Fic: The Night Shift
Today I was at the park and this couple sat close by with a cute little baby girl. Not to keen on kids, over here, so whatever. But then kid started squirming and the mom went, "Lilah, calm down." How cool is that! How often do you run into someone named Lilah (or Lila, Laila, however the hell it's spelled)? Never. I pet the baby and complimented her parents on the name and they just looked at me like, "please don't touch our child."
Anyway, it's fate, people. Her coming has been told. The word of the Lord.
I was looking at my au100 table today and thinking, there's no way I'll be able to do this! 100 stories. This is madness. Here's one more. 98 to go.
Title: The Night Shift
Fandom: House
Characters: House, Cuddy, Stacy
Prompt: # 38 - Touch
Word Count: 1,345
Ratings: PG-13
Spoilers: Three Stories
Author's notes: This is an answer for the au100 challenge. You can find my complete table here.
Too often she found herself these days wandering through the halls of the hospital, the farthest ward from her office, keeping away from the room with the dim lights and the sharp smell of Stacy's perfume.
Rarely she found herself walking into the room, and when she did she spent most of her time there checking vitals unnecessarily, reading things she, herself, had written in the chart if only to have something to look at, something other than the bandaged leg and the drip of morphine, and the look on his face.
Or her face.
Too many times she found herself tossing and turning at night, in an empty bed, wondering how it would all end, what type of beginning this would birth. She tried to convince herself she did the right thing as a doctor, but her inability to sleep told her another tale. Days before, in the hollow vastness of the waiting area, (where she found herself despite the amount of paperwork that called to her from her desk), she'd cornered Stacy as the surgeon sliced into his skin.
"You can blame me."
And though the words never wavered, they both knew desperation, not rationality, gave force to her suggestion.
"It was my choice, Lisa. Not yours."
But they both knew the blame would be fairly distributed. She paced back and forth as they waited, hating the woman across the room, hating herself more, and said nothing else until the surgeon walked in for his final update.
Too often she found herself now outside the dim room, thinking of excuses in case anyone asked why she was there, and no one ever did, but she thought a new one each time anyway. Even when no one was around, even when she should have been tossing and turning in her empty bed, she found she couldn't keep away, and yet couldn't walk in, either.
You can't even face him. You can't even look at him. You made your bed, Lisa. It's time to crawl in it.
From her office to her garage, the walk was quick, but she'd take the route that forced her to pass the dim room. And then one night she walked by to see him squirming, heard him complaining incoherently, droplets of sweat around his face and that was the beginning of an agony he would carry with him for an eternity, his wooden cross, the one she laid upon his shoulders.
She walked in quietly, and the room still smelled of Stacy and sin and betrayal, and his eyes were closed but tears spilled from his eyelids and down his temples. She rested her hands on the railing and he turned to her still in a haze, his right hand upon his burning leg.
You did this to him.
"Stacy."
He was agonizing. He was delirious, and she should've turned and walked out, but instead whispered a gentle, "shh," and glided her thumb upon his brow, sweeping away the droplets of sweat hesitantly, his skin hot and clammy, and his touch burned her.
She withdrew her hand.
No right, she told herself. You have no right to touch him when this is all your doing. No right to comfort him. If it were not for you, he would not need comforting and even now he doesn't want it - not from you.
But he reached for her hand and she nearly gasped at the sheer strength with which he grasped, desperately, and he begged her not to go - begged her - and she had no right, no right to sit by his bed and no right to call herself his healer, no right when she, herself, had painted the scars on his leg with her own brush.
You broke him.
She reached for his IV pole and increased the dose of morphine, and as his breathing evened and his grasp upon her hand loosened, she smoothed away the unruly curls that stuck to his forehead persistently, and even when he slept, with the perpetual look of scorn on his face, she stayed.
Stacy returned in the morning to find another man, the man who let the anger overtake him, the man who threw his food tray across the room madly, the man who yelled, this is your fault, you did this to me, this is your fault, and the words were directed at Stacy but they hit her in the face like ice cold water.
You could've stopped it. Why didn't you?
He didn't talk to her. His awakening marked the transformation from Lisa to Dr. Cuddy or Cuddy. She never tried to explain - it wasn't necessary. She merely stood over his bed, taking his vitals, hearing the words she saved your life in her head, but they never left her. He wouldn't talk about it, anyway. Not with her.
