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There may one day be something else for me.
Don't see the hooker... Wilson!
Maybe it's a sign of weakness when I don't know what to say
Kutner hates silence.
He knows there are times when silence is necessary, and that he should keep his mouth shut, but silence was always a sign of bad news. The long, pregnant pause right before the gut shot was the favorite tactic of the state troopers who had told him that his parents were dead, as well as the social worker who was trying to explain that since he didn’t have any local family in the area, he was going to be placed in foster care. Silence reminded him of times he’d rather not repeat, and things that needed to be said that weren’t. Silence was clearly the enemy.
That was most of the reason why he wouldn’t shut up a lot of the time.
He rambled to fill the space, almost as though to delay the inevitable. He talked even when most times he should have just shut up, he talked when he knew for the fact that it was sounding stupid—he talked because it was something to say. A lot of the time what he said was neither relevant, nor an attempt to make sense, but it was something. He’s like to think it was comforting. And it was certainly less awkward than silence.
He knew most people thought it was annoying.
Actually, he knew probably everyone thought it was annoying.
As far as he was concerned, he could live with that. It was either you’d rip it off like a band-aid, or you talk them to death, either way—sometimes it was just easier to talk about the lack of George Lucas’s inspired genius in a person’s life, rather than the fact that they’re dying and he didn’t know why. It was easier to talk about himself, his likes, dislikes, experiences, and take the focus off that person and their own. It was easier to trust them, let them know he sympathized with them and their situation, rather than try and analyze the words they didn’t say in the silence of the exam room.
Talking was just easier. And the day that he didn’t have something to say? He was going to be very, very worried.
Prompt: 2. Sometimes...
Sometimes, on his way home from the hospital, he’ll take the eight-mile detour to the place where her apartment used to be. Used to be. It’s not her apartment anymore, he tells himself. There’s a family of three living there now: a man and a woman and their seven-year-old son. He saw them unloading a Christmas tree last week. Sitting in his car across the street, engine idling, he watched the man untie the ropes from the top of the car and drag the tree bodily into the street, his son running after him to scoop the fallen needles out of the snow. Once, the woman turned in his direction and he thought she saw him – saw Wilson -- and he had to stare up out of the windshield, pretending to be lost.
Sometimes, when the weather is cold like this, he’ll park his car around the corner and walk to the New York-style deli a block away from her non-apartment, ordering cup after cup of black, bitter coffee. He’ll sit in the booth in the back, warming his hands on Styrofoam, and watch Mrs. Klotz dress the day’s shipment of meat, her thick arms having no trouble swinging the large silver carving knife. He and Amber used to sit here and speculate about the origins of the infamous Mrs. Klotz. She was a teenage spy for the Allies ; she used to bellydance in Istanbul before she discovered that butchery was her true calling ; Mr. Klotz ordered her through a mail-order bride catalog but was too miserly to pay the return postage fee once he saw what she looked like. Wilson and Amber would order pastrami on rye and he would laugh when she’d have to blow her nose halfway through the meal, not used to the strong, peppery meat. Two days ago, Mrs. Klotz approached his table with two sandwiches, but balked when she saw that Wilson was alone.
“Your girlfriend working tonight?” she asked, handing both plates onto the inside of her large forearm. She topped Wilson’s coffee and raised a fuzzy felt eyebrow when Wilson told her that he and Amber weren’t together anymore. “That’s a real shame,” she said, then shook her head. “Well, here –“ she slid one of the sandwiches in front of him “—starve a cold, feed a fever, overindulge a broken heart. This one’s on the house. I’ll wrap the other one up for you to take home.”
Yesterday, House showed up at his place with six brown bottles and speculations about a case of psittacosis, needing to work one over so he could have a revelation about the other. Halfway through the night he got up to rummage around Wilson’s refrigerator, saw the sandwich, and devoured it. He came back into the living room, sniffling and rubbing the underside of his nose.
“Is all of your food performance-tested by JD Power and Associates?” he'd asked. “That meat was like chewing road tar. Don’t you keep anything, you know, normal around your place?”
Wilson pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to House.
Prompt: After Last Resort
After House left, Cuddy stared at the contents of her desk drawer now scattered around her feet. When the hell had he done that? During a hostage crisis? She wouldn’t put it past him. The man was a lunatic. When that other lunatic had handed his gun to House, he was handing it to another lunatic. And then her lunatic had given the gun back.
At least the blood splattered over her office wasn’t House’s. It could’ve been, though, so easily. And he hadn't seemed to care. House had acted like it was just another medical mystery and not the chance for another gun-toting disgruntled patient to take a shot at him. She’d been more afraid for House than he’d been for himself.
And that was exactly why they couldn’t be a ‘thing.’ Not because she might act differently when the hospital was taken over by a lunatic, not because she might treat him differently, but because she didn’t think she could go through losing him. She’d come close enough too many times and that was more than enough pain just as his friend and colleague. She conveniently ignored the fact that refusing to acknowledge the ‘thingness’ between them wouldn’t make losing him any easier.
She took her purse from the lower drawer and slowly got to her feet. She grabbed her coat and walked to the door. She didn't look back as she turned off the light. She was going to go home and have a glass of wine and a long soak in the tub. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with the mess.
Welcome, everyone, to the community! We've already got 15 members - whoo! So, here are the first round of
prompts clinic duty rotations *g*
Dec. 8 - 22
1. Five times moments you wished you could rewind and do over again.
3. "Maybe it's a sign of weakness when I don't know what to say" - We Belong, Pat Benatar
4. Write a letter to someone who's hurt you.
5. What happened to your character post-Last Resort? You have the option to write fic or RP this with other characters. (If you RP this, please drop a link to the completed thread to this post)
Apart from links to RP, post all prompt responses to the community. Feel free to crosspost to your own muse journal. Don't forget to tag your entries. Have fun!
And if you have any prompt suggestions, go here
Leave any prompt suggestions here. They can be anything ranging from a question or the start of a sentence, to a quote or a "five times" prompt.
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Plastic surgery isn't just about people's vanity.
I probably shouldn't have used his name.
"You want the penis? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."
Guess the movie that quote came from and spot the incorrect word.