New Fic: Thirty
Title: Thirty
Author: Namaste
Summary: Gen. House has become all too familiar with his pills.
Warning: Mostly general third season stuff, but nothing very spoilerish, and nothing specifically about the last few episodes. About 1,300 words.
AN: Just a ficlet here, dealing with House, his Vicodin and maybe a little background on how he came to have hundreds of pills stashed away. I’m not sure if I’m going to do more on this, or if it’s worth posting to a wider audience. Any thoughts?
House isn’t certain exactly when it happened -- when he realized he knew how many Vicodin he had, just by the sound they made -- but he does know that he has learned the nuances of every click, every thunk, every rattle. He has learned the drug’s language, and it knows how to speak to him.
When House has a fresh refill, the pills make a muffled, soft thump, the sheer volume of the pills and their size cushion each other inside the plastic. He shakes the bottle slightly when he picks it up, feeling relief just from the solid sound and slight heft of the thirty tablets.
House never seems to hear that sound for long. He always tells himself he’s just going to pocket the bottle, leave the pills alone until later. He almost never does. He finds himself pushing up on the top, shaking one out before he even moves away from the counter.
He takes one because his leg hurts. He takes one before clinic hours -- before the worst of the pain can set in. He takes one because he can. He takes one because he’s got a full bottle, and knows he can hold his devil at bay for at least a few more days.
The next morning, he spills two pills out into his palm. When he sets the bottle down on the night stand, he’s surprised by the change in the sound, the thump turning into a low rattle as the Vicodin have more room to move.
He frowns, but swallows them down before swinging his legs out of bed and down onto the floor.
By afternoon, the sound alters slightly as the Vicodin shift and settle into new openings. They clatter against the amber plastic when he pulls the bottle out of his pocket. He knows without looking that he’s gone through nearly a third of the pills.
On his way out of his office he moves the bottle from one jacket to another. He fingers the top, but doesn’t take one, deciding he can wait a little longer. He knows he has plenty. He can take one when he gets home -- or maybe he’ll try to push it a little longer today, wait until after he makes a sandwich, maybe even hold out until later that night, when he can double up before bed.
When the pain wakes him before 3 a.m., House reaches for the bottle on his bedside table without turning on the light. He takes out two, downs them with a gulp of water from the glass he keeps next to his bed for nights like this, when his mouth is too dry to just swallow them, and the ache has settled so deep into his bones and joints that just the thought of walking across the room into the bathroom and to the sink makes him feel sick.
House lies in the dark, waiting for the Vicodin to kick in, and calls himself an idiot.
The next day is Friday and House sits at his desk. The bottle is in his hand and he turns it over between his fingers, hearing the tablets tumble down one side of the vial, gather on the bottom, tumble down the other side, settle against the top, then tumble again.
Half of them are gone now and he wonders how long the others will last. He knows he can get a refill when he runs out. But he doesn’t want to run out. He still has enough now to make it through the next few days -- even until Monday if he’s careful. He doesn’t want to think about being careful. He doesn’t want to have to wait until the pain gets too bad, until it reaches out beyond the hard coil of crippled flesh and begins to torture healthy nerves and muscle, until it screams at him for attention.
He knows how many pills it’ll take to keep the monster quiet, how many it’ll take it keep it satisfied. But sometimes it wants more than satisfaction.
House tilts the bottle upside down, then back again. He can feel the slight vibration from the pills as they rattle against each other, against the plastic. The tissue in his leg trembles slightly, mimicking the sensation in his fingertips.
When he first started taking the Vicodin, House sometimes split the pills in two, trying to make them last longer, trying to ration them, trying to fight both the pain and the risk of addiction. He gave up that balancing act a long time ago, giving in to the easy fall into the safety net of constant refills.
He knows he has some left over from his last refill in his desk at home -- a few pills set aside just in case. He knows he has some still stashed in a coat pocket from last spring. He knows he could get a refill anytime this weekend from the hospital pharmacy. But that would mean he’d have to leave home, and it’s been getting cooler, the cold night wind forcing itself into even the sunniest days. That would mean coming to the office, when he doesn’t need to be here, doesn’t need to see any patients, any doctors.
