AN: To all those who mourn the End coming soon. Many thanks to Huddyholic for inspiring this ficlet after a good discussion on season 8 (as I have only viewed 2 episodes; I'm a bad fan, I know...). Also to the ever reliable Iane Casey who is my lovely whiteboard. All mistakes are mine as I went over this myself. –PSC
Deep breath.
Take a deep breath, count to ten, and walk inside.
That's what she kept telling herself in the dingy sedan. It was supposed to calm her agitated nerves and "center her being." There was nothing that would keep her balanced on this night. The building looked utterly the same with the exception of the dead trees and obvious lack of upkeep. There was the same red brick; same entrance sign; same night guard half-assing his duty. The same yet disgustingly different.
This was the last building she wanted to see.
She wouldn't have come if it had not been for the meddlesome and persisting best friend. She had given him every excuse, every justification, every defense and reason why she would not go to that terrible building. She never wanted to lay her eyes on or set foot in that building again.
But he's not going to last long.
His doctors only give it another week…
He's asked for you.
He needs you…
Lisa, please.
Please. That word and the note of absolute desperation in that man's voice had punctured her armor more thoroughly than a 50-caliber bullet. One four hour flight and another hour drive later, she had checked into her hotel, back in the last place she wanted to be. She had moved two years ago to California. USC had given her the best employment offer so she had taken it in a heartbeat. Rachel loved it. The lack of real weather and the cheerier dispositions of the natives made her and her daughter feel like it was immediately home. At work she had no crazed doctors asking her for insane procedures. Her employees were genial and accomplished. They were proud without being petty. It was a major change. It was odd being truly respected again.
She stepped out of the rental car. Cool, crisp air made her skin prickle and her cheeks flush. She watched as each deep breath visualized in front of her. She had missed the cold. It was laughable what Californians thought was "cold." She pulled her jacket tighter to her body, raised her chin, and walked towards the front sliding doors. The night guard next to them gave her a sleepy nod of acknowledgement, recognition absent from his face. He would forget the terror she had inspired in him quickly, she thought. Foreman wasn't as strict as she had been it seemed. A pity for the once great hospital she concluded.
The clinic was dark and the office beyond it was lit with only one light. She could spy three people sitting down though. The first and nearest to the door was a blonde man, still incredibly handsome if a little weary and downtrodden: Chase. She wondered if he had lasted this long. Next to him was Cameron, a face she hadn't seen in many more years. She looked good; brunette again, her face a little fuller with telltale signs of a good career and a happy life. Foreman was pacing in and out of her line of sight. His suit looked like it hung off his diminished frame. He looked beyond drained. The demands of the job and the babysitting of lunatics must have been taking its toll on him. All three wore expressions of both grief and relief. It was an odd mixture of emotions, but she sympathized with them. There was nothing like feeling conflicted, especially over someone's passing.
She didn't want to think what she looked like.
The elevator ride was too short for her taste. It stopped on the fifth floor. There was only one ward here: hospice. The residents used to morbidly joke that once you reached the fifth floor, you wouldn't be seen again. Alive, that is. It was a tasteless joke that persevered through each and every resident class. The hum and beat of machinery met her ears. It was pretty much silent other than those so very common hospital noises. She walked along, towards the left-most hall, occasionally glancing inside a room to see a patient laying asleep or sitting up, looking out a window. It made her skin crawl. The place was dreary and naturally melancholy. Death hung like an invisible ghoul waiting to accompany souls to wherever afterlife they thought they belonged. The view of Princeton from this floor was spectacular at the very least. She smirked at trying to cheer herself up. The last, corner room came into sight. The blinds had been pulled shut across the glass walls of the room. Only the sliding door was uncovered and gave her a glimpse of the complete darkness awaiting her.
Her heart abruptly stopped. She couldn't walk in there. Not to that man again. It was foolish of her to even have come in the first place. Her compassion had gotten the better of her. She should have had none where he was concerned.
The man inside that room was a plague, a revenant that destroyed everything good and decent around him. He destroyed everything that was good for and to her here. He ran her out of this very building, destroyed her home, threatened the lives of her family…
Deep breath.
The man inside was probably asleep. It was a wasted journey. He might have even been so doped up that he would not recognize her, not know her, and had only asked of her in his delirium. It was all a mistake…
One last time, one last glimpse, a feeble voice in her head cautioned her. And that would be it. The End. Finis.
