Housefic: The Beggar's Horse
Mar. 15th, 2009 12:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksBringing up a clean copy to post to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
housefic and house_wilson.
ETA: Posted.
TITLE: The Beggar's Horse
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes.
CHARACTERS: House, Wilson, an OFC
RATING: A soft R, for mention of a traumatic event that may prove upsetting.
WARNINGS: Yes, for the death of a major character.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: Sometimes a wish is all you have when there's nothing left to hold onto. 2,329 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: If you think this reminds you of a certain classic ghost story, you're right. Sparked by a comment fromtakes_a_fairy, although this probably isn't the fic she envisioned. More notes are at the end of this tale; the LJ-cut text is from Walt Whitman's A child said, What is the grass?.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks toperspi and blackmare_9.
The Beggar's Horse
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
~ Traditional English proverb
It was half past one when Wilson died, and House sat back in his chair, rubbing for a moment at the skin above his left eyebrow. When he finally rose, it was slowly, reflecting every moment of the four hours he'd been sitting and waiting. He strode down the hospital corridor, ignoring everything and everyone, until a woman bumped into his path.
"Dr. House?" she said, and House stopped, just for a moment. Then he shook his head and started forward again.
"Dr. House!" the woman said, and blocked his way. House made a low growling noise deep in his throat, but the woman refused to budge.
"I need to talk to you," she said.
"Nothing to talk about," House said, and attempted to go around her. His growl deepened when she adroitly sidestepped to follow his escape, left, right, and center. At last he stopped entirely and glared at her. "Go away," he said.
"No," the woman replied. "Not until we've talked." Her gaze was steady and certain. "I'm Brianna Morgan," she said. "Carl Morgan's sister."
"Even less reason I'd want to talk to you," House said. "Now get out of my way."
The woman's mouth twisted, and she blocked his way again.
"Please," she said, and laid her right hand over House's grip of his cane. "Please."
"House?"
It was Cuddy, behind them both, standing lost and uncertain in the hallway. House rubbed furiously at his eyebrow again.
"Not now!" he said, his voice rising on the second word so that he practically shouted it in the narrow space. "Not now, Cuddy," he said again, more quietly. "Later. Just ... later." He looked down. Brianna Morgan was still watching him.
"I have to ... talk to someone," House said.
"I understand why you don't want this," Brianna Morgan said. She followed House's hands as he tore open a packet of sugar and dumped it into his coffee.
"I doubt that," House said. The usual clatter and conversation of the hospital cafeteria were muted, and the police and FBI officers spoke quietly in the corners. House gave his coffee a quick stir and took a sip. He grimaced; it was high-quality crap, as usual.
"Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame," he said. "You're no different."
Morgan smiled, but it was a smile without humor.
"That's where you're wrong," she said. "I just want to make things right."
"Things will never be right," House snapped. God, but his coffee was hot. "My friend is dead. Your brother's the cause. Thanks for playing."
"Dr. House, I didn't know what Carl was planning -- "
"That makes two of us. Or should I say three? Or -- " House fixed her with a steely glare. "Should I say nine, since that's how many were in the bank? Nine hostages that your brother and his buddies killed?"
"Doctor -- "
"Fuck off," House snarled. He set down his coffee and started to stand up.
"Dr. House. Will you please listen to me?" Brianna Morgan was breathing fast, her hands palm-down on the formica table-top. "I've got something for you. Something that might help, if you will just shut the fuck up and listen." Her face flushed, and she looked away. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She sniffled, and swiped at her nose with the back of one hand. "I still can't believe this is happening," she mumbled.
"That makes two of us," House said. He sat back down, suddenly very tired, and watched without curiosity as the woman fumbled for something inside her purse.
"Here," she said, and set a small blue figurine on the table. House's eyes narrowed, and after a long moment, he picked it up.
The small sculpture was smooth, its surface worn to a dull patina from centuries of human touch. At first glance it reminded him of a Japanese netsuke -- a couple of inches tall, just big enough to fit comfortably in its owner's hand. It was from the wrong side of Asia for it to be an obi catch, though. The tiny monkey that gazed back at him was blue, a glazed faience thousands of years older than the Japanese Edo Period. Its simian face was turned outwards; it held what might have once been a ball or a round piece of fruit in its lap, and although one ear was pierced, the golden ring was long gone.
