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At this point in her life, Thirteen is no stranger to the kind of exhaustion so heavy that she feels the weight of it, aching and deep in her bones.
It's plagued her since she was a child, struggling to understand the feelings of anger and grief as Anne Hadley's presence turned to a gaping silence, hanging in the corners of their house.
It lingered just outside of every interaction she stumbled into as she grew older, weighed down by the feeling of words unsaid; of not knowing exactly what to do, what to say, to get the right response.
It stalked her through college, med school, the 'competition' for a diagnostics fellowship; through the period of 'not knowing', of running from the truth; drove her to push herself to the brink in an effort to outrun fear and guilt, and to wear herself down to almost nothing, so thoroughly exhausted she couldn't even speak.
It nipped at her heels when Amber died. When she tested positive for Huntington's. When she fell into that slow but deepening spiral and decided to throw her life to the wind, not caring what she said, who she fucked, what she took. It wasn't until she was held hostage by a man who stormed the clinic and found her life hanging in the balance that it finally began to pull her down, down, down, trapping her at rock bottom and at last swallowing her whole.
In the hours immediately following her brush with death it devours her with a starving fierceness, rolling her bones between its teeth. It bleeds into the days and weeks following, unable to be controlled. (Blood... there'd been blood on Cuddy's carpet, after Jason had shot that clinic patient in the leg—) And she can only watch from what feels like outside of her own body as the burden nests in her chest, unwilling to be tamed.
Thirteen tries not to think about it; pushes it from her mind as much as she can once the temporary dialysis is done, the dexamethasone and the havoc it wreaked is cleared from her system, and the central line that all of her blood was filtered through is removed from her chest. Even still, it lingers alongside the growing fatigue, plagues her mind at all hours, and pushes her closer and closer to complete and utter meltdown. She's completely drained, but she can't relax. Every minute of whatever kind of rest she manages is utterly restless. She can't think. All she can do is feel the aching exhaustion as it creeps in further, and try to push back the part of her that's never not on her toes, always ready to run.
There's words for this, she knows. Post traumatic stress. Burnout. But she's never needed a name for it before now, not really. All her life, it's followed her during the hardest times— a faceless, shadowy companion, weighing her down and looming over her shoulder. Stealing her words, sucking away her energy. By now, she treats it like an old friend; knows exactly what to expect when it settles in her core in the weeks after the hostage situation, aching and exhausted.
So it doesn't surprise her when she wakes, gasping and drenched with cold sweat, halfway through the night following The Incident in the clinic– and every night after. It doesn't surprise her when she stops sleeping, instead spending her nights staring up at the ceiling, reliving the same horrifying snapshots over and over in her mind's eye. It doesn't surprise her when the makeup stops covering the growing rings beneath her eyes, so dark they could be bruises.
She starts to move through each day in a dreamlike haze, fatigue so heavy it descends over her consciousness like a fog. She slows down. Her life becomes a blur passing before her eyes, moving too quickly for her to reach out and take— and she stays rooted in that November afternoon, heart stuttering as the adenosine spreads, thick and heavy in her veins; desperation clawing its way out of her throat as she begs for her life with a needle to her antecubital vein and a gun mere inches from her head. I don't want to die. I don't want to die!
What does surprise her is when it finally makes her composure start to crumble.
She's not sure exactly how long it's been since The Incident, or how many days she's gone without more than an hour of sleep. All she knows is that she and Kutner are in the lab, prepping their latest patient's blood for the usual array of tests, and that she's so exhausted it makes her head spin. It's like she's moving in slow motion as she takes one of the vials from the plastic basket containing their phlebotomy kit and brings it over to the centrifuge. She leans forward a bit, squinting to read Taub's messy handwriting on the label, and watches herself as she idly turns the vial over in her hand. Before she can even react, it slips against her gloved palm, sliding out of her hand too quickly for her to even try and catch it.
