Five Ways You Saw Him Die
Title: Five Ways You Saw Him Die
Fandom/Pairing: House, House/Cuddy and just House/Cuddy friendship
Rating: R, but only for one very very small section. Like two sentences. Otherwise PG-13.
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd be a lot cooler than I am. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: It's my first Five Things fic and it's not beta-ed, so I apologize if there are any glaring errors (or even not-so-glaring ones). I miss writing, so I decided to stay up too late and finish this one. If you read it, whether you like it, don't like it or don't care at all, I'd love for you to comment! Thanks :) <3
Five Ways You Saw Him Die
or, more accurately, four ways you saw him die and one way he almost saw you die
1.)
You’re still in awe that the tall, gorgeous, brilliant-and of course arrogant-med student legend Greg House picked you. You’re still in awe that he’s laying here beside you, doing a crossword puzzle on a Sunday morning like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It all started at the track. Running always calmed you and you went to the track when you felt like you were going in circles. Because it was nice to be doing so literally, since you so often were figuratively. You learned to go early in the morning. It was Michigan, so it was freezing, but that’s why you went. If other people were there at that time, they were there to run. If you went during the day you had to deal with the girls trying to impress the boys, had to deal with the flirting and giggling and standing around in groups “stretching.” In the morning, it was all about running.
There were a few kids who came a couple days a week, but he was the only other one out there all six mornings you were. You expected he was probably out there again the day you weren’t, and it made you feel a little guilty. But you’re Jewish, you always feel guilty.
You didn’t know who he was. It’s hard to identify someone when they’re buried under a hat and a neck warmer and gloves, covered head to toe in UnderArmor. One day you decided to run especially hard, and he apparently took you as competition. All the other days he had just been loping gently around the track-always there before you and always there as you left-but nothing too special. He liked to run in the opposite direction of everyone else, you realized after the third day of just you and him. If you started running in his direction he’d turn around and lope the other way. Eventually you just start off running opposite him. So you pass each other every time around, but you don’t really bother gauging each other’s speed.
Except the day you want to run hard. When you pass him the second time, you don’t notice anything, but eventually you realize you can’t see him, you’re not going to pass him again, and you think he’s not on the track. You glance behind you and there he is. When you look at him he speeds up. You’ve always been up to a challenge.
It takes him a couple laps to pass you, but when he does, he goes flying by and you expect he had been boosting your ego a little, only to shatter it.
When you finally stopped, you took the time to look at him-really look at him for the first time. He was over half a foot taller than you with legs that went up to your chest. You really had no chance from the beginning.
He pulled his hat from his head and you gasped. He chuckled.
Nice to meet you too, Cuddy.
How do you know my name? were the first words you can think of.
I’m the infamous Gregory House, I know everyone’s name. By the way, nice try running, but I’ve got a little leg on you. Not that yours aren’t amazing.
You don’t know whether to be insulted or honored that Greg House might just be hitting on you.
What makes you want to talk to a lowly undergrad? A freshman no less? you ask.
She’s got the best rack on campus.
Later, after he’s fucked you three times-in the shower, against the door to your closet, and finally in your bed-he tells you that you really do have a great pair, but he also heard your brain wasn’t too bad either.
Ever since he’s been hanging around all the time it seems. You’re not one to complain; after all, he helps you study lazily as he plays his guitar. All of your friends are a little astonished; he doesn’t have any other friends, and they’re not sure what you see in him.
Why’d you leave Hopkins? you ask one day.
You can feel him tense next to you.
Professors didn’t really enjoy the cocky son of a bitch who proved them wrong all the time, he replies.
Professors are like that here, and you don’t seem to mind, you say. Why’d you leave?
He looks at you and his piercing blue eyes are sadder than you’ve ever seen. You immediately want to say it doesn’t matter, but the question’s already out; he’ll only think you’re weak if you back out now.
I got kicked out, he says holding your eyes. I helped my best friend cheat on an exam. He got caught and he turned me in. They kicked me out.
Oh.
Suddenly it makes sense why he doesn’t have other friends, why it’s just you. His last best friend betrayed him.