"Egyptian," House said. "Probably from the New Kingdom." He looked back up. "This is museum quality. Where'd you get it?"
"It was Carl's," she murmured. "He gave it to me, right before he ... he ... " Her voice died away.
House shifted in his chair; his leg was starting to ache, a vicious, gnawing pain demanding recognition. He ignored it. The faience monkey was giving nothing away, and House's attention had started to drift when Brianna Morgan spoke again.
"Carl got it from his cousin Ronnie," she said. "And he got it from some friend, who got it from another friend, who ... I don't know. I don't know how many were in the chain, but Carl told me they all said the same thing -- that it came from a ... from an antiques dealer. In Iraq."
House's right eyebrow quirked upwards.
"Which would actually mean an antiques looter," he said. He set the tiny figurine back on the table. "This was probably in the National Museum. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" He nudged the faience monkey so that its gaze fell on Brianna Morgan. "Or why your brother picked this morning to hold up a bank. Or why he and his partners decided it would be more fun to kill hostages than surrender. Or -- "
"Stop it," Morgan whispered. "Just stop." She dug in her purse again; this time it was for an open packet of Kleenex. She pulled a tissue free and dabbed at her eyes. "Do you want it or not?"
House shook his head. "What makes you think I'd want anything from you?"
The woman blew her nose and wadded up the used tissue. Her breath caught with a hitch, and her eyes shone with unshed tears.
"Because," she said. "It changes things. It makes things happen."
House stumped slowly down the hallway; at some far edge of consciousness, he was aware that people were giving him a wide berth. It was something they usually did anyway, but now it was as if he was physically marked with some sign visible only to others. The faience monkey was his only companion, resting inside his jacket pocket. House's coffee had grown cold while he'd listened to Morgan's crazy story, interrupted every few minutes for a sniffle or another session of sinus-clearing into a fresh tissue.
She'd told of soldiers protected from IEDs and snipers, of whole squads cut down with one left to tell the tale. Of all the men in a crashed Chinook dying, except for the one who emerged without a scratch. Of men being suddenly transferred Stateside, to the safety and comfort of Fort Hood, Fort Dix, Fort Benning. Of winning lotteries, inheriting fortunes they'd never known existed, betting on the dark horse and hitting the jackpot every time.
Of men afraid to use the blue faience monkey for too long, fearing the luck would run out.
"All you have to do is wish," she'd said. "But you only get three, and then you have to give it to someone else."
It was insane, a ridiculous mishmash of cause mistaken for effect, coincidence and happenstance, magical thinking carried to its ultimate bullshit conclusion, and he'd finally agreed to take the damn thing just to shut her up. It wasn't like he was going to keep it; he'd take it over to the University's Department of Art and Archeology at McCormick Hall tomorrow.
"Why don't people wish for more wishes?" he had asked, only to see her shake her head.
"It doesn't work that way," she'd whispered. "Nothing happens, and you've wasted a wish."
House stopped for a moment and closed his eyes; he felt empty, as if he'd been hollowed out by some gigantic psychic ice-cream scoop. The coffee he'd drunk rolled in his stomach, a bitter wave that he could taste in the back of his throat. He should've bought something to eat while he was in the cafeteria, but he'd left his wallet upstairs when he'd been called to the ER, and all he'd had was the change in his pockets ...
He pushed his free hand into his coat pocket, searching for cash. A five would be good, a ten would be even better, but all that was there was the faience monkey.
"Why me?" he had asked. "Why not the family of some other poor bastard? There were enough of them there in the Emergency bay."
She'd looked away. "Because," she said. "You were the only one there with a cane."
House waited until the gurgling in his gut settled back down before opening his eyes. There was something green on the floor ahead of him, right in the middle of the hallway. House limped towards it; out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the hospital janitors lifting a mop from a bucket, water slopping close to the piece of green paper. Because that's what it was -- a piece of green and white paper, thin and rectangular and etched with designs, of the sort he usually saw when he was coaxing them from Wilson's wallet. A ten-dollar bill. He stooped awkwardly to pick it up, inches from the janitor's mop.
"Hey, Dr. House!" the janitor exclaimed. "Watch your step, okay?" The man squinted. "Hey, what's that you got there?"
