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A Synonym for Sabotage
by melissaisdown
The mechanical presence of a sine wave is his only companion. A team of monitors at his side. Beep, tone, pulse echoing now, a constant reminder of what he'd most like to forget, what he'd most like to not be true. Cognizant of location, sadly aware of being alone, he removes the leads from his body, if only to hear what it might sound like had he not made it. Perhaps hoping that to disconnect his heartbeat from the machines is enough to will his heart to stop. To die now, in the vain attempt to save Amber, rather than to go on living knowing the burden that is blame.
Brief is the duration between the removal of the leads and a nurses appearance, but she does not rush because she cares, no this is her job. Nobody really cares.
A disconcerting thought, from a hospital bed.
Greg House does not blame all that know him for not caring.
Nor is there a tinge of surprise. Emptiness, misery, a headache, were
the least he deserved. The nurse tries to reattach the leads, tries to convince
him to lie back down, administer a sedative, but House will not have it.
Struggling with him, the nurse relents. They always do.
As the abrasive nihilist, the manipulative bastard, the maverick diagnostician's
feet meet the floor, his first thought is of Lisa Cuddy. A memory of her
at his bedside seems familiar, but it's reality uncertain. With the cold floor, and
no cane, House escapes intensive care not knowing if he has a friend in the world.
Involuntary as the heart beating in spite of itself are the misguided
footsteps that drive him to her office. The office he so frequently barged
into, taking advantage of her tolerance of him, this time he hopes offers
refuge.
Lisa Cuddy is on the telephone, reassigning board positions, quelling a
potential strike, justifying insurance practices and doing all things
administrative. The only thing that could steal her from his side was her job.
She is not facing the door as it opens.
"How's Wilson?"
The phone immediately falls.
"Fine. How are you?"
The sight of House disheveled, unshaven, and injured was a familiar one for
Cuddy. The sight of him this broken is one not seen since the infarction.
Loss consumes his eyes, so much that it hurt to look.
"I need to sit down."
Running to him as his legs collapse, a hold on him, she sits.
"You shouldn't be out of bed yet. You just came out of a coma four
hours ago."
"You were there?"
A nod. "I've been monitoring your condition closely. You should never have
been in a coma in he first place."
"I shouldn't be here."
"You're right. I'll get a wheelchair and take you back to ICU."
"No. I mean...I should have died. I deserve to die."
"You can't honestly believe that. House, you did everything you could
to save Amber." A hand on his shoulder as he goes to stand.
"I need to talk to Wilson."
"Don't think that's possible. He went home, and he's on leave until further
notice."
House sits again, resigned, solemn, questioning why Cuddy hasn't
abandoned him yet. Contemplating when it will happen. Their eyes meet
and upon witnessing his own pain in hers comes the realization that she
may be all he has left.
Regret, remorse, and pain cannot be experienced in sleep. So, House sleeps.
Self sedation is his chosen form of therapy, always. Being numb isn't
enough anymore, perhaps it was never enough. The need to erase the images
from that night completely, to somehow change everything, or atleast
to stop his mind from revisiting the way in which he ruined everything,
destroyed Wilson, lost his best friend, killed Amber. The pain of his leg
is for once subdued, but only by tremendous guilt. And vicodin does nothing
for guilt.
Awakening to the somber hum of fluorescence, he is beginning
to get tired of this place. The absence of color, the sterile walls, monitors
that can only taunt an already suicidal spirit. The desire to have it all end,
and still she's by his bedside. House watches her sleep for nearly an hour,
gauging how near she is to waking. Still uncertain why Cuddy is keeping vigil,
and then a thought, back to her perverse guilt. That must be it. Nearly a decade and she still carries the weight. Cuddy begins to stir.
"Hey," he says to wake her.
She opens her eyes.
"What time is it?" He asks.
A look at her watch. "3:30. How are you feeling?"
"Good as new. Think I'll go home now."
He swings his legs over the edge of the hospital bed.
"What?"
"I had my nap, now I 'm ready to go play with the other kids."
"No, no, no. You need more than a nap House. In the past 48 hours you have
gotten a concussion, had an overdose induced heart attack, and electrocuted
your brain, only to end up in a coma..."
"Yeah, I know. I was there for most of it."
Cuddy stands, putting a hand on his knee.
"Lie down. It's 3am, you need rest, you need to recover."
A beat.
"Why are you here?"
"This is my hospital. I'm supposed to be here."
"I mean in my room, at my bedside..."
"I was concerned for your well being. I'm your friend, I'm supposed to be."
