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Fic: Disobedience
Title: Disobedience
Author: Namaste
Summary Five times Greg House didn’t do as he was told.
Notes: Originally written for the Ficwriters_Anon challenge here and now posted in my LJ. About 1,000 words.
“Don’t,” Mom said. “Don’t touch it. It’s hot.”
But there was a glow coming from somewhere inside. The light flickered out from the lantern, casting shadows that fluttered with the breeze. It was like something was alive in there, something breathing. He reached out, felt the glow moving toward him, its warmth spreading into his fingers, onto the palm of its hand. The light flickered again, grew angry and he screamed as it burned itself into his skin.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, and held him close. She ran cold water over his hand. “Shhh,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”
She kissed his forehead and wiped away his tears. She spread something over his skin. It was cool, and it felt good. “Next time, maybe you’ll listen when I tell you not to touch.”
********
“Don’t,” Dad said. “Don’t lie to me, Greg.”
He straightened up, stared his father in the eye. “I’m not lying,” he said. “I didn’t take the money.” He’d earned it, he thought to himself. Every other kid got money for doing chores around house. Besides, Dad never paid him for washing his car last week, like he’d promised.
“Then where did you get this?” Dad held out a twenty. “You need to find a better hiding place than under the mattress, son.”
Greg didn’t speak. It wouldn’t matter what he said now anyway.
“You’re a liar and a thief,” Dad said. “I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”
If he expected an apology, Greg wouldn’t give him one. If he thought Greg would beg for mercy, he wouldn’t get that either.
“Go to your room, until I figure out what I’m going to do with you,” Dad said.
Greg closed the door behind him. After a few minutes he heard Dad’s steps in the hallway, marking the route between the bathroom and the kitchen. He waited until he knew Dad was at the far end of the house, then opened his closet, reached into the toe of his dress shoes. The other twenties were still there. Dad hadn’t found them.
He heard Dad’s steps again and closed the closet. He was sitting on the bed when the door opened. “Come with me, son,” Dad said. “It’s time you learned a lesson.”
*********
“Don’t,” Millard said. “Don’t do that. We should wait.”
He reached out, tried to stop House from removing the IV line.
“Wait for what?” House said. He shook off Millard’s hands.
“The biopsy.” Millard took a step back, looked out the door. Maybe he was hoping one of the attendings would show up. Maybe he was afraid that they would.
“A biopsy will take time,” House said. “It’s allergic acute interstitial nephritis.” He stopped the flow of the cyclosporine, disconnected the IV line. The patient watched him, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t look like she had enough energy to even try. “We take her off the antibiotics and start a course of corticosteroids, and maybe we can reverse the damage.”
“We don’t know that,” Millard said, “not for sure.”
“We’ve got edema, fever, rash, increased blood pressure,” House counted off the symptoms one finger at a time. “We’ve got the confirmation from the urinalysis.”
“But a biopsy is the only definitive answer.”
House shook his head. “It’s two o’clock in the morning. We’re not going to find a surgeon now, and the longer we wait, the closer she gets to a kidney transplant list.”
Millard was quiet for a moment. “Let’s at least wait for an attending. Who’s on call?”
House stepped up to him. “If you’re scared, just leave. I can handle this myself.”
Millard looked at the patient, then at House. He walked away, closing the door behind him.
*********
“Don’t,” Stacy said. “Don’t even bother asking.”
“Why not?”
She took off her helmet, dark hair framing her face, the afternoon sun bathing her in light. “Because I’ll say no.”
“But you shot me.” House pointed to the splotch of orange paint on his white shirt just to the right of his sternum, over his ribs, his lungs -- close to his heart. “This is going to leave a bruise. That entitles me to at least dinner and a movie.”
“I’m not the only one who shot you.” She pointed to the blue splatters along his arm, on his back, his side.
House shrugged. “Friendly fire,” he said, “it happens.”
“Eight times?”
“Nine,” House said, pointing to one blotch that nearly covered another one. “Phillips got me twice.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed that you piss people off? Or is this some macho thing about pain?”
House stepped closer to her, caught the scent of a soft perfume in the breeze. “You’re supposed to be intrigued by my brutal honesty,” he saw the hint of a smile hiding behind her eyes.
“I don’t think that ‘intrigued’ is the word I’d use.”