You squeeze his hand and kiss his temple. The smile he gives you doesn’t quite make his eyes.
2.)
You pull the curtain back, and despite everything you’ve learned to do as a doctor, you cringe, flinch, gasp. He’s not screaming-he never screams in pain, he never even shows he’s in pain. That’s why you’re suddenly so scared. His face is pale and twisted in pain and his hands are gripping the sides of the bed so his knuckles are pure white.
She’s screaming, sobbing in the corner but you can’t think about her. You stumble and choke on your words for a moment. But then no one is moving fast enough. You don’t bother giving the order for more morphine; you get it yourself. With his fists clenched so hard, you don’t even need a tourniquet.
Just hold still for me, Greg. And your voice is quiet and it’s scared and he does.
Slowly, ever so slowly, as the blood finds its way back to his heart and into his brain, his fists unclench. His eyes roll back and he stops gritting his teeth.
That’s way too much mor-
I am well aware, Nurse Previn, you snap at her. As though you don’t know that you gave him well over the prescribed dose of morphine. He needed it.
Thank you, he whispers before his eyes flutter closed.
She’s still crying in the corner and you turn to her.
What should I do? she sobs.
You have a decision to make.
You say it detached, no emotion. Because if you think about it, if you let yourself engage, you’re going to throw up.
When he wakes up, he groans and you sit up suddenly, knocking the paperwork you’re supposed to be doing to the floor.
You check his vitals and he looks up at you, his blue eyes piercing as always, but they look like they’re drowning and you’re drowning in them.
You took my leg, he says.
It’s a statement, not a question, but you answer with a nod anyway. He groans again and squeezes his thigh.
She’s going to leave, he says.
Again, it’s a statement.
She’s probably already gone.
No, House, you say-you’ve started using his last name. It’s easier to detach that way. No, House, she’s just in the caf getting some food.
She’s going to leave.
She loves you.
I know her.
His eyes are pleading with you. You swallow back your own tears.
Don’t leave me, he begs. Please, don’t leave me.
You kiss his temple, well aware that this is somewhere over the line, but you don’t care.
I’ll never leave you, you whisper. I promise I’ll never leave you.
3.)
The doorbell rings. It’s almost midnight and you know it’s him. Sure enough, he’s standing there when you open the door. But he’s got a bottle of whiskey and is wearing a tie. So you pull your robe around you tighter and let him in.
I went on a date with Cameron, he mutters as he passes you.
You laugh but can’t help but feel a little twinge of jealousy.
He collapses onto your couch and promptly opens the whiskey-throwing some to the back of his throat.
That bad, huh?
He nods and takes another drink before holding it out to you. You take it, sitting next to him.
I told her she didn’t love, she needs.
She does, you say.
Yeah, but are you supposed to say that on a first date?
First?
Well, not that I’m doing it again, he rolls his eyes, reaching for the whiskey again.
You drink some before you give it back to him.
You’re wearing the sky blue shirt.
You told me to.
Since when do you do what I tell you to?
He sighs and shrugs, still nursing the bottle.
House, is this really Cameron?
Oh God, if it’s not she better still be coming back to work. I did not go on a horrible date with whoever that was only to have Cameron still gone.
It’s you, House, you say quietly. You’re allowed to love people.
Maybe I do, he growls, throwing back more whiskey. Just not her.
The drink’s getting to him, you can tell. He wouldn’t have said that if it wasn’t.
We’re not all going to abandon you, you know?
He snarls and glares at you. This isn’t about that. This isn’t about you.
He arrived depressed but now there’s a defensive anger in his eyes and voice. Still, you want to laugh. Because he said, “This isn’t about that.” It’s the first time he’s admitted there’s a “that” to begin with, the first time he’s admitted the possibility that maybe he is afraid everyone’s going to abandon him.
I never said it was about me, you reply eventually, taking the whiskey away from him for a drink and for his own sake.
That’s mine.
He gets so childish when he’s angry. Well, he gets more childish when he’s angry. You smile at him (which does nothing to help the anger) and take the alcohol to the kitchen. He’s too drunk, tired, exhausted to get his cane and get to it.
