House Drabble. House & Cuddy 675 words
As an addition to my paper journal I'm keeping a left handed song lyric journal, writing a song a day left handed, because I am left handed, but I write right handed and I want to improve my left handed writing, and I decided on song lyrics just because. Anyway, I can see an improvement already, but gah. My hand and shoulder hurt from the effort, because those muscles aren't developed like my right hand.
Right then. On to today's writing.
Fandom: House MD
Rating: Average
Characters: House, Cuddy
Warnings: None
Notes: Current time line, feedback is love
Word count: 675
She was waiting for him, because she knew he'd come looking for her. She'd thought about leaving before he tracked her down, but she knew he'd just show up at her front door, or up on the roof outside her bedroom window. No, probably not the roof, he couldn't climb the trellis like he had before, not the way his leg was hurting now. So she waited in her office with the lights off, because she didn't want to be bothered by anyone else, and she knew he'd come in regardless.
He didn't let her down.
"I need my pills," he announced as he jerked his cane up to the light switch, bathing the office in a fluorescent glow. "Are you crying?"
"No." She stood and smoothed her hands over her blouse. She cocked her head at him, waiting for a smart ass comment.
He looked like he might say something, but thought better of it. "You're crying."
"Do you really want to go there with me, House?" Cuddy walked over to her desk, and opened the top drawer. She had a small paper cup already ready. She held it out to him. She knew he wouldn't pursue the issue, because he wouldn't want to deal with the emotions she might let out.
"No," he answered honestly. His eyes locked on her face as he reached for the pills. His fingers brushed against the back of her hand, but didn't linger. He shook the pills out into his palm and tossed them back in his throat, swallowing without water.
"And you're a jerk." She fished farther back in the drawer. His expression indicated that he did care, but he wouldn't voice it. She sighed, and broke eye contact to look in the drawer. "These will get you through the night if you behave yourself. Two, every six hours." She held out a snack sized baggie, four pills. "I won't give you any more until noon tomorrow."
He mashed his lips together, but he nodded and took the baggie and slipped it into his breast pocket. He patted it down and sighed. His hand moved up to rub across his face. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he said nothing. He patted his pocket once more before turning to walk away, the thump of his cane echoing in her head. She watched him go, then crossed the office to turn off the light. She locked the doors, grabbed her coat off the coat hook, and went back to the couch to curl up under her coat.
She knew he was in pain. Two pills wasn't enough, he'd built up a tolerance, which explained his growing addiction. She wondered now, if he'd ever really given up the narcotics after his surgery. He'd had two good months, virtually pain free, because she'd given him Ketamine. Ketamine had the potential to reboot the brain, and she'd hoped to take away his pain. She wondered now if that had hurt him more than it had helped. He'd cut back, at least, even if he hadn't given up the Vicodin completely. And when the pain came back, and he'd needed more drugs, to effectively battle the pain.
"It's my fault," she muttered to the silence of her office. She'd done this to him. She'd been the one to suggest the debridement to Stacy. She'd been the one to cut in to his leg so many years ago. She'd been the one to cripple him, when he'd been convinced he could fight, convinced he would either keep his leg or die trying. She'd taken his choice away from him, and her guilt clouded her judgment where he was concerned. She let him get away with stupid things, because she didn't want to fight with him, as if letting him slide might relieve her guilt. It never did, and now...
Now, she knew for sure, she'd done more harm than good. The tears started again, and she sank further down on the couch and buried her head under her jacket.
Right then. On to today's writing.
Fandom: House MD
Rating: Average
Characters: House, Cuddy
Warnings: None
Notes: Current time line, feedback is love
Word count: 675
She was waiting for him, because she knew he'd come looking for her. She'd thought about leaving before he tracked her down, but she knew he'd just show up at her front door, or up on the roof outside her bedroom window. No, probably not the roof, he couldn't climb the trellis like he had before, not the way his leg was hurting now. So she waited in her office with the lights off, because she didn't want to be bothered by anyone else, and she knew he'd come in regardless.
He didn't let her down.
"I need my pills," he announced as he jerked his cane up to the light switch, bathing the office in a fluorescent glow. "Are you crying?"
"No." She stood and smoothed her hands over her blouse. She cocked her head at him, waiting for a smart ass comment.
He looked like he might say something, but thought better of it. "You're crying."
"Do you really want to go there with me, House?" Cuddy walked over to her desk, and opened the top drawer. She had a small paper cup already ready. She held it out to him. She knew he wouldn't pursue the issue, because he wouldn't want to deal with the emotions she might let out.
"No," he answered honestly. His eyes locked on her face as he reached for the pills. His fingers brushed against the back of her hand, but didn't linger. He shook the pills out into his palm and tossed them back in his throat, swallowing without water.
"And you're a jerk." She fished farther back in the drawer. His expression indicated that he did care, but he wouldn't voice it. She sighed, and broke eye contact to look in the drawer. "These will get you through the night if you behave yourself. Two, every six hours." She held out a snack sized baggie, four pills. "I won't give you any more until noon tomorrow."
He mashed his lips together, but he nodded and took the baggie and slipped it into his breast pocket. He patted it down and sighed. His hand moved up to rub across his face. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he said nothing. He patted his pocket once more before turning to walk away, the thump of his cane echoing in her head. She watched him go, then crossed the office to turn off the light. She locked the doors, grabbed her coat off the coat hook, and went back to the couch to curl up under her coat.
She knew he was in pain. Two pills wasn't enough, he'd built up a tolerance, which explained his growing addiction. She wondered now, if he'd ever really given up the narcotics after his surgery. He'd had two good months, virtually pain free, because she'd given him Ketamine. Ketamine had the potential to reboot the brain, and she'd hoped to take away his pain. She wondered now if that had hurt him more than it had helped. He'd cut back, at least, even if he hadn't given up the Vicodin completely. And when the pain came back, and he'd needed more drugs, to effectively battle the pain.
"It's my fault," she muttered to the silence of her office. She'd done this to him. She'd been the one to suggest the debridement to Stacy. She'd been the one to cut in to his leg so many years ago. She'd been the one to cripple him, when he'd been convinced he could fight, convinced he would either keep his leg or die trying. She'd taken his choice away from him, and her guilt clouded her judgment where he was concerned. She let him get away with stupid things, because she didn't want to fight with him, as if letting him slide might relieve her guilt. It never did, and now...
Now, she knew for sure, she'd done more harm than good. The tears started again, and she sank further down on the couch and buried her head under her jacket.