"Woah." The sound of Kutner's voice pulls her out of her own head. She sees his hand shoot out over the table in front of her, seamlessly catching the vial of blood that slipped between her fingers. Thirteen startles at the sudden movement and forces herself to attention, immediately ramrod straight. Her eyes widen. "You okay?"
She's used to existing in a vacuum of her own actions. For her entire childhood, she'd learned to fold in on herself when she fell apart, not explode out— Mom was sick, Dad was busy taking care of her, and big brother Jay was trying to hold them all together. So where did that leave Remy?
It means that people have never made a habit of asking her if she's okay; she just is. And if she isn't, that's not for anyone but her to know.
"I'm fine," Thirteen forces out, posture stiff. She blinks rapidly, ruffled. The stark lack of sleep she's had over the past few weeks and the fatigue currently ruling her every move make it hard to even think, let alone get the words out. She shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts, push away some of the fog. "Just a little tired. Long day."
Kutner looks at her a little more closely. His gaze is almost investigative, but not in a way that makes her feel small or scrutinized. He doesn't want to pry, he's... genuinely concerned. "So every day's a long day now?" Kutner questions, looking at her with his head tilted slightly to the left.
"Does it matter?"
"Just seems like you're always tired recently."
Thirteen fumbles for the right words. After too long of a silence for her liking, all she can manage to come up with is, "That's life." She awkwardly reaches for the sample he's holding, her hand flat. She's more than aware she messed up by dropping that vial. Once again, just like the situation with Spencer, her mistakes are the only thing that ever make anyone else start paying attention. She wants to put the whole thing behind them as soon as possible. "...Shut up and let me finish these tests."
"No." Kutner says. He reaches out to pull the centrifuge sitting in front of her across the table, setting it just beside his own workspace. A burst of shame rushes through her. Useless, she thinks. "I'll finish the tests. You should try and get some rest."
She stares at him. "You're telling me to sleep on the job?" Thirteen demands.
"I'm telling you to step away from the very expensive, very breakable machines and take a breather." Kutner replies, calm, smooth, and unrelenting. "You need it. You've been through a lot recently."
"And I'm doing just fine." Thirteen leans forward a little more and tries to snatch the vial of their patient's blood back from him— but Kutner just grins, rolling his stool away while waving the vial between two fingers, now annoyingly out of her reach. She grits her teeth. She already feels like enough of a failure after spending the past few months very publicly spiraling out of control. She doesn't need her coworkers teasing her, pitying her, for not being able to handle herself at work on top of everything else. "What I need is for people to get out of my business and stop feeling bad—"
"I'm not pitying you." Kutner frowns. He puts the hand not holding the blood sample up, as if in surrender. "Look, Thirteen, I get it. I had a roommate in college with CFS, and–"
Thirteen bristles. "I don't have chronic fatigue—"
"I wasn't trying to say you did." Kutner replies, unruffled. "I was trying to say that I understand how tired you are. I've seen what that kind of exhaustion does to you when you spend so long pretending it doesn't exist."
Thirteen finds that she can't quite look at him in that moment. Her eyes dart away from his and she glances down at her hand, fingers tapping a quiet, anxious pattern against the metal lab table.
"And I get not being able to sleep, too." Kutner says, a little quieter now. "I couldn't either. I don't think I got a full night's sleep for at least a year after my parents died."
She feels her eyes go wide when her head snaps up to stare at him. "I'm not having–"
"It's a normal response to trauma, y'know." he interrupts, though his words are nothing but gentle and matter-of-fact. "You stared down the barrel of a gun and almost died dosing yourself with medication you didn't need. I'd be more surprised if you weren't having some kind of dreams about it."
Silence.
How easily he sees right through her makes Thirteen's stomach twist. She fights the urge to hide her hands in her lap, instead fidgeting a bit in her seat, shifting her weight into a position that's not quite so heavy on her aching muscles. She leans against the table just a bit, letting it take some of the burden of her own body weight for her.