In truth, she would've taken the anger and the abuse over his silence over and over again.
And in silence she walked out of the room. She ran into Stacy in the hallway, the older woman's face marked with mascara streaks, but she didn't say a word. His anger and her anger, and her anger, as poisonous as the clot that killed his leg for over four days.
You were hoping she wouldn't go through with it, but deep down you knew she would. Deep down you know you would've done the same.
At night she returned to find him sweating in bed once more, restless and in so much pain tears slipped down his temples again. She told herself the nurses could handle this, another doctor - call Stacy - but she stayed. Touching him was never an intention, but he would reach out over and over again, her hands upon his face, his hair, as the pain killed him slowly.
He called her Stacy each time, pinned in a state of sedated and agonized daze. She wondered how long she would allow herself to sit there, drawing misshapen circles on his cheek as the morphine kept him in another world, a world, she realized one night, better than the one he had here.
You killed him.
It felt wrong, wrong to sit there and touch him and watch as his pain melted away. It felt wrong to be the one to see him like this, because she had no right, and yet it was her job, as a doctor, to fix him, even when she broke him, killed him. Should've left, should've dropped the case, give it to another doctor, one that wasn't overtaken by guilt and anger and hate, one that wouldn't sit by his bed but would sedate him and make him better in a way she couldn't. Should've walked out of the hospital and let Stacy sit by his bed because she had no right.
But each night, for three consecutive nights, she found herself there, and she found his touch burned her, but her touch, her words, helped the room grow quiet, quenched slightly the guilt that still, days later, kept her awake at night.
And then on the third night - too much morphine and too much pain, his eyes still closed, his mind half gone - he told her he was sorry.
She stood there and watched him, vainly fighting the daze, and the next day she didn't show up.
But you can't walk away. You'll never allow yourself to. That's the difference between you and her.
Years later, House would recall those hazy nights as the few times when he let Stacy touch him, when her gentle caresses and soothing words kept him as placid as the dulling drug rushing through his veins.
On that third night she drove herself home, entertaining an apology that wasn't meant for her, and in her empty bed she closed her lids, his dried sweat still on her fingertips, and counted the minutes slowly tickle by.
This is what you get. You and him, you get to drag each other through the meaningless rubble of your lives, no end in sight. Better get used to these sleepless nights.
The End
Anyway, it's fate, people. Her coming has been told. The word of the Lord.
I was looking at my au100 table today and thinking, there's no way I'll be able to do this! 100 stories. This is madness. Here's one more. 98 to go.
Title: The Night Shift
Fandom: House
Characters: House, Cuddy, Stacy
Prompt: # 38 - Touch
Word Count: 1,345
Ratings: PG-13
Spoilers: Three Stories
Author's notes: This is an answer for the au100 challenge. You can find my complete table here.
Too often she found herself these days wandering through the halls of the hospital, the farthest ward from her office, keeping away from the room with the dim lights and the sharp smell of Stacy's perfume.
Rarely she found herself walking into the room, and when she did she spent most of her time there checking vitals unnecessarily, reading things she, herself, had written in the chart if only to have something to look at, something other than the bandaged leg and the drip of morphine, and the look on his face.
Or her face.
Too many times she found herself tossing and turning at night, in an empty bed, wondering how it would all end, what type of beginning this would birth. She tried to convince herself she did the right thing as a doctor, but her inability to sleep told her another tale. Days before, in the hollow vastness of the waiting area, (where she found herself despite the amount of paperwork that called to her from her desk), she'd cornered Stacy as the surgeon sliced into his skin.
"You can blame me."
And though the words never wavered, they both knew desperation, not rationality, gave force to her suggestion.
"It was my choice, Lisa. Not yours."
But they both knew the blame would be fairly distributed. She paced back and forth as they waited, hating the woman across the room, hating herself more, and said nothing else until the surgeon walked in for his final update.
Too often she found herself now outside the dim room, thinking of excuses in case anyone asked why she was there, and no one ever did, but she thought a new one each time anyway. Even when no one was around, even when she should have been tossing and turning in her empty bed, she found she couldn't keep away, and yet couldn't walk in, either.
You can't even face him. You can't even look at him. You made your bed, Lisa. It's time to crawl in it.
