Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, David Shore, blah, blah, blah, Fox TV, blah, blah, blah, not mine, sigh. Excerpt from "Ma Solitude" © Georges Moustaki.
Pride Knows No Pain
A tumbler full of whiskey glittered on top of the piano. Beside it sat the vial of thirty-six Vicodin, ostensibly a twelve-day supply courtesy of the luscious Dr. Cuddy. He would have been touched by her gesture, except that he knew she was only covering her own shapely ass and protecting her baby—and he didn't mean the as-yet-nonexistent one she was looking to implant in her abdomen.
Despite Cuddy's motives for issuing the prescription, he was glad to have the tablets. He had been genuinely scared when his non-maleficence line had failed to win Cameron over. Getting a script from Foreman had been exactly as impossible as he had expected. As for Chase, there had seemed to be a reasonable chance of success. What he had forgotten was the Aussie ship-jumping, a behavior pattern that he was beginning to think Chase would never outgrow. Characteristically, he had backed the lead horse, and this time the short odd weren't on Greg House.
He took a swallow of the amber fluid and sighed. His right hand began to move over the keys, picking out the grim, soulful notes of Requiem in D Minor. Appropriate: a Death Mass for the one thing in the world that he valued more than his work.
A twinge ran through his shoulder and he flinched in pain. He rolled the joint a little, not even disrupting the motion of his fingers as the left hand joined the right. The melodious thrum of the instrument echoed through the room, and he felt a tiny shiver of content. Playing like this was almost like being able to express what you were feeling.
He ground his teeth. Pain in his shoulder, pain in his leg. The words of a French ballad drifted through his mind, despite the stirring strains of Mozart flowing from his long, elegant fingers. "Elle sera à mon dernier jour… ma dernier compagne. Non, je ne suis jamais seul avec ma solitude. Non. Je ne suis jamais seul… avec… ma solitude.
I am never alone with my loneliness, he translated for himself. She will be, on my last day, my last companion. No. I am never alone with my loneliness.
For "loneliness", read "pain", and you had your summary of the life of Greg House. Even when he was alone, there was still the pain. When everything else was gone, he knew that the pain would still be there. Constant. Eternal. When he lost everything else, he would still have the pain.
And that day might be nearer than he had ever expected. There was now a real danger of losing his license. What was he without his work? Medicine was his life, almost the only thing he had ever cared about. Almost the only thing that defined who he was.
Almost.
The notes grew stronger and more frantic as his hands channeled the agitation that gripped him.
So now's a better time for me to have my life taken away? It fits into your schedule better?
He hadn't meant to drag Wilson into this. He had never imagined that damned detective would turn this into a vendetta, a private little war with no rules. Tritter wasn't playing fair. He wasn't, and Wilson was suffering the consequences.
I can't just ask my patients to wait because Dr. Cameron's boss won't let her come out and play!
Of course he was angry. He had every right to be angry. That self-righteous cop was putting the squeeze on him. Punishing him for his choice of friends. Guilt by association. Of course Wilson was angry. Of course he was.
You already feel guilty!
The base line broke as his left hand reached again for the whiskey. His right soldiered on, working through the pain in his bursa and continuing to fill the air with the music of death.
You committed a crime!
Nimble fingers caressed the keys. If only the mind was as easy to control as the hands.
Do something! Go in! Show some remorse!
More whiskey. He had to pace himself with the Vicodin. Three a day wasn't enough, but it was far better than nothing. Which was a reality that he was beginning to realize, with a gnawing and nauseating dread, he might actually have to face in the near future. Maybe for the rest of his life.
I don't need help!
He didn't. Who needed help when you had pride? It wasn't the self-assured pride that came with being the kind of person who could actually impact people's lives, change something, accomplish something, maybe… but at least it was some kind of pride. Stiff-necked, arrogant, selfish pride. It kept him going. It had fueled him since childhood, and he couldn't let it go. He wasn't stupid: he knew that his pride had been costing him his whole life. He'd lost friends, opportunities, been dismissed from schools and hospitals, alienated him from people he loved, all for the sake of his stubborn pride. He knew what it had taken from him, and he knew that it wouldn't stop taking, and still he couldn't let it go. It was an integral part of who he was. He couldn't let it go.
You are not going to make me feel guilty about what Tritter is doing. To us.
He could have agreed to turn himself in. To take the consequences and to let that vindictive cop pour out his rancor, bitterness and revenge. He would have told Wilson he was willing to call Tritter off. At the very least he could have asked forgiveness for the Cameron fiasco.
You were either going to help me through this, or you weren't.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda, but pride came first. Greg House didn't like himself, but he did admire himself. Wilson had said that. Wilson, who had always been there and who, he realized now, he had taken for granted all these years. And now this was the end. His fingers danced over the keys. Requiem for a friendship.
And I got my answer.
Christ, his shoulder hurt. He kept playing. He couldn't let the music stop. His mind was too busy as it was. If he let go of this one distraction, however insignificant, he might go to pieces. So he tried to ignore the aching agony and kept playing.
…isn't coming from your cane. It's coming from your conscience.
His left hand fumbled with the cap of the Vicodin vial.
Despite all your smart-assed remarks, I knew you gave a damn!
His right hand kept playing. Requiem in D Minor. Mozart's last composition. His final requiem. It was good enough for House.
This time…
He swallowed the pill, washing it down with more whiskey. It hadn't really hit him until he saw Wilson on that bench, waiting for a bus because Tritter had taken his car in an attempt to squeeze him into ratting. He knew Wilson wouldn't break. That wasn't what hurt.
House, get out of here.
What hurt was that he had lost him. His friend. His one true friend, the only human being who had ever actually cared about him. He closed his eyes, and he could see Wilson sitting on that wet bench in the midst of the damp night, waiting for a goddamned bus. He could have tossed Wilson his helmet. Told him to hop on behind. Made a gesture, as the oncologist had said earlier, of remorse. Done something—anything—to save his friendship. The wary, expectant look in Wilson's eyes… the Wonder Boy with his abounding faith in human nature probably would have accepted the offer. Given him one more chance.
Get out of here.
He hadn't done it, of course. To offer Wilson a ride would have been to back down. To ask forgiveness for doing his job and expecting Cameron to do hers. To apologize for being the target of a psychotic cop with an Inspector Javert complex and a fetish for vengeance. Offering Wilson the ride he needed and deserved would have meant humbling himself. Admitting he was wrong. It had come at last to a choice between pride and Wilson, and pride had won. No contest.
It used to be enough.
Friends had come and gone before. He didn't need them, not even Wilson, but he did need his pride. He couldn't let it go, not even for Wilson. Obstinate pride was all he had. It was all that made House House. He couldn't give it up.
The music stopped. To hell with rationing. He downed another Vicodin.
Pride knows no pain, right?