(Untitled)

Jun 15, 2007 21:52

There are days, rare days, but days when I try to live my life like a normal person, like someone who functions, like a person with a heart. When Orpheus started coming back piece by piece, I hoarded bottles of pills, pills to settle me, pills to make me calm and help me sleep. I'm almost never drug-free. The love went out of me and, pint by ( Read more... )

dr. james wilson, dr. jack shephard, miranda, eurydice

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Comments 26

man_ofscience June 16 2007, 03:11:47 UTC
It was early. Jack wasn't drunk. Not yet. He had a drink in one hand. A rocks glass filled half full with clear liquid.

"That looks pretty lethal," he said to the girl at the bar. Her drink is acid green, radioactive poison. Usually, as a rule, the brighter the drink, the less alcohol. It could be a pick up line. A bad one.

Jack Shephard has awful taste in women.

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drivingherpoet June 16 2007, 11:03:45 UTC
"You'd be surprised," I say, and I'm pleased not to hear any slurring in my voice when I talk. He'd be surprised about a lot of things. They usually are.

I take a drag on my cigarette and turn to look at him, careful not to breathe smoke in his face.

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man_ofscience June 16 2007, 23:53:28 UTC
You're in good hands. I'm a doctor.

There was a time he might have said that. Young and cocky. New in the department and invincible. The son of Chief of Surgery and nothing could touch him.

Things change quickly.

"I probably wouldn't," he said instead. He'd been coming to that place long enough. Living in New Tokyo and spending his nights in Siam. Nothing surprised him anymore. Or he liked to think so.

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drivingherpoet June 16 2007, 23:59:54 UTC
And that's more interesting. He's more interesting now. I turn to look at him, my mouth warm with what I've been drinking.

"And what would it take to surprise you?"

I could tell him stories. I could tell him about heartache, and love and loss of love.

Nobody wants to hear those things, though. I've got no-one to tell my stories to.

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enabler_md June 16 2007, 06:12:26 UTC
Wilson couldn't believe he was in here looking for someone to buy drugs from. Not even for himself, that was ridiculous. But House was in pain, and the last thing he needed was to sit through another detox session with his friend. Addict or not, the man was in real pain. The O kept him functional and neutral.

The only real problem was Wilson couldn't find the kid House had told him to look for, and he wasn't just going to walk up to people and ask. He had that much savvy.

Sighing heavily, he took a seat next to a pretty brunette and offered her a smile before ordering a scotch, neat.

"Hello," he said, giving her a nod as he turned around with his drink.

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drivingherpoet June 16 2007, 11:07:43 UTC
"Hello," I say, because it never hurts to be polite, never hurts to try and be kind. I'm a little drunk, and it lends me a little warmth.

It never hurts to try and smile, but I'm out of practice and it hurts, and I'm not sure what it ends up looking like.

This is what he did to me, in going.

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enabler_md June 16 2007, 17:55:57 UTC
Did she just wince at him? Wilson's expression flickered, but the flashing lights covered the confusion and he was back to beig gentle and friendly.

"Nice place," he tried, assuming if it worked back in college it might be okay here. "Come here often?"

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drivingherpoet June 16 2007, 21:06:15 UTC
You remember how to do this. You weren't a gir when Orpheus met you. You remember how this goes.

I nod.

"Often enough. What about you?"

The green drink burns all the way down.

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