A/N: I haven't written a "House" fic since March, I believe, and I am up to the challenge to dive back into the minds of these characters. Dedicated to someone who is making me discover more than just keys on a piano….Please R&R, it helps…this is written in House's POV. It's pretty short and it's not a happy one….enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to David Shore.
Fantasies are conscious. Dreams are unconscious.
Wilson performing amputation on my leg. He's holding my hand (while doing the surgery, apparently) and I'm crying. Before I could actually admit to breaking down, I woke up to the annoying sound of my alarm clock. My leg was still attached to my body. That was only a dream, and I couldn't control what my mind wanted to dream about. I would pop a vicodin, and try not to ponder the fact that I was dreaming about my best friend. Self righteous Jimmy is forever stuck in my damn subconscious.
Fantasies on the other hand…
I would be lying if I said I never fantasized about a patient. Clinic duty gets boring, and I need a form of entertainment. I openly gaze at my female patients, and if I want to go out with a bang, I'll throw in a comment about their double D fun bags hanging out, or justify the fact that their ring finger remains empty because of their barely-there mosquito bites for tits. The hot ones, I just want to imagine sticking a syringe somewhere other than their forearms.
And then there's Cuddy.
Her sexuality is almost defined by the power she thinks she holds over me. I know she glances at her mirror right before leaving for work, deciding how many buttons low she should go, or double-checking to make sure her tight skirt screams " do me in the elevator" should I be walking behind her. I have to admit, the distractions work. But it usually only works up until lunch, where my real distraction of stealing Wilson's food takes hold. Her charm is cleverly sexy, but I'm not that desperate for her. She's not enough to be in my fantasy. Neither is Stacy….or Cuddy and Stacy together. My real fantasy is so powerful that it completely blocks out all the hot strippers and hookers and anyone else, for that matter….
It's Vicodin.
Nothing seduces me more than hearing the rattle of those pills back and forth as I shake the bottle. Nothing tastes sweeter than dry-swallowing one of them. And there is no better after-effect than the slow heavy haze that my pills can provide. It's the best relationship I've ever been in, and I am not about to break it off. It's also the most pathetic thing that has happened to me. So pathetic that I would rather fantasize about my sweet high than an actual woman. But Vicodin doesn't leave in the morning, it doesn't talk back and it certainly doesn't tease you and remind you of what you can't have. It doesn't betray me and it doesn't mock me. It's just there for me.
Wilson once asked me if I prefer people over pills. I laughed in his face and that very night, I overdosed. Despite my world being squeezed at the time with Tritter's investigation and my oblivious attempts of pushing Wilson out of my life for good, that was one of the best nights of my life. I was lying on my living room floor alone on Christmas eve, a puddle of vomit right beside me, and my empty bottle in my hands…and I felt complete.
This fantasy of mine, it's hurting people and isn't really sunshine to my liver, but at the end of the day after hours of boring paperwork and medical jargon and sarcastically replying to my mindless co-working drones, it's all worth it, and it is the one thing I can call my own. It was never about the pain in my leg….
It was about having something that loves me for who I am.
A/N: Hoping I grasped the angst…maybe you can tell me? Review! Thank you!