Fic - Snowflake
Jul. 23rd, 2003 12:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleSo I'm happily at word 700 of my Faithfic and suddenly Connor says "hey, you haven't written me for nearly 24 hours! What about me?" And next thing I know, I have this...
Title: Snowflake
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Connor/m
Rating: R
Summary: Fifteen years after Home, Connor is someone else. Crossover.
Medicine was my parents' choice. I didn't know what I wanted to do, just that I didn't want nine-to-five. I was eighteen then. Feel free to fast forward through the next fifteen years of my life. Seriously. I'm doing you a favor.
I'm not a good psychiatrist.
My first patient of the day is morbidly afraid of his own death. That's healthy, I tell him. Everybody dies. I interned in a hospital, I saw people die in ways you wouldn't believe. Screaming.
He keeps asking me to up his dosage.
Mr. Richards cross-dresses. I sometimes bring him my ex-wife's Versace.
Kathy is eighteen; her parents have diagnosed her with nymphomania. Sometimes when she's giving me head beneath the desk I try telling her that when I was her age I had dreams and delusions that my parents had changed my memories, and that I was briefly diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia; but her attention always seems to wander. And the part about schizophrenia is made up, anyway.
I hate the patients.
One exception.
He's something of a celebrity, though he doesn't like to talk about what happened back in the Nineties. Quieter than I thought he'd be; guess ten years in an asylum can do that. We're not supposed to call them asylums or nuthouses or places for the insane or any of ten billion other offensive terms.
I read every casefile. Every old microfilm. In our sessions I ask him inoffensive, uncomplicated questions. He likes having someone to trust.
His home address is on his file.
He opens the door and I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and I say, I want you to hit me as hard as you can.
He's shocked, and then sly, and then he does as he's told. Doctor's orders.
This becomes part of my routine. My secretary never mentions the bruises or the blood on my shirts. I don't have anyone at home to notice.
One night it goes further than fighting.
This is breaking several codes of practise, I tell him, and he strains at the touch and squeezes his eyes shut.
I say, you could probably have me arrested, and he gasps my name like a prayer.
Afterwards, I don't let myself fall asleep. He's not so careful.
And you can see the changeover. His eyes snap open and it's like his whole face shifts.
Who are you? I ask him, and this man's smile could kill. Could cure cancer. Could inspire cults.
Once upon a time, it did.
"Tyler Durden," he says, slow and satisfied. "The question you really want to ask me is - who are you?"
Four weeks later I've lost my job and gained a kiss-shaped scar on the back of my hand, and I'm that much closer to my answer.
END
If you haven't seen or read Fight Club, the above will make even less sense.
Gah. I wanted to finish the Faithfic tonight but I have a blinding headache. To sleep I go.
Title: Snowflake
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Connor/m
Rating: R
Summary: Fifteen years after Home, Connor is someone else. Crossover.
Medicine was my parents' choice. I didn't know what I wanted to do, just that I didn't want nine-to-five. I was eighteen then. Feel free to fast forward through the next fifteen years of my life. Seriously. I'm doing you a favor.
I'm not a good psychiatrist.
My first patient of the day is morbidly afraid of his own death. That's healthy, I tell him. Everybody dies. I interned in a hospital, I saw people die in ways you wouldn't believe. Screaming.
He keeps asking me to up his dosage.
Mr. Richards cross-dresses. I sometimes bring him my ex-wife's Versace.
Kathy is eighteen; her parents have diagnosed her with nymphomania. Sometimes when she's giving me head beneath the desk I try telling her that when I was her age I had dreams and delusions that my parents had changed my memories, and that I was briefly diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia; but her attention always seems to wander. And the part about schizophrenia is made up, anyway.
I hate the patients.
One exception.
He's something of a celebrity, though he doesn't like to talk about what happened back in the Nineties. Quieter than I thought he'd be; guess ten years in an asylum can do that. We're not supposed to call them asylums or nuthouses or places for the insane or any of ten billion other offensive terms.
I read every casefile. Every old microfilm. In our sessions I ask him inoffensive, uncomplicated questions. He likes having someone to trust.
His home address is on his file.
He opens the door and I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and I say, I want you to hit me as hard as you can.
He's shocked, and then sly, and then he does as he's told. Doctor's orders.
This becomes part of my routine. My secretary never mentions the bruises or the blood on my shirts. I don't have anyone at home to notice.
One night it goes further than fighting.
This is breaking several codes of practise, I tell him, and he strains at the touch and squeezes his eyes shut.
I say, you could probably have me arrested, and he gasps my name like a prayer.
Afterwards, I don't let myself fall asleep. He's not so careful.
And you can see the changeover. His eyes snap open and it's like his whole face shifts.
Who are you? I ask him, and this man's smile could kill. Could cure cancer. Could inspire cults.
Once upon a time, it did.
"Tyler Durden," he says, slow and satisfied. "The question you really want to ask me is - who are you?"
Four weeks later I've lost my job and gained a kiss-shaped scar on the back of my hand, and I'm that much closer to my answer.
END
If you haven't seen or read Fight Club, the above will make even less sense.
Gah. I wanted to finish the Faithfic tonight but I have a blinding headache. To sleep I go.
