verbal_kint: (Default)
Title: When We Get There
Rating: PG
Words: 100

Among the what-nows... )
verbal_kint: (Default)
Title: Out There
Rating: PG
After Wilson dropped off House. A Post-finale fic, because I felt like being cliched.

Word Count: 561

Out There )

Going to put this all in one post because I don't feel like spamming the f-list.
Hey folks,
Just wanted to send out a great big thanks to all those who wished me luck for hosting the Pygmy Awards on Friday. It actually wasn't a complete disaster, people seemed to enjoy themselves, and I even won Pygmies for Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress (...not in the same show, obviously). So, all's well that ends well I suppose. In other news, the new Star Trek is awesome. Yay for my generation getting some good reboots for once. Brandon and I have been watching reruns of the original series and TNG almost every Friday for two years, so we were pretty excited.

This ficlet, yes, this one right up there, is born of my guilt. That's right, I've felt insanely guilty for not contributing to fandom lately, thus I wrote this. Let's be honest, it's a little meh but the only way to clear my conscious. Oh well.

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Every time House cried out in pain, Wilson was right by his side.

People thought it was because they were best friends.

But really, Wilson just liked to watch.
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Every day was a blatant redundancy.

Every day was a rerun of a boring sitcom. Every day was a monologue he knew too well. Every day was a commercial he’d already fucking seen.

Every day was one more quarter lost to the depths of the vending machine. Every day was the forgotten pizza crust in the back seat of the car. Every day was the sock that slipped off his ankle when he walked.

Every day was one stolen lunch short of annoyance. Every day was one pill short of anger. Every day was one phone call short of insanity. Every day was one scowl away from being…him.

Every day was a blatant redundancy.

So Wilson went home, sat on the couch, and watched a commercial he hadn’t seen.

It’s the one where House calls for help, and Wilson doesn’t answer.
verbal_kint: (Default)

He hasn’t cleaned out the fridge yet, hasn’t even opened it. His just sits there, in his apartment—her apartment—their apartment, and smells the rotting leftovers of everything they shared. And everything he now has to eat alone.

He stares at the closed refrigerator door.

He wonders if there’s some leftover laugh on the top shelf. He craves its authenticity, and the delicate way it eased through her smile.

He thinks maybe there’s a box of her warmth in between the ketchup and the mayonnaise. He longs for a spoonful of it before he climbs into his bed—her bed—their bed.

There’s probably some leftover hope in one of the produce drawers. He hopes so.

Maybe if he looks hard enough he’ll find a leftover wish or two. If so, he’ll drizzle them over two bowls of ice cream. He’ll eat one, then watch the other melt into a puddle while he pretends that she was there to eat it with him.

He knows there’s leftover love in the fridge, but he’s misplaced it, along with the milk and the parmesan cheese.

He walks over to the refrigerator and decides to look for it. But when he opens the door, he doesn’t find it, or any of the other leftovers.
He sees a row of small styrofoam plates covered with aluminum foil. This was supposed to be tomorrow’s dinner. Tomorrow never came.

The only leftover is loneliness.

He’ll never finish all of this by himself.

Author's Note: So...I'm not sure if this counts for Dark!wilson as much as dark themes. :/ It's more emo!Wilson. Could one of the mods let me know if this is still eligible for the Dark!Wilson drabble contest?

P.S. Am I the only one who thinks that emo!Wilson should totally be a comm? I can just picture it, Wilson letting his hair grow long, listening to MCR, acting generally ornery and misunderstood with several piercings--it'd be cooler than the opposite of mad cow disease!


Sep. 21st, 2008 04:48 pm
verbal_kint: (Default)
There was a clock on the wall to remind him that time mattered more when she was gone.

It seemed to, anyways.

Now everything was different. Now everything could be split into two categories: before and after. Now there was only the time that ran between when Amber was alive, and every stupid second that winked on despite her death.

It’d been 120 days, 4 hours, and 7 minutes since they last went to the movies.

It’d been 112 days, 10 hours, and 43 minutes since they last ate dinner.

It’d been 111 days, 2 hours, and 3 minutes since they last made love.

It’d been 110 days, 13 hours, and 30 minutes since they last kissed.

It’d been 110 days, 13 hours, and 33 minutes since he told her, “I love you.”

It’d been 110 days, 13 hours, 34 minutes, and 4 seconds since she died.

It’d been 24 minutes since Wilson decided to hate House.

It'd been 2 minutes since he decided to do something about it.

He didn’t look at the clock as he got up and made his way to House’s office.


verbal_kint: (Default)

May 2012



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