“Sure it is, or you would have left by now, like all the other ambulance chasers.” He nodded toward the field behind her. It was nearly empty. Only a few stragglers were making their way over the course to the parking lot. “Dinner,” he said, “and a movie.”
Stacy shook her head. “Coffee,” she said, “and I pick the place.”
“Anytime,” House said, “and anywhere.”
**********
“Don’t,” Wilson said. “Don’t pour me anymore. I’ve had enough.”
House held the bottle over the glass and Wilson finally sighed and moved his hand. House poured the bourbon over the ice. “It’s not as if you’ve got anyone waiting for you at home,” he said. “For that matter, no home either.”
“Not again,” Wilson mumbled. He picked up the glass, took a sip.
“You rag on me about the Vicodin and I can’t mention the ‘H’ word?” House poured bourbon into his own glass and put the top back on the bottle.
“It’s not the same,” Wilson said. “I’m not addicted to living in a hotel.”
“You’ve been there for a year,” House said. “You haven’t even looked at an apartment in ten months. You’re not just addicted, you’re in denial.” He took a drink.
“It’s easier living there until the divorce is settled.”
“And it’s easier for me to keep taking Vicodin until the pain goes away.”
“Living in a hotel isn’t going to kill my liver.”
“Statistically, there are more violent crimes in hotels. You could be mugged tomorrow.”
“I could move out tomorrow.”
“And I could go into rehab again, but we both know that’s not going to happen either.”
Wilson finished off his drink, put the glass on the table. House grabbed the bottle, leaned forward and held it over Wilson’s glass.
Wilson sighed. “Go ahead. It’s not like I have anyone waiting for me at home.”
“So stay,” House said, “and have another drink.”
Author: Namaste
Summary Five times Greg House didn’t do as he was told.
Notes: Originally written for the Ficwriters_Anon challenge here and now posted in my LJ. About 1,000 words.
“Don’t,” Mom said. “Don’t touch it. It’s hot.”
But there was a glow coming from somewhere inside. The light flickered out from the lantern, casting shadows that fluttered with the breeze. It was like something was alive in there, something breathing. He reached out, felt the glow moving toward him, its warmth spreading into his fingers, onto the palm of its hand. The light flickered again, grew angry and he screamed as it burned itself into his skin.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, and held him close. She ran cold water over his hand. “Shhh,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”
She kissed his forehead and wiped away his tears. She spread something over his skin. It was cool, and it felt good. “Next time, maybe you’ll listen when I tell you not to touch.”
********
“Don’t,” Dad said. “Don’t lie to me, Greg.”
He straightened up, stared his father in the eye. “I’m not lying,” he said. “I didn’t take the money.” He’d earned it, he thought to himself. Every other kid got money for doing chores around house. Besides, Dad never paid him for washing his car last week, like he’d promised.
“Then where did you get this?” Dad held out a twenty. “You need to find a better hiding place than under the mattress, son.”
Greg didn’t speak. It wouldn’t matter what he said now anyway.
“You’re a liar and a thief,” Dad said. “I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”
If he expected an apology, Greg wouldn’t give him one. If he thought Greg would beg for mercy, he wouldn’t get that either.
“Go to your room, until I figure out what I’m going to do with you,” Dad said.
Greg closed the door behind him. After a few minutes he heard Dad’s steps in the hallway, marking the route between the bathroom and the kitchen. He waited until he knew Dad was at the far end of the house, then opened his closet, reached into the toe of his dress shoes. The other twenties were still there. Dad hadn’t found them.
He heard Dad’s steps again and closed the closet. He was sitting on the bed when the door opened. “Come with me, son,” Dad said. “It’s time you learned a lesson.”
*********
“Don’t,” Millard said. “Don’t do that. We should wait.”
He reached out, tried to stop House from removing the IV line.
“Wait for what?” House said. He shook off Millard’s hands.
“The biopsy.” Millard took a step back, looked out the door. Maybe he was hoping one of the attendings would show up. Maybe he was afraid that they would.
“A biopsy will take time,” House said. “It’s allergic acute interstitial nephritis.” He stopped the flow of the cyclosporine, disconnected the IV line. The patient watched him, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t look like she had enough energy to even try. “We take her off the antibiotics and start a course of corticosteroids, and maybe we can reverse the damage.”
“We don’t know that,” Millard said, “not for sure.”