You return to the couch and sit quietly next to him. You have what the two of you always had-more tension than seemed necessary, and a proximity without contact achieved only by a perfect balance. Your legs hover next to each other’s, but the knees don’t so much as brush together. It’s how it’s always been, how it will always be.
You sit silently and try to count the minutes as they pass. But somehow you pay more attention to his breathing than the seconds, and soon his eyes are closed and his breathing heavy. He’s not quite asleep-doesn’t have that almost-imperceptible snore that you know he has when he’s sleeping-but he’s certainly not awake.
I know I’m allowed to love people, he mutters.
He’s half-conscious by this point, drunk and exhausted and you know he’ll spend the night on
your couch and not remember this part of the conversation in the morning.
Just not her.
His voice seems quieter than his breathing. You want desperately to touch his skin, to feel his pulse under your fingers again.
Just not her.
You give in.
I know, you whisper, fingertips brushing his ever-present stubble. You press a kiss to his temple and repeat, I know.
When he wakes up the next morning he snarls at you but avoids your eyes. As his bike speeds away you wonder if he does remember after all.
4.)
There’s a bloodstain on the carpet and you have to hold on to the door to keep standing. Because there’s so much blood, and it belongs to House. He’s in surgery with a bullet in his neck. You’re more scared than you’ve ever been. The leg was never going to kill him; this could.
But within a week he’s running again. He’s showing up at your door, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, soaking in sweat and asking for water. Suddenly he’s alive again. Suddenly he’s whole again.
You give him water and he grins up at you. You remember why you fell in love with him so many years ago. You wonder if you ever fell out.
House, are you okay?
I’m fine, he growls.
But you know House. You can recognize the favoring of the leg.
The pain’s coming back, you say quietly.
I’m fine.
It didn’t work. You try to wipe the tears away before he can see them but you know he does.
Why are you crying? he snaps. It’s not your leg.
It is. Does he really not know that?
A week later and he’s using his cane again. No one says anything to him, but ripples of whispers follow his shadow. Heads turn away but the eyes are bad at pretending not to look. He notices, of course he notices, but he says nothing.
House! you snap as you walk into the conference room. Clinic! Now!
He has to reach for his cane to stand and Cameron looks at you like you’ve just beaten a puppy.
Sorry, Mistress Cuddy, he smirks, I must have lost track of the time.
I believe it’s your leg that doesn’t work, not your watch.
Now Cameron audibly gasps, Chase almost chokes on coffee and Foreman’s eyes widen as he does his crossword. But the smirk never leaves House’s face.
You’re a bitch.
Is this news? you ask and you hope your poker face is working. And if you’re going to treat me like a dominatrix, I might as well act like one.
Yes, Mistress.
He starts for the door. The thunk of the cane along with his shuffled steps pounds in your head. He nods as he passes you.
Someone had to say something eventually, he says. Lowering his voice so no one else can hear he mutters, Thanks.
5.)
Greg-, Wilson starts.
Oh geez, what have I done to get the first name? he rolls his eyes.
No. No, it’s-um-there was an accident on the freeway.
House is still playing with his GameBoy, not paying much attention.
House, it’s Lisa.
His head snaps up. What?
She’s in surgery.
He’s up and has his cane and before Wilson says another word he’s hobbling toward the OR.
Of course, you don’t know this. You’re under general anesthesia. Wilson tells you when you wake up that House was worried sick.
He didn’t really have to tell you though, because when your eyes flutter open, it’s not Wilson by your side.
Oh thank God, you hear, and he grabs your hand.
He has even more scruff than usual and it’s clear that he hasn’t slept lately. Big, dark rings sit under his eyes. But he’s smiling at you.
You look like hell, you say.
You’re the one with a lacerated forehead, a broken leg and a repaired hole in your large intestine. Sorry, but it seems like you won’t be wearing those fuck-me heels for a while.
I think that will upset you more than me.
He laughs, a big, real laugh, and it’s the first time you’ve heard it since before the leg. And what you said wasn’t even that funny.
I thought you were going to die on me, he says more soberly.
Well, you’ve scared me enough times, I just wanted to repay you.
