This one came from a great prompt from Princess Rainbow Puke: What if the grieving husband of one of House's patients took out his anger on House by shooting Cuddy!? How might House react? Also, bonus credit to Her Royal GIFness for reminding me of Cuddy's apropos line from Both Sides Now, which I quote here. This fic will be in two parts. xo, atd
House was working in his office, reading a patient file, when he looked up and saw a man standing there—middle-aged, heavyset, wearing a navy zip-up jacket and a pair of beige khakis.
"Nothing needs to be maintained," House said to him, in a distracted sort of way. He went back to his file.
"Excuse me?" the guy said.
House looked up again, frowned. "I assume you're from maintenance? I said, nothing is broken. Nothing needs to be maintained. You must've gotten your lines crossed."
"I'm….uh…Bob Morgan," the guy said.
"And that's supposed to mean something to me?"
"You treated my wife…Judy Morgan?"
House sighed a bit, but looked up.
"Help me out," he said.
"You diagnosed her with diffuse cutaneous scleroderma two months ago."
"Oh. . .And now she's dead," House said, pursing his lips. "I'm sorry."
"Yes," Morgan said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "She died three days ago."
He stood there, continuing to look at House, expectantly.
"I'm sorry," House repeated.
"That's it?"
"I don't know what you want from me, Mr. Morgan. I can't bring her back to life."
"I know. But there's something I've wanted to get off my chest—needed to get off my chest."
"Social services is on the fourth floor," House said, pointing.
"The thing is, you diagnosed her and then you just . . .disappeared," he said.
"That's how these things generally work."
"When you told her the news, she burst into tears and you just . . .walked away."
"I'm sure I went to get one of my associates. They're better at handling the…details."
"Details? You're calling my wife's terminal illness a detail?"
House looked at him.
"Trust me, I'm the last person on earth you want comforting your wife, or anyone for that matter, when they get sick."
"But you're a doctor!"
"My job is to diagnose. That's what I did."
"My wife had questions. She was alone! She was scared!"
"And where were you?" House said, pointedly.
Bob Morgan turned bright red.
"I had to be at work. I'd missed a lot of days at the plant due to my wife's illness and they were threatening to fire me," he sputtered.
"Isn't this really about the fact that you feel guilty that you abandoned your wife in her time of need?"
Morgan's mouth dropped open.
"I left her in the care of her doctors! I thought they would show her some compassion. Some basic human decency."
"I'm sure my associates were the soul of compassion."
"And what? You're too important a man to sit with her? Hold her hand? Let her cry? Answer a few simple questions?"
"I diagnose and, if I can, I treat," House said, matter-of-factly. "That's what I do here."
"You didn't treat my wife!"
"Your wife had a terminal illness. There was no point in treating her. Her death was a foregone conclusion."
"The minute my wife got her diagnosis, it was like she ceased to exist to you."
"I'm sure she received the best possible care," House said, already losing interest. He picked up his file again. "Now I'm sorry about your wife, Mr. Morgan. Really I am. But I have to get back to my patients who are alive."
Bob Morgan shook his head. The veins in his neck were bulging a bit.
"Do you love anyone?" he blurted out.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you love anyone? Do you have anyone in your life that you love more than life itself?"
"That's the very definition of none of your damn business."
"But I'm asking anyway: Do you love someone?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you."
"Let's just say for a moment it's true: A wife, a child, even a parent. How would you feel if that person got a terminal diagnosis and the doctor treating them left them crying and alone?"
"I'd feel guilty that I wasn't there at the time of the diagnosis," House said, staring at Morgan coldly. "And I might even take it out on the wrong person."
Morgan's eyes widened.
"You're a horrible person, aren't you? A real fucking asshole."
"If you need to vilify me, so be it. It's not going to bring your wife back."
Morgan gave one last derisive glare and stormed out of House's office.
House rolled his eyes a bit.
"Can I get a moment to concentrate?" he muttered under his breath, getting back to the file.
#######
Since House and Cuddy went from 0 to 60, relationship-wise, they'd had few opportunities to go on normal dates. Even once they got in a relationship, it was tough, with both their busy schedules, not to mention Rachel's. So they made a point of taking two nights a month just for them—beepers turned off, Rachel spending the night at either Julia's or Arlene's, no distractions, no excuses. Sometimes this involved staying in and cooking, sometimes it involved jazz clubs or movie night. Tonight, they were at Cuddy's favorite Italian restaurant: Il Forno.
