DISCLAIMERS APPLY: I DO NOT OWN HOUSE, MD
"I'm sorry."
Those words were said with such finality. "I'm sorry." Cuddy was sorry, but this was the last straw. Their relationship was over. House could not believe it. He felt as though the last few minutes had all just been a bad dream. Cuddy did not just end it. He would wake up any minute. He had to. This could not be his reality.
But it was reality. House recalled how he had panicked when he saw the apathy in Cuddy's eyes, heard the resignation in her voice. He had pushed her too far this time.
"Don't. Please don't." House did not care how pathetic he had sounded. He had begged her not to end it. Not to end the one thing that he had yearned for over the past twenty years. The thing which kept him going; the thing which had given him a reason to live through all the shitty days and nights he had been through. How many times had he thought of just ending it all? Of ending the physical and emotional pain? All it would have taken was a few too many Vicodin with a chaser of bourbon. But he had clung to the hope that someday he would be repaid for all the pain he had endured. That someday he would get his due.
Cuddy. The one thing that had tormented him day and night since medical school. He was- he still is-obsessed with everything about that woman. From the moment he first saw her, she was his. Her bright blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires, her soft chestnut hair that he had so longed to run his fingers through. He ached to nibble those sassy lips that spoke such clever words, and to feel her perky breasts that always peeked through her blouses. How many times had he fantasized about holding her in his arms? About being the man to make her cry out in passion and give her ecstasy?
Yet even more than having the physical Cuddy, House wanted to possess Lisa Cuddy as a person. He wanted her: her intellect, her laugh, hervery psyche. He wanted to have his love for her returned in full. But he was damaged. He did not know how to obtain such things.
And finally he had her. That goddess was his. And she wanted him. She had let him hold her, snuggle her, make love to her, make her moan in pleasure, make her laugh in enjoyment.
And now he had lost her. Just as he knew he would. House had told Cuddy it would not work out. Good things never last for Gregory House, and he cursed himself for being so disillusioned to imagine that this would be an exception.
After taking four Vicodin and having several glasses of scotch, House could not take it anymore. He had to see her. He was shaky on his feet yet he grabbed his helmet and hopped on his motorcycle.
Julia answered Cuddy's door. She was surprised at the man she saw in front of her. House looked completely broken. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his hair was mussed, and his clothing was wrinkled and in disarray. Yet Julia took no pity on House, and did nothing to hide her hatred for him.
"House. You're not welcome here."
House did not have the enthusiasm for a witty response nor did he have the energy to fight with Cuddy's sister. He just stared at her, looking despondent. He had not anticipated Julia's presence here. House had not expected to have to deal with her, and was at a loss at how he was going to get to speak to Cuddy now.
"Let him in," Cuddy's raspy, exhausted voice came from behind Julia.
Julia said nothing, but glared at House nastily as she slowly retreated from the door and disappeared down the hallway.
House's heart fell when he saw Cuddy. The two of them appraised each other wearily. Cuddy was wearing tight yoga sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. Her hair was haphazardly put into a ponytail, and was greasy. It was not like Cuddy not to shower. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her face was still alarmingly pale from her surgery. How House longed to rub her cheek and kiss her forehead and coddle her until she was back in good health. Yet even if they had not been broken up, he would not have known how to express himself in that manner. He would have been absent and distant and callous, like he always was. If only she knew how he really felt. If only he could articulate his emotions.
Cuddy noticed that House reeked of alcohol, and that his limp was more pronounced. But she said nothing as he let himself in and he closed the door behind himself. She walked towards the living room silently, and he followed her. Cuddy sat on the couch and rubbed a hand across her face, depleted of all her energy.
"House, I can't do this."
"Cuddy," House started to speak and then his voice drifted off. After her name left his lips, he was unable to form any more words.
God, he sounded so desperate and pitiful. Cuddy's heart jumped to her throat and she longed to cradle his head in her lap and stroke his hair. He was damaged and she wanted to take care of him. But he could not get any better. He would never get better; he would never change. She hated herself for loving this flawed man. And she just couldn't be with him anymore.
"Cuddy. I'll do anything. Please tell me what to do." House knew he sounded feeble and wretched and he loathed himself because of it. Gregory House did not beg. He did not care about anything or anyone. He did not let his emotions show. But Cuddy could bring him to pleas.
Tears started welling up in Cuddy's eyes and try as she might, she could not keep from crying. Long, deep sobs started from her throat as she choked for breath.
Looking away from her, disgusted with himself, House cursed silently. He hated that he was doing this to her. It made him feel sick that he could make the love of his life feel so miserable.
Through the violent sobs, a sharp pain suddenly seared through Cuddy's back. She grabbed the arm of the sofa and her vision was blurred by black spots from the agony she was experiencing.
House was by her side in an instant. "Cuddy," he was examining her, fear blatantly evident on his face.
The pain was so overwhelming that Cuddy felt bile rise in her throat and before she or House could react, she vomited all over the floor, barely turning her head in time to miss hitting House.
"Cuddy!" House was trying not to panic as a nauseous Cuddy gasped for air. Her breathing was erratic and her face alarmingly pale.
Cuddy lay back on the couch and took shallow, laboured breaths while House pushed the hair from her forehead to soothe her. Gingerly, he placed two fingers on her carotid artery to feel her pulse, which was rapid and irregular.
House pulled out his cell phone and dialed Princeton-Plainsboro, calling for an ambulance immediately.
"You must have ripped your stitches," House told Cuddy, trying desperately to stay strong for her and not let her see how upset he was.
"Just take deep breaths. It's going to be okay." But House's voice cracked at the end of his sentence. He was trying to convince himself that it was going to be okay. The truth was that he was scared to death. Carefully, he sat on the couch next to her. Cuddy cried out in pain at the movement.
"Shhhh," he whispered as he cradled her. "I've got you." House continued to stroke her hair and kissed her on the forehead. "It's going to be okay," he kept saying over and over.
The last thing Cuddy remembered before passing out was the image of House's concerned face above hers, filled with so many emotions including pain, fear, and love.