I'm Not Giving Up
Title: I'm Not Giving Up
Status: one-shot (~ 2,300 words)
Rated: explicit language
Characters: Gregory House & Lisa Cuddy
Summary: After "Both Sides Now" (season 5 finale): House enters Mayfield. What if Cuddy visits?
Disclaimer: ok. fine. it's not (all) mine!! It belongs to David Shore, the lucky b... *sigh*
** I’M NOT GIVING UP **
And the door closed.
First minute.
And they took me to a room.
First hour.
And then the voices started again.
First day.
Amber. And Kutner...
“Too bad it isn’t true”
Then her face. Her smile. Her lips. Her hips. Her fragrance. Her strength. Her warmth.
“Too bad it isn’t true”…
Mental institution. Loony bin. Asylum. Psychiatric Hospital. A million ways to name the place I’m in. Living in Hell. Hallucinations. Delusions. Pain. Detox.
First week.
Mental institution. Nurses. Psychiatrists. Substitute meds. Pain. Excruciating pain. Detox.
Two weeks.
Hallucinations. Gone. Delusions. Gone. But her face. Her smile. Her lips. Her hips. Her fragrance. Her strength. Her warmth. God, how vivid! I just have to close my eyes and she’s here.
Three weeks.
“What does she mean for you?”
“Go to hell! That’s none of your fucking business!”
No one can understand how I feel about her. What she means to me. Even less that incompetent doctor they have assigned to treat me. He thinks he can ask me questions about her? He thinks I am going to talk about her? No way! I won’t. She’s in my mind. She’s there. She stays there. She comforts me. When the pain starts hitting again. I close my eyes and I call her, and she comes. And she helps me.
“I’m here if you need me”
Yes. She had told me that once. When I had pretended I had cancer. Fake cancer to get high… How miserable… But she was there. For me. Like she had always been. I had squeezed her tight. I had groped her butt. And she had wrapped her arms around me.
Her face. Her smile. Her lips. Her hips. Her fragrance. Her strength. Her warmth.
“Greg? You have a visit”
Oh yes! That? That’s the little extra thing they provide here: calling you by your first name! It gives you the vibrant feeling of “existing” … as a human being … as part of a whole family … the big great family of f*cked up people!
“Tell Wilson to stop coming here every day or soon I’ll need to sign in a new rehab program. To detox from him ”
And I smile. I smile at my own joke. Because they didn’t take that from me. They took my job. They took my freedom. They took my pills. They took my pride. They witnessed me pee on myself. They heard me weep like a child. They saw me beg. But at least, they didn’t take that. And yes, Wilson is my cane. I lean on him. I lean on him too much maybe. That doctor, that’s what he had told me. Well, fuck him! Like I don’t know that already! Of course I do! But he accepts it. He enables me. That’s part of our deal. Our silent non existing social contract. And we don’t feel the need to call us by our first name to know that. We are here for each other. That’s all. Thank God I had him! When Stacy left. When my dad died. When Cuddy adopted her little brat. When that night and the morning after all turned out to be a dream… So of course I smile. Because Wilson’s here and I still can joke about that. And I will tell him as soon as he’s here. And we’ll laugh…
“That’s not Wilson, Greg. Someone else is here for you.”
Someone else? My heart just skipped a beat. Because it’s her and I’m sure of it. No one else but her can be that “someone else”. I know it. It had to come. The day she would be here just had to come.
“Hot brunette? With an enormous sexy ass molded in a tight-fitting skirt?”
Yes, I still can joke. I have resources. I’m a cynic. A world class one. And a jerk. I can pretend a lot of things. Pretend I don’t care. Pretend I’m not hurt. Pretend I don’t feel anything. Pretend my heart in not about to explode in my chest…
“It’s a woman, yes.” The male nurse says with a smirk.
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get me. Each time he comes in my room, he acts like he is about to feed a lion. It’s like he is throwing pills over a barb wire fence. But I guess that’s what you get from being a social misfit. And I don’t care. I don’t need him. Cuddy, she’s here. I get up. I step out of bed. I walk out the door. I limp pass the guy. I hope he doesn’t see me trembling. If he says something, I’ll tell him it’s because of the pain. And that’d be a half lie, because I really do tremble sometimes. The effects of the detox are still fragile. But I hang on. I’m not giving up.
Downstairs, they have a room for visits. A special one. Very cozy. Soft comfy couches, and plants, thick woolen carpets, large windows that let the light enter. A huge lie to hide how hideous this place really is. I hate that room. Since the first moment I had seen it. Because I hate lies and what they do to people. But today that’s fine. I’m so relieved this room exists. I don’t want her to see where I am… See where the delusion of her gentleness taking care of me has led me.
I stand at the door. I take a deep breath. I turn the knob and I step in. and I see the sun on her face. God! She’s so beautiful! I can hardly breathe. I can hardly move. She gasps and covers her mouth with her hand.
“Oh my God! Your hair!”
Oh yes, my hair… I had forgotten about that. I shaved my head. The day I arrived here. That was my little act of rebellion. That was my way of saying I wasn’t going to buy their crap. And now it has grown a little, but it’s still short. Awfully short. And she looks so stunned when she sees me like that. And so fragile with her hand on her lips. I want to hold her. I want to hold her so badly it almost hurts.