“We’ve got edema, fever, rash, increased blood pressure,” House counted off the symptoms one finger at a time. “We’ve got the confirmation from the urinalysis.”
“But a biopsy is the only definitive answer.”
House shook his head. “It’s two o’clock in the morning. We’re not going to find a surgeon now, and the longer we wait, the closer she gets to a kidney transplant list.”
Millard was quiet for a moment. “Let’s at least wait for an attending. Who’s on call?”
House stepped up to him. “If you’re scared, just leave. I can handle this myself.”
Millard looked at the patient, then at House. He walked away, closing the door behind him.
*********
“Don’t,” Stacy said. “Don’t even bother asking.”
“Why not?”
She took off her helmet, dark hair framing her face, the afternoon sun bathing her in light. “Because I’ll say no.”
“But you shot me.” House pointed to the splotch of orange paint on his white shirt just to the right of his sternum, over his ribs, his lungs -- close to his heart. “This is going to leave a bruise. That entitles me to at least dinner and a movie.”
“I’m not the only one who shot you.” She pointed to the blue splatters along his arm, on his back, his side.
House shrugged. “Friendly fire,” he said, “it happens.”
“Eight times?”
“Nine,” House said, pointing to one blotch that nearly covered another one. “Phillips got me twice.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed that you piss people off? Or is this some macho thing about pain?”
House stepped closer to her, caught the scent of a soft perfume in the breeze. “You’re supposed to be intrigued by my brutal honesty,” he saw the hint of a smile hiding behind her eyes.
“I don’t think that ‘intrigued’ is the word I’d use.”
“Sure it is, or you would have left by now, like all the other ambulance chasers.” He nodded toward the field behind her. It was nearly empty. Only a few stragglers were making their way over the course to the parking lot. “Dinner,” he said, “and a movie.”
Stacy shook her head. “Coffee,” she said, “and I pick the place.”
“Anytime,” House said, “and anywhere.”
**********
“Don’t,” Wilson said. “Don’t pour me anymore. I’ve had enough.”
House held the bottle over the glass and Wilson finally sighed and moved his hand. House poured the bourbon over the ice. “It’s not as if you’ve got anyone waiting for you at home,” he said. “For that matter, no home either.”
“Not again,” Wilson mumbled. He picked up the glass, took a sip.
“You rag on me about the Vicodin and I can’t mention the ‘H’ word?” House poured bourbon into his own glass and put the top back on the bottle.
“It’s not the same,” Wilson said. “I’m not addicted to living in a hotel.”
“You’ve been there for a year,” House said. “You haven’t even looked at an apartment in ten months. You’re not just addicted, you’re in denial.” He took a drink.
“It’s easier living there until the divorce is settled.”
“And it’s easier for me to keep taking Vicodin until the pain goes away.”
“Living in a hotel isn’t going to kill my liver.”
“Statistically, there are more violent crimes in hotels. You could be mugged tomorrow.”
“I could move out tomorrow.”
“And I could go into rehab again, but we both know that’s not going to happen either.”
Wilson finished off his drink, put the glass on the table. House grabbed the bottle, leaned forward and held it over Wilson’s glass.
Wilson sighed. “Go ahead. It’s not like I have anyone waiting for me at home.”
“So stay,” House said, “and have another drink.”
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I have a soft spot for the one with Stacy for that marvelous banter and the hint of love of first sight. You do such a great Stacy voice, and it's great that she points out he's been shot by his own team eight times. And so very House-like that he corrects her.
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I particularly liked the Stacy one (which surprised me). But it was nice seeing how their relationship must have once been. I never realized until now, but his falling for her so fast (one week later, she moved in) after she shot him with a paint ball is almost a metaphor for being shot with Cupid's arrow.
“Friendly fire,” he said, “it happens.”
Giggle, giggle, snort, snort.
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And I have one nit to pick: "You need to find a better hiding place then under the mattress, son.” That then should be than.
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This is one of the best things I've read in a while, love the Stacy segment in particular.
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(Anonymous) 2007-10-08 03:59 pm (UTC)(link)(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2007-10-08 16:06 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
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"TOUCH ME!"
Well, he did. *amused grin* At least Blythe was understanding about it. I'm sure he learned that lesson. *nods*
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(Anonymous) 2007-10-13 05:22 am (UTC)(link)Regards Namikwa
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