This is set towards the end of "Bombshells".
Disclaimer: All rights to House, M.D. go to Fox
Of Nobility and Selfishness.
Pop, snap, spin. Pop, snap, spin.
That's the continuous motion he's kept going for a little under ten minutes now. He's sitting on the floor of his bathroom, carefully weighing his options with a bottle of Vicodin securely held in his hand.
It would be so easy. It's just a few small pills. One, two, three down his throat—maybe a few more—and then he'd be off. He could be with her in that room no problem.
Or, if the unthinkable happened, at least he'd be halfway there to escaping the pain for a few measly hours.
It would be so easy.
House pulls in a sharp breath, shakes his head and forces himself to think about what Wilson would tell him. He would never admit it, but his best friend's advice really did matter to him. That didn't mean he was always going to follow it, but it counted.
"Throw them away, you idiot," he would say. "Stop sulking like a spoiled child and handle the situation like an adult."
He smiles slightly to himself. He can hear the exact tone Wilson would use. He can see the way his friend would stand, one hand on his hip while he pointed a finger out towards the direction of the front door of the apartment. House can see the expression he knows all too well. The one that says: "You're such a moron. Why do I even put up with you?"
Oh, he can see it all.
But then he would be in that room. He would be stuck in that enclosed space surrounded by those vomit-inducing pastel walls that are meant to soothe worried patients and loved ones. He would be forced to hold Cuddy's hand and fake a smile. Lie through his teeth about how everything is going to be alright. It would be a lie. She's wasting her life with him, and he is far too selfish and far too terrified to ever set her free. And because of that, nothing will ever be alright in her life ever again. House will always find a way to destroy it.
He swallows, and pops open the pill bottle. The cap goes flying off into a corner. It clatters loudly when it hits the wall.
House follows it down to the floor with his eyes—tracking it's every movement as it settles onto the bathroom tiles.
He closes his eyes, and shakes a few of his pills out onto his hands. One, two, three…that's enough. For now anyway.
He sets the bottle down, and brings his hand up towards his lips.
It would be so easy. Just one, simple, fluid motion and the universe would right itself.
House jumps a little when his landline rings. He pauses, and listens as the call transfers to his voice machine.
"House, where are you? Cuddy's surgery was a success; she's going to be fine. She's recovering in her room now." It's Wilson calling, and House can tell by the subtle edge in his friend's voice that he's going to get a lecture next time they cross paths. "You should get down here."
Something in his chest seems to relax as Wilson's words finally start to process in his brain.
She's going to be fine.
House looks down at the pills in his hand once again. She's fine, she is going to be fine, but she isn't. He hadn't been there. She needed him, and he hadn't been there. Oh sure, he'd seen her while they prepped her for surgery, but he'd found that difficult. He'd felt so confined to her, so caged as he forced himself to keep the mood light. He'd promised her he'd be there the whole time, and he'd broken that promise. The second they'd taken Cuddy through those doors into the OR, he'd panicked. And, like every other time he'd ever felt anything remotely close to fear in his life, he ran away.
He'd broken his promise, and by doing so he'd proved every point she'd ever tried to make about him.
House is a selfish, self-centered bastard. He knows that. He takes what he wants and never gives a thought to any of the consequences. Even if they don't affect him. Even if they hurt the few people in this hell of a world that he cares about.
He stares at the small white pills he's still holding once again. They're his safety net. His fallback when everything else is falling apart. They're his one constant, and even now, when he knows full well what's hanging in the balance, House can't quite see himself giving them up.
Oh, he knows what will happen if he goes through with it. He's fully aware of what will happen if he goes into that room high, or if he just doesn't go at all. He knows what he'll lose. He also knows what he'll lose if he goes into that room sober. He will, finally and truly, be giving up his safety net.
It's all up to him. There's no one here to stop him, no Wilson in his ear and no Cuddy standing in the doorway. There's no one here to stand as his so-called savior. This choice he's going to have to make on his own.
House feels the pain in his leg break through the haze of his thoughts, and is surprised to feel something else quickly take over his mind.
Anger.
He supposes it's ironic, really, that he should be surprised. Anger has been his constant companion even before the pills. He would go so far as to say that it is sometimes the only thing that keeps him going.
Yes, House is angry. Angry at Cuddy for teasing him with a kind of happiness he knows he ultimately doesn't deserve. Angry at Wilson for continuously trying to change him into something he can never be. Angry at his father for beginning this screwed up cycle he's been stuck in all his life—happy, destroy, repeat.
He's angry at the whole danm universe for sticking him in this hell and refusing to set him free.
But most of all, House is angry with himself. Because it would just be so easy, and he's gone and thrown it all away.
He walks out of his apartment with the Vicodin still in his hand. He stares at them as he gets in his car, and tucks them in his pocket. No, he won't take them now, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to need them later.
House finds himself standing outside of her room, terrified to go in. He has a cold stone that's settled itself in his heart. He knows if he wants to save this relationship he needs to be here, but part of him feels as though he shouldn't have come.
She would be better off without him. She could be happier without him.
He's almost found the will to turn around and walk away. He's almost managed to convince himself that this is the right decision. Part of him knows that Cuddy, ultimately, is just another one of his growing list of addictions, and that he shouldn't pull her down to such a demeaning position. He has too much respect for her.
House doesn't remember putting his hand in his pocket, but it's suddenly there. His fingers close over his pills, and he's just about to turn away from her and the future she represents, when she stirs.
House blinks as he watches her pull in a deep breath. Her eyelids flutter delicately, and then they open and she turns to look at her surroundings.
He sucks in a sharp breath when her eyes land on him; and the expression on her face almost hurts him more than the pain in his leg. She looks relieved, and even happy to see him there.
His fingers loosen around the Vicodin, and he pulls his hand out of his pocket.
Gregory House is a selfish, self-centered bastard that will always take what he wants. Damn it all if the consequences prove disastrous.
He knows now he's made the wrong decision by coming here sober—by coming at all really. He should have gotten her out of this when he had the chance. He should have saved her.
But House knows better than anyone that he's no savior. Not when he's so beyond saving.
"Ah," Cuddy croaks once he's stepped closer to her bed.
"I should have been here," he says quietly, "sorry."
She holds out her hand to him, and he takes it tightly into his own. She's his new addiction, and he's not willing to let her go. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But it would just be so easy.
"I knew you'd come," she whispers. Her voice is scratchy and she looks beyond the point of exhaustion, but House doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful.
She's his new fallback, after all.
He smiles slightly, and rubs the back of her hand with his thumbs. "I'll always come for you."
It's a lie, and he's sure they both know it. If House is anything, it's the farthest thing from reliable. But she's going to let it go, he knows she is. Because everybody lies, and it's easier to accept the lie than to face the truth.
House waits until she's asleep again to walk over to the waste bin that's set up in her room. He pulls the Vicodin out of his pocket, and stares at it.
Slowly, he tips his hand to the side until all three pills go tumbling into the trash. He's giving them up for now. At least until this thing he has with Cuddy finally blows up in his face.
He watches the pills disappear before turning back around to take up his position at Cuddy's side. He sits down, and reaches out to brush away a hair that's lodged itself in her eye. He sighs quietly to himself. He isn't noble, he isn't self-sacrificing, and he isn't willing to change.
He wants her, and House knows he'll never truly have the will to simply surrender anything he wants.
And suddenly, the choice is all too easy.
Fin.