requested ficlet: violent!House for allfor_one
Protection [1444 words]
"You fucking son of a bitch!"
House may not be a kind and caring individual, but rarely is he pushed to the point where he wants to grab whoever is pissing him off by the throat and slam them into a wall. He prefers to slam his cane against his desk or throw heavy glasses at the wall to watch them shatter, but he respects the human body and its limitations. He's also not the most nimble creature when it comes to being able to set his feet and slug his fists into someone's ribcage, but when his heart is pounding in his chest, adrenaline rushing through his veins, he takes it, feeds off it, and needs it.
He's very close to breaking past the point of no return.
He grabs the handle of his cane and brings it down sharply on the steel table, before he tosses it aside and grabs the other man in the room by the throat, the other hand gripping his shoulder, and throws him up against the wall and gets in their face.
"You, are going to pay for this. And it is going to hurt."
"Do I look like I give a shit what you're gonna do to me?"
House growls in the back of his throat and curls his fingers around the other man's neck. This man is a criminal. A terrorist. And the reason his wife is currently pacing around the halls of CTU outside of medical with her ex-husband. The reason the man who saved his life the year before is bleeding all over the floor of an operating suite. The reason one of his best friends is working himself into a panic as he tries to repair the damage before McCarron dies under his hands.
He thinks of his son, two years old and still innocent to the crimes of the world and the violence that goes on behind the scenes. They were in Los Angeles to see her father over the break in the season. They'd gotten a phone call that Jimmy was in trouble that afternoon. Their son is upstairs in his grandfather's office, coloring with his aunt watching over him. His grandfather is making phonecalls and running the floor. His mother is holding onto her ex-husband's shirt and trying not to cry.
And his father is in an interrogation room with the man who pulled the trigger.
"No," He says. "But you know what? That's not going to change the fact that you are a dead man."
"Do what you want, cripple."
That does it.
He slams his hand harder against the windpipe, knowing this will bruise and this guy won't be able to breath properly for a week, if he makes it past the next ten hours once he's done with him. Then it's a hand on the shoulder, yanking him to the table, ribs hitting the edge with a sound and a crack. He doesn't register the yelp of pain that gets him out of the worthless excuse for a human in front of him.
House is livid. He contemplates just strangling him here and now, but that would take away all the fun.
He punches hard. His knuckles will bruise later, and he'll tell his son that his daddy is okay, just a little sore from working.
The man in front of him has a name, but he won't bother acknowledging it. It's easier this way, not to think of the parents, of a brother, of a sister, someone who might actually miss the pathetic asshole, the one who's currently bent over in pain and trying not to choke on his own blood. House stalks away from the table and walks to the wall, flexing his hands and eyeing the scrapes on the knuckles. He wonders how Jimmy is doing. Four slugs in the chest. He had a vest on but House knows first hand what bullets can do to a person.
He's silent. Letting himself calm down a little. Killing the guy won't get him anywhere.
Yet, anyways.
Ten minutes of absolute silence later, he's screaming and throwing a chair across the room. The terrorist hits his knees and bows his head, almost like he's waiting for the end, waiting to be finished off and put to death at the hand of his commander.
But House won't give him the dignity of a bullet between the eyes. He steps out of the room and returns with a fine edged knife, flicking it open and moving calmly back to the center of the room. He carefully presses the tip of the blade against flushed, sweat covered skin, and then digs it in, ignoring the scream that gets him. He moves the blade and does it again. The man before him can't move his right arm, tendons severed and torn. He contemplates doing the same to the left, then the legs, then finally ending it, but that again, takes out the fun in things.
His cell phone ringing jarrs him back into reality. He wipes the blood off his hands into a white rag and then flips the phone open.
"Yeah."
His face grows just a little bit colder. He nods and walks out of the room, retriving a case and setting it on the table as he hangs up.
"What was that?"
House looks up. "Like I'd tell you?"
There's a moment of silence between the two men. Much too long. Uncomfortable. House likes uncomfortable.
He draws a gun out of the case and eyes the chamber. Clicks the safety off and then turns it around, and hands it to the terrorist.
"This is your one chance to avoid a hell of a lot more pain. Shoot yourself."
Another moment of silence. The man looks down and raises the gun to his temple. House watches. He jerks his head up and turns the gun and pulls the trigger, the sound of the blast and pop deafening to them both. When he opens his eyes, he just smirks.
