You know what? For once Rachel is minding her own damn business. She is walking home after eating something like a normal person who is not looking for trouble.
She almost misses him completely. A flash of white skin catches the corner of her eye and she finally sees him. Shit.
"Hey," she calls out, recognizing him as she gets a little closer. She's seen him around like you see everyone around in this place. He looks like he's dying. "What's wrong?"
Dodge lifted his head at the sound of a voice but he couldn't focus. She was so far away, it seemed. And it was hard to breathe, making the very thought of speaking a monumental task. His mouth opened and he tried, he really tried, but nothing came out at first.
"Hel..." he finally managed to rasp. Breathing out that much, forcing half a word, that was too much for his body to take. His stomach cramped hard and he wrapped an arm around his gut as if that would make the sudden and cruel pain end.
"Jesus Christ," she mutters, running over and grabbing at his arms to steady him. "Are you sick? Did you..."
She trails off, realizing what this looks like. A quick glance at his arm says the rest. She quickly throws one of his arms over her shoulder and takes a step forward, trying not to shake apart. "What was it? Dude, what did you take?"
She was asking questions. So many questions...and he was so fucking out of it. His mouth was dry which struck him as strange because he was so clammy and wet everywhere else.
One question stood out as important and he really worked to get the answer. It seemed like something someone really needed to know.
"Junk," he exhaled. "Too...too much."
He couldn't even remember how much. How much had been in the syringe? More than yesterday, he knew that for sure.
Well past his fifth cup of coffee for the day, Mitchell decided now was the time to head out, lest he be buzzing all night on a caffeinated high. He only counted the cigarettes he'd smoked so he knew when to make more, and the one he lit up as he paused at the base of the Compound steps was his tenth. Stress was not good for his stash, but there wasn't much else he could do instead. This election process took too bloody long.
He started down towards the path to home and saw him, this skinny, pale kid looking like death himself, shaking and swaying. In the second it took to process that image and blink, Mitchell was jogging towards him, brow knit in a frown. "Hey, man, you alright?" he asked around the cigarette. The answer obviously being 'no', he moved on without stopping. "What happened?"
Dodge held the leg of the swing set and swayed. With his arm stretched out the dried blood in the crook of his elbow was plain to see, along with the web of track marks that scarred the paths of his veins.
"House," he said softly. His tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth and as he tried to swallow his eyes rolled back and slid shut. He knew he needed help; the problem was that he didn't think he could actually make it.
"Oh, no, no," Mitchell muttered hurriedly as he watched those eyes roll. The cigarette dropped straight from his mouth and he let it smolder in the playground dirt as he wrapped an arm around the kid.
"Come on, stay with me. We're going to the clinic, sorry mate, not any house," he said, starting to tug him along.
He was so fuckin' cold he could hardly stand it. Cold and tired and heavy. The guy was warm and Dodge held on as best he could, easily abandoning the swing set for the contact of another human being.
"Clin- Yeah. Yeah, okay," he agreed lamely. He began to tremble and fought to stay up. He'd been fighting to stay upright since he'd left his hut.
House allowed himself an entire second and a half of shock when Dodge appeared in the clinic. And then immediately turned off any personal reaction and got busy - first insisting (probably rudely) without any interest in who they were that the person who'd brought him in get out of the way (preferably out of the room), and then, with Dodge on a bed now, putting his fingers to his wrist to check his pulse.
"I don't suppose you can tell me how much," he said shortly, by way of greeting, as he shone a penlight into his eyes to check his pupil dilation.
Dodge forced his eyes open and looked at House. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell House how cold he was and how much his stomach hurt and how hard it was to breathe. He wanted to beg for help. He kind of wanted to cry, but that wasn't happening.
"This much," he said, holding up his fingers, just so far apart. There was no way it was accurate. That much would have killed him.
"I don't think so," said House. "Why don't we just settle on 'way too fucking much' and leave it at that."
Well it was a boring diagnosis, that was for sure; overdoses usually were.
House leaned down, very close to his chest, and listened to him breathe.
"The good news is," he said straightening up, "you're alive." And with that, he limped over to the side of the room and grabbed an IV bag, hanging it from a free hook and snatching a needle from the counter.