For House, the best part of date night was that it always involved sex—not just everyday type sex, but special occasion sex, with candles, lingerie, sometimes even video cameras.
House freaking loved date night.
"Ohmygod, you've got to taste this vongole with white wine sauce," Cuddy was saying, twirling her pasta on her fork and passing it to him.
She looked adorable to him. Just a little drunk, besotted, girlish.
"Clams are an aphrodisiac, you know," he said, raising his eyebrows.
"No they're not. That's oysters," she said. "And tap water is an aphrodisiac to you. Now taste this."
He grinned, leaned forward to take a bite then stopped. "Shit," he said, under his breath—for Bob Morgan, the grieving husband from earlier today, was in the restaurant and was rapidly approaching their table.
"What?" Cuddy said, narrowing her eyes.
"This man…he came to see me before. His wife died. He's very upset."
"He's here?"
"Yeah…he's. . .just let me handle it."
By now, Bob Morgan had made his way to the table. He seemed agitated, even more so than he had before. He was sweating profusely, almost panting.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Morgan?" House said.
"I followed you here."
"Yeah, I kind of figured that. It would be a really good idea for you to go home now."
"Not until we talk!" Morgan said.
"We already talked."
"I need an apology!"
"I'm asking you politely to leave," House said. "If I have to ask you one more time, I'll be less polite."
"House. . ." Cuddy said, worried.
"Is this your wife?" Morgan said, indicating Cuddy.
"You don't look at her," House said, giving him a lethal look. "You look at me, get it? She has nothing to do with this."
"So you do love someone? There actually is somebody besides yourself that you care about?"
House stood up.
"Okay, I've had enough of this." He took a threatening step toward Morgan.
It was then that he saw the gun.
Morgan had it strapped to holster, under his jacket. When House stepped toward him, he pulled it out.
House held up his hands.
"Alright, take it easy," he said.
At an adjoining table, a woman, who had, up until this point been enjoying the drama, now saw the gun and began to scream: "He has a gun!"
And then, chaos.
People screaming, ducking for cover.
Morgan saying something House could never fully remember— "How does this feel?" Or maybe "Now it's your turn to feel."
And Morgan's eyes growing wild, wide. And then a horrible sound, a deafening pop. The sound of a fired gun.
Panic. Running.
And music, incongruous, ridiculous music, still piped in from the speakers:
When the moon hits you eye like a big pizza pie
That's amore
When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine
That's amore
More screaming. Three men, including two waiters, tackling Morgan before he could get to the door and pinning him to the ground.
And Cuddy stunned, flailing, falling—as though in slow motion.
Blood in House's mouth—his own. But he wasn't shot. He had bitten his tongue. A metallic taste in his mouth. Cuddy on the ground. And more blood. Her blood.
And House dove for her, cradled her in his arms, knowing what to do: Clean the wound, find the point of impact, create a tourniquet—but there was just noise and panic and a ringing in his ears.
When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fazool)
That's amore
(When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet
You're in love
When you walk down in a dream but you know you're not
Dreaming signore
And Cuddy, in and out of consciousness, her head in his lap, her hair matted with blood, confused: "House? I think I'm shot."
And House, hearing screaming, loud and desperate: "Help me! Please help me!"—and then realizing that the voice was his own.
Next a woman, kneeling by their side, in a soothing tone:
"It's okay, I'm a doctor."
####
When James Wilson arrived at PPTH, he saw House, alone, in the waiting room, his head in his hands.
He was wearing a white shirt, stained with blood .
"My God," Wilson said, indicating the blood. "Are you okay?"
House looked up, not quite focusing. It was like it had just occurred to him that he looked like an extra in a horror film.
"It's not my blood," he said, in a strangely monotone voice. "It's Cuddy's."
"And she's still in surgery?"
House nodded thickly, said nothing.
Wilson sat next to him, put his arm over House's shoulders. He knew it was bad because House neither shot him a glare, nor said, "What are we? On a date?" Instead, he continued to slump, looking completely broken.
