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Contextualising Loss
by flying cat
Feedback: Hit me baby!
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own the characters, if I did I'd be significantly
wealthier than I currently am.
A patient dies, someone's mother, father or child; a friend, colleague or lover. Who
they were is irrelevant, it is the loss that smarts, tears at the pit of his stomach. The
sour taste of defeat is failure in his eyes; the puzzle left unsolved will always be
cracked at autopsy. Sometimes he thinks he should have become an ME, the
'patients' down there didn't talk back or threaten legal action, but it was the thrill of
the pursuit that kept him working on the living. Death was reality, so was Cameron
skulking around the office looking like someone had just killed her puppy for the next
week, willingly absorbing the pain of others. He loathed the sadness that permeated
her demeanour and lingered in her eyes, envying her almost infinite capacity for loss.
It was always the same; he oscillated between scathing, vicious diatribe and ominous,
intimidating silence for the remainder of the day. Those who knew better stayed
away with the knowledge he'd be his usual charming self again the next morning.
Years ago he would have wandered down the street to the bar around the corner,
drunk himself into a stupor and staggered out with the first vaguely female object that
showed even a remote degree of interest in him. One particularly bad night he was
certain that he took an indoor plant home with him and attempted to copulate with it.
He rationalised that the plant must have complimented his eyes. All of that changed
some time ago when he tired of the incessant phone calls from bizarre women whose
names he didn't recall. It seemed to extend the process of losing a patient out to well
over a week as he was forced to pay for getting wasted and having cheap, sub-
standard sex with largely horrific looking women.
Now things were different, when a patient died a simple phone call would suffice. If
Wilson was intent on offering a shoulder to cry on, House would drag him into a
particularly seedy strip club on his way home for some 'light refreshment,' seeking
the manner of comfort that only a girl in a thong can provide, get him drunk and leave
him there. The intensity of his mood generally depended on how he was feeling on
any given day, how long he had been working on the case in question, how close he
was to cracking it, whether or not he had accelerated the process in any way, whether
one of his underlings had made a mistake, whether the patient's next of kin had
threatened or perpetrated an act of physical violence against him, whether it had the
potential to create legal issues for him, and ultimately whether he would be forced
into a confined space with Stacy and/or Cuddy to discuss it.
On this occasion it was obvious, they had all missed it; the patient arrested as the
metaphorical light bulb illuminated inside his head. He sent the kids out to administer
the appropriate treatment; as they left the room he received a page informing him his
patient was dead. He let them go, the few additional minutes of solitude before the
obligatory 'oh no the patient is dead' discussion were priceless. He blamed himself, it
shouldn't have happened, and worried that he was losing his edge.
Seated on his couch cradling a glass of scotch, he stared across the room at the
bookshelf. Pleasantly anaesthetised by a combination of alcohol and Vicodin he was
in a subdued state of melancholy numbness. The world moved slower, he remained
immersed in his own mood, wallowing in his temporary crisis of confidence.
At 10.30 there would be a knock at the door, which would be unlocked. The door
would open and a woman would appear in his lounge room. He really had no idea
who she was and didn't really want to, calling her now more through force of habit
than any genuine need. He had met her by chance, she was young, pretty enough and
thoroughly unsympathetic. He had no idea why she did it, what habit she was
supporting and didn't care. She never called, never hassled or nagged him, never
accused him of being selfish. It was perfect in so many ways, he found the release he
sought so desperately without the usual hassles provided by strange intoxicated
women. She did exactly what he wanted and didn't care if he finished early or felt
like being rough with her. So where was the problem? Aside from the immediate
physicality of their activities, he felt nothing. Plagued by this all-consuming
numbness, he came to wonder whether he was still capable of feeling and
subsequently used their encounters as an opportunity for experimentation.
Generally when she arrived she would find him visibly agitated, cane tapping an
impatient staccato rhythm against the floor as he waited for her. He was less than
civil; one evening he ordered her into the space between the tail end of his baby grand
and the corner of the room. With a multitude of surfaces to provide him with
additional leverage, he pinned her there, face pressed into the corner, arms above her
head. The next five minutes were brutal. He had taken her so viciously and with such
intent that she appeared on his doorstep the next morning demanding something for
the bruises. He offered no argument, obligingly wrote a prescription and paid her
double.