House turns the bottle over again, tracks the noise the pills make, then puts the bottle in his pocket.
Sunday morning jazz on the radio and the last four Vicodin clatter against each other inside the bottle. By this afternoon he’ll be down to two, the pair of them echoing in the container.
House had moved the spare bottle from the desk to the night stand last night, dipping into the leftover Vicodin to get him through the night and into this morning -- otherwise he’d be out by now. But there are only two left in that bottle now, and there were only a half-dozen in the one in the pocket of his coat tucked into the closet.
He doesn’t know who he was trying to fool when he held off on the refill on Friday -- or what he was trying to prove. He certainly hasn’t convinced his leg of anything. It took up an ache on Saturday afternoon as the sky grew dark and a cold autumn rain began to fall. It grew through the night, mocking his pathetic attempt to try to maintain some kind of control over the pain and the pills and the prescriptions.
The rain has finally stopped, but the sky remains gray with clouds threatening to open again.
House holds the bottle up to the light. He can see the outline of the Vicodin inside it, can count them and he gives it a shake to hear them bang against each other.
Four. With two more in the bedroom ... that’s six. With six more in the closet ... that’s twelve. He knows that twelve is plenty. Twelve is more than enough.
He leans back against the cushion and counts them down. He’ll take at least one more in a couple of hours, but two would be better, especially if the rain returns. He’ll need another one, maybe two, by late afternoon. A couple more before bed. Maybe one or two during the night, and more in the morning. That’s if it’s a normal day. If the rain doesn’t turn to ice. If he doesn’t have to leave home. If he can supplement the Vicodin with whiskey or bourbon. But twelve should be plenty. It should be.
House pushes himself up onto his feet. Twelve left. He reaches into the closet and grabs his coat. He picks up his keys from the desk. Twelve should be enough, he thinks, but thirty would be better.
Author: Namaste
Summary: Gen. House has become all too familiar with his pills.
Warning: Mostly general third season stuff, but nothing very spoilerish, and nothing specifically about the last few episodes. About 1,300 words.
AN: Just a ficlet here, dealing with House, his Vicodin and maybe a little background on how he came to have hundreds of pills stashed away. I’m not sure if I’m going to do more on this, or if it’s worth posting to a wider audience. Any thoughts?
House isn’t certain exactly when it happened -- when he realized he knew how many Vicodin he had, just by the sound they made -- but he does know that he has learned the nuances of every click, every thunk, every rattle. He has learned the drug’s language, and it knows how to speak to him.
When House has a fresh refill, the pills make a muffled, soft thump, the sheer volume of the pills and their size cushion each other inside the plastic. He shakes the bottle slightly when he picks it up, feeling relief just from the solid sound and slight heft of the thirty tablets.
House never seems to hear that sound for long. He always tells himself he’s just going to pocket the bottle, leave the pills alone until later. He almost never does. He finds himself pushing up on the top, shaking one out before he even moves away from the counter.
He takes one because his leg hurts. He takes one before clinic hours -- before the worst of the pain can set in. He takes one because he can. He takes one because he’s got a full bottle, and knows he can hold his devil at bay for at least a few more days.
The next morning, he spills two pills out into his palm. When he sets the bottle down on the night stand, he’s surprised by the change in the sound, the thump turning into a low rattle as the Vicodin have more room to move.
He frowns, but swallows them down before swinging his legs out of bed and down onto the floor.
By afternoon, the sound alters slightly as the Vicodin shift and settle into new openings. They clatter against the amber plastic when he pulls the bottle out of his pocket. He knows without looking that he’s gone through nearly a third of the pills.
On his way out of his office he moves the bottle from one jacket to another. He fingers the top, but doesn’t take one, deciding he can wait a little longer. He knows he has plenty. He can take one when he gets home -- or maybe he’ll try to push it a little longer today, wait until after he makes a sandwich, maybe even hold out until later that night, when he can double up before bed.
