Darkest fic ever!
Title: An Open Page
Summary: House gives into Ali's persistency and takes her out.
Fandom: House
Word Count: 768
Rating/Warnings: R, extreme angst, crossgen, AU
Pairing: House/Ali
A/N: For house_fest. Alternate ending for Merry Little Christmas. I'll admit to having this idea, and then picking up the claim opportunistically, which I usually don't like to do. This is possibly the darkest fic I've ever written, including Filch/Draco and the one where I killed the whole cast of Firefly. Thanks to gunstreet_girl and rainbeaux for the beta. Title (obviously) from "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by The Police.
“It wasn’t the spores.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Like hell.”
-
He came back to himself on the floor of his apartment, covered in vomit and hot shame. Of all the times he had woken up wanting to die, this was the most painful of all of them. He hoped to God that the memory of Wilson coming in was a false one, just a delusion from the drugs or the pain or anything.
-
“How did you get this address?”
“The phone book.”
“I’m unlisted.”
“Can I come in anyway?”
-
House spent too long in the shower, letting the water flog him until it ran cold, trying to wash himself away. The pains searing through his leg and gut were unbelievable, or at least would have been for anybody unfamiliar with what it was like to be Gregory House.
There he went being a martyr again.
That was when he decided that if he was going to crucify himself, he was going to do it properly.
-
“Take that silly hat off.”
“Not a chance.”
“You act like you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”
“Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?”
-
He was still far too fucked up and the street far too wet for the bike, so he walked the long steps to the police station. A well dressed woman skittered out of his way when he passed; he stopped for a moment, trying to remember if she had been a patient of his. Then he realized what he must look like- big worn coat, hair dripping wet, face looking like old leather.
The Via Dolorosa indeed, he thought to himself.
-
“Who was that?”
“No one.”
“No one left you a breathy voice mail about meeting up?”
“Must have been a wrong number.”
-
“Deal’s off,” Detective Tritter told him when he finally dragged himself into the police station, with something approaching pride in his too calm voice.
“You can’t-” House started.
“The sad part is, I actually had high hopes for you,” Tritter interrupted. “I’ve seen a lot- too many cases like yours. But with these highly educated addicts, seven times out of ten it’s just drugs. They go off to rehab, they come home, they change rotations, things get better.”
“What are you talking about?” House asked, knowing the answer, but assuming it was the proper thing to say.
“Cherchez la femme,” he replied cryptically.
-
“I got you something.”
“If it’s a Sting cd or a Nabokov book, no points for creativity.”
“No, it’s a little softer than all that.”
“Why don’t you come over here and show me?”
-
“Seventeen year old girl, name of Ali Masters,” Tritter said, smiling and cracking his gum. “Sound familiar?”
“She was a patient,” House replied, lapsing into the firm military bark he’d learned from his father in an effort to keep his voice from breaking. “She and her father came in with Coccidioides immitis. Due to her lack of inhibitions, she developed a fixation on me that developed into moderate stalking. She was treated and cured, and I never saw her again.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
-
“You can’t do this.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You shouldn’t do this.”
“Too late.”
-
“A statement from Mark Masters, stating that he saw Ali leave her house on your motorcycle. Phone records. Hotel receipts for Michael and Carly Corinthos, with signed affidavits from the staff.” Tritter looked at him in his deceptively soft way. “You can do better than that.”
“I didn’t realize I was playing for points,” House replied, his stomach churning and his vision fading.
Tritter shrugged slightly. “All secondary to the victim’s testimony, of course.”
-
“I think you should know that I-”
“Know what?”
“Forget it.”
“Don’t get serious on me now.”
-
“We were going to do the courtesy of waiting until after Christmas to bring you in,” Tritter told him. “Make sure you don’t leave town.” He turned away, as if there was nothing more to be said.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” House said as he left, but he had no poison left to give the words. He couldn’t even muster the strength to slam the door.
-
“It has to end.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Don’t be such a child.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
-
There was a full fifth of scotch when he left, but it was half empty five minutes after he walked back in the door. He picked out one last sad refrain on his piano, caressing the smooth finish as he closed the lid.
He pocketed his keys, leaving his helmet by the door.
