Author's Note: Many thanks to Akemi1582 for getting this one-shot and editing it within an hour! Girl has major beta skills to which I am indebted to! Also, I have to thank my dear Iane_Casey for brainstorming with me in the very early morning hours of my day. See more on her in the end note!
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare
(1564 - 1616)
After All that is Said and Done
The tile is cold beneath her feet as she walks into the bathroom slowly. The stitches are still painful on her lower back even with the aid of the mild painkillers. Her feet shuffle the remaining steps to the bathroom sink where two tooth brushes catch her weary eyes. One is neatly placed in the holder while the other looks mauled and stands crooked, almost like its previous owner. Her breath catches in her throat. She tears her eyes away from the sight before she thinks anything more of it. In the mirror, the woman staring back at her is pale with dark circles under eyes attesting to the restless night she had. She couldn't take the sleeping pills. She refused to fall into a drug induced sleep where her dreams would haunt her and taunt her with images and reminders of him. Her subconscious had already done enough damage to her psych, thank you very much. With a trembling hand, she turns the tap for the cold water on and cups her hands to catch the clear liquid rushing out. She bends gingerly at the waist and brings the water to her face, making sure to run her hands over it. The water is shockingly cool against her skin but does not wash away the night-before as well as she thought it should have. Her eyes glance back to the tap where she sees several beard trimmings left on the sink. With her left hand she wipes them into the bowl and watches as they flow down the drain.
She wonders how she can get through the day if she can barely stand to be in her bathroom.
She has the day off after her doctor ordered her to take it 'easy.' She laughs with no mirth as she tries to remember a day when her life was 'easy.' Her heart clenches as she recalls several mornings that would have been 'easy' but those will never be again. Suddenly she wants to sob and scream and curse little white pills; she wants to pound so hard on the mirror that it breaks into a thousand jagged pieces, each glittering piece of glass a reflection of her heart. She swallows the lump that has settled deep into her throat and thanks a God she barely believes in for Julia taking Rachel the night before. Her sister had been surprisingly supportive and was there for her when she needed her most. She owes her a lot now. There was no way she could have taken care of Rachel at the moment. She could barely take care of herself. As she dries her face, the towel smells lightly of his cologne. She pulls it from the towel bar and throws it into the laundry on her way out of the bathroom. Her bed sheets are rumbled and thrown haphazardly around the bed. She tries to stop the first tear from falling but it is futile.
For as much as she wants to forget, she will get no respite from him in her own home.
The tears are now flowing of their own accord, her cheeks feeling flushed and swollen. How long had they been together? Six months? Seven? Nine? She can't remember. He could have told her the day and even recounted the hour they kissed that fateful morning. Her breath hitches as a sob wracks her body, causing her to flinch in pain. She curls herself onto her side of the bed. No. She doesn't have a side anymore. The whole bed is hers again to reclaim. That thought makes her tremble more. The sheets have cooled to an uncomfortable temperature and feel coarse. His scent lingers here as well. She thinks she will have to add another blanket because no warmth from another body will grace her bed. Her hand claws and clutches at her pillow as she weeps.
She has never felt like this. Ever. Even when her father died, one of the most important men in her life, she didn't feel this hollowness. She mourned and moved on. She wonders how she could do the same thing with the constant reminders and of the physical presence of the man himself. House was and would always be 'the man' now, the lost love of her life. Well, she corrects herself, he's not lost as much as given up on himself. Her face forms a scowl as her mind brings up the word 'coward' in a whisper. She wipes the tears from her eyes and cheeks and sniffles into her pillow. Her chest is tight and hurts with every inhale. Closing her eyes, she tries to clear her mind. There are no flashbacks or memories that stand out clear in the moment but, tauntingly, it's the little things that become forefront in her mind: sighs, whispers, murmurs of sweet nothings in her ear; the glide of fingertips along her neck as she slept or as they gripped her shoulder and hip gently; rare smiles that won't appear for another age now.
