046. Life -- House/Vicodin -- PG-13
Title: Newborn
Characters/Pairing: House/Vicodin
Prompt: 046. Life
Word Count: 1483
Rating: PG-13 for the death-related content.
Author's Notes: Autopsy scene. From 'Maternity'. Slight mentions of procedures. If the scene with the deceased infant made you look away, or you don't like or can't handle reading that kind of stuff, don't read this. It's just House's thought process about it all.
No matter how many of the pills he takes, he can't get rid of the nagging pain in his heart.
He looks down at the empty table in front of him, cold steel reflecting the glint from the overhead light back into his eyes, and he has to squint a little for a moment as he thinks about what he's going to do. The thought alone almost makes him want to throw up, but he knows that if they don't find an answer here tonight, that there will be another death, and another, and another. Babies will keep dying until he can find an answer, and while he may be a complete ass to the majority of his patients, Gregory House doesn't like it when he has to call time of death on a newborn.
Most of the time his patients are completely idiots. But it makes him stop, and swallow hard when the one that dies under his care is too young to even talk, let alone fuck himself up. He stares for another minute at the steel, then stands up and pulls his jacket off, setting it aside and pulling a thick apron on, pushing up his t-shirt sleeves. He takes two Vicodin to make his hands stop shaking, then pulls on a pair of latex gloves and carefully limps over behind him to the drawers. He checks the name, pulls one open, and then lifts the bundle of cloth out into his hands, taking his time to limp back over and set it down on the table. The contrast between the white cloth and the steel surprises him at first, but to a gloved hand, it all feels the same. Cold.
He has to take another moment to clear his head before he unwraps the body, and when he sees the infant for the first time he stares for a minute. He's never had to do this before, and it bothers him, a little, to know that he's going to be doing an autopsy on something so small. So innocent. He sets the cloth aside, then picks up the recorder and states his name, the file number. On second thought, he erases that, then states his name and that he's doing the autopsy on the Chen-Lupino baby. The kid may not even have a first name, but he feels bad just giving the life in front of him a number and leaving it at that.
Exhaling, he rubs at his forehead with his forearm, then realizes he needs to do this. He's alone, there's nobody else down in the morgue at this time of night. He sent Foreman, Chase, and Cameron home hours ago, telling them there was nothing else they could do. He was right. If he was a complete ass, he'd have all three of them down here with him, he'd have them holding the tools, making the cuts, probing, searching, finding the truth. But he won't allow that. He was the one to flip the coin. He sentenced this kid, this little baby boy, to death, and he was the one who watched him code, he was the one who made the final call to stop CPR. He feels as if he owes this boy with no name the dignity of being the one to figure out what he died for in the first place.
When he unwraps the simple cloth diaper and sets that aside, he just closes his eyes and then looks over the tiny body in front of him, before pulling up a stool and picking up the scalpel, checking the recorder, and then getting to work. He's got the ability to shut it down when it needs to, and he does. No emotions, just business. Y-incision. Pin that piece of skin back, cut that piece of tissue. Take a sample of that muscle, take some blood from there, fluid from there. Tests will be run, later, when he's finished, and he intends to find the truth, find out why this one life wasn't allowed to make it to it's natural end. Part of him says that maybe this was the natural end, that the kid wasn't strong enough, that it was meant to be this way, but he's never believed in a higher power, and if he did, he'd be pretty damn pissed off at any god who thought it was okay to let an infant die like this.
He's a little pissed at himself. He had to make the choice. Play God with this life, and he lost. Sure, it was a fifty-fifty shot, which one of them was going to die, but it doesn't make him feel any better. Either way, he'd be down in the morgue where he is now, alone, in the dark save a single lamp overhead, the only sound he can hear is the faint hum of the refrigeration system that's keeping the rest of the bodies behind him cool. More lives. Some natural deaths, at the end of their time, but there are accident victims and unexplained illnesses too. The morgue is like a big melting pot of life which has come to an end, some on time, some too soon. Death doesn't bother him, much, because hell, he wanted to die once. He was ready, and willing, and he actually did die for about a minute, so he feels that he's been there, done that. Now all he has to do is make sure he uses each day to try to keep someone else from ending up in the morgue before it's their turn. Payment to nature, in a sense, for taking away the fear of his own end.
