Purging Files- short unbetaed fic for flist
Untitled (Got a suggestion?)
Author: nomad1328
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 644
Summary: Last year, right after Finding Judas aired, I wrote this little in between scene. Takes place after House has his rampage on Cuddy up until he decides what's wrong with the patient. This fic is not going anywhere and I think it comes full circle, so to speak, so I'm posting it flist only. If anyone wants to nitpick it, go ahead.
Eighteen hours. Fifty nine minutes. It was at 4:30 yesterday. Eighteen… tick tick… nineteen hours. The last pill in the bottle dumped into his hand, tossed to the back of his throat. Cuddy had smiled- sad, walked away. He’d done his job, swallowed the pain for thirty seconds and allowed his mind to run with the Reyes Syndrome. She’d rewarded him like the good puppy he could be, shook her head: Addict. Bastard. So what. Nineteen hours. One minute.
House’s breaths came in short bursts- a shallow inhalation, an exaggerated breath out through the nose, his head held just a bit higher than normal, lips pinched, as he entered his office. One step; Two. It had taken every ounce of his strength to pull himself into the shower that morning, to make his way to the bus stop- there would be no bike today, no car. His vision was fuzzy on the edges, his hands shook, his leg spasmed. Despite it all, he was early. It wasn’t as if he’d actually slept. Tylenol PM only did so much.
They were already there, flipping through charts, books. Heated discussion: his favorite. Any day but today. Why couldn’t something work right for once? He almost hoped the girl would get on with it. Just die already. Her parents were going to kill her spirit by the time she was 10 anyway. Lock her away in the context of weekends with Daddy and holidays with Mom.
Nineteen hours, five minutes. He reached for the pill in his pocket while he struggled to think through the haze engulfing his brain. Half his brain cells, his stomach, remembered that it normally took him almost two days to get through a bottle of pills. On this regime, it would be four days until the next new one. His leg still protested that it was the pain. Just the pain. He couldn’t think. It didn’t matter, he had the answer. An infection: had to be infection. He was always right- go with the gut instinct. Had to be. Non-responsive to the meds. But they just wouldn’t listen. He can’t hear their arguments. But they’re droning on and on and on and…
“Cowards like you won’t stand up and do what’s required!” No more drugs: no more filter. No more forgetting about the pain. Pain wasn’t having it today. And it had grabbed his tongue in revenge. It whipped against everyone in the room, fingering them all in accusation and rage. When it had had its say, he looked down to his fingertips. A white cylinder pinched between thumb and index. His one lone stashed pill. Now was the time and he tossed it to the back of his throat again and quieted the tongue again, struggling to swallow against the dryness.
The knock on Cuddy’s door was a surprise even to him. Why bother?
She looked up, frowned, shook her head. He went in anyway.
“You look like hell.”
“Necrotizing fasciitis.”
“You’re not kidding.”
He shook his head. Shoulders bunched.
“Amputation.” He breathed again, leaned harder on the cane, taking all the weight on it and his other leg.
“You’re sure?” It was half statement, half question.
The pill he’d swallowed moments ago was working and his tongue held still against the now faint urge to snap back at her for questioning him. “Yes.” Be a good boy. She’ll give you more. Just give her what she wants. She’ll forget your tirade last night. The one that made you’d go home without the pills in the first place, given you nineteen hours and twenty minutes of sweat and cramp.
She stared at him for a moment, squinting: her version of thinking. Whether she was thinking he was insane or right didn’t matter. He waited and the nod came. “Okay.”
“My pills?”
He followed her to the pharmacy. Nineteen hours, thirty minutes.