She blames him for being weak. She blames herself for being naïve. She blames each and every fuck up they've ever had in their screwed up lives.
The tears have stopped but a searing headache is now burrowing itself in her head. She welcomes it this time with open arms as concentration is thrown out the window. For a moment, she smiles sadly. She welcomes the pain. Oh, the irony. Despite herself, she reaches over and pulls his pillow—no, a pillow he used to use, she corrects herself—and hugs it tight to her body.
She succumbs to sleep unwittingly, her last thought of how much she loves him still.
It was hours later that she got up the first time to eat something. The food was tasteless and when she landed in bed, she couldn't remember what she ate in the first place. Now she slowly returns to reality once more, this time to the constant pounding on her front door. For one frightening and hopeful moment she thinks it is the harsh rap of a cane on the worn wood. No, it's not. The sound is muted, more a dull thump than the sharp sound of wood meeting wood. She raises herself up and grabs her bathrobe before pattering down the hall to the more urgent sounding knocks. Through the glass she can see Wilson, fist raised once more. She groans. She imagines a lengthy talk about how "House is really trying" and how she needs to speak with him. She will not listen to him. She cannot see House so soon after last night. When she finally pulls the door open, Wilson wastes no time stepping into the foyer, his expression beyond worried and fear laden.
"What happened last night?"
She recoils slightly. She expects an accusation or plea, not a question. She swallows tightly before she could speak.
"I told him I couldn't do it anymore..."
Her voice is foreign to her own ears, quiet, trembling and with a hint of hoarseness. Wilson looks unappeased and slightly confused.
"Because he wasn't there in the beginning? I thought he-."
"He was there, but...not really. He's on vicodin."
The blood drains from Wilson's face. For a moment she thinks he will stagger back and into the wall behind him. She suppresses the instinct to reach for him if he moves. She's already in enough pain as it is.
"I have to find him."
This piques her curiosity.
"He's not at his apartment?"
Fear now wraps an icy hand around her heart. She had thought he would wallow in drugs and an ever present high for days in the comfort of his own room. Eventually it would have tapered off and he would return to being an even bigger miserable bastard than what he was before. The year and a half of sobriety erased from the annals of history. Now she wonders if he is trolling the back alleys for a stronger high, a high that would allow him to forget everything for days, including who he was. He could be passed out in Trenton on the filthy streets, people walking by easily assuming he was a junkie and better off there. He could be dead. This thought brings her out of her mind.
"No," Wilson answers her while running a hand over his face. "I've just come from over there. It looks normal but like he hasn't been there in days. I didn't know about the vicodin."
"He started taking it two days ago."
"When he finally showed up in your room…" Wilson trails off. She could see the guilt building behind his brown eyes.
"Do not start thinking this is your fault," she snaps suddenly. "He chose to go back on drugs instead of dealing with his fear."
"He came to me, Cuddy," Wilson replies with just as much bite in his voice. "He tried to suck it up and help you."
"He still didn't! When he finally stepped into my room, he was stoned. He wasn't there at all! The pills were! He's a child, Wilson. Every little hint of something that could be potentially hurtful and painful, he runs back to the drugs without trying to cope with the situation first!"
"He's an addict, Cuddy. If he's on a binge, he won't be capable of bringing himself out of it. Especially after detoxing and not having any opiates in his system, he'll be so high I'll be surprised if he doesn't OD!"
She didn't move or say a word. Silence falls between them, neither knowing how to go on. She hears when Wilson sighs and gathers himself again.
"I have to look for him," he grumbles. "I'd appreciate it if you helped me. He has no one else but us. If you still cared an ounce about him..."
"I love him, Wilson. I just can't."
She feels herself withdrawing from the situation. She can't deal with this on top of her health scare, her feelings, and her confusion. She glances up in time to see Wilson nod sadly.
