He limped into the room gloves on his hands, staring at her with hard eyes. "You called."
She tried to look at him, but her neck wouldn't cooperate. She could barely force out the affirmative.
He sighed and plopped on a chair, setting his head on his arm and just looking at her. "Bad day?"
"Had better."
He nodded. The pauses were growing longer; she knew what she had to ask for, but doing it was...difficult.
"I'm ready," she finally said.
"I know," was his response, as he got back to his feet and shuffled to the IV drip by her bed. "Figured I'd grab the drugs when I got your call."
He slipped the needle into the tubing and added the contents.
"You'll just slip off," he told her, even though she already knew. "Just like falling asleep."
"I appreciate you...doing this," she told him, only a slight pause in her words.
"You were a good doctor," he told her. "Just like me...except you could afford to be compassionate. I never could."
"I was never as smart," she defended. "You always came up with the brilliant last-minute diagnosis. I killed a guy and his dog." Her lips quirked slightly and her arm jumped from where it was resting.
"I'm old," he stated simply. "But even when you weren't a puzzle...I still liked you."
She simply nodded and let her head fall back. She could see his face as he stood above her, eyes looking old and worn...and then she saw it. From the corner of his eye, a single droplet fell. She didn't know why it was so important, but she forced her hand up to catch it as it fell.
"Thank you," she finally said, and he knew it wasn't for coming to kill her, or even liking her as a person, but for the tear, that single droplet of emotion that he allowed to fall for her.
"You're welcome," he replied, but he didn't know if she had heard; her heartbeat monitor beeped a flatline. He slipped off the gloves, turned, and walked out the door. He'd get in trouble for the missing drugs, but he'd pass it off as his addiction; nobody ever paid that much attention to what he was using to dose himself with.
He stood above her grave, the cold playing hell with his leg. He didn't believe in the afterlife, that was for certain, but watching the cold stone with her name on it made his thoughts about her clearer.
She had been brilliant and doomed, her genetics putting a limit on her ability from the very beginning, yet she had taken what time she had and made the best of it. Those around her with time to live didn't appreciate it, didn't feel the push to be the best that they could be, and never would. They were content; she could never be, just like he could never be.
His hand reached down to touch the two numerals he had carved in the gravestone himself, much to the ire of the cemetery staff, but he'd gotten out of it like he always managed to and now it was complete.
Remy Hadley was in the official font, but to House she would always really be Thirteen.