6/25
Fanfic: This Cannot End Well: HouseFic50: (1/1)
Title: This Cannot End Well
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, MD
Character/Pairing: House/Cuddy, Wilson
Prompt: 003: Ends
Word Count: 2957
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Grammar fiends beware. / Spoilers for Who's Your Daddy? and No Reason, with a touch of Skin Deep
A/N2: Buckets of thanks and Lisas to swatkat24, for she is squishy and made of amazingly hot insight and pervy thoughts ^^ ♥
This cannot end well.
Mantra, on repeat. Skips a little. Old track.
This cannot end well.
--
She stays late one night (later than she used to, later than she used to need to): papers filed, lights off, coat on; up the stairs, down the hall, just to see. Just because.
He’s sleeping on his office floor (eyes shut, regular breathing, headphones, pill bottle at his right, cane at his left (backwards)) when she leaves. His hand grabs her ankle but she doesn’t fall (can’t fall) on him (neither can afford it).
What are you doing up here.
(Not a question.)
Leaving.
He lets go of her ankle but not of her. Sits up. (Headphones off around his neck, irregular breathing (is she doing this to him?) cane in hand, pills on the floor (not right). Something is small and glass and shining from under the desk (why does he look so peaceful?) and she turns away).
None of this is right.
Dear god, this cannot end well.
She steps out of his grasp and away from his eyes and down the elevator (no) down down down (maybe if she takes the stairs he won’t (can’t) follow her).
--
Junkie.
I’m in pain, Cuddy.
Junkie.
I know what the ramifications are.
Junkie.
I’m not an idiot, Cuddy. I’m in pain. (pain pain, so much pain it just tends to echo down his spine; he can feel it everywhere.)
You’re a junkie, House.
So what?
It was saline, House.
Liar.
It’s all in your head, House.
Liar.
Junkie.
So what?
--
Get up, she snaps and something hits his head. Get up.
Lights. Too bright to be real. Hazy. Blurry. She’s moving about the room, picking things up, putting things away, hiding things, finding things.
The blinds are closed.
His mouth is dry.
What are you doing.
Get up, she snaps, and the pain beings to register. Not in his body. Not in his leg. In her voice.
(You hurt her, he says, when his brain has cleared and the needle’s in the garbage. You hurt her more than you think.)
Because she’s been trying trying trying for years now, years and years to get him to stop - stop! god damn it, just stop! she cries, and leans on the counter (next to the little red mug) (if she doesn’t she’ll fall, but not on him - she doesn’t trust him to catch her anymore).
Get up, she snaps, and throws the needle away.
--
It’s not your choice!
It’s not yours either!
It’s my life! My body!
So that gives you the right to - ruin it!
No, you already covered that!
Go to hell, she whispers fiercely, but what she really means is make it stop.
--
Pounding. Frustrated. (It’s way too late for this.)
(She opens the door.)
And he’s angry, oh so angry (but not really angry, just in pain - angry at the pain, at inanimate pain (try telling that to the burning) that he’s taking it out on her - her face, her neck, her shoulder, just beneath her collarbone; he likes that spot).
What do you want from me.
(It should be pretty obvious.)
(This is not going to end well.)
He kisses her - hard - and stares at her - harder.
Why did you let me do that.
(Pills, needles, empty vials and empty plastic bottles coating the floor of his kitchen - that’s what she dreams of, that’s why she wakes up shaking.)(Maybe she won’t shake quite so much if there’s someone there to steady her.)
Breathless: It’s better than the alternative.
(He’s never been very good at compromising.)
(She’s turned it into an art form.)
The door locks behind him.
(This cannot end well.)
--
(She has papers spread out on the floor of her bedroom, German magazine articles and photocopied translations in English; a pillow as a chair; she’s wearing the glasses he won’t admit he loves and baggy sweats, her hair in disarray - she looks relaxed, but never so - frustrated, rather, with all those papers around her.)
He’s lounging in a chair in the corner, watching her try.
(This has nothing to do with work.)
(This has everything to do with him.)
(He already knows all this, so why does she bother?)
Fifty-fifty. It could work.
The odds suck.
Fifty-fifty doesn’t suck, House.
It sucks.
Fine, but it’s better than nothing. (Pause) It’s better than pain. (Pause) Isn’t it?