House stared at him; the janitor looked back, innocently bemused.
"You didn't see this?" House demanded. He held up the bill. Alexander Hamilton gazed serenely off into the distance.
"What ... oh! No, I sure didn't." The janitor's brows furrowed in real puzzlement. "And it was right there. How'd I miss that?" He studied the floor as if the linoleum held the answer, then looked up again. "This isn't some kind of magic trick, is it?"
"No," House said, stuffing the banknote in his pocket so that it covered up the faience monkey. "There's no such thing as magic."
"Why didn't Carl just wish for a million dollars?" House had asked. The words had stuck in his throat, burned his tongue.
Brianna Morgan had just shaken her head.
"He did," she said. "What do you think he was doing at the bank?"
House was drunk. He'd been that way since about four o'clock, when he'd gotten home, retrieved a bottle of bourbon from the kitchen, and poured the first of a healthy three fingers into a glass. The little blue monkey watched him, unruffled, from its position on the coffee table.
"Shut up," House grumbled. "This isn't happening." And it wasn't happening, not at all, because things like this didn't happen. And there was one sure-fire way to prove it wasn't happening, but House needed to be a little drunker first. He refilled his glass. He knew that if he went to the window, he'd see Taub parked outside. Before Taub it had been Kutner, and after Taub it would probably be Chase. Taking turns watching because Cuddy was afraid he'd off himself. Like he'd commit suicide because of this. He eyed the monkey figurine.
"Tragedies happen all the time," he said, and took another drink. The only tragedy here was that he couldn't remember the last thing Wilson had said. It was putting a dent in his near-eidetic memory, and it was pissing him off. To be fair, it had probably been something meaningless like "Oh, really?" or "I'll keep that in mind," or "House, you idiot." But what if it had been "The secret of life is contained in the Fibonacci Sequence times nine," or "There's a code hidden in the Preamble to the Constitution that proves the existence of the Illuminati," or "I'm really a blond."
Of course, Wilson's real last words had probably been something along the lines of "Oh, God, please don't kill me," but where was the fun in that?
He glared at the faience monkey. "I hate you," he told it. If Wilson were here ...
But Wilson would never be here. Never, as in not ever, at no time, not in any degree, not under any condition.
He took another sip of his drink and blinked; his eyes were teary and stinging from the whiskey fumes. He regarded the small blue figurine.
"You want me to wish for money," he rasped out. "You do. And then I'll find out tomorrow that I was listed in Wilson's will." He set the glass down on the table with a thump. On some level he was aware that he was deeply, profoundly drunk. "That's the way it works, isn't it? All those guys who won the lottery, who bet on the ponies -- they probably turned around and invested it with Bernie Madoff. Bought Porsches that their kids ended up wrapping around a tree." He picked up the faience monkey and gripped it tightly in his fist. "What's my penance going to be? What?" He felt a dampness on his cheeks, and he could taste salt in the corners of his mouth.
"Fuck you," he told the little statue. "Fuck you, and fuck Wilson for being such a goddamn ... a goddamn bystander." House squeezed tighter, as if he might shatter the faience monkey by grip alone. "God damn it," he murmured. "You piece of shit, I wish Wilson was alive. I wish ... he was alive."
Nothing happened, and after a moment House loosened his hold and set the blue monkey back down.
He sat for hours, staring dully into the darkness, and when the faint sound of knocking finally came in the last minutes before true dawn, he arose at once to open the door.
~ fin
Notes:
This fic is based on the classic W.W. Jacobs short story The Monkey's Paw.
The basis for the blue faience monkey may be found here.
A Slate.com article on the 2003 looting of the National Museum of Antiquities in Baghdad, Iraq, may be found here.
The Wikipedia page for Japanese netsukes is here.
Princeton University really does have a Department of Art and Archeology! Their page is here.
housefic and house_wilson.ETA: Posted.
TITLE: The Beggar's Horse
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writes. CHARACTERS: House, Wilson, an OFC
RATING: A soft R, for mention of a traumatic event that may prove upsetting.