Several times during the autopsy he has to stop and take a few breaths to calm his nerves. Keep on track. More cutting. Making slides for examination, more blood for more tests, checking everything he can possibly think of before he goes about repairing the damage he's done. Everything gets put back in its place, and he does his best to sew a perfect set of sutures. If there had still been blood flowing through those tiny veins, he knows that the skin would have healed and there wouldn't have even been a scar in a few years.
But the Chen-Lupino boy won't see himself in a few years. There won't be any birthday parties, won't be any playdates with friends from school, he won't even get to listen to his parents tell him all about love and what it means to have two mommies instead of a mommy and a daddy. Because he's not alive. He's dead. House looks down at the tiny body and just stares for a long moment, until his eyes start to water and he has to close them to keep the tears at bay. Another moment of breathing, and he's calmed down enough to continue. He lifts the tiny body and puts the diaper back on, and after he's fastened that, he sets the boy on the cloth and rewraps it, taking one last look at the tiny face before he returns the bundle to the appropriate drawer in the wall, ignoring how the click of the lock echoes throughout the empty room.
He washes off the table, and while he's watching the pink streaks of blood flowing down across the steel in rivlets, he swallows down the lump in his throat as he tosses the tools into the bin to be sterilized. By the time he's done with the water, he uses the chemical agent to clean off any last traces of the autopsy and he's relieved that he can blame the sting and odor of the cleaner for the few tears that escape his eyes. Not like anyone would come down here and find him alone in the morgue at some odd hour of the morning. He takes a few deep breaths when he's finished, then gathers up the samples and blood. He'll go run them in the lab while nobody is there, so he can be alone.
With his thoughts. And the answers that he's still looking for. They're there, just hidden somewhere.
That's his life's work. To find the answers that elude everyone else.
So he picks up the tray and grabs his cane, then flicks the light off on his way out the door, heading back out into the darkened hospital.
But for the rest of the night, and the next few weeks after that, no matter how many of the pills he takes, he can't get rid of the pain.
He figures it's a small price to pay for the truth.
fin. comments/feedback is my diphenhydramine.
Characters/Pairing: House/Vicodin
Prompt: 046. Life
Word Count: 1483
Rating: PG-13 for the death-related content.
Author's Notes: Autopsy scene. From 'Maternity'. Slight mentions of procedures. If the scene with the deceased infant made you look away, or you don't like or can't handle reading that kind of stuff, don't read this. It's just House's thought process about it all.
No matter how many of the pills he takes, he can't get rid of the nagging pain in his heart.
He looks down at the empty table in front of him, cold steel reflecting the glint from the overhead light back into his eyes, and he has to squint a little for a moment as he thinks about what he's going to do. The thought alone almost makes him want to throw up, but he knows that if they don't find an answer here tonight, that there will be another death, and another, and another. Babies will keep dying until he can find an answer, and while he may be a complete ass to the majority of his patients, Gregory House doesn't like it when he has to call time of death on a newborn.
Most of the time his patients are completely idiots. But it makes him stop, and swallow hard when the one that dies under his care is too young to even talk, let alone fuck himself up. He stares for another minute at the steel, then stands up and pulls his jacket off, setting it aside and pulling a thick apron on, pushing up his t-shirt sleeves. He takes two Vicodin to make his hands stop shaking, then pulls on a pair of latex gloves and carefully limps over behind him to the drawers. He checks the name, pulls one open, and then lifts the bundle of cloth out into his hands, taking his time to limp back over and set it down on the table. The contrast between the white cloth and the steel surprises him at first, but to a gloved hand, it all feels the same. Cold.
He has to take another moment to clear his head before he unwraps the body, and when he sees the infant for the first time he stares for a minute. He's never had to do this before, and it bothers him, a little, to know that he's going to be doing an autopsy on something so small. So innocent. He sets the cloth aside, then picks up the recorder and states his name, the file number. On second thought, he erases that, then states his name and that he's doing the autopsy on the Chen-Lupino baby. The kid may not even have a first name, but he feels bad just giving the life in front of him a number and leaving it at that.
