeling perfectly fine.
Apparently 'fine' had an expiration date.
On his sixth day after awakening, Wilson's cognitive functions were gone, only to reappear every so often in a completely random manner. Despite the emotional toll on himself, House had vowed to visit his friend everyday, lest he miss the last lucid moment he feared loomed on the horizon.
House had been true to his word for six months now, although sometimes he couldn't help but wonder…
Just how much longer could he and Wilson survive in their damaged states?
A/N: The song idea came from The Simpsons episode "Thursday with Abie", in which Nelson sings a very disturbing version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb".