Title: A Brutal Precedent (1/11)
Author: nomad1328
Rating: T
Pairing: Gen
Warnings: Spoilers for (up to) the end of season 3
Summary: "Acts of kindness may soon be forgotten, but the memory of an offense remains." -Proverb When House wakes on the floor of the clinic with no recollection of the preceding events, he begins to not only question the offense, but his own nature.
Note: Been working on this while breaking on Lead Me Upstairs. Thank you jdaisy for the beta work, who inspired me continue this thing and provided the feedback I desperately needed. This monster has a mind of its own, but it IS finished. Thanks for reading (and reviewing…)
Something warm and sticky slides down the left side of his nose, branches out against the angles of his face, and seeps into the crevices of his eyes. Annoying. Slide hand up, swipe at it- stings. Not his eyes- definitely his head. Heart is a jumping frog in his chest. Hard floor, making the reverberation of his heartbeat all the more difficult to withstand. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. Roll on the back- feel better, more air, less thud. Ceiling tile, black spotted, blurry. One is missing directly overhead. Hospital vent guts.
Should get up soon. Too long on the floor. Back aches. Leg aches. Head swirly. Funny. The warm squirrelly blood seeps into both eyes this time: reminder. Keep a hand there. Right one will work. Taste of blood already on his lip. Metallic. Iron. Suck it back up- replace lost volume. Doctor Dracula melts under the light of day. Fluorescence is the enemy. Eyes close- just a moment.
Get up.
Okay. One, two, three. Place left hand down, lift. Oh shit, dizzy dizzy. He is the focal point. Retch. Tastes like pastrami and rye. Retch number two, served up on tile 46, to the left of exam table 1. A convenient rest, the table. His spine in vertical line with the steel leg; his heavy head doesn't want to stay up. It falls forward on his neck, towards the chest. Nose pressure. Like a horrible cold. Lift head, cold through the hair on the back of his head, but better.
Focus on something. Focus. Poster on opposite wall: heart disease and evil protagonist cholesterol. Focus on it. Yellow chunk of fat, stick legs, bulging eyes, sharp teeth. Like those freaks who file. Mutants- if only in their heads. This works when he's drunk. It's working now. Focus. The tilt-a-whirl is slowing. Much better. Sigh. Deep breath.
Time to get up. Because no one is coming to get him. Always does it by himself- independent. Trust no one. When he moves it, his left hand slips on the floor. It's a blue folder- not the floor. The folder has slipped his grip. Huh. Right hand on the file- head can bleed a moment. Left hand and up up up. His stomach and groin on the padded table, elbows resting, legs trembling. Gasp. Breathe. Focus. On another wall this time: a blood pressure monitor. He stares at the center of it- the little black node holding the arrow. Pointing at zero. His blood pressure might be low. Or something. Concentrate. Black dot. Good blood pressure is good health. Less heart disease. Less heart attack, stroke. Good. The nausea passes- in the clear. Hands push him all the way up. He swallows, good.
Something happened here.
Air smells like cheap perfume. His face like blood.
Something has happened.
He needs to go. Go from this room. Anyone could come here- unannounced- surprise: here I am. He needs privacy. A band-aid maybe. Vicodin too. But his pockets are empty. Must be upstairs. Strange. Never leave home without it.
His left hand on the door with the file. Why is he carrying it? Better drop it off at the desk. Medical records, confidentiality and all. Routine. Watch out for Previn. Previn the bitch. But compliance is for the sadist to appease. He's not a sadist. She might be though. Cool. She stares at him, blatant. No attempt to hide her contempt. He wants to say something to her, anything, just to see her scowl. But what to say? Nothing comes. Something between sexual innuendo and abhorrence. His wit has left the building. Stare back. Scowl. Hurts his head.
THWACK. Folder on the counter. Hand sticks to it slightly, drags it an inch back towards him. They can deal with it. He walks. Elevator better be empty. Lights from the ceiling bounce up and down. Shadows flicker in his peripheral vision. There is a hand on his sleeve. He shrugs it off, but he can't see the owner of it. Feet heavy, uncoordinated, cane is going at strange angles. Slow steps. Focus. Elevator: twenty steps. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen….
Hallway to the office- fifty steps. They look at him. Has he grown a second head? Maybe. It hurts enough to have spouted something out the center of his forehead. It squirms, gnawing through brain and bone and flesh, bursting out, sending flecks of red into his eyes. Swipe away. Gone. Twenty steps.
Close the blinds, turn off the lights. Shut the door, but no lock here. Sit in his office chair. Damn open hospital. Glass walls. Darkness feels better. Needs something for the blood. Right. First aid. OSHA required kit is closed in front of him- appeared like magic? Really Cool. Wish for Dallas Cowboys cheerleading team. Snap. Damn. Huh.
His fingers leave red smudged trails on the white exterior of the box. Pressure bandage will do. Unwrap plastic, grab the gauze, press. "Ungh" His groan startles him. He knew there would be pain- but yet… "Shit." Need some ice. But he is tired. So tired. This is some weird dream.
Somewhere a clock ticks. Doctors and anxious patients hurry up and down hallways, students pass by, excited, nervous. No need for nerves. Shit happens no matter what you do. It'll happen. You'll get over it. People come to life; people die. All in a few feet from here.
His glass door trembles, a brush of air catches the top of his head, where the hair is not plastered flat by the blood. Someone is standing across from him- flowery, expensive lavender. Like the women he likes. He hadn't realized that he'd actually shut his eyes. He cracks them back open. It isn't easy.
"Are you completely crazy?" Cuddy asks, hands on hips, worried and scowling all at the same time. How does she do it?
What to say? There is no plausible answer because it isn't a plausible question. She has her reasons, but what are they today? What could he have possibly done to make her stand here in front of his desk?
"Maybe," is the only response he can fathom. It's neither yes nor no. Avoid definition, avoid 100 percent in all answers (unless it's a patient- then he lies for their sake, not his). Politicians do it all the time.
"You scared the crap out of Brenda and about twenty other people on your little walk. There's blood all over the elevator and the hallway. The cleaning crew is going to have to call for backup. Maybe we should bring in Hazmat. What the hell happened?"
He begins to shake his head, but realizes that it hurts. Shaking is not a good thing. His hands fall on his desk. But something is still on his forehead. Before he can lift his hands again, Cuddy is at his side, removing it for him and her wince says that it isn't pretty.
"House, this is really ugly." She fingers the wound a moment, pressing on the edges. "Why didn't you let Brenda clean this up? I think you might need stitches."
"Huh," he responds. What to say? His mind is strangely blank- out of focus. He can't make a joke about something he doesn't know. Never stopped him before.
Cuddy leans down further. This he can make a joke about because he can see the crevice between her breasts. "I'm ready." Lips pucker, waiting. She won't do it.
"You're bloody."
Good point. His hands are sticky and red. He's going to get it all over the desk. But there's nowhere else to put his hands. He crosses his arms, tucks them under his armpits. This jacket is old anyway.
"You're being quiet," Cuddy says, cautious "Your head hurt much?"
"Yeah." Indeed.
Cuddy is sizing him up. She's reaching for something and brings it back towards him.
Everything is far too bright and he flinches. A hand steadies his jaw and two fingers gently open his eye. He is forced to look at the too-bright light for a moment more and then he is free. He blinks, trying to clear his vision as Cuddy comes back into view. His legs dangle off the edge an exam room table and his jacket is gone. Goosebumps pop up on his bare arms, hairs on end, and an involuntary shiver courses through his limbs, ending at the place that hurts the most on his forehead. His head hurts.
"You need a head CT."
The words feel funny in his head. He repeats them and his lips buzz. "Head CT?"
"You've got a concussion," Cuddy responds, making a note on what he assumes must be his chart.
"Huh." Concussion. It makes sense. Because nothing else does. "What day is it?"
"It's Thursday. You've also asked that question about five times in the last ten minutes." She pauses for a moment, motions with her hand and he can't help the next question that comes because nothing feels right and time is not fitting into any kind of construct. This type of time leaping around like a one legged cricket only happens in one place.
"I must be dreaming…" he mutters.
"Nope."
"Then what happened?" Cuddy stops writing. She's surprised, caught off guard. This is a break in the routine- something different. She walks towards him, does something with the bandage on his head and looks him in the eye. Pulls back, a deep sigh as she pulls the gloves off her hands and tosses them in the biohazard container.
"As much as we can tell, your clinic patient didn't like what you said to her. Somehow, she managed to smash your face into the countertop. At least that's what it looks like."
"She?"
"She," Cuddy confirms. "Do you remember her?" He shakes his head in the negative. He can't even remember lunch. "What were the words I told you to remember?" Delayed memory test. He can't recall anything in the exam room before the penlight. There are spots of black everywhere in his memory. Swiss cheese. Or maybe just moldy.
"No idea," he says.
"What day is it?"
"Thursday."
"Well that's better at least," Cuddy mutters. "You're still getting a CT. And you need a few stitches."
"Was she a linebacker?" His body aches.
"Gloria Brown, forty-two year old married mother of 2 according to her chart. The police are on their way over here right now. They'll probably want to ask you some questions eventually. Though at this point…" She sighs, shakes her head. "I'll have someone take you down to radiology in about five minutes. Are you nauseous at all?"
"No. Just..." it's hard to explain. His head isn't screwed on tight. "Funny."
"Yeah, I bet." She grabs an instant ice pack from the cabinet, breaking, shaking, and then handing it to him. "Use that. Radiology- five minutes."
