kutner_fest - FIC - prompt 46
Title:abyss
Rating:pg-13
summary: 46. Kutner doesn't die-- either because he stops himself, or because he gets help in time
Disclaimer: House and characters not mine (except OFC, I like her okay? lol), no profit being made etc. Enjoy!
"Lawrence." Sonora knocked on the door with the back of her knuckles. "Come on it's me." She slumped against the door face first, her hand moving up to tap at the brass door knocker. A sigh escaped her. She was far too tired to rummaged through her bag for the spare key. After an almost twelve hour shift on her feet, she wanted nothing more than the door to open, walk just long enough to get to the bedroom, and flop on the mattresses, surrounded by sheets and the smell of after-shave.
Quickly she became tired of the clanking she made. "Jesus, fine," she muttered to herself, pushing away from the door. She dug through the crowded abyss that was her purse until finding the lone key at the very bottom. figures she thought. She stuffed the key into the hole and wiggled until it decided to unlock.
As soon as she was in and the door was closed again, she kicked off her shoes in the corner, dropped her bag on his desk. She almost cared that the bag knocked into the monitor, but she didn't. "I can't believe you're still sleeping," she mumbled, stretching her arms out. The couch was at her feet, she could flop down there, sleep soundly in the leather cushions no, she thought, the bedroom is just a few feet away.
She tried to stay quiet as she padded across the wooden floor that squeaked under her weight. At the threshold of the bedroom (there was no door) she stopped, frozen in her spot, air caught in her throat. "What are you doing?" she asked calmly.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his pajamas, a gun in his hand resting on his lap, the trigger all ready cocked. He was still, his breathing slow and deliberate, as if each breath was a struggle. His eyes were focused on the floor. "I thought you were working."
She took a few tentative steps in. Her arms wrapped around her body, her feet stayed close together. A part of her thought she had to be dreaming, a side-effect from her long shift. "No," she answered simply. "I just got off. You're closer to work than I am."
"I wish you'd go home," he told her. His voice was low, distant. He'd never dismissed her before. It was eerie, how still he was; the control of his voice, the situation.
"I'm really tired, Lawrence." She took another step. She had to be careful, she didn't want to startle him, or let him finish what he was apparently set out to start.
Wasn't he tired, he exhaled a short chuckle from deep in his chest. It scared her, but she remained still. "I've been sitting here like this for almost an hour. I watched the sun come up."
Another step, her arms still tightly folded. "I saw it too, from the roof." Maybe if she could reminded him of something they shared, it would pull him back. "The sky was orange and pink."
"I don't know why," he said. "I don't know why I can't do it." The gun was heavy in his hand.
She stepped again. Now she was almost within touching reach. "Can't do what?" She had to keep him talking, thinking, anything to keep his mind away from the gun and the gun away from his head. She imagined that even a few minutes earlier, he had the barrel pressed into his temple.
"Can't be happy." He finally looked up at her. His eyes were overcast, dark. Watery and almost black. He swallowed and tightened his grip on the gun.
"Don't I make you happy?" she whispered. A little arrogant, she knew, thinking that she could be the one and only purpose of happiness in his life, but she just had to distract him long enough to get the gun away.
Lawrence studied her, the curves of her waist, the crossing of her arms. The blond hair that was disheveled and held up with bobbi-pins, the exhaustion on her face. She was beautiful, she was warm. "Yeah," he answered. "But...it still hurts, all the time." He spoke slowly.
Sonora sat next to him, bracing herself. He could snap, pull the trigger. How much pain can one person handle before deciding enough is enough? "You don't think you can fix it?"
He shrugged, a tear rolled down his cheek. "I just wanted it all to stop."
She licked her lips. "Give me the gun." He obliged, turning the safety on before handing it over. She popped open the cylinder, dumping the bullets out and dropping them on the floor, then put the gun on the bed. With her hands freed, she wiped the tear away, kissed his lips. She embraced him, holding onto his sturdy frame as tight as she could. He squeezed back.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled into her hair. He inhaled, taking in the scent of strawberries and disinfectant.