"Okay" he murmurs, resigned to his action. He moves to walk out the door when she grabs his shoulder. The move is impulsive and almost desperate.
"Can you—will you call me and tell me if he's okay?" She doesn't know why she's whispering. The fear of a rejection mingles with the uneasiness of their predicament. Wilson turns back to her, taking her hand off his shoulder. He squeezes it in a way made to be reassuring.
"I will."
Once she hears the quiet start of Wilson's Volvo's ignition, she reaches for the cordless phone and dials the number to the Princeton Police Department. She knows a detective who owes her several favors and who could also pull strings with Trenton PD and the Mercer County Sheriff's department. It takes the young man ten minutes to answer the call. At first he's not pleased with her at all for having him keep an eye out for an addict, but he helps her anyways. She mentally takes note that his debts are paid in full with her. Putting down the phone, she thinks of anything else she could do short of getting into her car and helping Wilson search for him.
It's petty and immature but she cannot deal with seeing him. She can't deal with him anymore. She sits herself down in the corner of her couch, in his usual spot her mind supplies, and wraps the afghan hanging on the back of it around herself. She thinks of making tea and then wonders if the banality of that act would deem her unfeeling in this current moment. She could hear his voice clearly in her ear, whiny and petulant, "I hate tea." But he drank it all the same with her.
He tried.
Her lip trembles for a split second before she recovers into an icy stoicism. She did all she could. What exactly is that then? Her traitorous mind asks. She has spent too much time around House. The voice [of reason] sounds precisely like one James Wilson. She was there for him when he needed her most, she snottily replies. She has stood by him when he lied to patients and their families, when the board brings up a vote to have his tenure removed, when he's destroyed hospital equipment and even parts of her precious building itself. She has always been there.
But he had not done any of that while he was with her. He actually toned down his felonies and behaved.
Despite her plea of not wanting him to change, she did.
It was as simple as that. He had become a neutered version of himself. Again and again, she distanced herself from him for every little screw up without talking to him about it. How was he to know what was right when she had pronounced him a screw up? She knew what she getting into with him.
He tried.
She didn't.
She jumps and winces when she hears the shrill ring of her phone, losing her realization and train of thought. It is the detective with news from Trenton PD. House had booked a room last night and had not been seen since. House-keeping had tried to clean several times during the day but the 'Do Not Disturb' sign remained hanging. The room had been booked for another night this afternoon. He gave her the room number and wished her the best with that 'asshole doctor.' He was washing his hands of the whole incident now. She thanks him, tells him to call her if he ever needs anything again and promptly hangs up. She dials Wilson's phone number and listens to the obnoxious dial tones. An hour has passed quickly and she hopes she can still reach him.
"Cuddy?" She hears his voice answer.
"He's staying at a hotel in downtown Trenton," she calmly tells him. The call is maybe a minute in length. She delivers the address and room number, reminding him to call her when he knows House's state. They both hang up at the same time. All phone etiquette unobserved.
The tendrils of guilt, she now recognizes like a lost cousin, creep around her again. A vision of House laying in his own vomit, not breathing, pale and sightless, makes her shutter.
She walked away when he needed her most.
She still won't go to him. She needs this day, this night, to step away from the complication that was their lives. She will wait devotedly for Wilson's next call, staying up the whole night if she must, to hear his voice tell her House was alive. She already knows he's not okay. Tomorrow she will deal with the fall out of this horrible night. Tomorrow she will be stronger. She still loves him.
But…
When she needed him most, he was not there.
When he needed her most, she was not there.
After all that was said and done, they are the same stubborn, equally selfish people.
AN: Too harsh? Not enough? Let me know your thoughts on this piece, dear readers. I know there are already many post-"Bombshells" one-shots out so I hope you've enjoyed this one, too. Go read Iane_Casey's when she posts it! It's very good! [If you need cheering up, I have also also posted a happier one-shot called "A Taste."]