Let’s stop scaring each other, huh? he asks.
Fandom/Pairing: House, House/Cuddy and just House/Cuddy friendship
Rating: R, but only for one very very small section. Like two sentences. Otherwise PG-13.
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd be a lot cooler than I am. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: It's my first Five Things fic and it's not beta-ed, so I apologize if there are any glaring errors (or even not-so-glaring ones). I miss writing, so I decided to stay up too late and finish this one. If you read it, whether you like it, don't like it or don't care at all, I'd love for you to comment! Thanks :) <3
Five Ways You Saw Him Die
or, more accurately, four ways you saw him die and one way he almost saw you die
1.)
You’re still in awe that the tall, gorgeous, brilliant-and of course arrogant-med student legend Greg House picked you. You’re still in awe that he’s laying here beside you, doing a crossword puzzle on a Sunday morning like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It all started at the track. Running always calmed you and you went to the track when you felt like you were going in circles. Because it was nice to be doing so literally, since you so often were figuratively. You learned to go early in the morning. It was Michigan, so it was freezing, but that’s why you went. If other people were there at that time, they were there to run. If you went during the day you had to deal with the girls trying to impress the boys, had to deal with the flirting and giggling and standing around in groups “stretching.” In the morning, it was all about running.
There were a few kids who came a couple days a week, but he was the only other one out there all six mornings you were. You expected he was probably out there again the day you weren’t, and it made you feel a little guilty. But you’re Jewish, you always feel guilty.
You didn’t know who he was. It’s hard to identify someone when they’re buried under a hat and a neck warmer and gloves, covered head to toe in UnderArmor. One day you decided to run especially hard, and he apparently took you as competition. All the other days he had just been loping gently around the track-always there before you and always there as you left-but nothing too special. He liked to run in the opposite direction of everyone else, you realized after the third day of just you and him. If you started running in his direction he’d turn around and lope the other way. Eventually you just start off running opposite him. So you pass each other every time around, but you don’t really bother gauging each other’s speed.
Except the day you want to run hard. When you pass him the second time, you don’t notice anything, but eventually you realize you can’t see him, you’re not going to pass him again, and you think he’s not on the track. You glance behind you and there he is. When you look at him he speeds up. You’ve always been up to a challenge.
It takes him a couple laps to pass you, but when he does, he goes flying by and you expect he had been boosting your ego a little, only to shatter it.
When you finally stopped, you took the time to look at him-really look at him for the first time. He was over half a foot taller than you with legs that went up to your chest. You really had no chance from the beginning.
He pulled his hat from his head and you gasped. He chuckled.
Nice to meet you too, Cuddy.
How do you know my name? were the first words you can think of.
I’m the infamous Gregory House, I know everyone’s name. By the way, nice try running, but I’ve got a little leg on you. Not that yours aren’t amazing.
You don’t know whether to be insulted or honored that Greg House might just be hitting on you.
What makes you want to talk to a lowly undergrad? A freshman no less? you ask.
She’s got the best rack on campus.
Later, after he’s fucked you three times-in the shower, against the door to your closet, and finally in your bed-he tells you that you really do have a great pair, but he also heard your brain wasn’t too bad either.
Ever since he’s been hanging around all the time it seems. You’re not one to complain; after all, he helps you study lazily as he plays his guitar. All of your friends are a little astonished; he doesn’t have any other friends, and they’re not sure what you see in him.
Why’d you leave Hopkins? you ask one day.
You can feel him tense next to you.
Professors didn’t really enjoy the cocky son of a bitch who proved them wrong all the time, he replies.
Professors are like that here, and you don’t seem to mind, you say. Why’d you leave?
He looks at you and his piercing blue eyes are sadder than you’ve ever seen. You immediately want to say it doesn’t matter, but the question’s already out; he’ll only think you’re weak if you back out now.
I got kicked out, he says holding your eyes. I helped my best friend cheat on an exam. He got caught and he turned me in. They kicked me out.
Oh.
Suddenly it makes sense why he doesn’t have other friends, why it’s just you. His last best friend betrayed him.
You squeeze his hand and kiss his temple. The smile he gives you doesn’t quite make his eyes.
