In The Storm
Inspired by Metallica – Low Man's Lyric
The trash fire is warm
But nowhere safe from the storm
And I can't bear to see
What I've let me be
So wicked and worn
So low the sky is all I see
All I want from you is forgive me
So you bring this poor dog in from the rain
Though he just wants right back out again
The door opened to a dark and empty apartment. There wasn't the soft scent of vanilla and lavender to greet him There wasn't the cheery yellow hued walls, nor the cheerful gibberish of Rachel. There wasn't any Brahms on the stereo, or soft plush carpets. There was only his life, and it was a lonely one.
He tossed his keys on the end table, harder than he meant to. The discordant jangle echoed his frazzled nerves. "You LIED!" she'd blurted out, accusation blazing in those stormy gray eyes.
"I HAD TO," he had shouted back, his cry causing Rachel to fall silent and look up at him with wide cobalt blue eyes. She had climbed out her crib again, and was peering at him from around the corner that lead into the hallway.
She, the important she, hand taken in a deep breath, noticing where his gaze had landed. "Don't shout around Rachel," she hissed, a harsh slap to his face. It was what he didn't want; it was what he'd been trying to avoid for fifty years.
"Fine," he bit out, keeping his voice dangerously in control. He glanced at the kid, who was gaping at him wide, her lower lip quivering, fear in her eyes. Cuddy rushed over to hold the little girl, and he took that as him moment to make an exit.
He collapsed on his leather sofa, his knees spread wide, and he rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands, trying to wipe away the memory.
It won't work. He had told her that, and he had told himself that over and over again. He had tried; he had forced himself to try, and to change, for her. She had told him that she didn't want it, but he knew better. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he said or did something stupid and insensitive, and that time had come.
He'd saved the patient's life, but it didn't matter. He had lied. The end justifies the means, he told himself over and over again, and he had won. The puzzle was solved, and the man survived, so why hadn't he felt the euphoric sense of self satisfaction that he usually felt after solving a case? You lied. You haven't changed at all, despite all your words to her. You're still the bastard that you've always been.
You made Rachel cry.
He sighed, closing his eyes, then he heaved himself off the couch, his thigh screaming in response. "Nnaarrahh," he cried, clenching his leg tightly. Tears stung his eyes at the intensity of the pain. He rubbed the scar with the heel of his hand, feeling the rough denim of his jeans dig into the thigh. "Damn it!" he howled, throwing his head back like a wild wolf, his eyes rolling back behind his eyelids.
He fell back to the couch, curling up as his leg continued to spasm. His toes curled as he tried to gouge the remaining tissue out with his fingers, trying to stop the pain. His other hand curled beneath the couch cushion, gripping the supple leather tightly, the knuckles brushing...
Sweating, he pulled out a long forgotten orange bottle. His hands shaking, he shook it, hearing a familiar rattle. He sat up, gripping the bottle tightly. One pill, and the pain, all of it will go away. He swallowed, feeling the muscles in his throat constrict. One pill, but that would lead to another, and another, and another.
Did he want to go down that road again. He stared at the bottle, his thumb pressing against the top, ready, ready to do what it remembers doing. Just a little more pressure, and it would pop off, and the pain, it would go away.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the stark space and skeletal furniture. The shadow of his piano flickered on the wall, exaggerated and sinister. It was empty and hollow, the neutral toned walls, the bare wood floors, with a few rugs, bookshelves filled with texts and tomes, but it had no heart. It was empty and soulless. Just like me.
Thunder crackled, and the image of Rachel, her eyes wide with fear, flashed in his brain again. With a wracking breath, he pressed his thump up, popping the cap up. His thigh tensed up again, and his exhale was ragged. Rain battered the window, but he didn't hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart within his ears. He shook out two tiny oval drops, staring at the them. No more pain. No more pain. No more pain. His heartbeats kept repeating it over and over. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to stand at attention, each calling out to the drug, and it answered. It was as if his brain had ceased to function, and all he could think about was taking away the pain, and crawling back into that hole where he didn't have to care anymore.
Lightning flashed again, and this time, the image of Hanna flashed before his eyes with it. Help me, she cried. Help me.
It was as if he had seen a ghost. His hand started shaking, and the pills clattered to the floor. He stared at the orange bottle, and it suddenly felt hot in his sweaty hand. It was easy, to crawl back into that hole and die. He wrinkled up his nose; the pills were what brought him to this point. The pills, and the past he could never escape. The past that haunted him, and reared its ugly head at the wrong time. Shaking and repulsed by the orange bottle in his hand, he pulled his arm back, and he threw the bottle across the room. The few pills in the bottle scattered on the floor, and his heart felt like it was beating in his throat.
He made Rachel cry. There was something in those cobalt eyes that had stirred an ugly monster inside of him. He had undoubtedly been in her shoes, scared to death by a booming voice of a man that wasn't his father, but was in his life as a father-figure anyway. Who was supposed to nurture and guide him, but instead resented his very presence.
