misanthrope_md (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
misanthrope_md) wrote2012-10-28 01:09 am
misanthrope_md) wrote2012-10-28 01:09 am
(no subject)
TRIGGER WARNING: Attempted suicide.
It was House's father that showed up first, as if he didn't hate this enough already.
"You've done a lot of selfish things in your life, son," the ex-marine said gruffly, standing rod straight in front of House's bed. "But this is a new record."
"Shut the fuck up, dad," he muttered, as he folded paper. "You're not even my real father anyway. You didn't bring me into this world, you have nothing to do with the way I choose to go out of it."
A shrug, almost imperceptible, from the old man. "You could be right about that. On second thought, you're probably doing them all a favor. I didn't like hearing your whining for eighteen years, I don't know how anyone could handle you now."
That was more like it. House wrote something on the back of the folded paper, not looking up at his father. "You're not really here," he said.
"Good thing. I doubt I could stand the shame of my only son taking the easy way out because his leg hurts a little."
"Fuck you, dad."
When House looked up a few seconds later, he was gone.
Next, it was Wilson. For the most fleeting of seconds House entertained the idea that he might be real, but then that was gone.
"There's a reason you haven't touched the belladonna painkiller in so long," he said, looking down at House on the bed. "You're losing your mind."
"I think at this point hallucinations are the least of my problems, Jimmy," House muttered. He stacked the pieces of folded paper on his nightstand and slid his legs over the edge of the bed, beginning to unbutton his long-sleeved shirt.
"Maybe you wanted to say goodbye," Wilson said. "To me, at least. Since you don't have the guts to do it for anyone who really matters."
"I don't need a lecture from you right now. If you really wanted to help me you would be here. You wouldn't have left. Twice." Bitterness dripped from House's voice. He didn't particularly even care that it was obviously all in his head.
"Were you hoping you'd just be able to overdose on it?" Wilson asked, ignoring him.
"Poisoning is an ugly way to die," said House, and realized his fingers were shaking a little on the buttons.
"Oh yeah, blood is so much prettier. Greg..."
"Don't call me that. You don't get to be my friend. Not when you're not here." And then for good measure, added, "Fuck you." He didn't have to look up this time to know that James was gone.
A few minutes later, he actually thought that he felt eyes on him when he sat down on the bed, back against the headboard, turning a razor over in his hands. "So what are you, the ghost of suicide future?"
"I'm pretty sure that's an oxymoron," said Chase. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a lab coat, his hair back to how it had been when House had first hired him.
"This isn't about you, you know," House said.
"I know."
"And it has nothing to do with the people in those letters, either." He looked down at the razor, and muttered, "That was a bad idea. I should burn them."
"Don't."
"You think I'm taking the easy way out, too?"
"I don't think there's anything easy about this."
"I suppose you're going to tell me there's people here who care about me."
"You don't need me to tell you that."
"You're in my head, I don't need you to fucking tell me anything." Though even as House said it, something flickered in his head - an image of Jack near tears, saying he couldn't stand to lose anyone else. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the stack of letters reminded him that other people would care, too. But Phedre, Helen, Magnus... they'd be fine. And so would Jack and Logan. If the world could keep spinning without Chase and the Doctor and countless others who had disappeared, then it could sure as hell keep spinning without him.
"He loves you," said Chase.
"Shut the fuck up," said House.
There were other ways to do this. Better ways. But here on the island? He wished he had a bathtub here. This was going to take longer. It's why he'd taken the belladonna first. Still, it wouldn't be very long. He knew what he was doing.
He looked up, and Chase was still there.
"I don't want you to see this," House said, feeling stupid, to a hallucination.
"Be neat about it," said Chase. "Someone is going to have to find you."
House waited until he didn't feel anymore like there were eyes on him. It wasn't Vicodin and hookers he was after. It was just... away. Anything but the island. Anything but more of this. Anything but growing old, just more useless and more in pain.
He was a doctor, he knew how to slit his wrists.
It was excruciatingly painful, and he was almost grateful for that.
It was House's father that showed up first, as if he didn't hate this enough already.
"You've done a lot of selfish things in your life, son," the ex-marine said gruffly, standing rod straight in front of House's bed. "But this is a new record."
"Shut the fuck up, dad," he muttered, as he folded paper. "You're not even my real father anyway. You didn't bring me into this world, you have nothing to do with the way I choose to go out of it."
A shrug, almost imperceptible, from the old man. "You could be right about that. On second thought, you're probably doing them all a favor. I didn't like hearing your whining for eighteen years, I don't know how anyone could handle you now."
That was more like it. House wrote something on the back of the folded paper, not looking up at his father. "You're not really here," he said.
"Good thing. I doubt I could stand the shame of my only son taking the easy way out because his leg hurts a little."
"Fuck you, dad."
When House looked up a few seconds later, he was gone.
Next, it was Wilson. For the most fleeting of seconds House entertained the idea that he might be real, but then that was gone.