“D’ya like it? I thought it fitted the place. You know? Kinda like the cuckoo’s nest haircut style”
I grin at her. Acting. Pretending. Here I go … The show just begins. She stiffens and she looks at me with sadness in her eyes. She bits her lips and she averts her gaze. The window looks out on a garden. There’re flowers all over the grass. A puke of surreal colors. And I can tell she has a hard time being here. She’s still looking away when she says:
“Wilson told me.”
I clench my jaws. Ok. She knows. I guess I couldn’t prevent that from happening, one day or another. But that’s not a big deal, right? She knows I want to do her all the same. Haven’t I told her that a million times? She knows and now what? Her back is turned on me and I can’t see her. Does she feel bad? Does she feel angry? Does she feel guilty? Does she pity me? Cuddy, dammit! Turn around! Just look at me! I need to know how you feel… She turns around and she blinks a tear away. No. please, don’t… Joke! Deflect! Make her laugh! Make her hate you! Anything but her crying because of you…
“Well, you don’t really know ALL the twisted side-effects of a drug until you’ve experienced it yourself…”
Here. She smiles. It’s a sheepish one, but still, it’s a smile.
“Do you think we should call FDA and make them add something like “possible risks of hot wild sex with your boss, but don’t panic: that’s not real!”
The smile goes away. She shakes her head and the sadness comes back. We need to talk about something else. Something that will make her happy.
“And the rat?”
“What?”
“Rebecca, or whatever Jewish name you gave her”
“Rachel… The name is Rachel”
“She’s real, right?”
She shrugs. I know this is a dumb question. I’m not good at that. I don’t how to do that. But… I want to. I’m staring into her eyes and I pray for her to read what’s inside mine.
“Is she … ok?”
I don’t even know what the proper word is. Is a baby “ok”? Is that how you ask? I don’t know. I’m just trying. So hard. Please Cuddy, tell me you see me trying…
“She’s fine. Thank you”
The silence. Awkward and heavy silence. I take a step towards her and I grab my cane’s handle, very tightly. I grab my cane’s handle so that I won’t reach out my hand to her face. To caress her cheek. To trace the beautiful line of her jaw. To brush the pulp of her lips with my thumb. She closes her eyes and she takes a deep breath. I know it’s hard for her too. I know that’s not what she would have wanted. I’m not the dream guy. I’m not the perfect man. But she’s here nonetheless. Wilson told me. He told me how sad she was on the day she had that hypocritical ceremony about naming her baby.
Do we deserve each other?
“And you?”
She caught me off guard with her soft voice, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“How are you?”
She seems concerned. She seems to care. But is it really about me? Or about her hospital, and getting the brilliant doctor back?
“Too many patients dying while I’m away? So you’re wondering when I’m back to fix that?
“House!...”
She sighs. She looks hurt. So it’s a real concern then…
“I just want to know how you feel.”
“Well I think it’s pretty obvious how I feel! I’m great! Look at me! Don’t I look fantastic?”
“How’s the pain?”
“Which one? The burning stomach? Because of me puking eight times a day? The leg? Because now that I’m off Vicodin I have nothing to kill the pain? Or maybe the head? Because of those fucking withdrawal symptoms I’ve had these past three weeks, which give me awful headaches?”
She looks down. She can’t sustain my gaze. She can’t stomach my irony.
“You know you had to do that.” She says in a low voice “You were killing yourself!”
Gee! I hate when she does that: rationalizing things and hiding her feelings behind medical arguments.
“What difference does it make if I die anyway?”
She puffs and she glares angrily at me. Yes, I’m a son of a bitch. But I need to provoke her. I want to know her feelings. I need to cling on to something hopeful. Cuddy! Can’t you see you’re the reason why I’m still hanging on here? You’re the reason why I’ve accepted to be committed…
“House… Just take care of yourself … please.”
She said “please” and I shivered. Because that’s exactly what I need. Believe there’s hope. Cuddy, don’t take that away from me. I need you to be there. For me. Like you’ve always been.
“I have to go” She says.
She looks almost sorry. I try my best “that’s ok!” smile, but something in the way she searches in the depth of my eyes tells me she doesn’t buy it. She takes a step forwards. She hesitates. She raises her hand and… she gently touches my stubble. I hold my breath. I want to rest my cheek in the palm of her hand. But I stay steady, I keep my head straight. She removes her hand and she stares at me a little longer. She studies my reaction. But I’m not moving. I swallow that big lump in my throat and I give her her stare back.
“Goodbye House”
“Goodbye Cuddy”
She walks away and I stand there, looking at her. When she’s at the threshold I have this inexplicable outburst. I call her back and I’m already short of breath when she turns back and interrogates me with her quizzical eyes.
“I’m not giving up” I tell her in a resolute tone.
“What?”
“I’m not giving up on you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You perfectly know what I’m talking about.”
She raises her chin and I can’t explain why, but I know she has that little sparkle there, behind her eyes.
“Don’t play games with me House. Games are over.”
“Of course they are! Why would I be here otherwise? You know, when I’m back, I’ll be clean and sober. And I won’t give up, Cuddy. Not this time...”
I’m pretty sure she shuddered. She tried to hide it but I saw it, it made her hunch her shoulders a little. She takes a deep breath, and she heads towards the exit. She grabs the knob, opens the door and then, out of the blue, she turns around and looks at me.
“Just… get better, and then come back… soon… because ... we miss you there… I miss you there.”
She said that with a low, soft lingering voice. She's going. And then, before she walks out the room, she gives me that look. That incredible amazing piercing stare of hers. That is how I know for sure things aren’t over yet.