Characters are not my own. No copyright infringement intended.
The Final Bullet - - - - - - - -
It was not the combination of factors that drove House to the edge this time.
Granted, he did realize that his life had been taking a downward spiral as of late, but no – he did not blame the culmination of things. His thoughts turned back to Wilson, and his lips curved up gently into a grim smile. It was faint and fleeting, and a whisper of a thought trailed through his mind. No. I want you to move out. And so he did. He had not tried his best to break the ex-pair now a pair again up. No, he did not blame himself for this, ether. Above almost anything else, he desired for Wilson to be happy. If he was happy, then House could deal with nearly everything else. His pranks had been pathetic. They were designed more in jest than in active aggression, and Wilson didn't seem to know this. Everyone thought that House had gone soft since Mayfield.
He hadn't.
House was merely more in control of his actions, aware of the effect they had on others. However, with this newfound enlightenment, he used none of it. His behavior was still borderline sociopathic.
He turned his head slightly, glancing down at the desk before him, the plain manila folder lying there impassively. For such a small package, it burdened House heavily. He took a hand and massaged his forehead with it, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Standing up from the clear glass, he pushed his weight off of the chair and onto his cane, clasping it in his right hand, like always. The left hovered, resembling something like a dragonfly as it paused above the folder. It shook slightly towards House's body, as if it had decided upon its own accord not to pick up the package. Then, disdainfully, it returned, and snatched it up. House took several steps and pushed his way through the door, the backwards lettering of his name almost at eye level as he winced slightly at the growing pain in his thigh. Not enough to take Vicodin for, but enough to want it. Enough to want any type of release he could get his hands on. But no – House would resist for now, his iron will only bending slightly at the weight of his pain.
He walked with a gait swifter than normal, his hands clenching upon their occupants, as he maneuvered to the elevator. Stepping inside, he was grateful that nobody else was there. House reached his right hand up and accurately pressed the button to head down from the lobby, something he had done so many times. The doors opened once the light took a rest on the gleaming number one, and he stepped off, heading to the left towards the Clinic. Of course, not somewhere he'd go voluntarily, and especially not into the area beyond it – the dragon's lair. But that's where he was headed now, to go talk to the drake that had all but consumed him, and there he went. His speed quickened in tune with his heartbeat as he approached her door. Pausing at the wood and closed blinds, he took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale… This would be difficult for him.
Pushing it wide open, he saw Cuddy flip on a shirt, tucking it into her pants as she zipped them up. Reaching behind her head and flipping up her hair, she took one look at him and her demeanor changed. Defensive posture, narrowing of the eyes, dilation of the pupils, He noted. Ah, how things had changed. She even shifted the weight of her body into more of a fight-or-flight reflex. His eyes narrowed in turn with hers, and from his left he thrust out the folder to her.
"A crane collapsed in downtown Trenton," Cuddy said, their years of experience with one another offering her an acceptable social omitting of a greeting.
"Don't care," he responded simply, their years together made this commonplace, too. He extended the package further to her, his grip loosening around the boxy frame of what lay inside. She took it from him, and without even a glance or a feel of what lay inside, she tossed it away onto the desk he had also given her. Under the circumstances, House understood, a crane had apparently collapsed, and she was in administrator mode. This did not prevent him from becoming slightly perturbed. But, she turned back towards him, the folder lying empty as she took the contents out.
"My great-grandfather," she said, looking at the musty old cover, the ancient book faded in some places, but the Cuddy name and title were still fully visible.
"No, it's just an old book he wrote," House replied, but the comment lacked the usual sarcastic bite that accompanied it. Her face turned up towards him in shock, her mouth half-agape, but she turned down to look at it again, rubbing her fingers over the embossed pages. "Open it up."So she did.
Within, on the first page that lie blank, save House's scrawl, was written, To Lucas and Cuddy, Here's to a new chapter. Best, Greg. She looked back up at him and scoffed, her tone harsh as she said, "Seriously, you're giving this to us?" The unspoken question of why was thick in her voice, and she searched his baby blues with her grays for any sign of deception.
"It's a big step you're taking," he said, refusing to be affected by her emotions right now. "I wanted to congratulate you" His mouth forms a thin line, turning down at the corners as he glanced to his left, down at where the package used to lay. Shit. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. "I understand that's the adult thing to do." He added, unwonted thoughts of Mayfield drifting back into his head.
She looked back up at him, her eyes still waiting to see what sort of trickery this must be. "How did you know?" She voiced accusation an underlying theme in her face as she watched his with severe intent.
"I've known for a while," He voiced, but let it hang in the air, and that it did. A pregnant pause ensued. "The fact that you decided to cohabitate is not exactly a spoiler," With this, she turned to the side, letting the book come to rest on her desk with a thump. "Unless my intel is wrong." She ignored him at this, and keeping her head turned away from him, focused upon putting on her jacket. She shrugged herself into it with his help, and turned around as he asked, "Trouble in paradise?" with a swift flick of her wrists, her hair lay in a ponytail, and he stood there as she walked past.
