Title: Post Trauma
By: Maineac
Rating:K+
Spoilers: No Reason
Pairing: None
Summary: The German word for "dream" is trauma. More or less.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just renting, with an option to buy.
The dreams didn't start, oddly enough, until House came back to work--till the whole team came back to work, to be more precise, since Cuddy had told everyone to take the time off, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. She just put the whole department on sick leave.
When they returned, Cuddy had been there to welcome them, but the desired cheery effect of her presence had evaporated the instant House walked into the conference room. It was almost reflexive: his eyes had gone to the whiteboard—clean, white; someone had erased "Big Wed Tongue"—and then to the floor, where he'd fallen, by the bookshelves. There it was, still: a large rusty spot on the carpet, a stain that the cleaning people hadn't been able to remove.
"Goddammit," said Cuddy, into the frozen silence. "Maintenance swore to me they had changed the carpet in your office." House just nodded, dropped some papers on the table, and continued over to the door to his inner office. He opened the door and examined the floor.
"Love the new color in here," he said. "Yummy bile green."
"Those morons," said Cuddy. "I'll get someone right on it."
"Don't lose sleep over it," said House, glancing back at the stain. "Maybe it should stay, actually." And then he shrugged off his backpack and shut the door to his office, leaving them all staring.
That night, the dreams started.
"Which one's Dr. House?" The shooter's gaze rakes the room. There's a moment of confusion. And then he's shooting, the sound unbelievably loud, a mini thunder clap. In the stunned silence that follows, the gun swivels.
"Stay," he barks at the three of them. "Stay away from him." Everything seems frozen, in that way of dreams, where you can't move, can't even speak. You are the deer in the headlights. The gun swivels back again. The next shot will be fatal. It's clear and inevitable. And still you don't move. You don't do anything to stop it.
At first the dream is always the same. Then the roles change. Sometimes he is a spectator, watching helplessly. Sometimes he is the one being shot. Lately he has become the shooter. Each night he awakes in a muck sweat just before the second, fatal, bullet is fired. This goes on for weeks.
When the face of the person being shot morphs into his father's face, he finally goes to Cuddy. Sits in her office, and works up the courage to tell her, "I need to talk to someone, maybe take some more time off."
She nods, as if she's been expecting this. She writes a name on a piece of paper and passes it to him. "Here's someone on the staff. She's good, experienced in PTSD. And I'm sure the time off won't be an issue. I'll speak to House about it." She rises, and shows him to the door. Pauses. Puts a gentle hand on his elbow. "Take all the time you need, Chase."