"Thirteen..." Kutner trails off, tries to catch her eye. She pointedly looks in the other direction, twisting on her stool just a bit, one elbow now on the table. Her other hand keeps tapping out that simple pattern against the metal, the sound of her nails clicking echoing in the quiet lab. One, two, three, four. "You're a doctor. You know you're literally killing neurons when you go this long avoiding actual sleep—"
One-two-three-four. Her fingers move a little faster now. "I know."
"And maybe it's none of my business, but I think you also know that you'll kinda need those later—"
Onetwothreefour. "I know! " Thirteen snaps, teetering on the edge of melting down— or blowing up— completely. Immediately she stiffens and snatches her hand back, curling it into a fist; tries to rein herself back in. Breathe, she tells herself. Easy. The stark silence of the lab is heavy without the sound of her tapping. "I get it. I don't need you to remind me how much I'm screwing up."
"...Sorry." Kutner says. The genuine regret in his voice makes her shoulders droop just a bit. Thirteen bites her lip; she wishes she hadn't snapped at him. "I just... wanted you to know you're not alone. I know how you feel, sort of. It sucks. No one should have to go through something like that on their own."
More silence.
"Do you... want to talk about it?" He offers.
"There's nothing to talk about."
Kutner frowns. "It's bothering you. There's definitely something to talk about."
"That's not what I meant!" A headache is starting to form behind her eyes. She can feel her patience wearing thin; the frustration of not being able to put her thoughts into words properly eats at her, drains what little tolerance she has left for social interaction after already functioning on little to no sleep. Kutner looks at her with wide eyes and for a moment she feels like she's talking sideways, speaking in a language that only she is doomed to ever understand. "There's nothing to talk about because I'm so tired I can barely think, let alone have a conversation." She grits out. She lays her bent arm straight against the table, all her weight still on that elbow; straightens her opposite hand out of its tight fist. "I don't know what else you want me to say."
"You don't have to say anything." Kutner says, and there's not an ounce of frustration in his voice. That makes Thirteen feel even worse. "I think I get it. It's hard to put things into words when you're using all your energy to just... survive."
His words steal the breath from her chest.
Oh.
For the first time in... she's not sure how long, she feels... seen. Just the tiniest bit. And despite her instincts to shut him out and wall the feelings away, Thirteen worries her lower lip between her teeth and finds herself nodding slowly.
"Okay," Kutner says, nodding at the progress he's— they're— making. "We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. I just wanted you to know... you have people looking out for you."
Thirteen takes a long, deep breath, trying to release some of the tension from her body on the exhale. His concern is sweet, really. It flatters her. "...Thanks," she sighs, barely more than a breath. She straightens a bit, turns back towards Kutner ever-so-slightly. "Any chance hearing you out means I can get the sample back now?"
"Nope," Kutner's eyes sparkle with mischief as he shakes his head. "I still think you should try to sleep." He rolls his stool away just a bit further in case she tries to reach for the vial again, and Thirteen huffs a bit in frustration. "It's broad daylight outside, the room is lit, and you've got other people around who know what's up. When else do you get this kind of opportunity?"
She stares at him. "You really think that will help?"
"I know it helps."
Thirteen watches him for a moment. If there's anyone who knows this stuff- facing down a gun and surviving, the nightmares that come after, the guilt of escaping (nearly) unscathed— it's going to be Kutner. "...What about House?"
"House doesn't matter right now." Kutner says. "But I'll wake you up if he's going to come in. And I'll wake you up if it looks like it... starts getting bad for you."
Thirteen blinks. She's not sure why she's surprised given how kind he's been already, but the fact that he'd do that for her is... touching. It reminds her of something her older brother would do, and that makes her ache just a bit. She never stops missing Jay, especially not now that she loses a bit more of him each time she visits. The last time she'd seen him, his chorea had been getting worse... "...You'd do that?"
"I told you; I get it." Kutner repeats, with a little bit of a sad, wry smile. "Besides, we're friends. The least I can do is look out for you."