Deep breath.
Her skin broke out into goose bumps as the door slid open. The monitor gave off a frail light in the room, but it was enough for her to see the shape in the bed. A tube was laid out, coming out of his right side. He had a catheter in she noticed, the container filled with a mixture of urine and blood. She was wanted to laugh suddenly at the thought of a nephrologist with kidney failure. He probably saw the obviously, sickening irony in it. She saw he had an oxygen tube up both nostrils. Even in the light, his skin was unnaturally ashen, not at all his usual tan. He didn't seem as broad or as tall as he usually did. His form was shrunken. In the bed lay half a stranger. Cuddy softly moved to the other side of the bed, several chairs already next to it. She chose the middle chair, not close to him, yet not too distant. She did not fear him, but he was unpredictable. She would not give him the chance to hurt her again in any way.
"You don't have to steal in here like a thief, you know," croaked a very horse voice.
She flinched and saw he had hardly moved. His eyes were still closed and his body still. The change in the monitor gave the only indication he had awoken.
"Hello, House," she clearly said. She saw his eyes open. They were blood shot with his pupils somewhat blown. It might have been from the darkness surrounding them but she doubted it.
"Hello, House? That's all you say after two years? No 'Its nice to see you again?'" He kept his voice even, allowing only the barest hint of a sneer.
"It isn't."
"Ah," he replied. "I see how we're going to play this." He smirked and then harshly coughed, his chest sounding like a death rattle. "You've only come to absolve yourself of the guilt Wilson no doubt placed in you when he called."
"Mostly. I'm only here for the night," Cuddy truthfully answered.
House sniffed. "Hm. Not even staying for my funeral."
"Your wife will be there, I'm sure, and all your fellows and Wilson. My presence isn't necessary. It'd be kind of tacky to have a person there who won't mourn you."
Throughout the whole of their meager conversation he had not looked at her, his eyes only deliberately staring at the ceiling. But after her last spoken word, he finally turned his head towards her and glowered. His face had fallen and she could see him withdraw into himself. The words were harsh and hurtful and she meant every one. They would never equal, never come close, to the hurt he had caused her. Several minutes passed as they studied each other.
"You've changed," he softly murmured, no hint of defense in his voice. It was almost an awed typed of statement from him.
"How could I not? It's all thanks to you."
He coughed and choked again; the fit had a longer duration this time. She reached for the pitcher of water on his table and poured him a glass. He took it with a trembling grasp, taking two sips before he sputtered. She handed him a tissue and watched as he wiped his mouth.
"How long do you have?" she asked. There was no hint of sorrow in her voice, no wavering quiver of sadness.
House wiped his mouth once more before he responded to her.
"Maybe two more days? Maybe until tomorrow night? If I'm really lucky, I'll go within the next five minutes to avoid this conversation."
"Always with the avoidance…" She darkly laughed. "You asked for me. Wilson told me."
"You can't trust that Wilson guy."
She stood abruptly and moved to the end of the bed. House scowled at her sudden movement and weakly tried to sit up more.
"I'm not playing this game anymore, House. I'm done here then," she quietly spoke. Their eyes met, one cool and calculating, the other rheumy and confused. She moved towards the door.
"Wait."
One of her hands rested on the glass of the door, her body frozen at his word. Cuddy slowly looked at him over her shoulder.
"Sit down, Cuddy," he rasped. "…Please."
She turned her body towards him, arms crossed across her chest in defiance with annoyance laced throughout her features.
"Why? So I can listen to more double-talk? To listen to you avoid the white elephant in the room? No, thanks, House. I've been done with that bullshit for years already."
"I can see that," he again quietly replied. "Give me five more minutes, Cuddy. You can walk away then."
She stood for a moment more before walking back to her seat. Cuddy sat down, arms still crossed and crossing her legs as well. House struggled to sit up and finally got a pillow to shift enough to prop himself straight up fully. It was a pitiful sight. The silence was oppressive the following minute. It seemed to stretch for an eternity.
"You have four minutes," Cuddy murmured, glancing at the clock over his left shoulder.
House's face morphed into a snarl but he didn't say anything about her remark. It was a testament of his regard to speak with her. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, deciding on what to say.