"You really are a moron." He says, unbuttoning his dress shirt to reveal a bulletproof Kevlar vest beneath it. He plucks a shell from the fabric. "You honestly think I was going to give you a gun with real bullets?" He reaches into the waistband of his jeans and pulls out another gun, clicks off the safety, then levels it at the chest and fires. The puff of smoke mixes with the splatter of blood in the air.
The man screams.
"Oh, stop your bitching, it's only your spleen. Who needs a spleen, anyways?" He wipes the blood off his face and then turns to walk out of the room.
"You can't leave me like this!"
House stops and turns. "Why not?"
"I'll die." It's at that moment the man realizes that maybe, just maybe, that's the point. "What happened to the detective?"
House stares at him a moment, then raises the gun. "He's going to make a full recovery. You, however,"
He pulls the trigger and there's the dull sound of a body hitting the floor with a thud. The air is bitter with sulfur and blood and the scent of death, but House just shakes it off and walks out of the room. They'll send the coroner to pick up the body later. It will be written off as a neccesary death. There will be no autopsy.
He washes his hands and cleans the blood from his skin, combs his hair back, and pulls on a fresh shirt before he heads out onto the bullpen floor. His son squeals and toddles over eagerly to his father, wrapping his arms around his legs and the cane in turn. House smiles and ruffles his son's hair. "Did you have fun coloring?"
"Yeah, Dad." Jackson smiles up at him. "Where's Mama?"
House reaches for his son's hand. "She's downstairs with Uncle Mike. You know Uncle Jimmy?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, he got in an accident and got hurt. Uncle Brian fixed him all up though, so we're gonna go down and see your Mom and your Uncle Mike and make them feel better, okay?" He says, as they walk towards the elevators. "Your mom needs a big, big hug when you see her, alright? She's kinda sad right now."
When his son lays eyes on his mother a moment later, he toddles over eagerly and wraps his arms around her legs, making a squishy noise. House looks at his wife, who's wiped tears from her eyes, and nods slowly. She mouths the words 'thank you' to her husband, then lifts her boy into her arms. "You wanna go see Uncle Jimmy? You gotta be quiet though, he's resting."
He watches the two most important people in his life walk down the hall and knows that the blood on his hands is worth the smile on his son's face and the gratitude in his wife's eyes.
"You fucking son of a bitch!"
House may not be a kind and caring individual, but rarely is he pushed to the point where he wants to grab whoever is pissing him off by the throat and slam them into a wall. He prefers to slam his cane against his desk or throw heavy glasses at the wall to watch them shatter, but he respects the human body and its limitations. He's also not the most nimble creature when it comes to being able to set his feet and slug his fists into someone's ribcage, but when his heart is pounding in his chest, adrenaline rushing through his veins, he takes it, feeds off it, and needs it.
He's very close to breaking past the point of no return.
He grabs the handle of his cane and brings it down sharply on the steel table, before he tosses it aside and grabs the other man in the room by the throat, the other hand gripping his shoulder, and throws him up against the wall and gets in their face.
"You, are going to pay for this. And it is going to hurt."
"Do I look like I give a shit what you're gonna do to me?"
House growls in the back of his throat and curls his fingers around the other man's neck. This man is a criminal. A terrorist. And the reason his wife is currently pacing around the halls of CTU outside of medical with her ex-husband. The reason the man who saved his life the year before is bleeding all over the floor of an operating suite. The reason one of his best friends is working himself into a panic as he tries to repair the damage before McCarron dies under his hands.
He thinks of his son, two years old and still innocent to the crimes of the world and the violence that goes on behind the scenes. They were in Los Angeles to see her father over the break in the season. They'd gotten a phone call that Jimmy was in trouble that afternoon. Their son is upstairs in his grandfather's office, coloring with his aunt watching over him. His grandfather is making phonecalls and running the floor. His mother is holding onto her ex-husband's shirt and trying not to cry.
And his father is in an interrogation room with the man who pulled the trigger.
"No," He says. "But you know what? That's not going to change the fact that you are a dead man."
"Do what you want, cripple."
That does it.
He slams his hand harder against the windpipe, knowing this will bruise and this guy won't be able to breath properly for a week, if he makes it past the next ten hours once he's done with him. Then it's a hand on the shoulder, yanking him to the table, ribs hitting the edge with a sound and a crack. He doesn't register the yelp of pain that gets him out of the worthless excuse for a human in front of him.
House is livid. He contemplates just strangling him here and now, but that would take away all the fun.