Friends. The word fills Thirteen with a flicker of camaraderie she hasn't felt since... before she realized Spencer's illness was treatable. That the other woman wasn't dying; that she'd never really understood Thirteen after all. She swallows, pushing that memory away, and looks up into Kutner's warm brown eyes.
"...You swear?" she asks, searching his gaze.
"Do you wanna pinkie-promise?" Kutner says, and she thinks he's being facetious until he swaps the test tube to his other hand and extends his pinky to her. "I swear, I will. First sign anything's wrong, out here with me or in there with you, I'll be your own personal alarm clock." He meets her eyes, his gaze steady, confident. "I promise, Thirteen, I'm not gonna leave you to deal with anything alone."
Thirteen lets out a long breath. She slumps forward just a bit, her resolve weakening. She really is exhausted. And to be around someone who openly gets it ... feels safer than anything else she's experienced since the day it all went down.
"...Okay." she finally relents, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at Kutner's lips. "Fine. You win. But no one else hears about this, got it?"
"Loud and clear." Kutner nods, with a sincerity she can't doubt. He mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, and she almost laughs for the first time in days. "It'll stay between me and you."
Thirteen observes him for a moment before she lets herself relax. Part of her wonders if he's going to sit there and watch her until she actually lays her head down and tries to sleep. But then she sees him roll his stool closer to the table again, as if he's going back to their lab work— as if she isn't there at all. Kutner casually reaches for the centrifuge, preparing to set up the first vial of their sample. Relief prickles at the back of her neck. Okay. She can do this.
Taking advantage of the lack of attention on her, Thirteen peels off her latex gloves, pulls herself closer to the counter, and rests her head on her crossed arms, her left cheek pressed against the cool metal of the lab table. Her muscles relax ever-so-slightly, granting her a brief reprieve from some of the tightness she's carried day and night since The Incident.
"Kutner?" She asks, after a few moments of quiet. She hears a squeak from his rolling stool as he turns to look at her, sees a flash of his white lab coat and striped shirt out of the corner of her eye.
"Yeah?"
Thirteen bites her lip. What she really wants to ask is: will I stop hearing his voice in my dreams? Will I stop living in that split second when I watched him put his finger on the trigger? Am I gonna spend the rest of my life frozen, waiting for that gun to fire?
Instead she manages, with a slight tremor: "Does it... get better?"
Her vision's blurred from having her face pressed against the table, one eye closed and the other only half open. But she swears she sees Kutner's expression soften. "...Yeah." He seems to understand all of it, even what she can't put into words. "It... takes a while, sometimes. But... yeah. It will get better. I promise."
Thirteen takes a long, deep breath, and nods.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"No problem," Kutner says easily as he finishes setting up the centrifuge, presses it closed, and switches it on. As if he'd do this every day. As if it's the simplest thing in the world.
It's that tone in his voice that makes her feel safe enough to fully close her eyes. The exhaustion she's been fighting finally starts to overtake her, the weight of it wrapping around her body like a blanket.
Thirteen lets the tension drop from her shoulders, feels her face press against the fabric of her shirt sleeve and the cool metal of the table, and falls into a heavy sleep.
She's not sure whether she's awake or dreaming when she hears House and Kutner talking faintly some indeterminable amount of time later. She's still achingly weary, but there's a feeling of relief that starts in her chest and begins to spread through her body, too— she's resting, for the first time in weeks. A small part of her wonders if she's missing a differential, but she can't bring herself to care all that much. For once, everything is warm and hazy and safe, and some part of her knows she doesn't need to worry. A moment later, she feels a warm hand drape something over her shoulders. She thinks it might be her lab coat. One eye opens halfway. "Wha–?"
"...Crap." Kutner mutters from somewhere to her right.
"Go back to sleep, Thirteen," she hears House say, followed by the feeling of a brief squeeze of her shoulder— so quick that she's almost certain she's dreaming. Without realizing, a tiny smile tugs at her lips. "Or you're fired."
She's too exhausted to do anything but listen. Thirteen nestles her face into the crook of her elbow and drifts back into a dreamless sleep, resting easy in the comfort of her friends.