The pain hadn't subsided, but he had to move, had to get going. Had to escape. He reached into his pocket, and shook out a handful of ibprofin. He knew he was taking way too much, but this called for way too much. He swallowed the caplets, letting the shame wash over him. Then he left, letting the violent storm of emotions rage within him in perfect synchronicity with the storm raging outside.
He walked in the rain, letting it sink into his clothes, saturate him. The water was warm, but it felt cool against his skin. Runnels of water ran into his eyes, the curtain of water plastering his hair against his head. His jeans stuck to his legs like a second skin, and his shirt felt twice as heavy, soaking up the water.
He must have looked like a madman, wandering the few blocks near his apartment, suffocated by memories. The thunder cracked overhead, and the lightening illuminated the sky, but the rage of mother nature couldn't compare to the rage in his soul. When he couldn't possibly take it anymore, he returned to his apartment, his head clear, but his heart sagging low.
He took a deep breath, and he opened the door to his apartment. He hadn't locked the door when he had left; he hadn't even taken his keys. He stopped in the doorway, staring at the figure gracefully fingering his piano keys.
He didn't move; he just stood there, just inside his living room, a puddle of water forming on the floor under him. His shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, and his hair was pressed against his skull. Water ran down his face and arms, dripping from his knuckles to the floor. His sneakers were saturated, and would squish with every step.
And yet, he couldn't move.
The song she was playing wasn't a song. Just a few random notes in a row. C, D, E, F. Over and over again. The lights weren't on; all he saw was her thin silhouette, illuminated by flashes of lightening. He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to move closer to her, but his feet were frozen to the floor. All he could do was stand and watch.
He must have made some sort of noise, because she finally looked up. He didn't want to know how pathetic he looked, standing there soaked to the bone, but she stood up before he could turn away and retreat. She walked over to him, and she licked her lips. "You're door was open," she said softly, carefully, "and you weren't here." She looked up at him, and he was close enough to see the tears misting in her gray eyes. "I was worried," she confessed.
"You shouldn't be," he finally bit out, his defenses rising. If he hurt her now, she'd leave, and he wouldn't have to hurting her any more.
The stood there, neither one saying what should come naturally. Both stubborn and confident in the fact that they were right. Finally, she sighed. "This...isn't ever going to be easy," she began.
He snorted. "There's the door," he tilted his head sharply in its direction.
She chuckled softly. "I'm not walking out of it," she told him. "I'm not giving up, even when things are difficult."
"Why not," he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip, his eyes hard.
"Because I love you," she told him, slowly raising her hand to his cheek. She wiped away the raindrops on his cheek with her thumb, dragging it gently across the skin. "And loving you doesn't mean I give up at the first sign of trouble, no matter how much you want me to."
"What about Rachel...," he licked his lips, his throat seizing at the words.
"What about her? She's asleep on your couch, if you're wondering."
"I yelled at her," his voice dropped to a low whisper, the words sticking in his throat. "I yelled at her and she cried."
She looked at him, puzzled. "She didn't cry. She heard our voices, yes, but you didn't yell at her. You raised your voice, but it wasn't in anger." She gave him a wry look. "More like in frustration."
"She didn't cry?" he paused, he had seen her eyes, seen her fear...seen the tears.
"She was startled, by our argument. By the time I got her back in bed, you were gone."
"She didn't cry?" he repeated. He hadn't scared her.
Cuddy shook her head. "No, she didn't." She stifled a yawn, exhausted.
"You're tired," he commented softly. "You should go."
She shook her head. "Not until I make sure you're alright." She continued to stroke his cheek, and he placed his larger hand over hers. "You should at least get out of those wet clothes. Take a hot shower. I'll be waiting for you when you get out."
He swallowed. "You're not mad at me," he stared at her in disbelief.
She shook her head. "A little disappointed, but not mad." She rose up on her tiptoes, planting a soft kiss on his cold lips, tasting water and tears. "We'll talk about that later, after you're dry."
He nodded, glancing around the apartment. "You know, this place isn't childproof," he informed her grimly.
She gave him a small smile. "While you're in the shower, I'll pick up. At least put the vinyl records where she can't chew on them," she teased.
"Great, I'm dealing with Hector all over again," he groaned, but his heart wasn't in the usual tease. He leaned his cane against the end table, then he took her closed hand in his.
"I love you, Greg House," she told him, kissing him again. "And, I'm proud of you." She pressed the prescription bottle into his palm.
He stared at the bottle, then shook it. "You got them all?" he asked, astonished.
"I think so. I came in with Rachel, and I found the scattered pills and a dark apartment. I figured something had happened, so...," she trailed off with a small shrug. He gripped the hand stroking her cheek tightly. "There's always going to be a storm on the horizon with you, and I know that. But, I'll be here to ride it out with you. You don't have to weather them alone anymore," her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "I'll be here for you, when and if you need and want me here."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," he mumbled.
She smiled. "I'm here now, aren't I."
End.