Saturday, a Fic Rec, and a WIP Excerpt
May. 19th, 2012 01:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksSunny and warm, chickadees and the kite singing to themselves outside. Ran errands yesterday; got my car inspected and picked up a few things at the store, including fresh blueberries, some of which I had with shredded wheat this morning.
So. There are actually two fic recs -- one is a prequel to the other, but they don't need to be read together if for some reason you don't want to read one or the other.
The prequel is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
yarroway's Trespasses, and it's a tightly-woven, carefully-observed little piece that delves a bit deeper into that fateful prom night and Wilson's relationship with the real Kyle Calloway. The sequel is srsly_yes's Confession, which examines Wilson's conversation with House in that Newark-bound bus in a new light. Both are excellent short reads.
Also, I was thinking ficly thoughts, and I realized the last three stories I've written (Bodhisattva, Bonfire, and Word for World Is Mountain) have all been (relatively) hopeful tales, one might almost say happy. Obviously this is not like me at all. So for anyone who'd like to read something a bit more down, here's an excerpt from a WIP I work at fitfully. It doesn't have a name yet -- I just call it The Icelandair Saga. There's nothing graphic or gory in the excerpt, but if you don't want to read about a major character death, don't click the cut.
In this WIP, Wilson has been killed in an airline crash after attending a conference in Reykjavik. This is House at the funeral, and a bit beyond.
Wilson's patients are supposed to die, not Wilson.
The funeral's held a week later. If House thinks about it -- which he tries not to -- he can't help but wonder if Wilson's parents were just waiting for their son to turn up in a lifeboat crewed by penguins and polar bears, bobbing merrily amongst the icebergs.
House goes to the funeral, but he refuses to wear a yarmulke and hopes his bare-headed defiance does not go unnoticed in the hall of the sky king.
"Fuck you, old man," House thinks as he stares at the Ark. "Fuck you and the burning bush you rode in on."
Maybe he's there because they don't expect him to be there -- after all, he didn't go to Amber's funeral, or Kutner's, and he wouldn't have gone to his father's if Wilson hadn't dragged him there. Maybe, he thinks, Wilson dragged him to this one too. When it comes time for the eulogy, he levers himself to his feet and makes his way to the podium, where he looks out over the sea of black-clad mourners.
"James Wilson," House says slowly, "was a manipulative bitch." He ignores the horrified gasps. He thinks about saying more, but it wouldn't be anything they could understand, and so he just stands there, gripping the sides of the podium, until Chase comes up beside him. Then he nods once, and walks out.
He leaves his bike helmet on the ground. Once back at his apartment, he draws up a Wilson-sized dose of LSD and watches the sunshine change colors on the floor.
Three months after Wilson's death, House is coping well.
"I'm coping well," he says to Hennessey. She doesn't say anything, and he wonders for a moment if she's not used to people calling her by her real name instead of her street name, which is Brandy. Then he realizes he hasn't used her name, and he wonders if she's used to people talking to her at all. It's a double-edged sword, he supposes. Still, it's oddly ... nice to have someone else here, even if she doesn't say much and he has to pay for her presence. "I'm coping well," he says again, just to hear how it sounds.
Hennessey rolls over and covers her eyes with her forearm.
"Yeah," she says. "You keep saying that. Are you going back to work tomorrow?"
"Maybe," House says. "I could use a refill, although I guess I could have it delivered ... "
Hennessey lifts her arm and brushes some of her hair away from her face.
"You could do that," she allows. "Just don't get more Chinese to go with it. You're always getting rice in the bed."
House looks at her, at her long lean body. She looks back, still brushing her tawny hair back from her forehead. He lays a finger against her cheek, and she turns her head into the touch.
"Don't you care?" he says.
Her eyes are the color of acorns, of owl's feathers. "Care about what?"
"About how much Vicodin I'm taking. About how I'm an addict. About how I'll end up alone and miserable."
She laughs.
"Doc," she says, "as long as you keep paying me, I'll worry about whatever you want."
After another three months, House knows whatever he's looking for, he isn't going to find it here. When he signs out from the clinic, he scrawls a note after his name.
