Wilson looked upon the vacant chair as he hovered near the doorway, one foot placed cautiously in the room while the rest of him lingered outside, keeping vigil in a way that reminded him he had no right to. D's sick pallor and many scratches had made her skin to look like marble: like Michelangelo's David chiselled out of hardship and bitterness... as she trashed in her delirium, her eyes were equally void of colour. As she fell limp again, she seemed to be posing: A moving sculpture shedding its soul one chip at a time.
Yet, he just stood there, pulled further and further into the room until his thumb contacted a dark curl and he lowered himself into the chair while stroking wet hair back lovingly. Cursing his profession because watching people suffer and feeling helpless had lost their meaning, he let words of comfort run amok in the sterile air around them, silently wondering if they ever reached their destination.
She calmed down eventually... staring blankly at the ceiling, afraid to look Wilson's way because the streets had taught her that humanity was futile and he seemed to excel at reversing that, never mind how much she wanted to hold on to that thought. When her tongue felt ready to cooperate and she knew herself capable of offering a decent amount of coherency, she whispered:
"Why are you here, sir?" Her eyes still steered clear of him, looking at discoloured patches on the parchment coloured ceiling.
"Because... I guess I thought you didn't deserve to be alone." His hand rubbed the tension out of his neck in an almost apologetic gesture.
"Yes I do." Words without a heading, uttered so softly that Wilson's hearing them had been pure luck and luck alone.
"Why would you say that?" Wilson drew closer, hand clasping around D's thin wrist, shifting the hospital bracelet that resided there in the process.
"Because I want to be with my dad. Or alone." The hand attached to the wrist Wilson held fidgeted nervously with the bed sheets.
"Why won't you look at me? Are you... okay?" Wilson drew even closer, capturing her other wrist as well and putting himself directly in her line of sight. Frowning when she found something else to look at even though that meant changing positions and doing so left the nasal cannula that supported her oxygen intake at an uncomfortable angle.
"Danielle?"
Nothing. A slight shrug.
"D?"
"How do you know about that?" She resisted the urge to turn and look him in the eye.
"The letter." Wilson almost whispered.
With this, D's breath caught in her throat, thus unleashing a violent coughing fit that left her at the mercy of Wilson's eager interference. "It's okay... come on: breathe for me." He gently placed the oxygen mask she'd been wearing when her attending hadn't trusted her lungs to provide enough on its own over her mouth and nose, staring kindly into her glassy eyes:
"Just listen for a while, can you do that?"
She nodded.
"Thomas and I... he's my brother." Wilson released a heavy sigh. "I've been through the same thing with him... I was a lot older though. I've... never given him drugs or tried them for that matter: I just walked away. Guess you couldn't." He smiled at her, apologizing for that fact before he continued: "We checked your tox' screen when you got admitted... I'm not mad at you, I know what it's like: It's like that's the only thing left to do... and you did it. No surprises there."
She granted him a watery smile... he was still lying though, still too nice and too caring to be human, even if he was her uncle. Maybe he was just a different brand of human. Maybe he had been a baby born in church: destined to leave his doors open to everyone, destined to save the hopeless and rescue those that didn't believe in life nor in good.
Stupid thing was: he was succeeding.
She fell asleep again, his skin still on hers and staying there until an impatient House tapped his cane on the doorframe.
"Why Jimmy, isn't she a bit young for your liking?" House smirked.
"Shut up, House." Wilson pushed himself out of his chair.
"Father again, huh?" House said, nodding towards the scars and scratches on D's body.
"Yeah..." Wilson's head hung low, shameful that such tensions flooded his bloodline, even though he'd never experienced them himself.
"It's always the father." House mumbled bitterly.
They disappeared down the corridor together, leaving D to be guarded by beeps and wires.
-
When she woke up several days later, she was feeling visibly better. The dehydration, starvation and exhaustion she had been brought in with long since resolved. The pneumonia remaining, though lessened already by continuous antibiotics.
Wilson had taken to the habit of lunching in her room: allowing her to sneak things off his plate every now and then simply because he loved watching House turn green of jealousy when he did.
He was there as well when brother Tom came knocking:
"Where is she!?" Thomas demanded, both patients and staff visibly flinching when met with his bewildered appearance.
"Calm down, sir. I'm sure we can find your daughter... no need to make a scene now, is there?" The head nurse tried to soothe him,
"I need her, ma'am. I need her to come home with me." He pulled a gun out of his pocket, eyes shining with childish desperation, almost whining as he said: "She has no reason to be here! She ran away from me... can't do that: that's dangerous." oh, she knew dangerous alright.
"Put the gun down, sir, this isn't necessary!" She said while pushing an alarm button underneath her desk.
Thomas strayed aimlessly in and out of different wards, aiming at random patients: "D, it’s time to go home, honey!"
He entered the staircase, calling loudly: "You're not sick, baby, you're fine! Come on... you don't get sick, I know that. This isn't funny, D!"
He scanned each floor, awarding every request to drop his gun with the temporary chance of getting shot, security on the first floor alerted while he was at the second and so on, until he set foot on the right floor and saw his brother tending to D.
"Hey, you! Don't do that! She doesn't need that! What are you doing to her!"
When Wilson locked eyes with his brother for the first time in ten years, something clicked.
He looked horrible: bags under his eyes, hands engaged in almost spastic motions, his eyes wild and wide (as were his pupils, obviously), his hair sticking out at random angles.
Wilson swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat...
D just smiled her most charming smile: "Hey, dad. Look who I found," A proud smirk graced her face.
"Who the hell is that?" He waved the gun at Wilson, ignoring the crowd that was forming around him and the SWAT guys among it as they called for his attention.
"James Wilson. Come on... what are you going to do with that? Put it away before you hurt yourself."
