Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Summary: Gregory House hates change, but when his life takes an abrupt and irrevocable turn into the unknown, someone has to make the ultimate sacrifice.
Chapter Two: The Entertainer
House woke with a start, roused into awareness by the liquid fire that seethed in his veins. His lungs stung with each choked breath, every muscle fibre in his body was consumed in fire, and he could taste the metallic, nauseating tang of blood on his tongue.
The side of his face was sticky with blood, the flesh burning where it met with the floor; the lingering odour of urethane, bitter and unpleasant in his nostrils. He felt weak and vulnerable where he lay, pressed against the rear wall of his apartment curled in a loose foetal position, writhing in perpetual agony.
Bone and cartilage shifted beneath his skin as his body endured a detrimental and fatal process of physical change: internal organs were unsystematically torn, shredded and re-established; adipose tissue masses shrank, superseded by muscle; maxillary and mandibular canines lengthened, cusps sharpening to acute points; flesh paled to an anaemic, sickly complexion, giving the illusion of death; and his close-cropped, steel-grey hair thickened and darkened to a charcoal black, leaving two distinct, unchanged strips of hair running along each temple, reaching just shy of his occipital bone, before gradually blackening.
His jaw clenched tightly as he rode the convulsive waves of torment, his cries of pain accompanied by a barrage of grunted profanities. White-knuckled fists assaulted the floorboards, his nails dragging through blood leaving striated scars in their wake before being gradually swallowed. The infarction was like pissing in the wind compared to this.
Time came to a stand-still, his shallow, distressed breathing and soft whimpers piercing the silence. Nothing existed outside of the raging fire that enveloped him.
He longed for death.
He hungered for it.
-[H]UDDY-
Wilson and Cuddy stood amidst the silence of her office, she at his side, one hand gripping his forearm as though her life depended on it, the other clasped over her mouth in a subconscious gesture. Two pairs of startled eyes rested on the phone, which dangled helplessly over the side of her desk.
Cuddy spoke first, her voice a mere whisper that gradually grew in strength as she emerged from her stupor.
'Wilson...what the hell was that?' Wilson turned to look at her, visibly shaken, his mouth moving soundlessly.
She hesitantly reached forward and grasped the receiver, hitting re-dial and pressing the phone to her ear. If House was just messing with them, he would live to regret it.
She brushed her fingers through her hair nervously, the dial tone mocking her, instilling a deep fear in the pit of her stomach. If he was any other employee, she would have just contacted the police. But he mattered. Not just professionally. She needed to see if he was okay, otherwise she'd be beside herself with worry.
Swallowing hard, she turned and left her office, plucking her handbag from her desk as she went, and leaving a flabbergasted Wilson in her wake.
Pulling himself together, he stumbled over his feet in an attempt to catch up with her.
'Cuddy!' Damn, she walked fast for a woman in heels.
Breathless, he grabbed her wrist none to gently and she came to a stand-still at the contact. He moved to stand in front of her.
'Cuddy, he's probably just screwing with us. You know how he likes to mock our altruism.' He gave a characteristic shrug of the shoulders, followed by a weak smile, and she returned it with a glare.
'Then I'll deal with it when I get there.'
'Cuddy...'
'Wilson, either you come with me, or you get the hell out of my way.' Wilson released his grip at the malice in her tone, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline in bewilderment. He nodded almost imperceptibly before moving to fall into stride beside her as they both navigated the corridors of the hospital, reaching their destination uninterrupted.
Wilson studied Cuddy as they walked through the hospital parking lot, her face a picture of stone-cold determination. Had anyone approached them, he doubted they would have even been acknowledged.
He was scared, yes, but familiarity in being on the receiving end of House's frivolous and juvenile antics made it difficult to take him seriously at times. What he couldn't understand was why Cuddy seemed so adamant in seeing him. He'd never seen her so...anxious.
The silhouette of her Prius came into view, and she reached a shaking hand into the depths of her handbag to remove her keys, her resolve closing in on its breaking point as she struggled to insert the key into the lock. Wilson gently pried them from her grasp, ignoring her protestations, and proceeded to unlock the car, ordering her into the passenger seat as he pulled open the door and hopped in behind the steering wheel.
Cuddy was barely holding it together, the onslaught of apprehension and disquiet was overwhelming. She couldn't handle the thought of what lay in wait when they reached his apartment, her mind shifting to ponder how she was going to hide the body, deciding it better to delude herself rather than embrace the situation.
The streets seemed to crawl by. Her insistence that they break the speed limit fell on deaf ears, despite the threats of bodily harm, life in clinic, and joblessness. Wilson's reasoning was sound, as much as Cuddy hated to admit it: If House was indeed in danger, they needed to get there without interference from the boys in blue, or a phone pole.
Cuddy stared restlessly out of the window, fiddling with the sleeve of her coat as she watched the houses pass.
'Cuddy...he'll be okay.' Wilson glanced sideways at her, reaching a comforting hand out to rest on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She turned to look at him, the emotion in her eyes startling him. He smiled reassuringly at her.
God, he hoped House was okay.
-[H]UDDY-
The remission came. The violent spasms watered down to intermittent jerks before leisurely dying away; replaced with a dull, throbbing ache.
House's eyes rolled in their sockets, the irregular pulsating of his heart drumming in his ears before stopping abruptly; his spent body trembling and falling limp.
xxx
Apologies for torturing House, but it was necessary. I suppose I could have made him unconscious while he turned, but where is the fun in that?
Decided to change the title, rather than write a ten-page chapter. They'll be at his apartment in chapter 3, which I have every intention of writing, providing I have the inspiration to do so.