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sick_wilson2010-07-04 12:11 am
barefootpuddles.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2010-07-04 12:11 am
Entry tags:
The Fourth of July - a ficlet
Title: The Fourth of July
Author: Barefootpuddles
Rating: PG
Word Count: 773
Pairing: House/Wilson, gen or slash goggles
Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own.
Summary: House spends the Fourth of July taking care of Wilson. Wilson spends it on the battlefield.
Notes: A bit of a departure for me, writing style wise. Written for the Camp Sick!Wilson Fourth of July Challenge (and to get the darn sailboat badge already). The prompts I used were - war, fireworks, burns.
Wilson
The bullets were everywhere. There was no hiding from them, no escaping. His sleeve caught on barbed wire and unable to get free, Wilson dug his head as hard down into the sand as he could and prayed that his helmet would protect him. He lay there listening to the sounds of explosions as the mortars rained down around him, to his left and to his right, always just missing him. The constant machine gun fire of the enemy and the answering guns of his own comrades in arms passed in mere inches over his head, so close that he could feel the wind channels they created. The heat of flying shrapnel burned against his exposed neck and rivulets of sweat ran down his head and pooled uncomfortably into his ears. The tracers above streamed by at untimed intervals blinding him, and meaningless colors now swirled behind his tightly shut eyelids. His breathing was made shallow from the sand pocket that surrounded his mouth and he lay as still as he could; silently praying that if he was destined to die, that it happen soon.
House
He limped into the room with a new basin of cool water and a fresh towel, only to find Wilson had somehow turned onto his stomach, entangling himself in the sheets, his face pressed dangerously deep into the pillow. House made his way awkwardly to Wilson’s bedside, lowered himself into a chair and sighed. Since when had he signed up to be a nursemaid to a fever addled man? He wasn’t any damn good at this sort of thing. Why on earth did he ever send Cuddy and Thirteen home when they had stopped by to check on the boy wonder? Did he really think Wilson would somehow prefer his brand of caring to theirs? His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly loud set of firecrackers being set off in the alley behind the condo. House pushed himself back onto his feet and limped across the room to shut the window, pausing briefly to watch the distant fireworks explosions light up the night sky. It seemed like everyone, except for Wilson and him, were celebrating.
Returning to his friend’s bedside he moved the pillow somewhat to make a better air pocket for breathing and placed a hand on his colleagues’ neck. Feeling the intense heat rise off the skin, he gently blew a stream of air directed at Wilson’s sweat drenched forehead before bending over to whisper softly into an unhearing ear, “You’re okay, buddy. I’m here.”
Sitting back in his chair, he soaked the towel in the basin, wrung out the extra water, and once again began the tedious process of cooling down Wilson’s core body temperature; all the while the room was backlit by distant colors and muted patriotic thunder. After a few moments Wilson’s hand touched his own and gave a small squeeze. House fought down a smile, it wasn’t safe to celebrate just yet.
Wilson
It was quieter now - the guns more distant, the explosions less intense - the battle had moved further away. But his momentary relief was soon overcome by panic. If he was entangled here, trapped on this twisted metal, would they ever find him? Would his unit notice he was missing, or would he simply be assumed dead? He struggled for a moment only to find that while his arm was now free the rest of his body was too heavy to move. Could he have been wounded and not noticed? He knew the body could do funny things like that – he had once seen a man who had lost most of the lower half of his body in a car accident and had been in no pain at all. Perhaps one of those mortars had landed closer than he had thought? Perhaps he was really dying here after all?
And then suddenly someone was there, kneeling next to him –a countryman, a fellow soldier. A soft hand and some gentle words of reassurance followed. A medic perhaps? Cool water was being dripped into his mouth now, sponged onto his head and down his back. Maybe he had blacked out for a while and had been transported to an aid station or even a field hospital. He was too tired to open his eyes and look. What little energy he had left needed to be preserved if he was to survive, he knew that much. So instead he simply grabbed the hand of the man who bore the cooling water and gave it a quick squeeze of thanks. Wilson could only hope that the man understood.