Exhaling, he rubs at his forehead with his forearm, then realizes he needs to do this. He's alone, there's nobody else down in the morgue at this time of night. He sent Foreman, Chase, and Cameron home hours ago, telling them there was nothing else they could do. He was right. If he was a complete ass, he'd have all three of them down here with him, he'd have them holding the tools, making the cuts, probing, searching, finding the truth. But he won't allow that. He was the one to flip the coin. He sentenced this kid, this little baby boy, to death, and he was the one who watched him code, he was the one who made the final call to stop CPR. He feels as if he owes this boy with no name the dignity of being the one to figure out what he died for in the first place.
When he unwraps the simple cloth diaper and sets that aside, he just closes his eyes and then looks over the tiny body in front of him, before pulling up a stool and picking up the scalpel, checking the recorder, and then getting to work. He's got the ability to shut it down when it needs to, and he does. No emotions, just business. Y-incision. Pin that piece of skin back, cut that piece of tissue. Take a sample of that muscle, take some blood from there, fluid from there. Tests will be run, later, when he's finished, and he intends to find the truth, find out why this one life wasn't allowed to make it to it's natural end. Part of him says that maybe this was the natural end, that the kid wasn't strong enough, that it was meant to be this way, but he's never believed in a higher power, and if he did, he'd be pretty damn pissed off at any god who thought it was okay to let an infant die like this.
He's a little pissed at himself. He had to make the choice. Play God with this life, and he lost. Sure, it was a fifty-fifty shot, which one of them was going to die, but it doesn't make him feel any better. Either way, he'd be down in the morgue where he is now, alone, in the dark save a single lamp overhead, the only sound he can hear is the faint hum of the refrigeration system that's keeping the rest of the bodies behind him cool. More lives. Some natural deaths, at the end of their time, but there are accident victims and unexplained illnesses too. The morgue is like a big melting pot of life which has come to an end, some on time, some too soon. Death doesn't bother him, much, because hell, he wanted to die once. He was ready, and willing, and he actually did die for about a minute, so he feels that he's been there, done that. Now all he has to do is make sure he uses each day to try to keep someone else from ending up in the morgue before it's their turn. Payment to nature, in a sense, for taking away the fear of his own end.
Several times during the autopsy he has to stop and take a few breaths to calm his nerves. Keep on track. More cutting. Making slides for examination, more blood for more tests, checking everything he can possibly think of before he goes about repairing the damage he's done. Everything gets put back in its place, and he does his best to sew a perfect set of sutures. If there had still been blood flowing through those tiny veins, he knows that the skin would have healed and there wouldn't have even been a scar in a few years.
But the Chen-Lupino boy won't see himself in a few years. There won't be any birthday parties, won't be any playdates with friends from school, he won't even get to listen to his parents tell him all about love and what it means to have two mommies instead of a mommy and a daddy. Because he's not alive. He's dead. House looks down at the tiny body and just stares for a long moment, until his eyes start to water and he has to close them to keep the tears at bay. Another moment of breathing, and he's calmed down enough to continue. He lifts the tiny body and puts the diaper back on, and after he's fastened that, he sets the boy on the cloth and rewraps it, taking one last look at the tiny face before he returns the bundle to the appropriate drawer in the wall, ignoring how the click of the lock echoes throughout the empty room.
He washes off the table, and while he's watching the pink streaks of blood flowing down across the steel in rivlets, he swallows down the lump in his throat as he tosses the tools into the bin to be sterilized. By the time he's done with the water, he uses the chemical agent to clean off any last traces of the autopsy and he's relieved that he can blame the sting and odor of the cleaner for the few tears that escape his eyes. Not like anyone would come down here and find him alone in the morgue at some odd hour of the morning. He takes a few deep breaths when he's finished, then gathers up the samples and blood. He'll go run them in the lab while nobody is there, so he can be alone.
With his thoughts. And the answers that he's still looking for. They're there, just hidden somewhere.
That's his life's work. To find the answers that elude everyone else.
So he picks up the tray and grabs his cane, then flicks the light off on his way out the door, heading back out into the darkened hospital.
But for the rest of the night, and the next few weeks after that, no matter how many of the pills he takes, he can't get rid of the pain.
He figures it's a small price to pay for the truth.
fin. comments/feedback is my diphenhydramine.