Summary: House gives into Ali's persistency and takes her out.
Fandom: House
Word Count: 768
Rating/Warnings: R, extreme angst, crossgen, AU
Pairing: House/Ali
A/N: For house_fest. Alternate ending for Merry Little Christmas. I'll admit to having this idea, and then picking up the claim opportunistically, which I usually don't like to do. This is possibly the darkest fic I've ever written, including Filch/Draco and the one where I killed the whole cast of Firefly. Thanks to gunstreet_girl and rainbeaux for the beta. Title (obviously) from "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by The Police.
“It wasn’t the spores.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Like hell.”
-
He came back to himself on the floor of his apartment, covered in vomit and hot shame. Of all the times he had woken up wanting to die, this was the most painful of all of them. He hoped to God that the memory of Wilson coming in was a false one, just a delusion from the drugs or the pain or anything.
-
“How did you get this address?”
“The phone book.”
“I’m unlisted.”
“Can I come in anyway?”
-
House spent too long in the shower, letting the water flog him until it ran cold, trying to wash himself away. The pains searing through his leg and gut were unbelievable, or at least would have been for anybody unfamiliar with what it was like to be Gregory House.
There he went being a martyr again.
That was when he decided that if he was going to crucify himself, he was going to do it properly.
-
“Take that silly hat off.”
“Not a chance.”
“You act like you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”
“Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?”
-
He was still far too fucked up and the street far too wet for the bike, so he walked the long steps to the police station. A well dressed woman skittered out of his way when he passed; he stopped for a moment, trying to remember if she had been a patient of his. Then he realized what he must look like- big worn coat, hair dripping wet, face looking like old leather.
The Via Dolorosa indeed, he thought to himself.
-
“Who was that?”
“No one.”
“No one left you a breathy voice mail about meeting up?”
“Must have been a wrong number.”
-
“Deal’s off,” Detective Tritter told him when he finally dragged himself into the police station, with something approaching pride in his too calm voice.
“You can’t-” House started.
“The sad part is, I actually had high hopes for you,” Tritter interrupted. “I’ve seen a lot- too many cases like yours. But with these highly educated addicts, seven times out of ten it’s just drugs. They go off to rehab, they come home, they change rotations, things get better.”
“What are you talking about?” House asked, knowing the answer, but assuming it was the proper thing to say.
“Cherchez la femme,” he replied cryptically.
-
“I got you something.”
“If it’s a Sting cd or a Nabokov book, no points for creativity.”
“No, it’s a little softer than all that.”
“Why don’t you come over here and show me?”
-
“Seventeen year old girl, name of Ali Masters,” Tritter said, smiling and cracking his gum. “Sound familiar?”
“She was a patient,” House replied, lapsing into the firm military bark he’d learned from his father in an effort to keep his voice from breaking. “She and her father came in with Coccidioides immitis. Due to her lack of inhibitions, she developed a fixation on me that developed into moderate stalking. She was treated and cured, and I never saw her again.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
-
“You can’t do this.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You shouldn’t do this.”
“Too late.”
-
“A statement from Mark Masters, stating that he saw Ali leave her house on your motorcycle. Phone records. Hotel receipts for Michael and Carly Corinthos, with signed affidavits from the staff.” Tritter looked at him in his deceptively soft way. “You can do better than that.”
“I didn’t realize I was playing for points,” House replied, his stomach churning and his vision fading.
Tritter shrugged slightly. “All secondary to the victim’s testimony, of course.”
-
“I think you should know that I-”
“Know what?”
“Forget it.”
“Don’t get serious on me now.”
-
“We were going to do the courtesy of waiting until after Christmas to bring you in,” Tritter told him. “Make sure you don’t leave town.” He turned away, as if there was nothing more to be said.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” House said as he left, but he had no poison left to give the words. He couldn’t even muster the strength to slam the door.
-
“It has to end.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Don’t be such a child.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
-
There was a full fifth of scotch when he left, but it was half empty five minutes after he walked back in the door. He picked out one last sad refrain on his piano, caressing the smooth finish as he closed the lid.
He pocketed his keys, leaving his helmet by the door.