"No."
With that, he took his gun and aimed for Wilson, sending armed men's arms straight to their own weapons...
No one moved.
Next parts will be co-written with Belle7, who I am fairly sure is new to the spot.
Yet, he just stood there, pulled further and further into the room until his thumb contacted a dark curl and he lowered himself into the chair while stroking wet hair back lovingly. Cursing his profession because watching people suffer and feeling helpless had lost their meaning, he let words of comfort run amok in the sterile air around them, silently wondering if they ever reached their destination.
She calmed down eventually... staring blankly at the ceiling, afraid to look Wilson's way because the streets had taught her that humanity was futile and he seemed to excel at reversing that, never mind how much she wanted to hold on to that thought. When her tongue felt ready to cooperate and she knew herself capable of offering a decent amount of coherency, she whispered:
"Why are you here, sir?" Her eyes still steered clear of him, looking at discoloured patches on the parchment coloured ceiling.
"Because... I guess I thought you didn't deserve to be alone." His hand rubbed the tension out of his neck in an almost apologetic gesture.
"Yes I do." Words without a heading, uttered so softly that Wilson's hearing them had been pure luck and luck alone.
"Why would you say that?" Wilson drew closer, hand clasping around D's thin wrist, shifting the hospital bracelet that resided there in the process.
"Because I want to be with my dad. Or alone." The hand attached to the wrist Wilson held fidgeted nervously with the bed sheets.
"Why won't you look at me? Are you... okay?" Wilson drew even closer, capturing her other wrist as well and putting himself directly in her line of sight. Frowning when she found something else to look at even though that meant changing positions and doing so left the nasal cannula that supported her oxygen intake at an uncomfortable angle.
"Danielle?"
Nothing. A slight shrug.
"D?"
"How do you know about that?" She resisted the urge to turn and look him in the eye.
"The letter." Wilson almost whispered.
With this, D's breath caught in her throat, thus unleashing a violent coughing fit that left her at the mercy of Wilson's eager interference. "It's okay... come on: breathe for me." He gently placed the oxygen mask she'd been wearing when her attending hadn't trusted her lungs to provide enough on its own over her mouth and nose, staring kindly into her glassy eyes:
"Just listen for a while, can you do that?"
She nodded.
"Thomas and I... he's my brother." Wilson released a heavy sigh. "I've been through the same thing with him... I was a lot older though. I've... never given him drugs or tried them for that matter: I just walked away. Guess you couldn't." He smiled at her, apologizing for that fact before he continued: "We checked your tox' screen when you got admitted... I'm not mad at you, I know what it's like: It's like that's the only thing left to do... and you did it. No surprises there."
She granted him a watery smile... he was still lying though, still too nice and too caring to be human, even if he was her uncle. Maybe he was just a different brand of human. Maybe he had been a baby born in church: destined to leave his doors open to everyone, destined to save the hopeless and rescue those that didn't believe in life nor in good.
Stupid thing was: he was succeeding.
She fell asleep again, his skin still on hers and staying there until an impatient House tapped his cane on the doorframe.
"Why Jimmy, isn't she a bit young for your liking?" House smirked.
"Shut up, House." Wilson pushed himself out of his chair.
"Father again, huh?" House said, nodding towards the scars and scratches on D's body.
"Yeah..." Wilson's head hung low, shameful that such tensions flooded his bloodline, even though he'd never experienced them himself.
"It's always the father." House mumbled bitterly.
They disappeared down the corridor together, leaving D to be guarded by beeps and wires.
-
When she woke up several days later, she was feeling visibly better. The dehydration, starvation and exhaustion she had been brought in with long since resolved. The pneumonia remaining, though lessened already by continuous antibiotics.
Wilson had taken to the habit of lunching in her room: allowing her to sneak things off his plate every now and then simply because he loved watching House turn green of jealousy when he did.
He was there as well when brother Tom came knocking:
"Where is she!?" Thomas demanded, both patients and staff visibly flinching when met with his bewildered appearance.
"Calm down, sir. I'm sure we can find your daughter... no need to make a scene now, is there?" The head nurse tried to soothe him,
"I need her, ma'am. I need her to come home with me." He pulled a gun out of his pocket, eyes shining with childish desperation, almost whining as he said: "She has no reason to be here! She ran away from me... can't do that: that's dangerous." oh, she knew dangerous alright.
"Put the gun down, sir, this isn't necessary!" She said while pushing an alarm button underneath her desk.
Thomas strayed aimlessly in and out of different wards, aiming at random patients: "D, it’s time to go home, honey!"
He entered the staircase, calling loudly: "You're not sick, baby, you're fine! Come on... you don't get sick, I know that. This isn't funny, D!"
He scanned each floor, awarding every request to drop his gun with the temporary chance of getting shot, security on the first floor alerted while he was at the second and so on, until he set foot on the right floor and saw his brother tending to D.
"Hey, you! Don't do that! She doesn't need that! What are you doing to her!"
When Wilson locked eyes with his brother for the first time in ten years, something clicked.
He looked horrible: bags under his eyes, hands engaged in almost spastic motions, his eyes wild and wide (as were his pupils, obviously), his hair sticking out at random angles.
Wilson swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat...
D just smiled her most charming smile: "Hey, dad. Look who I found," A proud smirk graced her face.
"Who the hell is that?" He waved the gun at Wilson, ignoring the crowd that was forming around him and the SWAT guys among it as they called for his attention.
"James Wilson. Come on... what are you going to do with that? Put it away before you hurt yourself."
"No."
With that, he took his gun and aimed for Wilson, sending armed men's arms straight to their own weapons...
No one moved.
Next parts will be co-written with Belle7, who I am fairly sure is new to the spot.