Author: Barefootpuddles
Rating: PG
Word Count: 773
Pairing: House/Wilson, gen or slash goggles
Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own.
Summary: House spends the Fourth of July taking care of Wilson. Wilson spends it on the battlefield.
Notes: A bit of a departure for me, writing style wise. Written for the Camp Sick!Wilson Fourth of July Challenge (and to get the darn sailboat badge already). The prompts I used were - war, fireworks, burns.
Wilson
The bullets were everywhere. There was no hiding from them, no escaping. His sleeve caught on barbed wire and unable to get free, Wilson dug his head as hard down into the sand as he could and prayed that his helmet would protect him. He lay there listening to the sounds of explosions as the mortars rained down around him, to his left and to his right, always just missing him. The constant machine gun fire of the enemy and the answering guns of his own comrades in arms passed in mere inches over his head, so close that he could feel the wind channels they created. The heat of flying shrapnel burned against his exposed neck and rivulets of sweat ran down his head and pooled uncomfortably into his ears. The tracers above streamed by at untimed intervals blinding him, and meaningless colors now swirled behind his tightly shut eyelids. His breathing was made shallow from the sand pocket that surrounded his mouth and he lay as still as he could; silently praying that if he was destined to die, that it happen soon.
House
He limped into the room with a new basin of cool water and a fresh towel, only to find Wilson had somehow turned onto his stomach, entangling himself in the sheets, his face pressed dangerously deep into the pillow. House made his way awkwardly to Wilson’s bedside, lowered himself into a chair and sighed. Since when had he signed up to be a nursemaid to a fever addled man? He wasn’t any damn good at this sort of thing. Why on earth did he ever send Cuddy and Thirteen home when they had stopped by to check on the boy wonder? Did he really think Wilson would somehow prefer his brand of caring to theirs? His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly loud set of firecrackers being set off in the alley behind the condo. House pushed himself back onto his feet and limped across the room to shut the window, pausing briefly to watch the distant fireworks explosions light up the night sky. It seemed like everyone, except for Wilson and him, were celebrating.
Returning to his friend’s bedside he moved the pillow somewhat to make a better air pocket for breathing and placed a hand on his colleagues’ neck. Feeling the intense heat rise off the skin, he gently blew a stream of air directed at Wilson’s sweat drenched forehead before bending over to whisper softly into an unhearing ear, “You’re okay, buddy. I’m here.”
Sitting back in his chair, he soaked the towel in the basin, wrung out the extra water, and once again began the tedious process of cooling down Wilson’s core body temperature; all the while the room was backlit by distant colors and muted patriotic thunder. After a few moments Wilson’s hand touched his own and gave a small squeeze. House fought down a smile, it wasn’t safe to celebrate just yet.
Wilson
It was quieter now - the guns more distant, the explosions less intense - the battle had moved further away. But his momentary relief was soon overcome by panic. If he was entangled here, trapped on this twisted metal, would they ever find him? Would his unit notice he was missing, or would he simply be assumed dead? He struggled for a moment only to find that while his arm was now free the rest of his body was too heavy to move. Could he have been wounded and not noticed? He knew the body could do funny things like that – he had once seen a man who had lost most of the lower half of his body in a car accident and had been in no pain at all. Perhaps one of those mortars had landed closer than he had thought? Perhaps he was really dying here after all?
And then suddenly someone was there, kneeling next to him –a countryman, a fellow soldier. A soft hand and some gentle words of reassurance followed. A medic perhaps? Cool water was being dripped into his mouth now, sponged onto his head and down his back. Maybe he had blacked out for a while and had been transported to an aid station or even a field hospital. He was too tired to open his eyes and look. What little energy he had left needed to be preserved if he was to survive, he knew that much. So instead he simply grabbed the hand of the man who bore the cooling water and gave it a quick squeeze of thanks. Wilson could only hope that the man understood.