So she was there, standing just inside his doorway watching him staring at the
bookshelf, uncharacteristically subdued. Eventually he stood and slowly limped into
his bedroom, neglecting to turn on the light as she followed a few steps behind,
nonchalant and largely disinterested. He stood silent, staring at the floor to the side of
him, hand gripping his cane white-knuckled as she undressed him, tossing his shirt, t-
shirt and pants onto the floor before pushing him back onto the bed. She knew what
he liked but would always ask anyway- their first time reminiscent of a bizarre
educational film as he directed her every movement, counting her in like a demented
orchestral conductor; the experience amused him on a very deep level.
Tonight he stares at the ceiling declaring that he didn't care what she does, but he
does ask if she's clean. She assures him that she is and begins to theatrically remove
the suggestively cut apparel she wears by night. He pays her little regard, even as she
is sitting astride him teasing, she bites a nipple; he doesn't flinch, acrylic nails cut into
his flesh; he remains unmoved. He is hard by the time she removes his boxers,
however the doctor knows that it is a reflex response to specific stimuli, not her. He
continues to stare blankly at the ceiling as her mouth envelops him, eyes closing
briefly at first contact. He places a hand loosely on the back of her head, more an
acknowledgment of her presence than anything, generalised apathy preventing him
from applying any downward pressure to her skull.
He isn't overly interested and this is evidenced by the fact that it takes longer than
usual. He breathes deeply, trying to relax and enjoy the heat building between his
thighs. But the numbness is pervasive, the sort that cannot be permeated by any
sensation, be it the excruciating pain of his leg, the wind biting his skin as he pushes
his bike past 150mp/h on the highway or the warm, wet mouth currently around his
cock. It subsides momentarily as the muscles in his body seize and pain shoots
through his thigh. He comes, back slightly arched with a soft whimper, and forgets
himself for a few precious seconds. Sensation fades, numbness returns and she looks
up at him from her position between his knees. He is silent, still staring at the ceiling.
The omnipresent sadness in his alarming blue eyes does not move her.
"I hate myself." He whispers, eyes glistening in the dull light that steals a path
through the window from the streetlights outside.
"I know." She rests her chin on his good thigh. "You want anything else?"
"A kiss?" He whispers, a plea more than a demand. His eyes meet hers for the first
time, fingertips lifting her chin off his thigh in a display of tenderness that she finds
alarming. She considers him momentarily before shaking her head and planting a
single kiss on his thigh. His eyes return to the ceiling, a terrific hollowness beginning
to form in the pit of his stomach. She refuses to kiss him and he could never look her
in the eye in what was a perfect bilateral denial of circumstance. He was educated,
successful, wealthy, intelligent; what was he doing? Suddenly the simple intimacy of
kissing appealed to him on a deep level, it had been that long since he had done it.
Worse than that, he wanted to hold her; feel the warmth of another body. He bounced
his leg underneath her; she took the hint and shifted off him.
House swung his legs over the edge of the bed, retrieved his cane and stood slowly.
He grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, dropped two fifties onto the bed and
slowly limped toward the bathroom. She snaffled the cash and quickly dressed,
grateful for the easy money. Pausing at the bathroom door on the way out she briefly
considered saying something to him as he stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror
but elected not to and left.
He stands in the shower, head resting on his forearm, which is supporting him as he
leans on the tiles just below the showerhead. Hot water stinging the skin on the back
of his neck and the superficial wounds that cover his torso, he contemplates loss and
cannot quantify it. Lost leg, lost trust, lost love, lost dignity. He considers Cameron,
who had probably sought comfort from a friend before crying herself to sleep and
silently envies her capacity for loss, her ability to feel. He considers the girl who was
previously attached to his thigh; perhaps it was more demeaning for him than her. It
was the extreme opposite of feeling love for another human being, the hatred of ones
self; and sometimes on rare occasions late at night it tore him apart.
Chasing two Vicodin with a glass of scotch was enough to knock him out. He'd feel
crap in the morning, but at least he'd feel something.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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