untitled ficness
Mar. 13th, 2007 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubberbuttonUntitled fic in second person.
Possible language and adult situation warning.
Possible language and adult situation warning.
You look over the file and tap the pen against your bottom lip absently. The 5-FU is having an effect, but you wonder if it’s worth the cost. Mrs. Fenton’s nausea and weakness are making the small ground gained something of a Pyrrhic victory. You know Mrs. Fenton will do whatever you suggest, keep filling her veins with poison at your suggestion or quit fighting the inevitable and spend as much time with her grandchildren as possible. Her faith in you is so whole and perfect that it hurts. So beatific and accepting that it almost annoys you.
You set the file down and rub your eyes tiredly, pinch the bridge of your nose. You can feel the barest hint of an oncoming migraine that will hit with the force of a tractor-trailer in a few hours. You fish the Excedrin out of your desk and pop a couple, in a gesture automatically reminds you of House.
House. With that thought you’re sure the ache just behind your eyes gets a little worse. You feel a little like crying, but you’re at work and the thought is just too exhausting. Plus, it would just be pathetic.
You pick up the file again.
*****
He stops by your office around lunch. Things may not be like they used to, but the pair of you are creatures of habit and that carries you over. You follow him to the cafeteria, falling into the matched strides as you always have. There’s a knack to keeping up with the lope-sided gait without tripping him or falling behind. You developed it years ago and now it’s so natural that you don’t even think about it.
The two of you slide on through the cafeteria line, pushing ugly plastic trays ahead of you. The Excedrin has staved off the brunt of the headache, but you still feel the uncomfortable tightness behind your eyes and everything hurts in a nondescript sort of way. It’s more than enough to kill any appetite, but you know it’s been awhile since you’ve eaten and going hungry will only make it worse, so you pick out a yogurt and some kind of sandwich (chicken-salad? chutney? …neither sight nor smell identify it) and unsweetened tea.
House stacks his tray with the four main food groups: sugar, salt, fat and caffeine. It’s a miracle he manages to keep his girlish figure. Sarcasm must burn a lot of calories. House shoots off the obligatory smart remarks about your selections and speculates on the content of the sandwich filling, but you ignore him as you pay for the food. The lunch-lady doesn’t even ask if you’re together, just rings up the sale and holds out a chubby hand. You grimace and pay. As if there weren’t enough gay rumors about you and House. You wonder how many of those rumors were actually started by House himself.
You sigh inwardly and remind yourself that it doesn’t matter what other people think. Their opinion has no actual bearing on your sexuality. Still, it’s galling when you catch one of the surgical residents cast a knowing look over the pair of you settling in at your regular table.
She’s pretty, too.
******
The sun has already set by the time you leave the office, the western sky just holding on to the last, faint streaks of purple. House left awhile ago; he’s without a case and Cuddy’s threats only hold him in the clinic so long. You think about calling him and seeing if he’s eaten yet, but then push the impulse away. You’ve been trying to distance yourself lately, trying to loosen the strangle hold he seems to have on you. It would be better for both of you, you know, to have some space. You wouldn’t be at the mercy of a sociopath twenty-four/seven. He would be able to form some real attachments with others. You’d both be happier, healthier. It’s not that you resent the energy spent on him, but it’s clearly not working. You’re not even sure what he needs, only that every time you’ve tried to help him you’ve completely fucked it up.
You stop by a fast-food joint on the way home. It’s one selected for its proximity to Batson’s Liquors, which is your next stop. You don’t buy any of the hard stuff—you’re not House—just a bottle of moderately-priced red wine. You try not to think about it, but stopping by Batson’s has become something of a habit. It’s not that you want to get drunk, but it’s nice to have something to help you relax. You’ve had trouble sleeping lately and a glass or two of wine is still better than a prescription.
You get back to your hotel and turn on the TV almost as soon as you’re in the room. You don’t want to watch anything in particular, but it helps keep the silence at bay. Some woman on TV is smiling and enthusing about something. Her forehead never wrinkles and her eyebrows are drawn with such an artificial arch as to give her a vaguely surprised look. You doubt that’s what she’s going for.
You flip idly through the channels. One of the nice things about living alone is that you can watch all the porn you want, but even that loses its appeal after awhile, and you settle on the last half of Kill Bill. Gratuitous violence in the place of gratuitous sex.
You automatically refill your glass and then realize you’ve already had three. But it’s been over the course of the evening; you’re not even feeling it. You let the bottle tip in your hand, filling the glass with the dark red liquid.
Drink a glass of water before bed, you remind yourself.
******
The next morning when your alarm goes off, the TV is still on and annoyingly cheerful morning hosts are exclaiming over the weather. You must have been more exhausted than you thought to have slept through those high-pitched tones.
A hot shower scalds some life back into you, the sting pinking your skin. You lean against the cool tile of the shower, braced up by a splayed hand while you use the other to bring yourself off with rough efficiency.
You pick out a tie double-checking to see if it matches your pale green dress shirt and finish dressing. You blow-dry your hair and mentally go over your schedule for today. Department meeting, review grant application, patient, appointment withAnderson
You turn off the dryer and stow it away, collect your briefcase and trench coat and depart. You consider breakfast, but then dismiss it. You need to go over your notes for the meeting beforehand. Hopefully someone will bring bagels. You toss your briefcase on the passenger seat of the car and pull the door closed behind you. You sit a moment, keys in the ignition and stare the raised Volvo logo on the steering wheel. You lean forward slowly, almost involuntarily, and rest your forehead against the wheel, letting your eyes close. You stay like that for a moment, trying—and almost succeeding—not to think. Then you sit up, turn the key and start the car.