"It's okay." She rubbed his back, trailing her fingers along the spine. Inside she was sobbing and shaking, but she knew that at this moment, she had to be solid for him. He cried into her shoulder. They sat there for thirty minutes before he pulled back, wiped his eyes.
"You have to get help," she told him, her voice quivering. He nodded, but she wasn't truly convinced yet. "Promise me you don't this again."
He was silent a minute, contemplating. This beautiful woman sitting at his side, holding his hand, the bullets sprawled out on the floor out of reach. "I promise." His voice was raspy and low.
She touched the sides of his face, brushes her lips lightly across his forehead, his cheeks. He leaned forward kissing her back, freshly on the lips, hard and crushing, proof that he was still here. He ran his fingers through her hair, to the back of her neck.
"Are you tired?" she asked. Their faces were close, only a breath apart.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Lie down with me." When she moved back to the bed, her hand touched the gun. She gasped and then grabbed it by the handle, got up and put it in her purse, deep in a pocket where he wouldn't find it. She came back and he was picking up the bullets. He threw them in the trash.
She crawled onto the mattress, pulled back the sheets. "Come on."
He got in next to her, holding her close and tight. She was tethering him to the ground. She didn't fall asleep right away, she waiting until his breathing changed to deep and rhythmic, sound. Two tears rolled down her cheek and into the pillow. She thought of what might have been, if she had driven to her apartment instead, or if she hadn't gotten off at all. His brain splattered all over the brick of the wall, his body cold and slumped on the floor.
She was scared that the moment she closed her eyes he'd sneak over her, find the bullets, finally end it all. please she thought. please. How often had he thought about it? How many times did he sit on the edge of that bed with the gun in his hand, pressing it to his head, or putting in his mouth to taste gun powder? Did he ever think of going to the roof and jumping? Had he ever cut his wrists?
His hand rested on hers, she laced their fingers. She didn't fall asleep; she watched into the hall at the desk where her purse sat, and pictured the gun at the bottom of the bag.
Rating:pg-13
summary: 46. Kutner doesn't die-- either because he stops himself, or because he gets help in time
Disclaimer: House and characters not mine (except OFC, I like her okay? lol), no profit being made etc. Enjoy!
"Lawrence." Sonora knocked on the door with the back of her knuckles. "Come on it's me." She slumped against the door face first, her hand moving up to tap at the brass door knocker. A sigh escaped her. She was far too tired to rummaged through her bag for the spare key. After an almost twelve hour shift on her feet, she wanted nothing more than the door to open, walk just long enough to get to the bedroom, and flop on the mattresses, surrounded by sheets and the smell of after-shave.
Quickly she became tired of the clanking she made. "Jesus, fine," she muttered to herself, pushing away from the door. She dug through the crowded abyss that was her purse until finding the lone key at the very bottom. figures she thought. She stuffed the key into the hole and wiggled until it decided to unlock.
As soon as she was in and the door was closed again, she kicked off her shoes in the corner, dropped her bag on his desk. She almost cared that the bag knocked into the monitor, but she didn't. "I can't believe you're still sleeping," she mumbled, stretching her arms out. The couch was at her feet, she could flop down there, sleep soundly in the leather cushions no, she thought, the bedroom is just a few feet away.
She tried to stay quiet as she padded across the wooden floor that squeaked under her weight. At the threshold of the bedroom (there was no door) she stopped, frozen in her spot, air caught in her throat. "What are you doing?" she asked calmly.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his pajamas, a gun in his hand resting on his lap, the trigger all ready cocked. He was still, his breathing slow and deliberate, as if each breath was a struggle. His eyes were focused on the floor. "I thought you were working."
She took a few tentative steps in. Her arms wrapped around her body, her feet stayed close together. A part of her thought she had to be dreaming, a side-effect from her long shift. "No," she answered simply. "I just got off. You're closer to work than I am."
"I wish you'd go home," he told her. His voice was low, distant. He'd never dismissed her before. It was eerie, how still he was; the control of his voice, the situation.