A suspicious look.
"And I wanted you to know you weren't alone."
"But I am."
Their palms meet, rising.
"I'm here if you need me."
Cuddy lets go, knowing this oppressive weight.
Morning comes too soon. House could not sleep once she had gone.
He could only dwell. On what should've been said, what could've been done.
Sorrow, sacrifice, a sigh, to be alone in the moment. Seeing
himself meandering through the five stages of death, stuck on anger, not
knowing how he'll ever find closure. Not knowing if Wilson will
even speak to him.
The thought evaporated. Cuddy is coming.
"Back for seconds?" Then, looking at the nurse delivering his breakfast,
"She has a fetish for comatose cripples."
"Feel any better?"
"I told you, I'm fine. You don't have to keep checking on me. I'm ready
to go home. "
"So that you can try and find Wilson?"
"No. So that I can get away from you. You've developed an obsession."
A foot touches the tile.
"House, he needs some time away. From you. Wilson doesn't want to be found
right now."
"He told you that?"
Cuddy nods. House rubs his leg, squinting.
"I still need to go home."
Apartment 221B offers no solace. It is only a reminder.
Was the expulsion of people he cared about from his life a result of his
swollen ego? Or a way of remaining objective in every scenario?
Perhaps just a defense mechanism, at any rate it was another regret
on a very long list. At home his companion is scotch. Tonight being
no exception, House is just about to down his fifth shot when
a knock at the door interceded. He knows who it is.
"Before you ask, I'm fine."
The words escaped before he even laid eyes on her. Cuddy was
beautiful. Possibly never moreso than at this very moment. Always making
a mess of things, House thought. A different time, a different place, she
would be his. She was his once, for a moment.
The moment never passes.
"I haven't slit my wrists, if that's why you're here."
Cuddy reacts to the smell of his breath, "Hitting the bottle isn't much better."
"What do you want?"
"I brought you something."
"I don't want it."
He goes to slam the door.
"Aren't you a little curious?"
Of course. The unrequited catastrophe that is them though, he is not strong enough for. Not now. The knowledge that except for his own self sabotage, she could be his. Here because she wants to be with him, not because of her own perpetual guilt.
The door reopens and he signals her to come in. House staggers to his couch, so drunk that by the time he reaches it he has nearly forgotten about Cuddy.
The vicodin bottle is empty, the scotch bottle not far behind. All that Cuddy
has brought is an intervention. She remains the only person who thinks House
needs saving. Or deserves it. Knowing he'd inherited the burden of blame, she is there to try and lift the weight. Inebriation prevented as much, atleast for now.
The irony of night is the opacity. Everything appears placid,
under control, but it's only because everything is in the dark.
There she lay, in the dark, a passed out department head leaning heavy on
her. They have a past, one she often revisits, her memory isolating the
most sensory moments. They have a past, an accidental union rife with
regret both for ever letting happen and for ever letting it end. They have a past,
one they never speak of, one whose details have begun to fade. They have
a past, a future is what they are missing. Crossing one arm upon his chest,
Cuddy lays back further, closing her eyes.
"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
Morning. It is House's voice, and hangover breath, his mouth
hardly two inches from hers. As quickly as he can, House sits up,
reacting to his headache. He goes to stand, and succeeds on his
next attempt.
"That is the second time you have slept over, Dr. Cuddy.The next time
you plan on throwing a slumber party atleast let me know so I can get
some popcorn, and invite the other girls, oh and prepare my video camera
for the pillow fights."
More is said about pillow fights but it trailed off as House headed
for the bathroom. After dispelling what remained of the scotch and
returning to the couch, he saw her putting her coat on and felt a pang of
panic.
"Leaving so soon? But what about my morning pride?"
"I'm going to be late for an appointment with a benefactor."
"And wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Subtle. They won't suspect
a thing."
As she pulls her hair back, House finds himself lost in the realization
that he'll miss her. How much she's sacrificed for him over the years.
No idea how to repay her, no idea how to even thank her.
Hiring Greg House was the first sacrifice. She knew him at Michigan,
everybody knew him. Knew when she gave him the job that it would cost. Lawsuits, headaches, possibly one day even her job. Defending him against
Vogler the hospital lost six figures, purgering herself jeopardized her freedom, protecting him even from a hospital inspector nearly cost her her title. But she would do it all again, all the same.
Even Cuddy wasn't certain where her instinctual undying loyalty rose from.
A valued friendship, a sweaty past, an administrative obligation, or just a
debt to be paid perpetually for the chronic pain she's responsible for, it was
always there.