2.)
You pull the curtain back, and despite everything you’ve learned to do as a doctor, you cringe, flinch, gasp. He’s not screaming-he never screams in pain, he never even shows he’s in pain. That’s why you’re suddenly so scared. His face is pale and twisted in pain and his hands are gripping the sides of the bed so his knuckles are pure white.
She’s screaming, sobbing in the corner but you can’t think about her. You stumble and choke on your words for a moment. But then no one is moving fast enough. You don’t bother giving the order for more morphine; you get it yourself. With his fists clenched so hard, you don’t even need a tourniquet.
Just hold still for me, Greg. And your voice is quiet and it’s scared and he does.
Slowly, ever so slowly, as the blood finds its way back to his heart and into his brain, his fists unclench. His eyes roll back and he stops gritting his teeth.
That’s way too much mor-
I am well aware, Nurse Previn, you snap at her. As though you don’t know that you gave him well over the prescribed dose of morphine. He needed it.
Thank you, he whispers before his eyes flutter closed.
She’s still crying in the corner and you turn to her.
What should I do? she sobs.
You have a decision to make.
You say it detached, no emotion. Because if you think about it, if you let yourself engage, you’re going to throw up.
When he wakes up, he groans and you sit up suddenly, knocking the paperwork you’re supposed to be doing to the floor.
You check his vitals and he looks up at you, his blue eyes piercing as always, but they look like they’re drowning and you’re drowning in them.
You took my leg, he says.
It’s a statement, not a question, but you answer with a nod anyway. He groans again and squeezes his thigh.
She’s going to leave, he says.
Again, it’s a statement.
She’s probably already gone.
No, House, you say-you’ve started using his last name. It’s easier to detach that way. No, House, she’s just in the caf getting some food.
She’s going to leave.
She loves you.
I know her.
His eyes are pleading with you. You swallow back your own tears.
Don’t leave me, he begs. Please, don’t leave me.
You kiss his temple, well aware that this is somewhere over the line, but you don’t care.
I’ll never leave you, you whisper. I promise I’ll never leave you.
3.)
The doorbell rings. It’s almost midnight and you know it’s him. Sure enough, he’s standing there when you open the door. But he’s got a bottle of whiskey and is wearing a tie. So you pull your robe around you tighter and let him in.
I went on a date with Cameron, he mutters as he passes you.
You laugh but can’t help but feel a little twinge of jealousy.
He collapses onto your couch and promptly opens the whiskey-throwing some to the back of his throat.
That bad, huh?
He nods and takes another drink before holding it out to you. You take it, sitting next to him.
I told her she didn’t love, she needs.
She does, you say.
Yeah, but are you supposed to say that on a first date?
First?
Well, not that I’m doing it again, he rolls his eyes, reaching for the whiskey again.
You drink some before you give it back to him.
You’re wearing the sky blue shirt.
You told me to.
Since when do you do what I tell you to?
He sighs and shrugs, still nursing the bottle.
House, is this really Cameron?
Oh God, if it’s not she better still be coming back to work. I did not go on a horrible date with whoever that was only to have Cameron still gone.
It’s you, House, you say quietly. You’re allowed to love people.
Maybe I do, he growls, throwing back more whiskey. Just not her.
The drink’s getting to him, you can tell. He wouldn’t have said that if it wasn’t.
We’re not all going to abandon you, you know?
He snarls and glares at you. This isn’t about that. This isn’t about you.
He arrived depressed but now there’s a defensive anger in his eyes and voice. Still, you want to laugh. Because he said, “This isn’t about that.” It’s the first time he’s admitted there’s a “that” to begin with, the first time he’s admitted the possibility that maybe he is afraid everyone’s going to abandon him.
I never said it was about me, you reply eventually, taking the whiskey away from him for a drink and for his own sake.
That’s mine.
He gets so childish when he’s angry. Well, he gets more childish when he’s angry. You smile at him (which does nothing to help the anger) and take the alcohol to the kitchen. He’s too drunk, tired, exhausted to get his cane and get to it.