WARNINGS: Yes, for the death of a major character.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: Sometimes a wish is all you have when there's nothing left to hold onto. 2,329 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: If you think this reminds you of a certain classic ghost story, you're right. Sparked by a comment from
takes_a_fairy, although this probably isn't the fic she envisioned. More notes are at the end of this tale; the LJ-cut text is from Walt Whitman's A child said, What is the grass?. BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to
perspi and blackmare_9.The Beggar's Horse
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
~ Traditional English proverb
It was half past one when Wilson died, and House sat back in his chair, rubbing for a moment at the skin above his left eyebrow. When he finally rose, it was slowly, reflecting every moment of the four hours he'd been sitting and waiting. He strode down the hospital corridor, ignoring everything and everyone, until a woman bumped into his path.
"Dr. House?" she said, and House stopped, just for a moment. Then he shook his head and started forward again.
"Dr. House!" the woman said, and blocked his way. House made a low growling noise deep in his throat, but the woman refused to budge.
"I need to talk to you," she said.
"Nothing to talk about," House said, and attempted to go around her. His growl deepened when she adroitly sidestepped to follow his escape, left, right, and center. At last he stopped entirely and glared at her. "Go away," he said.
"No," the woman replied. "Not until we've talked." Her gaze was steady and certain. "I'm Brianna Morgan," she said. "Carl Morgan's sister."
"Even less reason I'd want to talk to you," House said. "Now get out of my way."
The woman's mouth twisted, and she blocked his way again.
"Please," she said, and laid her right hand over House's grip of his cane. "Please."
"House?"
It was Cuddy, behind them both, standing lost and uncertain in the hallway. House rubbed furiously at his eyebrow again.
"Not now!" he said, his voice rising on the second word so that he practically shouted it in the narrow space. "Not now, Cuddy," he said again, more quietly. "Later. Just ... later." He looked down. Brianna Morgan was still watching him.
"I have to ... talk to someone," House said.
"I understand why you don't want this," Brianna Morgan said. She followed House's hands as he tore open a packet of sugar and dumped it into his coffee.
"I doubt that," House said. The usual clatter and conversation of the hospital cafeteria were muted, and the police and FBI officers spoke quietly in the corners. House gave his coffee a quick stir and took a sip. He grimaced; it was high-quality crap, as usual.
"Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame," he said. "You're no different."
Morgan smiled, but it was a smile without humor.
"That's where you're wrong," she said. "I just want to make things right."
"Things will never be right," House snapped. God, but his coffee was hot. "My friend is dead. Your brother's the cause. Thanks for playing."
"Dr. House, I didn't know what Carl was planning -- "
"That makes two of us. Or should I say three? Or -- " House fixed her with a steely glare. "Should I say nine, since that's how many were in the bank? Nine hostages that your brother and his buddies killed?"
"Doctor -- "
"Fuck off," House snarled. He set down his coffee and started to stand up.
"Dr. House. Will you please listen to me?" Brianna Morgan was breathing fast, her hands palm-down on the formica table-top. "I've got something for you. Something that might help, if you will just shut the fuck up and listen." Her face flushed, and she looked away. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She sniffled, and swiped at her nose with the back of one hand. "I still can't believe this is happening," she mumbled.
"That makes two of us," House said. He sat back down, suddenly very tired, and watched without curiosity as the woman fumbled for something inside her purse.
"Here," she said, and set a small blue figurine on the table. House's eyes narrowed, and after a long moment, he picked it up.
The small sculpture was smooth, its surface worn to a dull patina from centuries of human touch. At first glance it reminded him of a Japanese netsuke -- a couple of inches tall, just big enough to fit comfortably in its owner's hand. It was from the wrong side of Asia for it to be an obi catch, though. The tiny monkey that gazed back at him was blue, a glazed faience thousands of years older than the Japanese Edo Period. Its simian face was turned outwards; it held what might have once been a ball or a round piece of fruit in its lap, and although one ear was pierced, the golden ring was long gone.
"Egyptian," House said. "Probably from the New Kingdom." He looked back up. "This is museum quality. Where'd you get it?"
"It was Carl's," she murmured. "He gave it to me, right before he ... he ... " Her voice died away.
House shifted in his chair; his leg was starting to ache, a vicious, gnawing pain demanding recognition. He ignored it. The faience monkey was giving nothing away, and House's attention had started to drift when Brianna Morgan spoke again.