"I'm really tired, Lawrence." She took another step. She had to be careful, she didn't want to startle him, or let him finish what he was apparently set out to start.
Wasn't he tired, he exhaled a short chuckle from deep in his chest. It scared her, but she remained still. "I've been sitting here like this for almost an hour. I watched the sun come up."
Another step, her arms still tightly folded. "I saw it too, from the roof." Maybe if she could reminded him of something they shared, it would pull him back. "The sky was orange and pink."
"I don't know why," he said. "I don't know why I can't do it." The gun was heavy in his hand.
She stepped again. Now she was almost within touching reach. "Can't do what?" She had to keep him talking, thinking, anything to keep his mind away from the gun and the gun away from his head. She imagined that even a few minutes earlier, he had the barrel pressed into his temple.
"Can't be happy." He finally looked up at her. His eyes were overcast, dark. Watery and almost black. He swallowed and tightened his grip on the gun.
"Don't I make you happy?" she whispered. A little arrogant, she knew, thinking that she could be the one and only purpose of happiness in his life, but she just had to distract him long enough to get the gun away.
Lawrence studied her, the curves of her waist, the crossing of her arms. The blond hair that was disheveled and held up with bobbi-pins, the exhaustion on her face. She was beautiful, she was warm. "Yeah," he answered. "But...it still hurts, all the time." He spoke slowly.
Sonora sat next to him, bracing herself. He could snap, pull the trigger. How much pain can one person handle before deciding enough is enough? "You don't think you can fix it?"
He shrugged, a tear rolled down his cheek. "I just wanted it all to stop."
She licked her lips. "Give me the gun." He obliged, turning the safety on before handing it over. She popped open the cylinder, dumping the bullets out and dropping them on the floor, then put the gun on the bed. With her hands freed, she wiped the tear away, kissed his lips. She embraced him, holding onto his sturdy frame as tight as she could. He squeezed back.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled into her hair. He inhaled, taking in the scent of strawberries and disinfectant.
"It's okay." She rubbed his back, trailing her fingers along the spine. Inside she was sobbing and shaking, but she knew that at this moment, she had to be solid for him. He cried into her shoulder. They sat there for thirty minutes before he pulled back, wiped his eyes.
"You have to get help," she told him, her voice quivering. He nodded, but she wasn't truly convinced yet. "Promise me you don't this again."
He was silent a minute, contemplating. This beautiful woman sitting at his side, holding his hand, the bullets sprawled out on the floor out of reach. "I promise." His voice was raspy and low.
She touched the sides of his face, brushes her lips lightly across his forehead, his cheeks. He leaned forward kissing her back, freshly on the lips, hard and crushing, proof that he was still here. He ran his fingers through her hair, to the back of her neck.
"Are you tired?" she asked. Their faces were close, only a breath apart.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Lie down with me." When she moved back to the bed, her hand touched the gun. She gasped and then grabbed it by the handle, got up and put it in her purse, deep in a pocket where he wouldn't find it. She came back and he was picking up the bullets. He threw them in the trash.
She crawled onto the mattress, pulled back the sheets. "Come on."
He got in next to her, holding her close and tight. She was tethering him to the ground. She didn't fall asleep right away, she waiting until his breathing changed to deep and rhythmic, sound. Two tears rolled down her cheek and into the pillow. She thought of what might have been, if she had driven to her apartment instead, or if she hadn't gotten off at all. His brain splattered all over the brick of the wall, his body cold and slumped on the floor.
She was scared that the moment she closed her eyes he'd sneak over her, find the bullets, finally end it all. please she thought. please. How often had he thought about it? How many times did he sit on the edge of that bed with the gun in his hand, pressing it to his head, or putting in his mouth to taste gun powder? Did he ever think of going to the roof and jumping? Had he ever cut his wrists?
His hand rested on hers, she laced their fingers. She didn't fall asleep; she watched into the hall at the desk where her purse sat, and pictured the gun at the bottom of the bag.