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Topography
by telegramsam
Wilson walked into the room, and first noticed a few things: the constant beep of the
heart monitor, the steady breathing and rise and fall of the man's chest under the thin
sheet. It was funny how you could know someone for years without having ever looked at
them. That is to say, really looked at them, not just having them in your sight as you talk
and laugh and argue. He pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat down, head resting on
heels of hands resting on elbows resting on rock-hard mattress.
It was an odd face, honestly, when you looked at it. Sharp cheek bones under deep-set
eyes. Hollow cheeks. Thin, pointed nose. Pronounced hollow bisecting the upper lip.
Narrow jaw giving way to a long, arched, and narrow neck. Everything about it was long
and hollow and thin, all sharp planes and angles, cut by crow's feet and creases. He
didn't remember those being there and idly wondered when they had showed up,
creeping in when he wasn't watching. He was tempted to reach a finger over and smooth
them out, but was stopped by the knowledge that such an action would be utterly futile.
Wilson sat still for a moment, warring between moving forward and retreating. The
logical part of his mind knew that had no right to touch his friend while said friend was
unconscious, particularly since he was rarely allowed to when he was awake, but his
morbid curiosity pushed him on, telling him that all would be forgiven eventually. He
reached forward slowly and gently brushed the white cotton aside. His friend shivered
almost imperceptibly, covered only by a too-small gown half bunched under his tall
frame, sharp angles and planes half-threatening to cut right through it. Gentle fingers
traced over prominent collar bone, across thin chest, and down ribs, one, two, three--he
could count them as he went, round hills and shallow valleys. The last time he'd seen his
friend without a shirt was before the infarction, when he'd been still been an active
athlete and they'd often gone running together in the morning before work. His friend
had not had a single scrap of fat on his body then, either, but a layer of sinewy muscle
insured that he never looked naked. He looked naked now, like an unfinished building,
breeze blowing through the scaffolding and stapled-down plastic tarp flapping at the
edges in its wake.
The soft touch left the rolling hills and shifted more cotton aside to travel down into the
subtly concave plain of the belly, palm spreading out over the (too much) warmth, feeling
the slow rhythm of the diaphragm moving under the only remotely soft part of the body.
He suddenly shifted slightly in his sleep, disrupting the steady ebb and flow of breath for
a second, causing Wilson to freeze like a rabbit and hold his breath. He warred again
between staying and retreating, but just before he could make his hand move, his friend
settled again, breathing once more evening out. The fingers continued their path, moving
over the axe-blade hipbone into the hollow above the thigh. Here they retreated to sit up
in the air, waiting for further instruction and leaving the journey to the scrutiny of the
eyes for the time being. One thigh was still heavily muscled, though less so than he
remembered, muscle arching upward in a long gentle curve down to the knee. The other
was flat, even perhaps dipping slightly, half the circumference. Wilson froze, hand still
poised in the air, lips parting to let a puff of air be sucked in sharply.
He suddenly jerked forward, as though overtaken by a spasm, grabbing the cotton sheet
and tossing it back over his friend. He stood up and walked to the corner of the room,
staring out of the window at the gray pavement below, arms wrapped around himself. He
suddenly felt like a child caught stealing. He glanced over at his shoulder at the prone,
sleeping man on the hospital bed and oblivious to the world. He turned back to the
window, closing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to fall.
Wilson was glad his friend was asleep, he'd never speak to him again after this display of
maudlin pity, and Wilson cursed himself for indulging in it. It would be a while before he
woke up, though, if he ever woke up at all. Wilson crossed the room and again sat down
next to him leaning over to wrap an arm about the sharp shoulders and dampen the thin
cotton with tears.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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