A/N-
I wrote this one right after Epic Fail. It's a little one-shot about House coping with his lack of vicodin addiction.
I own nothing but a battered 10 cent notebook and some chewed up pencils. DS owns House...the lucky bastard...
Sparks
Dr. Greg House stood against Wilson's building, inhaling the wet, chilled night air. He plucked a slender white cylinder from the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket, placing the brown filter in his mouth. This was his guilty pleasure. As a doctor, he knew how bad it was for him; he was well aware of the risks. "No one makes it out alive," he mumbled to the dark night.
He pulled the lighter out of his pocket. He flicked the wheel, depressing the lever, allowing the butane to hit the spark caused by the flint striking. An amazing reaction that cost 59 cents at the convenience store around the corner. He took a moment to watch the blue and yellow flame flicker in the dark night. He watched it dance, casting exaggerated shadows around him.
He silently cursed himself for being so foolish, then he lit the cigarette.
The first puff drew hot air into his lungs, filling his nose with the acrid smoke. He knew about the toxins that he was inhaling, how many carcinogens were entering his body, but the drug, nicotine, was the only one he cared about.
He was an addict.
The word fit him well, and in so many different ways. This was merely one of them. He didn't gauge this particular habit by the number of packs a day, or even a week. He wasn't even a daily smoker. It was more intermittent than that. This was an addiction he could control.
And control was important to him.
To be honest, he was a cigar man. The pungent aroma of a good Cuban was ecstasy. But, a good Cuban should be enjoyed among good friends, paired with an expensive Cognac. This was more intimate, more of a personal reflection.
Lost in his thoughts, he finished the cigarette. He paused, staring at the cherry red center, then he gracefully flicked away they smoldering filter. He watched it sail into the wet street, winking out as it hit a puddle.
He heard a car door slam, and he watched as Wilson climbed out, balancing his briefcase and a coffee. The younger doctor walked over to him, and he frowned at his roommate. "Thought you gave that up?"
He chuckled bitterly. "I gave up vicodin. I rarely smoke, so why give that up, too?" He toyed with the cheap, plastic lighter. "Besides, I have to keep some addictions, right?" He twirled the lighter over and over in his long, nimble fingers.
Wilson sighed. "Those things will kill you, you know."
"Wow. You sound like you're some sort of cancer doctor. Or something." To irritate his new roommate, he pulled another smooth, white cylinder out of the pack. He flicked the mechanism on the lighter, and he brought the flame to the end of the cigarette. After a few quick puffs, the smell of burning tobacco filled the air, causing Wilson to cough.
"Okay. I get it. You want to be alone." Wilson raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Have fun poisoning yourself in solitude."
"If I get cancer," House shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I know who to turn to!" He watched as his friend walked into the foyer of the townhouse, leaving him alone on the street.
He leaned against the building, taking a long drag of the cigarette, letting the drugs and toxins flow through his bloodstream. The burning tobacco glowed cherry red and sunset orange with each drag; the hot air filling his lungs on the inhale, searing his sinuses on each exhale.
Sparks. Little flickers of hope in the dark night. An imbedded trust that one spark would catch willing tinder, creating a flame to keep the nightmares of despair at bay. Like the flint sparking, catching the butane, lighting up the dark.
He elegantly flicked the butt away, watching the red glow fade. He didn't believe in hope, not in sparks, not in anything. Night would come, as it always did.