(But then he’d miss the high, the flight, that overwhelming, calming feeling of invincibility, that dull haze he really does enjoy despite what he tells him, what he tells her (especially what he tells her - she can’t handle it); he makes them think it’s all about the pain.)
(He heaves himself out of the chair, and his hand shakes under the pressure.)
Yes.
You can’t walk away from this, House!
Slip of the tongue. Blank stare.
Watch me.
(He’ll ignore her just because he can.)
--
Late night. Doorstep.
No, House.
Why.
No.
Why.
Because, she sighs, and runs a hand through her hair. Enough is enough.
Liar.
Enough, House, she sighs. Enough.
--
He’s not jealous, but it all makes sense now. One night yes, one night no. The reason (lodged in complaints and frustrations and confusions and one itty bitty desire - one hope beyond hope that she simply couldn’t quell (and didn’t want to)) all too obvious by the look in her eyes.
(She didn’t want him to know. She doesn’t think he’d care. He doesn’t. But he is (was) curious. Case closed, work done.)
Lesions, he tells Wilson, because otherwise it was a date, and he was wrong.
(He’s never wrong. Not about her.)
--
What were you going to say.
Nothing.
(This is an incredibly bad idea.)
She walks away from him like she hasn’t in the past, like she hasn’t called it (whatever they have) off, like he doesn’t understand.
What were you going to ask me, Cuddy.
She sighs, and still looks sad. Still looks broken. (Why can’t he fix her too?)
Nothing, House, she murmurs, and quietly walks away.
--
What do you want, House.
Two step dance; they already know the answer(s).
No.
(What was the question again?)
There’s nobody here, he whispers (but this cannot end well!) with her back against her office door, his hands on either side of her hips, his lips crawling along her ear. All the lights are out.
I want a baby, she says and he leaves her alone. (For now, for a while, until next time.)
--
Late night. Doorstep. Three sighs and a cracked-open door.
Go home, House.
No.
House-
No.
Go home.
--
It’s not working, is it.
(Of course it’s not. It’s never worked before. Some people just have a hard time, her doctor says. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out, her doctor says. It’s not your fault, her doctor says, but she isn’t listening.)
There’s something sticky on her eyelashes, gross and sticky and heavy like lead. She blinks. He frowns. He’s not his usual nosy self. Oddly sympathetic. He has no right to be sympathetic. He has no idea. He’s fine. He’s healthy.
What do you call that.
Put your pants back on, House.
What do you call that, he demands and she’s surprised his voice is shaky.
It’s a scar, House.
I’m not healthy.
So, what, they can be unhealthy together? Abandon all reason and all infirmities and head for California? What do you want from me? What do you want from me? Answer my question? Is that a question? God damn it.
Her cheeks are sticky and her eyes are sticky and sealed shut; it’s like glue, she thinks, whatever this is.
It’s not working, is it? he asks, and she shakes her head but doesn’t admit she’s crying.
--
Two shots and cracked glass. Commotion. Confusion. Distortion.
She’s upstairs before anyone thinks to tell her. She’s asking Foreman his status while writing a statement for the press in her head.
He says he wants ketamine, Foreman tells her, and frowns when she doesn’t look surprised.
Finally.
--
It all (eventually) comes back to this (very bad idea):
(What are you really afraid of?)
He remembers pain and numbness and the bizarre taste of too much sleep coating his mouth. He remembers when he woke up five days later his chest was on fire and his neck wouldn’t move but the pain in his leg was soft - there, but manageable. There, but barely.
Welcome back.
--
This cannot end well, oh this cannot end well but it’s round two (ding ding) and he’s finally up and moving and less reliant (thank god - she breathes, and the two of them share the smile of co-conspirators). He can see her watching, waiting, arms outstretched as if she could catch him if he fell.
Lay off me, Cuddy.
Witty.
They aren’t doing this dance, they aren’t playing this game, that was his mind, that was his illusion, that was his hallucination, figment, piece, not the truth the truth is that she’s over there and he’s over here and there’s a giant gaping chasm in between (what’s on the other side, she asks, but doesn’t really).
Are we really doing this, he breathes, because the scent of her skin and her hair between his fingers is more intoxicating than he’d ever admit (and the irony is not lost on him).
You started it.
“I wanted sex. I didn’t mean for you to actually give a crap.”
When she walks away he knows he should follow her but he doesn’t. This is not going to end well, is it.
(No way.)
