SUMMARY: For some things there are no guidelines
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
Off the Map
Wilson's left hand aches.
It's not like it's much of a surprise -- since the afternoon Tweedledum held him down and Pugilist brought his boot heel crashing onto the back of his hand, smashing the small bones into tiny, fractured, fragments, Wilson's hand has hurt. The surgeries have been almost a relief, really -- the regional anesthetic and the twilight sleep combining to spirit him away from the pain, not just from his hand but from the memories and the daytime thoughts.
He'd found himself almost looking forward to Tomlinson cutting his hand open (again) this morning, and how weird is that?
Well, at least it puts him on par with House, who's also been acting ... weird ... lately. If Wilson really wants to think about it (which he doesn't) it's been since the new door was delivered. House has been ... noodgy, as his mother would say, and isn't that a funny thought, that his mother is voicing her concern in his mind even though she never ...
He should really stop thinking about this.
Except he can't, because his hand hurts.
It hurts when he wakes up in the morning and when he goes to bed at night. It hurts when, no matter how careful he's trying to be, he bumps his broken collarbone and the pain radiates all the way down the ulnar nerve to his very fingertips. It hurts when he watches TV and inadvertently flexes his fingers, when he tries to touch his thumb and little finger together for his therapy exercises. Opposable thumbs.
It's what divides us from the animals.
Even with all the drugs he's taking, there's still a deep-down dry ache, as if his synovial joints need oiling like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. "Oil can!" Jack Haley had squeaked, and all he had ever wanted was a heart and what was so wrong with that? Why had he been punished, when all he had done was forget one thing? One tiny little thing, and it had turned out to be the most important thing ever?
He already knows there's a good probability he'll eventually develop arthritis in that hand -- that it will burn and the knuckles will twist into cramped, twisted kinks, and it will hurt like hell every single time he has to sign his name.
Fall will be the worst, with the rain and damp.
He pictures himself reaching into a labcoat pocket with his right hand, retrieving an ever-present bottle of Vicodin.
A hand, a leg -- what's the difference?
One reaches for the map. One takes you on the journey.
They have to work together.
Or else you go nowhere.