You don’t want to be late.
You set the file down and rub your eyes tiredly, pinch the bridge of your nose. You can feel the barest hint of an oncoming migraine that will hit with the force of a tractor-trailer in a few hours. You fish the Excedrin out of your desk and pop a couple, in a gesture automatically reminds you of House.
House. With that thought you’re sure the ache just behind your eyes gets a little worse. You feel a little like crying, but you’re at work and the thought is just too exhausting. Plus, it would just be pathetic.
You pick up the file again.
*****
He stops by your office around lunch. Things may not be like they used to, but the pair of you are creatures of habit and that carries you over. You follow him to the cafeteria, falling into the matched strides as you always have. There’s a knack to keeping up with the lope-sided gait without tripping him or falling behind. You developed it years ago and now it’s so natural that you don’t even think about it.
The two of you slide on through the cafeteria line, pushing ugly plastic trays ahead of you. The Excedrin has staved off the brunt of the headache, but you still feel the uncomfortable tightness behind your eyes and everything hurts in a nondescript sort of way. It’s more than enough to kill any appetite, but you know it’s been awhile since you’ve eaten and going hungry will only make it worse, so you pick out a yogurt and some kind of sandwich (chicken-salad? chutney? …neither sight nor smell identify it) and unsweetened tea.
House stacks his tray with the four main food groups: sugar, salt, fat and caffeine. It’s a miracle he manages to keep his girlish figure. Sarcasm must burn a lot of calories. House shoots off the obligatory smart remarks about your selections and speculates on the content of the sandwich filling, but you ignore him as you pay for the food. The lunch-lady doesn’t even ask if you’re together, just rings up the sale and holds out a chubby hand. You grimace and pay. As if there weren’t enough gay rumors about you and House. You wonder how many of those rumors were actually started by House himself.
You sigh inwardly and remind yourself that it doesn’t matter what other people think. Their opinion has no actual bearing on your sexuality. Still, it’s galling when you catch one of the surgical residents cast a knowing look over the pair of you settling in at your regular table.
She’s pretty, too.
******
The sun has already set by the time you leave the office, the western sky just holding on to the last, faint streaks of purple. House left awhile ago; he’s without a case and Cuddy’s threats only hold him in the clinic so long. You think about calling him and seeing if he’s eaten yet, but then push the impulse away. You’ve been trying to distance yourself lately, trying to loosen the strangle hold he seems to have on you. It would be better for both of you, you know, to have some space. You wouldn’t be at the mercy of a sociopath twenty-four/seven. He would be able to form some real attachments with others. You’d both be happier, healthier. It’s not that you resent the energy spent on him, but it’s clearly not working. You’re not even sure what he needs, only that every time you’ve tried to help him you’ve completely fucked it up.
You stop by a fast-food joint on the way home. It’s one selected for its proximity to Batson’s Liquors, which is your next stop. You don’t buy any of the hard stuff—you’re not House—just a bottle of moderately-priced red wine. You try not to think about it, but stopping by Batson’s has become something of a habit. It’s not that you want to get drunk, but it’s nice to have something to help you relax. You’ve had trouble sleeping lately and a glass or two of wine is still better than a prescription.
You get back to your hotel and turn on the TV almost as soon as you’re in the room. You don’t want to watch anything in particular, but it helps keep the silence at bay. Some woman on TV is smiling and enthusing about something. Her forehead never wrinkles and her eyebrows are drawn with such an artificial arch as to give her a vaguely surprised look. You doubt that’s what she’s going for.
You flip idly through the channels. One of the nice things about living alone is that you can watch all the porn you want, but even that loses its appeal after awhile, and you settle on the last half of Kill Bill. Gratuitous violence in the place of gratuitous sex.
You automatically refill your glass and then realize you’ve already had three. But it’s been over the course of the evening; you’re not even feeling it. You let the bottle tip in your hand, filling the glass with the dark red liquid.
Drink a glass of water before bed, you remind yourself.
******
The next morning when your alarm goes off, the TV is still on and annoyingly cheerful morning hosts are exclaiming over the weather. You must have been more exhausted than you thought to have slept through those high-pitched tones.
A hot shower scalds some life back into you, the sting pinking your skin. You lean against the cool tile of the shower, braced up by a splayed hand while you use the other to bring yourself off with rough efficiency.
You pick out a tie double-checking to see if it matches your pale green dress shirt and finish dressing. You blow-dry your hair and mentally go over your schedule for today. Department meeting, review grant application, patient, appointment with
You turn off the dryer and stow it away, collect your briefcase and trench coat and depart. You consider breakfast, but then dismiss it. You need to go over your notes for the meeting beforehand. Hopefully someone will bring bagels. You toss your briefcase on the passenger seat of the car and pull the door closed behind you. You sit a moment, keys in the ignition and stare the raised Volvo logo on the steering wheel. You lean forward slowly, almost involuntarily, and rest your forehead against the wheel, letting your eyes close. You stay like that for a moment, trying—and almost succeeding—not to think. Then you sit up, turn the key and start the car.
You don’t want to be late.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-23 05:17 am (UTC)It takes a lot of skill to make the second person work, but it definitely works here.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-23 01:54 pm (UTC)Heh. Yeah, it's not one of my happier pieces. You may want to stockpile chocolate and a tissues.
It takes a lot of skill to make the second person work, but it definitely works here.
I normally tend to stay away from second person--it just seems a little over the top for most ficcage, but I was just messing around here. I don't know that I'd attempt it for anything longer.
BTW, what a coincidence--I just finished reading A Modest Proposal late last night. Unfortunately, I was on the wrong side of incoherence then to comment. But I should get around to that now...