--
Nine. Nine a.m. the buzzer goes off (off off off off off off --) she silences it with a slap of her hand, rolls over. Nine a.m.
You sabotaged my alarm clock.
Funny that’s the first thing you ask.
Borderline creepy, borderline wrong, borderline comforting that his antics haven’t changed (he hasn’t changed, he won’t change, she knows this).
House, leave her alone.
Don’t fight my battles for me, Wilson.
Yeah, Wilson.
Shut up, House. Both of you have work to do.
--
(He looks paler than usual. Paler than he’s been in a long time.)
Are you alright? Cameron asks, well meaning, as always.
He adds: you don’t look so good, but there isn’t a hint of concern. He can hear the wheels turning in Foreman’s head as he tries to diagnose him. He smiles: maybe they can be taught.
Cameron (softly, concerned): You should sit down.
I’m fine, he snaps, and pretends like his leg is fine.
--
He slams her into her pale yellow wall next to her pale yellow lamp and smothers her protests fiercely, harshly - he’s angry, but he couldn’t say why. Doesn’t want to think about why (he’s there and she’s there and both of them are miserable because there is no baby (there will never be a baby, she told him sadly, and wiped the tears from her eyes for good) and his thigh is burning in a way it hasn’t burned since the surgery).
It’s a coin toss:
Fifty percent chance it will.
Fifty percent chance it won’t.
(Heads weigh more than tails. The percentages are skewed. But no one ever remembers that.)
House, she whispers, but she’s never had the strength (or the heart or the will) to push him away.
--
It’s not working is it.
Does it look like it’s working.
(Sighs. Rubs his leg. Spares a glance at the bottle on the table. He won’t resort to that yet. Not yet.)
No, it’s not.
Hangs her head. Sighs. Looks away, down, back up, through him. I’m Sorry.
Snaps: don’t be.
Means (just this once): it’s not your fault.
Yes, she says softly, her hair over her eyes, yes it is.
--
Sighs, defeated (they’re all defeated): Take your pills, House.
No.
House.
I don’t need them, he snaps, throws them back. Wilson catches them, pours two into his hand, places them on the desk.
Sadly: Yes, you do.
(How could you possibly know what I need, he says, but doesn’t. Can’t. Won’t. He’s never done anything to him. Nothing like that. Nothing like this.)
It was her idea, you know.
What was.
Pauses. Looks away.
Everything.
Sadly: Take your pills, House.
--
It’s easier to pretend like this isn’t happening.
(this is not happening this is not happening -
snap out of your day-dream, House, it’s happening
not not not happening, not again. not to him. not again.)
He’s shaking slightly and his forehead’s damp; his eyelids quiver and his breath is harsh, uneven, pained.
Please, she whispers, and it’s almost begging. Please, she whispers, and brushes her hand through his hair. He tries to jerk away, but the world moves with him. He’s hot cold nauseous sweaty miserable.
House, she murmurs, it’s not worth it, but doesn’t touch him again.
--
This is not going to end well, is it, he asks, watching from a distance.
(He’s in pain, so much pain, no more than before but he’s so goddamn stubborn - just take your pills, House - that they can only watch, wait, be prepared.)
No.
--
Take your pills, House.
No.
Take your pills, or you’re off the case.
Oh, so now you want me to be a drug addict.
You’re not focused. You’re delirious and you’re in pain and you’re going to get somebody killed.
I’m fine.
I’m sorry you have to go through this, but it was worth a shot. It was fifty-fifty. I’m sorry it didn’t work.
It did work, I’m fine.
Take your damn pills, House.
I don’t need them! I don’t need them! I don’t need them! I don’t need them! I don’t want them! I don’t want this anymore!
And the glass smashes against the wall near her head (what would have happened if she hadn’t ducked?).
(and if yelling is the only way to get through to him then fine)
You don’t have a choice! The pain alone is going to be unbearable -
It already is!
Sighs, blinks and sits slowly, carefully on the couch in her office next to him (his head down, both hands on the cane like he’s going to break it in half).
She picks the bottle up off the floor and folds it gently in his hand; says softly,
Take your pills, House. Or I’ll fire you.
--
Six days later he’s standing on her doorstep, cane in his right hand, pill bottle in his left (all of this is right and yet so, so wrong). He wants to say I Failed but it’s a language he doesn’t know.
I don’t know what I want from you, is what he says instead, and shoves the pill bottle in his pocket.