"I need to get to Trenton."
That night had been more difficult than he had imagined. After giving her his gift of surrender, he had been forced to work a case that relived his worst nightmares. He crawled through the old soot and dust, coughing, and aggravating his leg. About a 7 it was when he finally rolled back to his apartment. Severe pain, dominating the senses. Patient cannot think clearly half the time, and is effectively disabled. The medical information came to the forefront of his mind, and he ignored it, popping twice the recommended dose of Ibuprofen, 800mg. It wouldn't do him any harm, he knew, but it would only bring his pain down to a 6, which wasn't much more manageable. A hot bath would soothe it, but he would never be able to sleep. And after tonight, his brain needed a major resetting.
Upon reflection, House himself needed a major resetting. His life was nothing nowadays. He had his job. His fellows had been paid by his best friend who he wasn't even sure liked him anymore, to hang out with him, and the woman he cared about was getting married to an asshole that had caused his leg pain to get much more severe. He chuckled at this. Doesn't get any more fucked up, does it? He questioned to nobody in particular. Glancing over at the piano, he found that this was perhaps his only friend. Well, maybe not. Shifting his eyes back and forth, he looked down at the piano bench. Sighing and rubbing his thigh, he reached down and flipped it over, trying to be gentle. It landed on its back with a loud thud, and House knelt, ignoring his leg's protest, and unscrewed the bottom right leg, just like his own. He pulled it out, and within the hollow cavity, an orange glimmer appeared.
The familiar rattle came with it as well.
He pushed the orange bottle, entirely full, into his hand, where it rested. The label read, Vicodin – 500mg Acetaminophen, 5mg Hycodone : 1-2 tablets by mouth as needed, not to exceed 8 tablets per day. This aroused a smirk on is face. Of course he could take more than 8 tablets a day – he had done It for years. These companies really needed to perform more tests on the max dosages.
Twirling open the cap, he was suddenly struck with a sear in his thigh. Each beat of his heart caused it to throb, but occasionally, it cramped up like this. The pills dropped from his hand, and several fell out as it rolled across the cherry hardwood. He grabbed his thigh, now an 8, and hissed loudly in pain. Fuck! Was the only thing his mind screamed at this point.
That, and for release.
And he wanted to give it, so bad. Something permanent, he hated this. He hated this. Life, even, at this point, was nearly as painful as his leg. His old motto – Living in misery is slightly better than dying in it, no longer applied when you life was simply beyond miserable. Nobody would miss him, too, that's the thing. His mom, maybe, but still, she'd get over it. In a week, he would have escaped everyone's minds, except when there was a case nobody could solve. Then, he'd be missed. But only for his medical knowledge. That's all they loved about him wasn't it? So he would take it away.
His leg still cramping up, he was unable to extend it fully, so he scrabbled at the bookshelves, pulling himself down. At the top lie a metal box, shrouded by other books and various knickknacks. Nothing mattered anymore, so with all of his might, he pulled. It came crashing down, and in his haste, he hadn't thought of the trajectory. It landed with a thud on his leg – something a healthy person could take with a band-aid. Not House. This ratcheted his pain up to a 9, easily. And oh, oh how it hurt. His mind was not even coherent anymore as he scrambled for the box, and it soon lay within his grasp, his leg still trapped. He opened it swiftly, and inside lay his Glock. It was to be used in self-defense, but it would serve this purpose, too. With trembling hands, he took up the piece of black metal. It was cool to the touch, and he flicked the safety off with his fingers. He took it, and without hesitation, raised it to the underside of his face. It lay just below the trachea, ready to fire. His pulse thrummed against it contentedly as it has done his entire life, completely unaware.
And now, his finger rested lightly on the trigger, he thought briefly, his medical mind going back to the four muscles needed for proper trigger control. But he couldn't remember them, he was in so much pain. Useless old good-for-nothing bastard. He thought, something his mind could formulate coherently. Nobody loves you. How could they? Nobody ever did. Know why? Because you're broken. Nobody wants something they cannot fix. Something that isn't able to love them back.
He flexed those muscles.
I don't know where to take this from here. Does anyone have any suggestions? It was originally a one-shot I intended to write quickly, just something to get out before the finale ( As you can see, it follows nothing but Cuddy & House's conversation beforehand, and hints at what is rumored to occur in the finale. )
I could set it up so that this is the end – easily, it could be.
But the bullet could be slowed by his trachea, jaw, hard palate, and grey matter. ( Granted, it wouldn't actually allow him to survive, but what the hell, crazier things have happened. ) Which would line it up to be a Huddy fic, I'm thinking. I'm also open to House x Wilson or House x Thirteen ( Which really has nothing to do with this first chapter, but I think it could work because she might genuinely be the one person to take an interest in him, if Cuddy won't leave Lucas and Wilson won't leave Sam. ), but I'm not sure.
I suppose it all depends upon you guys, so if you like, drop a line with some plot ideas, or something else. (: