The Eleventh Hour
Title: The Eleventh Hour
Rating: T
Words: 411
Disc.: I don't own Kutner, I just borrow him from time to time.
Summary: There is a mystery here- a problem, and working with House has only helped fuel his curiosity. He wonders just how long he can keep functioning. He wonders if just functioning can ever be enough. Posted to taub_kutner
ATTENTION: if you're having trouble reading, you might want to CTRL+. Mac users hit command+ to enlarge font.
A/N:Beta'd by karaokegal .
* * *
Kutner looks at himself in the mirror. He decides that he doesn't look like a man about to take his own life. He stares at his reflection long and hard, his gaze calculating. He doesn't look different; same eyes, nose, mouth, skin, hair; there's something definitely the matter, though. He can feel it. He's sure it hasn't always been there, but he's grown so used to the feeling he simply doesn't question it as often.
He quirks an eyebrow; tests a smile. Somewhere in the background, a lamp spills a column of light onto the floor. Overhead, he listens to the gentle hum of the bright light.
He certainly doesn't look depressed.
He blinks a couple of times, tilting and turning his head. His search, as always, reveals nothing outwardly wrong. His attention is suddenly drawn to the bathroom counter, or, more specifically, the handgun resting on the bathroom counter. He gazes back into the mirror, expression uncharacteristically serious.
There is a mystery here-a problem, and working with House has only helped fuel his curiosity. He wonders just how long he can keep functioning. He wonders if just functioning can ever be enough.
House functions. But then again, does he really want to be like House?
He wraps his fingers around the muzzle, getting used to the weight in his hand. The metal is cool against his palm. The restroom plunges into darkness, and he goes to sit on the sofa, fishing his phone out of his pocket.
He knows he has options-he's always known- but he's so tired now; his limbs feel as though they weigh a ton. He thinks that, if he were to just shut his eyes, he could sleep for a thousand years. Besides, there's always tomorrow to get help.
He watches television, phone in one hand, gun in the other; it's another hour before he realizes he hasn't eaten a single thing. He ignores his stomach and continues to stare at the screen, seeing but not absorbing. The phone rings, and he lets it go to voice mail. He doesn't feel like going through the motions right now, faking his way through a conversation.
Some hours later, when the sky is dark and the streets are quiet, he places his phone on the coffee table and stands. He has two missed calls and one message. He grabs the remote, shuts the television off, and tosses it onto the sofa. Then he walks through the apartment, gun in hand, and one by one, the lights wink out.
He doesn't leave a note-he's never left one.
After all, there's always tomorrow.
Rating: T
Words: 411
Disc.: I don't own Kutner, I just borrow him from time to time.
Summary: There is a mystery here- a problem, and working with House has only helped fuel his curiosity. He wonders just how long he can keep functioning. He wonders if just functioning can ever be enough. Posted to taub_kutner
ATTENTION: if you're having trouble reading, you might want to CTRL+. Mac users hit command+ to enlarge font.
A/N:Beta'd by karaokegal .
* * *
Kutner looks at himself in the mirror. He decides that he doesn't look like a man about to take his own life. He stares at his reflection long and hard, his gaze calculating. He doesn't look different; same eyes, nose, mouth, skin, hair; there's something definitely the matter, though. He can feel it. He's sure it hasn't always been there, but he's grown so used to the feeling he simply doesn't question it as often.
He quirks an eyebrow; tests a smile. Somewhere in the background, a lamp spills a column of light onto the floor. Overhead, he listens to the gentle hum of the bright light.
He certainly doesn't look depressed.
He blinks a couple of times, tilting and turning his head. His search, as always, reveals nothing outwardly wrong. His attention is suddenly drawn to the bathroom counter, or, more specifically, the handgun resting on the bathroom counter. He gazes back into the mirror, expression uncharacteristically serious.
There is a mystery here-a problem, and working with House has only helped fuel his curiosity. He wonders just how long he can keep functioning. He wonders if just functioning can ever be enough.
House functions. But then again, does he really want to be like House?
He wraps his fingers around the muzzle, getting used to the weight in his hand. The metal is cool against his palm. The restroom plunges into darkness, and he goes to sit on the sofa, fishing his phone out of his pocket.
He knows he has options-he's always known- but he's so tired now; his limbs feel as though they weigh a ton. He thinks that, if he were to just shut his eyes, he could sleep for a thousand years. Besides, there's always tomorrow to get help.
He watches television, phone in one hand, gun in the other; it's another hour before he realizes he hasn't eaten a single thing. He ignores his stomach and continues to stare at the screen, seeing but not absorbing. The phone rings, and he lets it go to voice mail. He doesn't feel like going through the motions right now, faking his way through a conversation.
Some hours later, when the sky is dark and the streets are quiet, he places his phone on the coffee table and stands. He has two missed calls and one message. He grabs the remote, shuts the television off, and tosses it onto the sofa. Then he walks through the apartment, gun in hand, and one by one, the lights wink out.
He doesn't leave a note-he's never left one.
After all, there's always tomorrow.