"Carl got it from his cousin Ronnie," she said. "And he got it from some friend, who got it from another friend, who ... I don't know. I don't know how many were in the chain, but Carl told me they all said the same thing -- that it came from a ... from an antiques dealer. In Iraq."
House's right eyebrow quirked upwards.
"Which would actually mean an antiques looter," he said. He set the tiny figurine back on the table. "This was probably in the National Museum. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" He nudged the faience monkey so that its gaze fell on Brianna Morgan. "Or why your brother picked this morning to hold up a bank. Or why he and his partners decided it would be more fun to kill hostages than surrender. Or -- "
"Stop it," Morgan whispered. "Just stop." She dug in her purse again; this time it was for an open packet of Kleenex. She pulled a tissue free and dabbed at her eyes. "Do you want it or not?"
House shook his head. "What makes you think I'd want anything from you?"
The woman blew her nose and wadded up the used tissue. Her breath caught with a hitch, and her eyes shone with unshed tears.
"Because," she said. "It changes things. It makes things happen."
House stumped slowly down the hallway; at some far edge of consciousness, he was aware that people were giving him a wide berth. It was something they usually did anyway, but now it was as if he was physically marked with some sign visible only to others. The faience monkey was his only companion, resting inside his jacket pocket. House's coffee had grown cold while he'd listened to Morgan's crazy story, interrupted every few minutes for a sniffle or another session of sinus-clearing into a fresh tissue.
She'd told of soldiers protected from IEDs and snipers, of whole squads cut down with one left to tell the tale. Of all the men in a crashed Chinook dying, except for the one who emerged without a scratch. Of men being suddenly transferred Stateside, to the safety and comfort of Fort Hood, Fort Dix, Fort Benning. Of winning lotteries, inheriting fortunes they'd never known existed, betting on the dark horse and hitting the jackpot every time.
Of men afraid to use the blue faience monkey for too long, fearing the luck would run out.
"All you have to do is wish," she'd said. "But you only get three, and then you have to give it to someone else."
It was insane, a ridiculous mishmash of cause mistaken for effect, coincidence and happenstance, magical thinking carried to its ultimate bullshit conclusion, and he'd finally agreed to take the damn thing just to shut her up. It wasn't like he was going to keep it; he'd take it over to the University's Department of Art and Archeology at McCormick Hall tomorrow.
"Why don't people wish for more wishes?" he had asked, only to see her shake her head.
"It doesn't work that way," she'd whispered. "Nothing happens, and you've wasted a wish."
House stopped for a moment and closed his eyes; he felt empty, as if he'd been hollowed out by some gigantic psychic ice-cream scoop. The coffee he'd drunk rolled in his stomach, a bitter wave that he could taste in the back of his throat. He should've bought something to eat while he was in the cafeteria, but he'd left his wallet upstairs when he'd been called to the ER, and all he'd had was the change in his pockets ...
He pushed his free hand into his coat pocket, searching for cash. A five would be good, a ten would be even better, but all that was there was the faience monkey.
"Why me?" he had asked. "Why not the family of some other poor bastard? There were enough of them there in the Emergency bay."
She'd looked away. "Because," she said. "You were the only one there with a cane."
House waited until the gurgling in his gut settled back down before opening his eyes. There was something green on the floor ahead of him, right in the middle of the hallway. House limped towards it; out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the hospital janitors lifting a mop from a bucket, water slopping close to the piece of green paper. Because that's what it was -- a piece of green and white paper, thin and rectangular and etched with designs, of the sort he usually saw when he was coaxing them from Wilson's wallet. A ten-dollar bill. He stooped awkwardly to pick it up, inches from the janitor's mop.
"Hey, Dr. House!" the janitor exclaimed. "Watch your step, okay?" The man squinted. "Hey, what's that you got there?"
House stared at him; the janitor looked back, innocently bemused.
"You didn't see this?" House demanded. He held up the bill. Alexander Hamilton gazed serenely off into the distance.
"What ... oh! No, I sure didn't." The janitor's brows furrowed in real puzzlement. "And it was right there. How'd I miss that?" He studied the floor as if the linoleum held the answer, then looked up again. "This isn't some kind of magic trick, is it?"
"No," House said, stuffing the banknote in his pocket so that it covered up the faience monkey. "There's no such thing as magic."