"Listen, House if you want to talk," a hand rests on his shoulder.
"You know where I am."
Watching her walk away, wanting to stop her, to cry 'I get it now', to tell her
everything, he fell aphonic. Needing to say something,
"Hey where's my surprise?"
Cuddy quarter turned her head, grinning. "On your couch."
Footsteps fade, standing, barely, broken and alone, he retreats
inside to find a new cane, a souvenir, a compensation. Time wasted is
all the same.
The day drifts. Passing time seems frivolous when there is
still so much unfinished. He channel surfs and downloads some porn,
both of which only add to his restlessness. Laying down a medical
journal,he considers calling for an escort. Both for the distraction and for
the company, suicide is not a distant thought. Reaching for the phone,
House freezes, suddenly more aware of how shallow it all is. Needing
a friend, new cane in hand, he seeks one.
The sky is new, unfamiliar, early spring but overcast. Seething sporadic
and involuntary tears of its own, the light being cast makes House a
stranger to his surroundings. There would be life before this, and then there
would be this. Amber. Perdition. Even Cuddy's home seems unfamiliar
as the sombre cripple raises his hand to the doorbell.
Lisa Cuddy has saved his life on more than one occassion. She has
watched him die and struggled to revive his body. Now, mind and
soul were in need of resuscitation. The door opens, revealing
House's forfeited visage, she assesses the pain in his eyes but can not speak.
Limping in from the cold and the strange, to a warmer place,
"You're soaking wet." Cuddy takes his coat.
"April showers."
His voice cracks, the sarcasm hardly shining through.
"Come sit by the fire, warm up, we don't need you getting pneumonia next."
House obeys, shivering.
"Do you need anything, did you just come by to talk?"
After a deep inhalation, "You're cooking."
"Yeah..."
"You see, that's the part where you're supposed to offer me some."
It had been a long time since they shared a meal. Alone together and
on the brink of sabotaging everything.
"It never went away?"
"What?" Cuddy asked.
"Your guilt. It recedes sometimes, waxes, wanes but always
boomerangs back."
"You came here to talk about me?"
"I'm just a novice. You're the expert. An experienced practitioner of
regrettable deeds."
Cuddy shakes her head.
"C'mon, you leave a man crippled, in chronic pain for the rest of his life,
how do you ever let that go?"
"Your alternative was heart failure."
"Right. You saved me."
"Stacy saved you."
"Stacy took your medical advice."
"Do you blame me?"
A stagnant beat. House shakes his head.
"I should go."
He stands, heading for the door.
"It wasn't your fault, House. You didn't know the bus would crash,
you didn't know she would get on, you didn't know Amber would
come to pick you up. It's all contingency, fate, the randomness of
life and death."
Stopping midstep he turns to face her as she nears him. Vulnerability
and weakness never before witnessed in this man. Cuddy doesn't
want to see him cry, wrapping her arms around him tight, she can
find no words. A single sob can almost be mistaken for a sigh as
he buries his face in her shoulder. They stand like this for nothing
short of an eternity. A comfortable embrace, the warmth of their
bodies, his damp flesh, and cold hands.
Breaking away a moment, "Wilson will forgive you."
Teared filled eyes meet, and a hand caresses his face. An involuntary
snicker, the thought 'What if he doesn't?"
House wants her. To kiss her, as inappropriate as it may be. To thank her,
and let her know he forgave her long ago, the action no words can substitute. Cuddy did save him, countless times. She is saving him now.
The connection they once had, the passion, that longing is his only
possession. As she is about to kiss his forehead, he moves, heaving his
head and in that moment their mouthes collide. A paradox, sloppy and eloquent, anything but romantic. A desperate, anxious embrace, impulsive;
neither endearing nor gentle, it was raw,rash, heroic. Gratifyingly right.
Time expands, willed to do so by the lonely souls who want anything
but to face the consequences of this brief glance at joy. Curling around
Greg House's neck, Cuddy's hands are familiar, in a new world where
most of what he knows has vanished. A world where so much was lost,
he still has her. Letting go is not an option, she fights to pull away, if
only for air, but his mouth follows hers, never parting. A breath of his own
fills her mouth, as House fumbles, uncertain where to put his hands.
He had kissed Lisa Cuddy before, but never like this. Never had meaninglessness
felt so paramount.
Finally it breaks, Cuddy continues up to kiss his forehead, their
heads contacting as they stand there, refusing to look eachother in the eyes.Refusing to acknowledge that this is all there will be, all there could be.
Alone. Together. And he is about to sabotage everything.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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