Vice -- a bad habit, a particular form of depravity
Summary: Sometimes, it just feels better to give in. Series of oneshots, with a "Seven Deadly Sins" kinda theme.
Quote is from 4.14 (Living the Dream)
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"What about you? Are you happy?"
"Not particularly."
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superbia
Before she lights up her Marlboro cigarette, Thirteen counts the sticks of gum she has left in her pocket, just to be sure she has enough.
Not that it matters; House will notice-- he always does-- and she doesn't exactly work with idiots. She isn't sure why she tries so hard to hide what she does. Pride, maybe. Or, embarrassment, possibly, because this, knowing about the disease, it does affect her, has affected her in spite of all her efforts to prove the contrary.
She closes her eyes a moment, inhaling cool air and early morning frost before giving in to the desire of a dose of nicotine. Most mornings, she goes in early about fifteen to twenty minutes before she's actually needed, just for this moment.
Lately, she's grown fond of the feeling of acting contradictorily, takes a perverse comfort in the irony of a doctor smoking on hospital grounds. Thirteen leans against the concrete edge of the building, keeping the exit-only door propped open with her foot and marveling that, for now, she can keep her balance, and she doesn't yet have to worry about spasms or quakes.
But, eventually... She watches the embers from her cigarette fall into her cupped palm, fascinated.
"Smoking on the job?" Kutner stands in the small place between the toe of her shoe and the doorway, smiling that elusive smile of his, his eyes unreadable.
"Technically," she inhales again, "we're not on for another five minutes." He watches her blow a stream of smoke out into the wind, she doesn't pretend not to notice him. She doesn't feel the need to indulge in any false pretenses.
"You don't care if House bothers you mercilessly when you walk in smelling like smoke? He'll insist you're heading on another downward spiral..."
"I don't care what House does." Stringing those words together to form that sentence is deliberate. Because she does care. About a lot of things. It's just easier to pretend that she doesn't.
"Well, that's not entirely true, now is it."
They share a smile.
She offers him the cigarette straight from her lips, curious to see if he'd take it simply because she's the one giving it to him. She's pushing her boundaries, curious to see how far this might go.
"No, I'm good. Not really into the killing myself slowly bit." In the slightly awkward silence that follows that statement, she watches his mouth contort, watches his mind work frantically to cover his ass. She rests her hand on his arm, reassures him without words that it's okay.
Her mortality is something she doesn't want to discuss, doesn't want him to think he has to make her feel better. He doesn't need to try so hard.
"Yeah, I didn't think so. You don't seem like the type." She takes another drag from the cigarette, with him still watching, and she stomps it out under the heel of her shoe.
"How about a drink, then?"
He holds the door open as she walks through, maintaining eye contact and walking backwards. He grins. "Drinks, I can do."
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