"There's a reason you haven't touched the belladonna painkiller in so long," he said, looking down at House on the bed. "You're losing your mind."
"I think at this point hallucinations are the least of my problems, Jimmy," House muttered. He stacked the pieces of folded paper on his nightstand and slid his legs over the edge of the bed, beginning to unbutton his long-sleeved shirt.
"Maybe you wanted to say goodbye," Wilson said. "To me, at least. Since you don't have the guts to do it for anyone who really matters."
"I don't need a lecture from you right now. If you really wanted to help me you would be here. You wouldn't have left. Twice." Bitterness dripped from House's voice. He didn't particularly even care that it was obviously all in his head.
"Were you hoping you'd just be able to overdose on it?" Wilson asked, ignoring him.
"Poisoning is an ugly way to die," said House, and realized his fingers were shaking a little on the buttons.
"Oh yeah, blood is so much prettier. Greg..."
"Don't call me that. You don't get to be my friend. Not when you're not here." And then for good measure, added, "Fuck you." He didn't have to look up this time to know that James was gone.
A few minutes later, he actually thought that he felt eyes on him when he sat down on the bed, back against the headboard, turning a razor over in his hands. "So what are you, the ghost of suicide future?"
"I'm pretty sure that's an oxymoron," said Chase. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a lab coat, his hair back to how it had been when House had first hired him.
"This isn't about you, you know," House said.
"I know."
"And it has nothing to do with the people in those letters, either." He looked down at the razor, and muttered, "That was a bad idea. I should burn them."
"Don't."
"You think I'm taking the easy way out, too?"
"I don't think there's anything easy about this."
"I suppose you're going to tell me there's people here who care about me."
"You don't need me to tell you that."
"You're in my head, I don't need you to fucking tell me anything." Though even as House said it, something flickered in his head - an image of Jack near tears, saying he couldn't stand to lose anyone else. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the stack of letters reminded him that other people would care, too. But Phedre, Helen, Magnus... they'd be fine. And so would Jack and Logan. If the world could keep spinning without Chase and the Doctor and countless others who had disappeared, then it could sure as hell keep spinning without him.
"He loves you," said Chase.
"Shut the fuck up," said House.
There were other ways to do this. Better ways. But here on the island? He wished he had a bathtub here. This was going to take longer. It's why he'd taken the belladonna first. Still, it wouldn't be very long. He knew what he was doing.
He looked up, and Chase was still there.
"I don't want you to see this," House said, feeling stupid, to a hallucination.
"Be neat about it," said Chase. "Someone is going to have to find you."
House waited until he didn't feel anymore like there were eyes on him. It wasn't Vicodin and hookers he was after. It was just... away. Anything but the island. Anything but more of this. Anything but growing old, just more useless and more in pain.
He was a doctor, he knew how to slit his wrists.
It was excruciatingly painful, and he was almost grateful for that.
no subject
I could not give my blood to Greg, but I could help the Doctor in any way I could.
no subject
"I think we have a good shot. You got him to me quickly. If the bastard dies on me...well. We're not considering the possibility." Once she had the supplies in hand, she stuck Jack and Greg each in turn. Direct transfusion would simply be fastest.
"If you know of anyone else who might be able to donate, we could have a spare. Otherwise, I'll make do with just you, Jack."
[I modded a little to move things, feel free to ping me to change anything.]
no subject
It had been so long since he'd done this. Jack sat back and relaxed, letting his eyes fall closed and his mind drift back, back to when he'd done just this to save Gwen's life. It had been so dire, just like this now. And he'd done it without a second thought.
"Do you really think he'll make it?" he asked, sounding oddly small and uncertain.
no subject
"At least, he'd better make it. I'm naming this child after him, in part, and he'd better be around to deliver him."
[[OOC: Phedre now?]]
no subject
"Do you need to re-stitch the wounds? I was in such a hurry they may be a mess, Doctor. I can get the suture kits, I know where they are."
no subject
When he woke up, he wasn't as surprised as maybe he should have been. He was in the clinic, his wrists were bandaged, and he felt like utter shit.
He opened his eyes just enough to see Phedre in a nearby chair, not turned toward him at the moment, but her entire body filled with tension. And on a nearby hospital bed - Jack. Recovering, House guessed, from a blood transfusion. And he heard the light strains of Helen's voice from across the clinic. It was in that moment, even so soon, that he decided that he would not try again.
As soon as they saw him awake, they were going to grill him. Why could he do this, how could he be so selfish, why, why, why? He decided that he had no intention of answering. They were going to force him into therapy, he imagined. That was going to be bad enough. The last thing he wanted was to face up to his... friends, on top of that.
He closed his eyes again, not really to deal with any of it yet. He might have decided not to try again - not to put anyone through this again, at least now while they were still here - but that didn't mean that he was happy. It didn't mean there wasn't a big part of him that wished he had succeeded. He still didn't want to be here. But he would live with that.