The case was over, another life was saved; Remi Hadley didn't appreciate it like the others did. It felt like the hollowest of hollow victories. With the first and second rounds of treatment administered and the nurses briefed, the patient's condition was looking up. House had been right once again - she hated him being right.
Ripping off her gloves, she threw them into the medical waste. Her hands felt clinical and uncharacteristically smooth - she hated the smell. Tucking her long, brown hair behind one ear she walked towards the locker room, grateful for the end of another aching week of knowing the end right from the beginning.
Some day, she would be the one to die, and there would be nothing anyone could do for her. No sudden revelations, no miracle drugs, not even a quiet ending. She would die alone, in pain, and totally and irrevocably relieved of all of her functions. Huntington's was her end to come, and the very though of ending that way made her blood turn to sludge.
Hands washed and clothes changed, Hadley threw her colleagues the cursory goodbye of social convention. They replied accordingly, addressing her by the nickname she had been commissioned since day one: Thirteen. Being referred to as a number made her feel less human for a while and for most, that would be degrading. For her, it made everything seem okay, just for a little time.
The New Jersey air bit at her face as she walked briskly towards her car, but she didn't care. She pulled her jacket tightly around her waist and kept her eyes forward, the rim of her winter hat just at the top of her vision. The walk was quick and she was in the warm soon, the radio on and turned up to full.
She didn't go home.
Thirteen was spoiling for a rumble. It was Friday night and she wanted to lose herself, just for the night. She wanted to party hard and let the night fall where it fell, lead where it led. She wanted to let go and have fun, live her short life to the fullest because she didn't know how long she had left. She was going to do it all, and end on a high.
She'd never been to that club before, that's why she went in. Nobody knew her face, nobody knew her name, nobody knew her fate. She never felt more at home than when she was alone. There was no sympathy in their eyes, no pity - she was just another gorgeous brunette in need of a good time.
At the bar, all the boys stared. Some braved offering her a drink and some asked for her number, but she always politely declined; they weren't what she was looking for. Eventually they stopped coming, watching their comrades get shot down in flames. It made her smile as she scanned the room from her perch at the bar, sipping at a beer bottle.
Her eyes found what they were looking for.
At the back of the club, at a tiny table, she laughed raucously with her comrades. The gorgeous blonde swept her hand across the collar-bone of one of her friends, brushing the brown strands of hair gently away; something about the way her hand lingered told Thirteen that this was it.
Like a cliché in a bad movie, their eyes met across the room. Thirteen narrowed her eyes and gave her best sultry grin, raising a shoulder ever so slightly and knotting her hand in her hair provocatively. The gesture worked - the girl returned her flirtatious glance. To solidify the connection, Thirteen turned away, smirking to herself, and pretended to ignore what had just happened.
As she guessed, a few seconds later she felt a brush of fingers on her shoulder. She gave it time before she responded. Thirteen stared up into those wide, green eyes, and there were no words needed. Picking up her glass, she swallowed the rest of her drink and stood up, grasping the girl's hand and leading her out of the bar.
No names were exchanged, no addresses, no personal affects; they flagged down a taxi and Thirteen whispered her home address to the cabby. Sprawling across the backseat, Thirteen pulled her poison for the night on top of her, pressing her lips hungrily to those apple pink ones. She wore strawberry lip balm, and Thirteen liked the taste.
Peering out of the corner of her eye at the rear-view mirror, she caught the cabby watching them. Breaking the kiss for a split second, she told him harshly to keep his eyes on the road. He complied, but she knew he'd keep watching.
When the car stopped, she threw far too many bills at him as she pulled the stranger away from the chassis towards her apartment block. The car lingered until the door started to close behind them, and Thirteen quickly forgot about it.
The journey to the elevator was long, because they kept pressing each other up against walls. The kisses grew deeper, the hands moved further, the anticipation grew stronger - the elevator doors eventually closed behind them, and Thirteen pushed her feast against the wall, her fumbling fingers finally finding her floor.
Out of the elevator they tumbled, lips locked and fingers knotted as they crashed into the wall, the fire escape, Mrs. Proskovski's door. Thirteen didn't break rank as she fumbled in her purse, pushing things out of the way hurriedly. After what felt like an age, her fingers brushed the cold, smooth metal of the key - she wrenched at it impatiently as they moved finally to her front door. Finding the keyhole was difficult, but after enough jabbing and wriggling, it slid in smoothly.
As the door slammed behind them, Thirteen's hands took hold of the hem of the shirt of the stranger she was kissing, wrenching in roughly over her blonde head. The kiss broke for a split second and she was hit with dark green, sultry eyes. Their lips crashed back together before the shirt hit the floor.
They left a trail of discarded clothing all through the hall, through the den and up the few stairs to her bed. In just their underwear, the pair collapsed on the satin sheets in a tangle of limbs - Thirteen was growing impatient. Breaking the kiss, she sat the other girl up before her, then slammed her back down, grinning naughtily.
As their lips collided again, Thirteen's hand snaked around the other girls' back, attacking the clasp to her bra. After a few uncoordinated tugs, the fastening finally came free and Thirteen wrenched it from her shoulders with a filthy chuckle. The other girl followed suit, pinging the black lace from Thirteen's chest hurriedly.
Her response was fierce as she pushed her fingers between the two long, tanned legs and pressed hard, moving her fingers slowly up and down against the other girls' underwear, prompting gentle moans. The sound send Thirteen into overdrive and she ripped at the tiny, red thong, almost tearing it in two.
Hungrily, she buried her face in the crook and drank deep - she tasted good. Fingernails clawed at the back of her neck and at her scalp, pulling at her hair and forcing her deeper. As the sounds got louder, Thirteen pulled back grinning; then it was her turn.
As she felt the tongue move expertly against her, she grasped at the satin sheets and bit down on her lip. It wasn't long before she felt it build inside of her, and she couldn't hold back the guttural moans that escaped her throat. The feeling was stopped abruptly, but was replaced by fingers inside of her as lips crashed back against hers. She followed suit, rubbing at every fold until she found the entrance - she plunged her fingers in deep.
For what felt like an age and not long enough at all, they poured all of their energy into each other. The air grew hot and sticky and the room was filled with loud moans. Eventually and all too soon, they collapsed on Thirteen's satin sheets, completely spent.
They only lay there for ten minutes, staring at the oak panelling ceiling, before the girl moved. Not a word was exchanged as she found all of her clothes, pulling them back on unceremoniously. Thirteen just watched her, one hand behind her head beneath the sheets, emotionless. There was no goodbye, no exchanging of names or numbers - just how she liked it.
The blonde girl disappeared through the door of the apartment, and Thirteen heard the click of the catch which was typical of a night like this. It didn't bother her - she wasn't looking for love, just a quick lay to help her escape from the death sentence that hung constantly over her head. That's all she'd been - a retreat.
In the dark, hot air of her bedroom Thirteen rolled over in her sheets, staring at the luminous, digital alarm clock on her bedside table; half past midnight. She would need to be up for work in seven hours. Tomorrow night would be the same, and the next night. It was her daily, self-destructive routine. Go out, have a drink, maybe get high and pull another girl.
Rinse and repeat.