She smiles (not real) and touches his face (so light he can barely feel it; she’s afraid to let him know, to see that he doesn’t really care): You know where to find me.
And the door shuts softly, too softly, with him on the outside her on the inside because he doesn’t have the strength or the will to push his way in and she doesn’t have the courage to pull.
--
And everything’s the same again, slowly but surely as if nothing ever happened. As if there was no non-child and there was no working thigh, and there were no late nights to hide from everyone (including themselves).
You could still have that, Wilson suggests - but carefully, awkwardly, because he doesn’t want to break either of them.
No, he says firmly. Hesitates: Enough is enough.
(But since when has he ever believed that?)
--
He lets himself in with the key under the flowerpot that she hasn’t bothered to find a new hiding place for (because she knows he knows where it is now, and she’d almost rather he break in than let him in herself).
She hears the awkward, weighted steps as he climbs her stairs, always slow, always steady (maybe he’ll fall and break (something)). The door shifts open without a sound, just a swish of wind against the floor and she knows he’s standing there, staring, watching her sleep, watching her breathe (he’s always watching, even when she thinks he doesn’t notice).
Take off your shoes, she mutters, and he shifts, pauses (not a hesitation) and sits on the edge of the bed, cane leaning against the nightstand. She sits up and helps him out of his jacket and he’s pulling off his socks when she leans over and hands him two white pills. One says I’m sorry and the other says thank you and he takes them both with only a little surprise.
And her hands are soft and cool and a little too gentle for his taste but he follows her touch and rests his head against her chest, head tucked under her chin, eyes failing, in one perfect moment of forgiveness and simplicity that they both know they’ll regret in the morning.
So he holds her just a little too tightly, just to remind her who she’s dealing with. But she just shakes her head lightly and tries to smile, one arm around his back and her hand on his hip, the other in his hair and whispers, Just go to sleep, House, like it’s as easy as it sounds.
--
This is not going to end well, he thinks, fingering the bottle (a month from now: the needle)(a year from now: the vial)(ten years is anyone’s guess, but there it is).
It’s not going to end well, he mutters, as if he would give her a way out if she wanted one.
But she simply shrugs, smiles (almost) and shakes her head:
“It can’t end well if it never ends.”
Title: This Cannot End Well
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, MD
Character/Pairing: House/Cuddy, Wilson
Prompt: 003: Ends
Word Count: 2957
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Grammar fiends beware. / Spoilers for Who's Your Daddy? and No Reason, with a touch of Skin Deep
A/N2: Buckets of thanks and Lisas to swatkat24, for she is squishy and made of amazingly hot insight and pervy thoughts ^^ ♥
This cannot end well.
Mantra, on repeat. Skips a little. Old track.
This cannot end well.
--
She stays late one night (later than she used to, later than she used to need to): papers filed, lights off, coat on; up the stairs, down the hall, just to see. Just because.
He’s sleeping on his office floor (eyes shut, regular breathing, headphones, pill bottle at his right, cane at his left (backwards)) when she leaves. His hand grabs her ankle but she doesn’t fall (can’t fall) on him (neither can afford it).
What are you doing up here.
(Not a question.)
Leaving.
He lets go of her ankle but not of her. Sits up. (Headphones off around his neck, irregular breathing (is she doing this to him?) cane in hand, pills on the floor (not right). Something is small and glass and shining from under the desk (why does he look so peaceful?) and she turns away).
None of this is right.
Dear god, this cannot end well.
She steps out of his grasp and away from his eyes and down the elevator (no) down down down (maybe if she takes the stairs he won’t (can’t) follow her).
--
Junkie.
I’m in pain, Cuddy.
Junkie.
I know what the ramifications are.
Junkie.
I’m not an idiot, Cuddy. I’m in pain. (pain pain, so much pain it just tends to echo down his spine; he can feel it everywhere.)
You’re a junkie, House.
So what?
It was saline, House.
Liar.
It’s all in your head, House.
Liar.
Junkie.
So what?
--
Get up, she snaps and something hits his head. Get up.
Lights. Too bright to be real. Hazy. Blurry. She’s moving about the room, picking things up, putting things away, hiding things, finding things.
The blinds are closed.
His mouth is dry.
What are you doing.
Get up, she snaps, and the pain beings to register. Not in his body. Not in his leg. In her voice.
