Orange Juice. . .
BY thatdeafchick
*A/N: Maybe it's a mistake posting this...but it is 420. Hope you forgive me. :) Though, I think we can all assume House is definitely on something else besides the sticky icky icky.
A wildly out of control heartbeat,
the taste of cigar still fresh on his lips,
the click, click, click of a rubber-tipped cane echoing off the walls of a long, empty hallway that start to melt and swirl and drain away.
In his empty office, he tosses a ball against the wall over and over, watching with an intense, scrutinizing gaze.
It happens -just for an instant- and it's different; the ball. But how? He turns it over in his hands, mind open to so much more. But it's not a ball at all, is it? No, it's an egg, and it's beginning to hatch. He watches even more in fiercely, as bits of shell crack and flake away.
And it's amazing, breath taking; the miracle of life, in his very hand. He's never felt so alive before.
In all his wonder, he suddenly realizes he is surrounded by a whole fleet of Cuddy, all cross-armed and frowning at him; concerned, and frankly it bothers him, because it's orange juice. It's always been orange juice, and he doesn't understand how he's never noticed until now.
Even an idiot like Wilson must have known.
The egg is forgotten as his stomach jumps violently. His office contracts and expands and explodes into a million fucking marvelous butterflies, and suddenly he and Cuddy are in his own apartment.
He wants to tell her to get the hell out, but his throat is full of acid and he thinks it's best if he doesn't.
And so Cuddy stands by, silently both pitying and judging him, as he gathers himself from a pool of vomit and staggers to what he thinks is the restroom. No time for canes and hotpads, and yet there's still time for smudged tumblers and pills, and when he finally makes it, there's a man in the mirror. A sad, angry looking man, and it's the most peculiar thing because he can see every follicle of every hair on his unshaven face, and he thinks it's rather brilliant.
"You're pathetic," the not-reflection sneers, but the bitterness in his voice doesn't quite fit, because it's no longer him but Wilson.
Wilson only frowns, too, but he doesn't mind; the next thing he knows is sleep, and the tiles are cold and inviting.