Gone out for a smoke. Back in a while.
Doc Martin tonight, Sherlock tomorrow, House on Monday. :-D
So. There are actually two fic recs -- one is a prequel to the other, but they don't need to be read together if for some reason you don't want to read one or the other.
The prequel is
yarroway's Trespasses, and it's a tightly-woven, carefully-observed little piece that delves a bit deeper into that fateful prom night and Wilson's relationship with the real Kyle Calloway. The sequel is srsly_yes's Confession, which examines Wilson's conversation with House in that Newark-bound bus in a new light. Both are excellent short reads. Also, I was thinking ficly thoughts, and I realized the last three stories I've written (Bodhisattva, Bonfire, and Word for World Is Mountain) have all been (relatively) hopeful tales, one might almost say happy. Obviously this is not like me at all. So for anyone who'd like to read something a bit more down, here's an excerpt from a WIP I work at fitfully. It doesn't have a name yet -- I just call it The Icelandair Saga. There's nothing graphic or gory in the excerpt, but if you don't want to read about a major character death, don't click the cut.
In this WIP, Wilson has been killed in an airline crash after attending a conference in Reykjavik. This is House at the funeral, and a bit beyond.
Wilson's patients are supposed to die, not Wilson.
The funeral's held a week later. If House thinks about it -- which he tries not to -- he can't help but wonder if Wilson's parents were just waiting for their son to turn up in a lifeboat crewed by penguins and polar bears, bobbing merrily amongst the icebergs.
House goes to the funeral, but he refuses to wear a yarmulke and hopes his bare-headed defiance does not go unnoticed in the hall of the sky king.
"Fuck you, old man," House thinks as he stares at the Ark. "Fuck you and the burning bush you rode in on."
Maybe he's there because they don't expect him to be there -- after all, he didn't go to Amber's funeral, or Kutner's, and he wouldn't have gone to his father's if Wilson hadn't dragged him there. Maybe, he thinks, Wilson dragged him to this one too. When it comes time for the eulogy, he levers himself to his feet and makes his way to the podium, where he looks out over the sea of black-clad mourners.
"James Wilson," House says slowly, "was a manipulative bitch." He ignores the horrified gasps. He thinks about saying more, but it wouldn't be anything they could understand, and so he just stands there, gripping the sides of the podium, until Chase comes up beside him. Then he nods once, and walks out.
He leaves his bike helmet on the ground. Once back at his apartment, he draws up a Wilson-sized dose of LSD and watches the sunshine change colors on the floor.
Three months after Wilson's death, House is coping well.
"I'm coping well," he says to Hennessey. She doesn't say anything, and he wonders for a moment if she's not used to people calling her by her real name instead of her street name, which is Brandy. Then he realizes he hasn't used her name, and he wonders if she's used to people talking to her at all. It's a double-edged sword, he supposes. Still, it's oddly ... nice to have someone else here, even if she doesn't say much and he has to pay for her presence. "I'm coping well," he says again, just to hear how it sounds.
Hennessey rolls over and covers her eyes with her forearm.
"Yeah," she says. "You keep saying that. Are you going back to work tomorrow?"
"Maybe," House says. "I could use a refill, although I guess I could have it delivered ... "
Hennessey lifts her arm and brushes some of her hair away from her face.
"You could do that," she allows. "Just don't get more Chinese to go with it. You're always getting rice in the bed."
House looks at her, at her long lean body. She looks back, still brushing her tawny hair back from her forehead. He lays a finger against her cheek, and she turns her head into the touch.
"Don't you care?" he says.
Her eyes are the color of acorns, of owl's feathers. "Care about what?"
"About how much Vicodin I'm taking. About how I'm an addict. About how I'll end up alone and miserable."
She laughs.
"Doc," she says, "as long as you keep paying me, I'll worry about whatever you want."
After another three months, House knows whatever he's looking for, he isn't going to find it here. When he signs out from the clinic, he scrawls a note after his name.
Gone out for a smoke. Back in a while.
Doc Martin tonight, Sherlock tomorrow, House on Monday. :-D