FICLET: Fight - House
For invisionary
Fight
They cut off the IV drip and he lays there in the bed, hands flat on the sheets on either side of him. His breaths are deep and even, slow and measured. He’s due to be discharged that afternoon, and he told them to stop the drugs. Cuddy had looked at him for a long moment before sighing and nodding, shaking her head at him as she’d left the room. “Don’t scream too loud,” she’d said as she’d gone. He has no intention of screaming at all
**
Half hour.
The tick of the clock on the wall is about to drive him mad. Steady and constant and so fucking annoying he wants to stand up and rip it from its moorings and throw it across the room. Except he can’t stand and he can’t walk and he can’t do anything anymore.
His fingers bend slightly, scraping against the rough sheets, waiting for the time to pass.
**
One hour.
He no longer listens to the clock. He just ticks the seconds off in his head, one by one by one. It almost keeps the slow throb at bay, or maybe it just all coincides into one pulse, one beat of his heart, one second, one goddamnedfuckingjesuschristsonofabitch second at a time.
His palms are no longer flat against the mattress as his fingers start to curl in earnest, the sheet bunched and wrinkled against his skin.
**
Two hours.
His teeth grind, his jaw clenches. He flexes his feet, feeling the muscles react, feeling the ones that don’t. He stretches them to the point where the pressure and tenseness obliterate everything else, everything but the near blinding agony that lives in the center of his thigh. He tries to breathe past it, through it. Tries every trick in the book, comes up with a few more.
His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles as white as the bleached-bone fabric in his hands. His nails dig into his palm through the material and he can’t even feel it past the sharp stabbing of his thigh, even when he breaks the skin and stains the white to red.
**
Three hours.
Cuddy pushes the needle through his skin then pushes the depressor down. He can almost see the morphine swimming into his system, feel it behind his eyes. Everything hurts. Everything throbs. Cuddy’s eyes are concerned as she sets the syringe aside and nods to the tech, ignoring House’s soft protest as the drugs kick in and they begin to hook up his IV.
“We’ll wean you off the morphine, House. Not cold turkey. And…you’ll probably need to take something for the pain for the rest of your life.”
“Good scotch isn’t going to cut it?” His voice sounds distant and far away to his own ears. He thinks he’s being funny, but he can’t quite tell.
She lifts his hands from the bed and motions for the cart, stroking her thumbs across his palms. “It’s no sin to be human, Greg.”
“Got enough strikes against me, Cuddy.” His voice is fading as the drugs kick in. “Gotta fight back where I can.”
She reaches up and strokes back his hair. He’d think it was damned unprofessional if her touch didn’t feel so good. “Stop fighting.”
Fight
They cut off the IV drip and he lays there in the bed, hands flat on the sheets on either side of him. His breaths are deep and even, slow and measured. He’s due to be discharged that afternoon, and he told them to stop the drugs. Cuddy had looked at him for a long moment before sighing and nodding, shaking her head at him as she’d left the room. “Don’t scream too loud,” she’d said as she’d gone. He has no intention of screaming at all
**
Half hour.
The tick of the clock on the wall is about to drive him mad. Steady and constant and so fucking annoying he wants to stand up and rip it from its moorings and throw it across the room. Except he can’t stand and he can’t walk and he can’t do anything anymore.
His fingers bend slightly, scraping against the rough sheets, waiting for the time to pass.
**
One hour.
He no longer listens to the clock. He just ticks the seconds off in his head, one by one by one. It almost keeps the slow throb at bay, or maybe it just all coincides into one pulse, one beat of his heart, one second, one goddamnedfuckingjesuschristsonofabitch second at a time.
His palms are no longer flat against the mattress as his fingers start to curl in earnest, the sheet bunched and wrinkled against his skin.
**
Two hours.
His teeth grind, his jaw clenches. He flexes his feet, feeling the muscles react, feeling the ones that don’t. He stretches them to the point where the pressure and tenseness obliterate everything else, everything but the near blinding agony that lives in the center of his thigh. He tries to breathe past it, through it. Tries every trick in the book, comes up with a few more.
His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles as white as the bleached-bone fabric in his hands. His nails dig into his palm through the material and he can’t even feel it past the sharp stabbing of his thigh, even when he breaks the skin and stains the white to red.
**
Three hours.
Cuddy pushes the needle through his skin then pushes the depressor down. He can almost see the morphine swimming into his system, feel it behind his eyes. Everything hurts. Everything throbs. Cuddy’s eyes are concerned as she sets the syringe aside and nods to the tech, ignoring House’s soft protest as the drugs kick in and they begin to hook up his IV.
“We’ll wean you off the morphine, House. Not cold turkey. And…you’ll probably need to take something for the pain for the rest of your life.”
“Good scotch isn’t going to cut it?” His voice sounds distant and far away to his own ears. He thinks he’s being funny, but he can’t quite tell.
She lifts his hands from the bed and motions for the cart, stroking her thumbs across his palms. “It’s no sin to be human, Greg.”
“Got enough strikes against me, Cuddy.” His voice is fading as the drugs kick in. “Gotta fight back where I can.”
She reaches up and strokes back his hair. He’d think it was damned unprofessional if her touch didn’t feel so good. “Stop fighting.”