You return to the couch and sit quietly next to him. You have what the two of you always had-more tension than seemed necessary, and a proximity without contact achieved only by a perfect balance. Your legs hover next to each other’s, but the knees don’t so much as brush together. It’s how it’s always been, how it will always be.
You sit silently and try to count the minutes as they pass. But somehow you pay more attention to his breathing than the seconds, and soon his eyes are closed and his breathing heavy. He’s not quite asleep-doesn’t have that almost-imperceptible snore that you know he has when he’s sleeping-but he’s certainly not awake.
I know I’m allowed to love people, he mutters.
He’s half-conscious by this point, drunk and exhausted and you know he’ll spend the night on
your couch and not remember this part of the conversation in the morning.
Just not her.
His voice seems quieter than his breathing. You want desperately to touch his skin, to feel his pulse under your fingers again.
Just not her.
You give in.
I know, you whisper, fingertips brushing his ever-present stubble. You press a kiss to his temple and repeat, I know.
When he wakes up the next morning he snarls at you but avoids your eyes. As his bike speeds away you wonder if he does remember after all.
4.)
There’s a bloodstain on the carpet and you have to hold on to the door to keep standing. Because there’s so much blood, and it belongs to House. He’s in surgery with a bullet in his neck. You’re more scared than you’ve ever been. The leg was never going to kill him; this could.
But within a week he’s running again. He’s showing up at your door, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, soaking in sweat and asking for water. Suddenly he’s alive again. Suddenly he’s whole again.
You give him water and he grins up at you. You remember why you fell in love with him so many years ago. You wonder if you ever fell out.
House, are you okay?
I’m fine, he growls.
But you know House. You can recognize the favoring of the leg.
The pain’s coming back, you say quietly.
I’m fine.
It didn’t work. You try to wipe the tears away before he can see them but you know he does.
Why are you crying? he snaps. It’s not your leg.
It is. Does he really not know that?
A week later and he’s using his cane again. No one says anything to him, but ripples of whispers follow his shadow. Heads turn away but the eyes are bad at pretending not to look. He notices, of course he notices, but he says nothing.
House! you snap as you walk into the conference room. Clinic! Now!
He has to reach for his cane to stand and Cameron looks at you like you’ve just beaten a puppy.
Sorry, Mistress Cuddy, he smirks, I must have lost track of the time.
I believe it’s your leg that doesn’t work, not your watch.
Now Cameron audibly gasps, Chase almost chokes on coffee and Foreman’s eyes widen as he does his crossword. But the smirk never leaves House’s face.
You’re a bitch.
Is this news? you ask and you hope your poker face is working. And if you’re going to treat me like a dominatrix, I might as well act like one.
Yes, Mistress.
He starts for the door. The thunk of the cane along with his shuffled steps pounds in your head. He nods as he passes you.
Someone had to say something eventually, he says. Lowering his voice so no one else can hear he mutters, Thanks.
5.)
Greg-, Wilson starts.
Oh geez, what have I done to get the first name? he rolls his eyes.
No. No, it’s-um-there was an accident on the freeway.
House is still playing with his GameBoy, not paying much attention.
House, it’s Lisa.
His head snaps up. What?
She’s in surgery.
He’s up and has his cane and before Wilson says another word he’s hobbling toward the OR.
Of course, you don’t know this. You’re under general anesthesia. Wilson tells you when you wake up that House was worried sick.
He didn’t really have to tell you though, because when your eyes flutter open, it’s not Wilson by your side.
Oh thank God, you hear, and he grabs your hand.
He has even more scruff than usual and it’s clear that he hasn’t slept lately. Big, dark rings sit under his eyes. But he’s smiling at you.
You look like hell, you say.
You’re the one with a lacerated forehead, a broken leg and a repaired hole in your large intestine. Sorry, but it seems like you won’t be wearing those fuck-me heels for a while.
I think that will upset you more than me.
He laughs, a big, real laugh, and it’s the first time you’ve heard it since before the leg. And what you said wasn’t even that funny.
I thought you were going to die on me, he says more soberly.
Well, you’ve scared me enough times, I just wanted to repay you.
Let’s stop scaring each other, huh? he asks.