(You hurt her, he says, when his brain has cleared and the needle’s in the garbage. You hurt her more than you think.)
Because she’s been trying trying trying for years now, years and years to get him to stop - stop! god damn it, just stop! she cries, and leans on the counter (next to the little red mug) (if she doesn’t she’ll fall, but not on him - she doesn’t trust him to catch her anymore).
Get up, she snaps, and throws the needle away.
--
It’s not your choice!
It’s not yours either!
It’s my life! My body!
So that gives you the right to - ruin it!
No, you already covered that!
Go to hell, she whispers fiercely, but what she really means is make it stop.
--
Pounding. Frustrated. (It’s way too late for this.)
(She opens the door.)
And he’s angry, oh so angry (but not really angry, just in pain - angry at the pain, at inanimate pain (try telling that to the burning) that he’s taking it out on her - her face, her neck, her shoulder, just beneath her collarbone; he likes that spot).
What do you want from me.
(It should be pretty obvious.)
(This is not going to end well.)
He kisses her - hard - and stares at her - harder.
Why did you let me do that.
(Pills, needles, empty vials and empty plastic bottles coating the floor of his kitchen - that’s what she dreams of, that’s why she wakes up shaking.)(Maybe she won’t shake quite so much if there’s someone there to steady her.)
Breathless: It’s better than the alternative.
(He’s never been very good at compromising.)
(She’s turned it into an art form.)
The door locks behind him.
(This cannot end well.)
--
(She has papers spread out on the floor of her bedroom, German magazine articles and photocopied translations in English; a pillow as a chair; she’s wearing the glasses he won’t admit he loves and baggy sweats, her hair in disarray - she looks relaxed, but never so - frustrated, rather, with all those papers around her.)
He’s lounging in a chair in the corner, watching her try.
(This has nothing to do with work.)
(This has everything to do with him.)
(He already knows all this, so why does she bother?)
Fifty-fifty. It could work.
The odds suck.
Fifty-fifty doesn’t suck, House.
It sucks.
Fine, but it’s better than nothing. (Pause) It’s better than pain. (Pause) Isn’t it?
(But then he’d miss the high, the flight, that overwhelming, calming feeling of invincibility, that dull haze he really does enjoy despite what he tells him, what he tells her (especially what he tells her - she can’t handle it); he makes them think it’s all about the pain.)
(He heaves himself out of the chair, and his hand shakes under the pressure.)
Yes.
You can’t walk away from this, House!
Slip of the tongue. Blank stare.
Watch me.
(He’ll ignore her just because he can.)
--
Late night. Doorstep.
No, House.
Why.
No.
Why.
Because, she sighs, and runs a hand through her hair. Enough is enough.
Liar.
Enough, House, she sighs. Enough.
--
He’s not jealous, but it all makes sense now. One night yes, one night no. The reason (lodged in complaints and frustrations and confusions and one itty bitty desire - one hope beyond hope that she simply couldn’t quell (and didn’t want to)) all too obvious by the look in her eyes.
(She didn’t want him to know. She doesn’t think he’d care. He doesn’t. But he is (was) curious. Case closed, work done.)
Lesions, he tells Wilson, because otherwise it was a date, and he was wrong.
(He’s never wrong. Not about her.)
--
What were you going to say.
Nothing.
(This is an incredibly bad idea.)
She walks away from him like she hasn’t in the past, like she hasn’t called it (whatever they have) off, like he doesn’t understand.
What were you going to ask me, Cuddy.
She sighs, and still looks sad. Still looks broken. (Why can’t he fix her too?)
Nothing, House, she murmurs, and quietly walks away.
--
What do you want, House.
Two step dance; they already know the answer(s).
No.
(What was the question again?)
There’s nobody here, he whispers (but this cannot end well!) with her back against her office door, his hands on either side of her hips, his lips crawling along her ear. All the lights are out.
I want a baby, she says and he leaves her alone. (For now, for a while, until next time.)
--
Late night. Doorstep. Three sighs and a cracked-open door.
Go home, House.
No.
House-
No.
Go home.
--
It’s not working, is it.
(Of course it’s not. It’s never worked before. Some people just have a hard time, her doctor says. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out, her doctor says. It’s not your fault, her doctor says, but she isn’t listening.)
There’s something sticky on her eyelashes, gross and sticky and heavy like lead. She blinks. He frowns. He’s not his usual nosy self. Oddly sympathetic. He has no right to be sympathetic. He has no idea. He’s fine. He’s healthy.