When the pain wakes him before 3 a.m., House reaches for the bottle on his bedside table without turning on the light. He takes out two, downs them with a gulp of water from the glass he keeps next to his bed for nights like this, when his mouth is too dry to just swallow them, and the ache has settled so deep into his bones and joints that just the thought of walking across the room into the bathroom and to the sink makes him feel sick.
House lies in the dark, waiting for the Vicodin to kick in, and calls himself an idiot.
The next day is Friday and House sits at his desk. The bottle is in his hand and he turns it over between his fingers, hearing the tablets tumble down one side of the vial, gather on the bottom, tumble down the other side, settle against the top, then tumble again.
Half of them are gone now and he wonders how long the others will last. He knows he can get a refill when he runs out. But he doesn’t want to run out. He still has enough now to make it through the next few days -- even until Monday if he’s careful. He doesn’t want to think about being careful. He doesn’t want to have to wait until the pain gets too bad, until it reaches out beyond the hard coil of crippled flesh and begins to torture healthy nerves and muscle, until it screams at him for attention.
He knows how many pills it’ll take to keep the monster quiet, how many it’ll take it keep it satisfied. But sometimes it wants more than satisfaction.
House tilts the bottle upside down, then back again. He can feel the slight vibration from the pills as they rattle against each other, against the plastic. The tissue in his leg trembles slightly, mimicking the sensation in his fingertips.
When he first started taking the Vicodin, House sometimes split the pills in two, trying to make them last longer, trying to ration them, trying to fight both the pain and the risk of addiction. He gave up that balancing act a long time ago, giving in to the easy fall into the safety net of constant refills.
He knows he has some left over from his last refill in his desk at home -- a few pills set aside just in case. He knows he has some still stashed in a coat pocket from last spring. He knows he could get a refill anytime this weekend from the hospital pharmacy. But that would mean he’d have to leave home, and it’s been getting cooler, the cold night wind forcing itself into even the sunniest days. That would mean coming to the office, when he doesn’t need to be here, doesn’t need to see any patients, any doctors.
House turns the bottle over again, tracks the noise the pills make, then puts the bottle in his pocket.
Sunday morning jazz on the radio and the last four Vicodin clatter against each other inside the bottle. By this afternoon he’ll be down to two, the pair of them echoing in the container.
House had moved the spare bottle from the desk to the night stand last night, dipping into the leftover Vicodin to get him through the night and into this morning -- otherwise he’d be out by now. But there are only two left in that bottle now, and there were only a half-dozen in the one in the pocket of his coat tucked into the closet.
He doesn’t know who he was trying to fool when he held off on the refill on Friday -- or what he was trying to prove. He certainly hasn’t convinced his leg of anything. It took up an ache on Saturday afternoon as the sky grew dark and a cold autumn rain began to fall. It grew through the night, mocking his pathetic attempt to try to maintain some kind of control over the pain and the pills and the prescriptions.
The rain has finally stopped, but the sky remains gray with clouds threatening to open again.
House holds the bottle up to the light. He can see the outline of the Vicodin inside it, can count them and he gives it a shake to hear them bang against each other.
Four. With two more in the bedroom ... that’s six. With six more in the closet ... that’s twelve. He knows that twelve is plenty. Twelve is more than enough.
He leans back against the cushion and counts them down. He’ll take at least one more in a couple of hours, but two would be better, especially if the rain returns. He’ll need another one, maybe two, by late afternoon. A couple more before bed. Maybe one or two during the night, and more in the morning. That’s if it’s a normal day. If the rain doesn’t turn to ice. If he doesn’t have to leave home. If he can supplement the Vicodin with whiskey or bourbon. But twelve should be plenty. It should be.
House pushes himself up onto his feet. Twelve left. He reaches into the closet and grabs his coat. He picks up his keys from the desk. Twelve should be enough, he thinks, but thirty would be better.