From her office to her garage, the walk was quick, but she'd take the route that forced her to pass the dim room. And then one night she walked by to see him squirming, heard him complaining incoherently, droplets of sweat around his face and that was the beginning of an agony he would carry with him for an eternity, his wooden cross, the one she laid upon his shoulders.
She walked in quietly, and the room still smelled of Stacy and sin and betrayal, and his eyes were closed but tears spilled from his eyelids and down his temples. She rested her hands on the railing and he turned to her still in a haze, his right hand upon his burning leg.
You did this to him.
"Stacy."
He was agonizing. He was delirious, and she should've turned and walked out, but instead whispered a gentle, "shh," and glided her thumb upon his brow, sweeping away the droplets of sweat hesitantly, his skin hot and clammy, and his touch burned her.
She withdrew her hand.
No right, she told herself. You have no right to touch him when this is all your doing. No right to comfort him. If it were not for you, he would not need comforting and even now he doesn't want it - not from you.
But he reached for her hand and she nearly gasped at the sheer strength with which he grasped, desperately, and he begged her not to go - begged her - and she had no right, no right to sit by his bed and no right to call herself his healer, no right when she, herself, had painted the scars on his leg with her own brush.
You broke him.
She reached for his IV pole and increased the dose of morphine, and as his breathing evened and his grasp upon her hand loosened, she smoothed away the unruly curls that stuck to his forehead persistently, and even when he slept, with the perpetual look of scorn on his face, she stayed.
Stacy returned in the morning to find another man, the man who let the anger overtake him, the man who threw his food tray across the room madly, the man who yelled, this is your fault, you did this to me, this is your fault, and the words were directed at Stacy but they hit her in the face like ice cold water.
You could've stopped it. Why didn't you?
He didn't talk to her. His awakening marked the transformation from Lisa to Dr. Cuddy or Cuddy. She never tried to explain - it wasn't necessary. She merely stood over his bed, taking his vitals, hearing the words she saved your life in her head, but they never left her. He wouldn't talk about it, anyway. Not with her.
In truth, she would've taken the anger and the abuse over his silence over and over again.
And in silence she walked out of the room. She ran into Stacy in the hallway, the older woman's face marked with mascara streaks, but she didn't say a word. His anger and her anger, and her anger, as poisonous as the clot that killed his leg for over four days.
You were hoping she wouldn't go through with it, but deep down you knew she would. Deep down you know you would've done the same.
At night she returned to find him sweating in bed once more, restless and in so much pain tears slipped down his temples again. She told herself the nurses could handle this, another doctor - call Stacy - but she stayed. Touching him was never an intention, but he would reach out over and over again, her hands upon his face, his hair, as the pain killed him slowly.
He called her Stacy each time, pinned in a state of sedated and agonized daze. She wondered how long she would allow herself to sit there, drawing misshapen circles on his cheek as the morphine kept him in another world, a world, she realized one night, better than the one he had here.
You killed him.
It felt wrong, wrong to sit there and touch him and watch as his pain melted away. It felt wrong to be the one to see him like this, because she had no right, and yet it was her job, as a doctor, to fix him, even when she broke him, killed him. Should've left, should've dropped the case, give it to another doctor, one that wasn't overtaken by guilt and anger and hate, one that wouldn't sit by his bed but would sedate him and make him better in a way she couldn't. Should've walked out of the hospital and let Stacy sit by his bed because she had no right.
But each night, for three consecutive nights, she found herself there, and she found his touch burned her, but her touch, her words, helped the room grow quiet, quenched slightly the guilt that still, days later, kept her awake at night.
And then on the third night - too much morphine and too much pain, his eyes still closed, his mind half gone - he told her he was sorry.
She stood there and watched him, vainly fighting the daze, and the next day she didn't show up.
But you can't walk away. You'll never allow yourself to. That's the difference between you and her.
Years later, House would recall those hazy nights as the few times when he let Stacy touch him, when her gentle caresses and soothing words kept him as placid as the dulling drug rushing through his veins.
On that third night she drove herself home, entertaining an apology that wasn't meant for her, and in her empty bed she closed her lids, his dried sweat still on her fingertips, and counted the minutes slowly tickle by.
This is what you get. You and him, you get to drag each other through the meaningless rubble of your lives, no end in sight. Better get used to these sleepless nights.
The End