"Why didn't Carl just wish for a million dollars?" House had asked. The words had stuck in his throat, burned his tongue.
Brianna Morgan had just shaken her head.
"He did," she said. "What do you think he was doing at the bank?"
House was drunk. He'd been that way since about four o'clock, when he'd gotten home, retrieved a bottle of bourbon from the kitchen, and poured the first of a healthy three fingers into a glass. The little blue monkey watched him, unruffled, from its position on the coffee table.
"Shut up," House grumbled. "This isn't happening." And it wasn't happening, not at all, because things like this didn't happen. And there was one sure-fire way to prove it wasn't happening, but House needed to be a little drunker first. He refilled his glass. He knew that if he went to the window, he'd see Taub parked outside. Before Taub it had been Kutner, and after Taub it would probably be Chase. Taking turns watching because Cuddy was afraid he'd off himself. Like he'd commit suicide because of this. He eyed the monkey figurine.
"Tragedies happen all the time," he said, and took another drink. The only tragedy here was that he couldn't remember the last thing Wilson had said. It was putting a dent in his near-eidetic memory, and it was pissing him off. To be fair, it had probably been something meaningless like "Oh, really?" or "I'll keep that in mind," or "House, you idiot." But what if it had been "The secret of life is contained in the Fibonacci Sequence times nine," or "There's a code hidden in the Preamble to the Constitution that proves the existence of the Illuminati," or "I'm really a blond."
Of course, Wilson's real last words had probably been something along the lines of "Oh, God, please don't kill me," but where was the fun in that?
He glared at the faience monkey. "I hate you," he told it. If Wilson were here ...
But Wilson would never be here. Never, as in not ever, at no time, not in any degree, not under any condition.
He took another sip of his drink and blinked; his eyes were teary and stinging from the whiskey fumes. He regarded the small blue figurine.
"You want me to wish for money," he rasped out. "You do. And then I'll find out tomorrow that I was listed in Wilson's will." He set the glass down on the table with a thump. On some level he was aware that he was deeply, profoundly drunk. "That's the way it works, isn't it? All those guys who won the lottery, who bet on the ponies -- they probably turned around and invested it with Bernie Madoff. Bought Porsches that their kids ended up wrapping around a tree." He picked up the faience monkey and gripped it tightly in his fist. "What's my penance going to be? What?" He felt a dampness on his cheeks, and he could taste salt in the corners of his mouth.
"Fuck you," he told the little statue. "Fuck you, and fuck Wilson for being such a goddamn ... a goddamn bystander." House squeezed tighter, as if he might shatter the faience monkey by grip alone. "God damn it," he murmured. "You piece of shit, I wish Wilson was alive. I wish ... he was alive."
Nothing happened, and after a moment House loosened his hold and set the blue monkey back down.
He sat for hours, staring dully into the darkness, and when the faint sound of knocking finally came in the last minutes before true dawn, he arose at once to open the door.
~ fin
Notes:
This fic is based on the classic W.W. Jacobs short story The Monkey's Paw.
The basis for the blue faience monkey may be found here.
A Slate.com article on the 2003 looting of the National Museum of Antiquities in Baghdad, Iraq, may be found here.
The Wikipedia page for Japanese netsukes is here.
Princeton University really does have a Department of Art and Archeology! Their page is here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 06:38 pm (UTC)It's pretty powerful, very unique (as far as I know) and I'd like to see it get a larger audience.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 06:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 06:47 pm (UTC)But. If you had to say what the story is about? It is all about Wilson, and House's affection and need for Wilson.
At least, that's how I read it. :-)
no subject
Date: 2009-03-15 06:52 pm (UTC)Done. See my comment in other post.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-16 12:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-16 12:46 am (UTC)What happened? Is what so often happens with Nightdog stories.
It infected my brain and ... well. I may have jumped the fence into this ficverse. Not making any promises yet, but, well. Don't be surprised if there's a Part Deux.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-16 12:53 am (UTC)This is so very true XD
Don't be surprised if there's a Part Deux.
Really? Coool. WILL THERE BE ZOMBIES? ;D
no subject
Date: 2009-03-16 01:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-16 04:51 pm (UTC)Also, what Mare said. *g*