What do you call that.
Put your pants back on, House.
What do you call that, he demands and she’s surprised his voice is shaky.
It’s a scar, House.
I’m not healthy.
So, what, they can be unhealthy together? Abandon all reason and all infirmities and head for California? What do you want from me? What do you want from me? Answer my question? Is that a question? God damn it.
Her cheeks are sticky and her eyes are sticky and sealed shut; it’s like glue, she thinks, whatever this is.
It’s not working, is it? he asks, and she shakes her head but doesn’t admit she’s crying.
--
Two shots and cracked glass. Commotion. Confusion. Distortion.
She’s upstairs before anyone thinks to tell her. She’s asking Foreman his status while writing a statement for the press in her head.
He says he wants ketamine, Foreman tells her, and frowns when she doesn’t look surprised.
Finally.
--
It all (eventually) comes back to this (very bad idea):
(What are you really afraid of?)
He remembers pain and numbness and the bizarre taste of too much sleep coating his mouth. He remembers when he woke up five days later his chest was on fire and his neck wouldn’t move but the pain in his leg was soft - there, but manageable. There, but barely.
Welcome back.
--
This cannot end well, oh this cannot end well but it’s round two (ding ding) and he’s finally up and moving and less reliant (thank god - she breathes, and the two of them share the smile of co-conspirators). He can see her watching, waiting, arms outstretched as if she could catch him if he fell.
Lay off me, Cuddy.
Witty.
They aren’t doing this dance, they aren’t playing this game, that was his mind, that was his illusion, that was his hallucination, figment, piece, not the truth the truth is that she’s over there and he’s over here and there’s a giant gaping chasm in between (what’s on the other side, she asks, but doesn’t really).
Are we really doing this, he breathes, because the scent of her skin and her hair between his fingers is more intoxicating than he’d ever admit (and the irony is not lost on him).
You started it.
“I wanted sex. I didn’t mean for you to actually give a crap.”
When she walks away he knows he should follow her but he doesn’t. This is not going to end well, is it.
(No way.)
--
Nine. Nine a.m. the buzzer goes off (off off off off off off --) she silences it with a slap of her hand, rolls over. Nine a.m.
You sabotaged my alarm clock.
Funny that’s the first thing you ask.
Borderline creepy, borderline wrong, borderline comforting that his antics haven’t changed (he hasn’t changed, he won’t change, she knows this).
House, leave her alone.
Don’t fight my battles for me, Wilson.
Yeah, Wilson.
Shut up, House. Both of you have work to do.
--
(He looks paler than usual. Paler than he’s been in a long time.)
Are you alright? Cameron asks, well meaning, as always.
He adds: you don’t look so good, but there isn’t a hint of concern. He can hear the wheels turning in Foreman’s head as he tries to diagnose him. He smiles: maybe they can be taught.
Cameron (softly, concerned): You should sit down.
I’m fine, he snaps, and pretends like his leg is fine.
--
He slams her into her pale yellow wall next to her pale yellow lamp and smothers her protests fiercely, harshly - he’s angry, but he couldn’t say why. Doesn’t want to think about why (he’s there and she’s there and both of them are miserable because there is no baby (there will never be a baby, she told him sadly, and wiped the tears from her eyes for good) and his thigh is burning in a way it hasn’t burned since the surgery).
It’s a coin toss:
Fifty percent chance it will.
Fifty percent chance it won’t.
(Heads weigh more than tails. The percentages are skewed. But no one ever remembers that.)
House, she whispers, but she’s never had the strength (or the heart or the will) to push him away.
--
It’s not working is it.
Does it look like it’s working.
(Sighs. Rubs his leg. Spares a glance at the bottle on the table. He won’t resort to that yet. Not yet.)
No, it’s not.
Hangs her head. Sighs. Looks away, down, back up, through him. I’m Sorry.
Snaps: don’t be.
Means (just this once): it’s not your fault.
Yes, she says softly, her hair over her eyes, yes it is.
--
Sighs, defeated (they’re all defeated): Take your pills, House.
No.
House.
I don’t need them, he snaps, throws them back. Wilson catches them, pours two into his hand, places them on the desk.
Sadly: Yes, you do.
(How could you possibly know what I need, he says, but doesn’t. Can’t. Won’t. He’s never done anything to him. Nothing like that. Nothing like this.)