"You—you were missed here," he started. "This place—Princeton, hell the whole of the eastern seaboard, felt different when you left. The formidable Lisa Cuddy… run out of town by one of her crazy doctors. I caused quite the scandal."
"I did watch the news and read the papers. Foreman's had a rough time of it."
"Every person here has. This place has gone to Hell without you."
She raised a finely shaped eyebrow in question.
"This place… but not you? The deflection is getting old, House."
"Of course I missed you!" He growled. He gritted his teeth and looked as if he was steeling his nerves. "What I did to you was unforgivable—."
"True," she interrupted.
"Will you shut up and let me talk? I have two minutes left!"
"By all means, continue," she haughtily gestured.
"What I did to you was unforgivable—and I've thought of how you looked in the courtroom, how you didn't even glance at me, or acknowledge me in any way… It was something I couldn't handle. I can't handle it now."
"That's rich hearing you say that," she scoffed. "Seeing how hard you pushed me away even after I apologized to you for doing something I know now was the right thing to do."
"It took a while to sink in."
"Well, you can understand why I won't go to your funeral."
"Crystal," he resentfully breathed. His voice was filled with self-loathing and bitterness. "I've had hours, days, to look back at all the idiotic shit I've done…" He breathed in deeply.
"I'm sorry, Cuddy."
House stared at her, his eyes darting to and fro around her face. She knew what he was doing, what he was hoping. Cuddy stood up from her chair again, her face unreadable.
"Bye, House," she softly whispered. It was heard clearly in the silent room. There was nothing left for her to say.
"That's it?" He snarled, all patience lost.
Hers snapped, also, as she glared at him.
"What else did you want me to say? 'Oh, House, I accept your apology—please, don't die—You're forgiven—I love you,'" she spat at him. "You have to be fucking kidding me."
"Anything but ignoring me again! I fucked up royally. I screwed over so many people and—."
"Find a priest to hear your sins, House, if you're that desperate for reconciliation."
"Fine… but answer one thing for me." His face was shining with sweat and his breaths had become shallower as he spoke. The doctor in her scolded her for getting him agitated, but she felt no remorse.
"Okay."
"Are you happy?"
It was a curious question. She sat back down to think. Was she, Lisa Cuddy, happy? Rachel was happy. Her job was good and her career back on track. She had friends who looked out for her. That was a novelty. She looked better than she had in ages and still attracted men, keeping the company of one good guy at that time. She couldn't remember what the last thing she wanted; she had everything she wanted and needed at that point in her life.
"Yes," she sincerely answered. "I have everything I need waiting for me back home."
House remained quiet after she spoke. He looked exhausted. His face had settled into resignation after the heat of the previous conversation. There was no bullish look in his eyes or smirk gracing his lips. She could visualize him with one foot in his coffin. Cuddy stood up for the final time, wanting to leave before the awkwardness of sitting with a dying man set in her mind. It didn't matter any longer that she had known him for over thirty years. It didn't matter that he had been the greatest man she had ever known. It didn't matter that she loved him regardless of his failings, illnesses, and stupidity. It didn't matter to her because it didn't matter to him; he was his own worst enemy. She had tried for too long to help him and then appease him when that failed. Nothing was what would comfort her, knowing he thought nothing mattered gave her strength.
"See you in the eighth ring? Because you're an administrator, of course," he said. A moment passed before she got the reference. She reluctantly smiled which caused the man in bed to smirk back.
"Maybe. I picture a trolley heading to Elysian Fields actually."
"You would think of Marlon Brando at a time like this."
Her throat tightened in warning. The horribleness of the scene struck her mute. It was uncanny that he could disarm and make her at ease so quickly; like they had been transported three years into the past where such banter was commonplace and expected. Cuddy needed to get out of the room, out of the hospital, before she gave him any hope or any tiny idea of forgiveness. It would all be false.
"Until then, House."
The finality in her voice caused it to be low, but clear. She watched as his face slightly fell, but he nodded. There would be no tears between them, no sobbing goodbyes. There wouldn't be passionate final embraces or the wringing of hands. It wasn't them. It would never be them after the next few days.
For a second she thought he was going to say something with her last glance over her shoulder. His face was set though and he only turned his gaze back to the windows, looking out at the city. Even with all that had occurred, it was a gorgeous night. The door slid close behind her.
It was when she landed back at LAX that she read he had died that morning.
Deep breath.