Title: Not looking for a shoulder to cry on 1/1
Author: Jerico Cacaw
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating/Warnings: FRT. Past angst, non smut (sadly)
Summary: Wilson writes. House reads.
Notes: Words in italics do not belong to me, but to a wonderful person who inspired me to write the fic in-between. Ann, this is for you.
Well, I finally have something cheerful to post.
It felt weird, to rely in a publicly anonymous journal. Writing what he felt rather than the conclusions he arrived to after --now automatic, almost second nature-- deliberate deliberation, if such a thing existed. Posting there for the Internet demons to judge, or more likely, to ignore.
It was at the same time a good and a squash-me-down feeling, being just one among millions, each one trying to bring the spotlight on. Were any of those strangers as scared as he was? Did any of them felt as if they were entrusting their many times crumpled, many times smoothed down parchments into empty bottles of wine --vodka, whisky, tequila, ginger ale, rum, beer, water, coke-- and then throwing them into waterless, bottom-endless pools in the middle of nowhere?
The weather was really nice today.
It had been his doctor's idea, and not really a bright one, if he was allowed to say. He had never felt safe putting his thoughts in ink and paper, as if some ancient tradition admonished against it. Was it that the words were made truth, brought upon life? Something among the lines, he was sure, but it had never been something he personally believed into, rationally or not.
Hiding from prying eyes was the thing.
It's supposed to be warmer tomorrow.
In his world, words existed despite their nature -- be it in print, hand scrip or as a collection of electric impulses between neurons. He didn't completely trust in any storage measures that could be used with any of them, but keeping the mouth shut had proven to this point to be the most reliable one. And even then, it had been proving to be largely ineffectual on late days.
I don't usually think of my life as miserable.
Then why did he follow the advice? Did he believe anything would change (maybe he hoped on being as invisible as he sometimes felt)?
When I write down what's going on however, it occurs to me that my life really sucks.
Maybe -- maybe not. Perhaps it was some primal instinct remembering him the need to scream his lungs raw in order to be heard. Possibly he was hoping to get his demons' attention that way. Probably he was tired of hiding from prying eyes.
Definitely he was finally ready to look back.
But the psychotic episode over a week ago could have happened anytime.
"Writing again?"
"Doctor orders."
"He's stupid. You are stupid. Stop that."
"I'm not."
It only lasted that evening.
"All right, I concede it. You are not stupid -- most of the time. Now stop that."
"I'm not stopping."
"Then you are stupid?"
But it sucks.
"Maybe I am."
I called my best friend for some emotional support but he's worse than ever.
"That's not true!"
"Stop reading over my shoulder."
"Stop writing so there's nothing for me to read."
"You are welcome to leave."
I'm no longer the one-sided caretaker I used to be,
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Whatever you want it to."
I got over it.
"Do you want to talk?"
"I'm writing."
"You always wanted to talk before."
"I've changed."
"I've changed too."
These people usually have something to offer me in return.
"I know."
How bad does your life sucks when it's better off with your delusional friend?
"Am I expected to say thanks?"
I'm no prize, either.
"Happy now?"
"Maybe."
Well, it would take many chapters to describe all the things wrong in my life and in those I love.
"You are a busy professional, and a responsible one. There's no time for you to do it."
"I'm on leave."
"Not indefinitely."
"I'll make time."
At any rate, if anybody wants to chat about religion, politics, society or less serious stuff, that would be really cool.
"Seriously, dude."
"The door is still there."
"Of course it is. Doors tend to do crazy things like that."
"Nosy friends, too."
So I'm trying to distract myself.
"I can help with that."
"You are what I'm trying to distract myself from."
Not looking for a shoulder to cry on,
"Shame, I was willing to try."
"I'm counting on it. That was just for random strangers."
Just some intelligent conversation.
"You are bluffing."
"About the intelligence thing? Yeah, maybe."
"The shoulder."
"You and crying? There seems to be a trend. I'm just late for a few years."
"You never were good at bluffing."
Now if only I could find a good therapist.
"Maybe. But I've changed, remember?"
"Changed?"
"Maybe. Or maybe not."
The shrink just refills prescriptions.
"Shut that off, Jimmy."
"I don't know, what's in there for me?"
"I don't know. What do you want?"
The End