The truth was, there wasn't a whole lot he could do, not without narcotic antagonists, which wasn't something the shithole island stocked. Replenishing his fluids would at least dilute the heroin a little, but mostly he just needed to be monitored to make sure he didn't stop breathing, or pumping blood.
He'd been afraid it was going to be like fuckin' Pulp Fiction. Like House might take a needle nine miles long and slam it right into his chest. A little needle in his arm didn't even register.
Sunday's generally my day off. So, I slept late, hung around the house, did fuck all 'til nearly dinner time. Now, I'm headed up to the compound to have a look in the clothes box-- Tom needs a new pair of shorts and Mack's been complaining about wantin' better shoes, whatever the fuck that even means.
It's all easy, domestic monotony, which I mind a hell of a lot less than I ever would've thought, but just like that, that peaceful little bubble shatters. I cross the clearing toward him without thinking, seeing that unnatural way he collided with the swing set and how he's just sorta leaning there, twitching.
"Dodge!" I say, raising my voice just a little, 'cause he's on his feet but he hardly even looks conscious. He's... fucked up. Take one look and I know. I don't got a whole lot of experience with the hard shit, but this... this couldn't be more obvious. "Man, what the fuck did you take?"
It was so fuckin' hard to focus on anything. He blinked and his eyes remained shut for a long moment before he practically forced them open. Dodge stared at Neil, amazed at how dark it seemed and how hazy it was.
"I, uh," he said lamely. He didn't know how to form the word with his tongue like cotton in his mouth. He just held out his arm so Neil could see his tracks and the dried trail of a drop of blood.
"Shit. Okay," I say, stepping in close, closing an arm around his bicep-- fuckin' Christ, he's skinny -- and tugging him gently toward me.
His eyes... I've never really noticed what color they were before. Green, maybe, or blue, but now, light with those tiny pupils, they look eerily glazed and unseeing.
"We're goin' to the clinic, alright? You look like shit, and if you fuckin' die on me, I'm gonna be pissed."
What a lot of people just didn't get was how after a while, nothing mattered but the shot. Eating? Fuck that. A little bump killed any hunger. Fucking? Whatever. The junk killed your hard on anyway. Pretty much everything just fell to the background, even the things you enjoyed because there came a point when you didn't enjoy anything more than that rush of peace without pain.
"Okay," he replied agreeably, stumbling away from the swing set and taking hold of Neil. Dying didn't sound good. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die...he still had like a quarter of a brick left.
Francis had been heading back to the Compound, his and Camilla's dirty dishes in hand, when he saw the figure slumped against the swings. As he moved closer, cautiously, he almost gasped to see the man's features resolve themselves into those of someone he knew.
"Dodge?" he called out, abandoning the dishes--the smash of the crockery on the ground behind him causing him to wince--as he rushed over. "Dodge, what happened?"
He could barely catch his breath. His chest heaved, rising and falling with the laborious task of simply staying upright. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his face, for all the good it did. It only got in his eyes and made them sting and blur.
"Doctor," he said, the one thing he could keep in his head. He needed a doctor, House, the clinic. Anything. He didn't want to die alone and with the way his skin had paled and his lips and fingers had turned blue he was pretty sure he was dancing with the death that hid in every dose he did.
A lifetime of being sent away in an emergency to fetch or find--the iodine for Camilla's cut foot, some trace of a road or landmark after the bacchanal--instinctually made Francis consider running to the Compound to bring back a doctor, but Dodge's unfocused, helpless gaze and the shallowness of his breathing was enough to keep him there.
"Of course, Dodge," he said, slinging one of the boy's arms around his neck, the clamminess of his skin a shock. "You're almost to the clinic. Come on--I'll help you the rest of the way."
Dodge hung from him heavily. He had a dim thought that the other boy may be suddenly less than impressed with him and he really couldn't give less of a fuck. Maybe, if he lived through this, he could say thanks. Or sorry. Or something.
"Cold," he moaned, his arm twitching and jerking against Francis's neck where he clung tightly.
Comments 122
She almost misses him completely. A flash of white skin catches the corner of her eye and she finally sees him. Shit.
"Hey," she calls out, recognizing him as she gets a little closer. She's seen him around like you see everyone around in this place. He looks like he's dying. "What's wrong?"