He punches hard. His knuckles will bruise later, and he'll tell his son that his daddy is okay, just a little sore from working.
The man in front of him has a name, but he won't bother acknowledging it. It's easier this way, not to think of the parents, of a brother, of a sister, someone who might actually miss the pathetic asshole, the one who's currently bent over in pain and trying not to choke on his own blood. House stalks away from the table and walks to the wall, flexing his hands and eyeing the scrapes on the knuckles. He wonders how Jimmy is doing. Four slugs in the chest. He had a vest on but House knows first hand what bullets can do to a person.
He's silent. Letting himself calm down a little. Killing the guy won't get him anywhere.
Yet, anyways.
Ten minutes of absolute silence later, he's screaming and throwing a chair across the room. The terrorist hits his knees and bows his head, almost like he's waiting for the end, waiting to be finished off and put to death at the hand of his commander.
But House won't give him the dignity of a bullet between the eyes. He steps out of the room and returns with a fine edged knife, flicking it open and moving calmly back to the center of the room. He carefully presses the tip of the blade against flushed, sweat covered skin, and then digs it in, ignoring the scream that gets him. He moves the blade and does it again. The man before him can't move his right arm, tendons severed and torn. He contemplates doing the same to the left, then the legs, then finally ending it, but that again, takes out the fun in things.
His cell phone ringing jarrs him back into reality. He wipes the blood off his hands into a white rag and then flips the phone open.
"Yeah."
His face grows just a little bit colder. He nods and walks out of the room, retriving a case and setting it on the table as he hangs up.
"What was that?"
House looks up. "Like I'd tell you?"
There's a moment of silence between the two men. Much too long. Uncomfortable. House likes uncomfortable.
He draws a gun out of the case and eyes the chamber. Clicks the safety off and then turns it around, and hands it to the terrorist.
"This is your one chance to avoid a hell of a lot more pain. Shoot yourself."
Another moment of silence. The man looks down and raises the gun to his temple. House watches. He jerks his head up and turns the gun and pulls the trigger, the sound of the blast and pop deafening to them both. When he opens his eyes, he just smirks.
"You really are a moron." He says, unbuttoning his dress shirt to reveal a bulletproof Kevlar vest beneath it. He plucks a shell from the fabric. "You honestly think I was going to give you a gun with real bullets?" He reaches into the waistband of his jeans and pulls out another gun, clicks off the safety, then levels it at the chest and fires. The puff of smoke mixes with the splatter of blood in the air.
The man screams.
"Oh, stop your bitching, it's only your spleen. Who needs a spleen, anyways?" He wipes the blood off his face and then turns to walk out of the room.
"You can't leave me like this!"
House stops and turns. "Why not?"
"I'll die." It's at that moment the man realizes that maybe, just maybe, that's the point. "What happened to the detective?"
House stares at him a moment, then raises the gun. "He's going to make a full recovery. You, however,"
He pulls the trigger and there's the dull sound of a body hitting the floor with a thud. The air is bitter with sulfur and blood and the scent of death, but House just shakes it off and walks out of the room. They'll send the coroner to pick up the body later. It will be written off as a neccesary death. There will be no autopsy.
He washes his hands and cleans the blood from his skin, combs his hair back, and pulls on a fresh shirt before he heads out onto the bullpen floor. His son squeals and toddles over eagerly to his father, wrapping his arms around his legs and the cane in turn. House smiles and ruffles his son's hair. "Did you have fun coloring?"
"Yeah, Dad." Jackson smiles up at him. "Where's Mama?"
House reaches for his son's hand. "She's downstairs with Uncle Mike. You know Uncle Jimmy?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, he got in an accident and got hurt. Uncle Brian fixed him all up though, so we're gonna go down and see your Mom and your Uncle Mike and make them feel better, okay?" He says, as they walk towards the elevators. "Your mom needs a big, big hug when you see her, alright? She's kinda sad right now."
When his son lays eyes on his mother a moment later, he toddles over eagerly and wraps his arms around her legs, making a squishy noise. House looks at his wife, who's wiped tears from her eyes, and nods slowly. She mouths the words 'thank you' to her husband, then lifts her boy into her arms. "You wanna go see Uncle Jimmy? You gotta be quiet though, he's resting."
He watches the two most important people in his life walk down the hall and knows that the blood on his hands is worth the smile on his son's face and the gratitude in his wife's eyes.