It was her idea, you know.
What was.
Pauses. Looks away.
Everything.
Sadly: Take your pills, House.
--
It’s easier to pretend like this isn’t happening.
(this is not happening this is not happening -
snap out of your day-dream, House, it’s happening
not not not happening, not again. not to him. not again.)
He’s shaking slightly and his forehead’s damp; his eyelids quiver and his breath is harsh, uneven, pained.
Please, she whispers, and it’s almost begging. Please, she whispers, and brushes her hand through his hair. He tries to jerk away, but the world moves with him. He’s hot cold nauseous sweaty miserable.
House, she murmurs, it’s not worth it, but doesn’t touch him again.
--
This is not going to end well, is it, he asks, watching from a distance.
(He’s in pain, so much pain, no more than before but he’s so goddamn stubborn - just take your pills, House - that they can only watch, wait, be prepared.)
No.
--
Take your pills, House.
No.
Take your pills, or you’re off the case.
Oh, so now you want me to be a drug addict.
You’re not focused. You’re delirious and you’re in pain and you’re going to get somebody killed.
I’m fine.
I’m sorry you have to go through this, but it was worth a shot. It was fifty-fifty. I’m sorry it didn’t work.
It did work, I’m fine.
Take your damn pills, House.
I don’t need them! I don’t need them! I don’t need them! I don’t need them! I don’t want them! I don’t want this anymore!
And the glass smashes against the wall near her head (what would have happened if she hadn’t ducked?).
(and if yelling is the only way to get through to him then fine)
You don’t have a choice! The pain alone is going to be unbearable -
It already is!
Sighs, blinks and sits slowly, carefully on the couch in her office next to him (his head down, both hands on the cane like he’s going to break it in half).
She picks the bottle up off the floor and folds it gently in his hand; says softly,
Take your pills, House. Or I’ll fire you.
--
Six days later he’s standing on her doorstep, cane in his right hand, pill bottle in his left (all of this is right and yet so, so wrong). He wants to say I Failed but it’s a language he doesn’t know.
I don’t know what I want from you, is what he says instead, and shoves the pill bottle in his pocket.
She smiles (not real) and touches his face (so light he can barely feel it; she’s afraid to let him know, to see that he doesn’t really care): You know where to find me.
And the door shuts softly, too softly, with him on the outside her on the inside because he doesn’t have the strength or the will to push his way in and she doesn’t have the courage to pull.
--
And everything’s the same again, slowly but surely as if nothing ever happened. As if there was no non-child and there was no working thigh, and there were no late nights to hide from everyone (including themselves).
You could still have that, Wilson suggests - but carefully, awkwardly, because he doesn’t want to break either of them.
No, he says firmly. Hesitates: Enough is enough.
(But since when has he ever believed that?)
--
He lets himself in with the key under the flowerpot that she hasn’t bothered to find a new hiding place for (because she knows he knows where it is now, and she’d almost rather he break in than let him in herself).
She hears the awkward, weighted steps as he climbs her stairs, always slow, always steady (maybe he’ll fall and break (something)). The door shifts open without a sound, just a swish of wind against the floor and she knows he’s standing there, staring, watching her sleep, watching her breathe (he’s always watching, even when she thinks he doesn’t notice).
Take off your shoes, she mutters, and he shifts, pauses (not a hesitation) and sits on the edge of the bed, cane leaning against the nightstand. She sits up and helps him out of his jacket and he’s pulling off his socks when she leans over and hands him two white pills. One says I’m sorry and the other says thank you and he takes them both with only a little surprise.
And her hands are soft and cool and a little too gentle for his taste but he follows her touch and rests his head against her chest, head tucked under her chin, eyes failing, in one perfect moment of forgiveness and simplicity that they both know they’ll regret in the morning.
So he holds her just a little too tightly, just to remind her who she’s dealing with. But she just shakes her head lightly and tries to smile, one arm around his back and her hand on his hip, the other in his hair and whispers, Just go to sleep, House, like it’s as easy as it sounds.
--
This is not going to end well, he thinks, fingering the bottle (a month from now: the needle)(a year from now: the vial)(ten years is anyone’s guess, but there it is).
It’s not going to end well, he mutters, as if he would give her a way out if she wanted one.
But she simply shrugs, smiles (almost) and shakes her head:
“It can’t end well if it never ends.”