Reply
"Hel..." he finally managed to rasp. Breathing out that much, forcing half a word, that was too much for his body to take. His stomach cramped hard and he wrapped an arm around his gut as if that would make the sudden and cruel pain end.
Reply
She trails off, realizing what this looks like. A quick glance at his arm says the rest. She quickly throws one of his arms over her shoulder and takes a step forward, trying not to shake apart. "What was it? Dude, what did you take?"
Reply
One question stood out as important and he really worked to get the answer. It seemed like something someone really needed to know.
"Junk," he exhaled. "Too...too much."
He couldn't even remember how much. How much had been in the syringe? More than yesterday, he knew that for sure.
Reply
He started down towards the path to home and saw him, this skinny, pale kid looking like death himself, shaking and swaying. In the second it took to process that image and blink, Mitchell was jogging towards him, brow knit in a frown. "Hey, man, you alright?" he asked around the cigarette. The answer obviously being 'no', he moved on without stopping. "What happened?"
Reply
"House," he said softly. His tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth and as he tried to swallow his eyes rolled back and slid shut. He knew he needed help; the problem was that he didn't think he could actually make it.
Reply
"Come on, stay with me. We're going to the clinic, sorry mate, not any house," he said, starting to tug him along.
Reply
"Clin- Yeah. Yeah, okay," he agreed lamely. He began to tremble and fought to stay up. He'd been fighting to stay upright since he'd left his hut.
Reply
"I don't suppose you can tell me how much," he said shortly, by way of greeting, as he shone a penlight into his eyes to check his pupil dilation.
Reply
"This much," he said, holding up his fingers, just so far apart. There was no way it was accurate. That much would have killed him.
Reply
Well it was a boring diagnosis, that was for sure; overdoses usually were.
House leaned down, very close to his chest, and listened to him breathe.
"The good news is," he said straightening up, "you're alive." And with that, he limped over to the side of the room and grabbed an IV bag, hanging it from a free hook and snatching a needle from the counter.
The truth was, there wasn't a whole lot he could do, not without narcotic antagonists, which wasn't something the shithole island stocked. Replenishing his fluids would at least dilute the heroin a little, but mostly he just needed to be monitored to make sure he didn't stop breathing, or pumping blood.
Reply
"House," he said quietly. "Ssss...s'rry."
Reply
It's all easy, domestic monotony, which I mind a hell of a lot less than I ever would've thought, but just like that, that peaceful little bubble shatters. I cross the clearing toward him without thinking, seeing that unnatural way he collided with the swing set and how he's just sorta leaning there, twitching.
"Dodge!" I say, raising my voice just a little, 'cause he's on his feet but he hardly even looks conscious. He's... fucked up. Take one look and I know. I don't got a whole lot of experience with the hard shit, but this... this couldn't be more obvious. "Man, what the fuck did you take?"
Like I don't already know.
Reply
"I, uh," he said lamely. He didn't know how to form the word with his tongue like cotton in his mouth. He just held out his arm so Neil could see his tracks and the dried trail of a drop of blood.
Reply
His eyes... I've never really noticed what color they were before. Green, maybe, or blue, but now, light with those tiny pupils, they look eerily glazed and unseeing.
"We're goin' to the clinic, alright? You look like shit, and if you fuckin' die on me, I'm gonna be pissed."
Reply
"Okay," he replied agreeably, stumbling away from the swing set and taking hold of Neil. Dying didn't sound good. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die...he still had like a quarter of a brick left.
Reply
"Dodge?" he called out, abandoning the dishes--the smash of the crockery on the ground behind him causing him to wince--as he rushed over. "Dodge, what happened?"
Reply
"Doctor," he said, the one thing he could keep in his head. He needed a doctor, House, the clinic. Anything. He didn't want to die alone and with the way his skin had paled and his lips and fingers had turned blue he was pretty sure he was dancing with the death that hid in every dose he did.
Reply
"Of course, Dodge," he said, slinging one of the boy's arms around his neck, the clamminess of his skin a shock. "You're almost to the clinic. Come on--I'll help you the rest of the way."
Reply
"Cold," he moaned, his arm twitching and jerking against Francis's neck where he clung tightly.
Reply
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