"Is Chase doing the surgery?"
"Yeah."
"And what is he saying?"
"Collar bone. No major artery." Then he blinked, still in a daze. "There was so much blood, Wilson. So much blood."
"I can see," Wilson said. He vaguely wondered if House was getting blood on the waiting room chair. "House, she's in good hands. She's going to be okay. What the hell happened?"
"It was all my fault," House said.
"Unless you shot her, that is highly unlikely. Tell me what happened."
"There was this guy. Bob Morgan. His wife died."
"Judy?" Wilson said.
House side-eyed him. "Yeah."
"Oh, sweet lady," Wilson said, idly. "You were the one who diagnosed her, right?"
"Right. And apparently I wasn't appropriately kind to her—or something. Left her in her moment of need. So Bob Morgan kept asking me if I loved someone. Over and over: Do you love someone? Do you love someone?"
"He wanted you to feel the way he did," Wilson said, getting it.
"Yeah. I guess so…" House said. His voice was trembling a bit. "So Cuddy and I were having dinner at this place she likes, Il Forno."
"Their calamari is excellent," Wilson offered, immediately regretting it.
House ignored him.
"And everything was going fine. She was giving me a taste of her linguini with clam sauce. We were laughing. Everything was just. . . normal."
House's mind seemed to drift again. Wilson felt like he needed to focus him.
"And then?" he said.
"And then Bob Morgan came in. We argued. He had a gun. And he pointed it at Cuddy and he. . ."
"He shot her," Wilson said.
"Yeah," House said. "I watched it happen. I just…stood there and watched it happen."
"What were you supposed to do? The guy had a gun."
"I could've…tackled him. Or jumped on her to shield her. But I. . .I thought I was the target. Not her. It all just happened so fast. It was a blur."
"Of course it was a blur. You had no way of knowing he was going to shoot her."
"But I should have known, Wilson. Do the differential. He kept asking me who I loved. He wanted to make me feel what he did. Any idiot would have known she was in danger."
"You're not Uri Gellar, House. Even you can't predict the future."
House grimaced.
"Even still. I was the one who put her in this position. That is an empirical fact. I'm the reason she got shot. And then I wasn't man enough to protect her."
"House, blaming yourself is a very unproductive activity."
House sighed. Then he looked at Wilson, pathetically. "She could've died."
Wilson squeezed House's arm. "But she didn't. She's going to be okay."
"We won't know that for sure until she gets out of surgery."
"How long has she been in there?"
House looked at his watch. "Ninety minutes."
"Totally normal," Wilson said. Of course, House knew this, too, but Wilson felt like any reassurance was helpful at this point. Then he looked around the empty waiting room.
"Where are Julia and Arlene?"
House's mouth dropped open.
"Shit," he said.
"You didn't think to call them?"
"I. . .I've been a little preoccupied."
"House, you've got to call them."
A look of blind panic crossed House's face.
"I can't. . . they hate me."
"They don't hate you."
"No, they do. And now they're going have to good reason. You call them."
"I'm not going to call them. You're a grown man. You should have the ability to deliver some disturbing news to your girlfriend's mother and sister."
"Wilson, I…can't." He looked so upset, Wilson took mercy on him.
"Okay, I'll call them. But you've got to change out of that shirt. You're going to scare the shit out of them. I have a spare shirt in my office."
"I'm not going anywhere until Cuddy is out of surgery," House said stubbornly, folding his arms.
And Wilson could tell, by the look on House's face, that there was no point in arguing.
#####
Twenty five minutes later, Julia came rushing into the waiting room. It looked like she had hastily thrown on clothing—a pair of sweats and a sweater that was possibly her husband's—over her pajamas. When she saw House, she put her hand over her mouth.
"Oh my God," she said.
"It looks worse than it is," Wilson said, quickly. "A nosebleed can produce that much blood."
"Oh my God," Julia repeated. "Is that her blood?"
"Yes," House said.
"Is she going to. . .die?"
"I don't know," House said.
Wilson shot him a look. "No," he said, firmly. "A gun shot to the collar bone is not fatal. She is not going to die."
"What happened?" Julia said. "How did this happen?"
Wilson glanced at House, who was just sitting there, still looking numb.
"There was a man with a gun, in the restaurant where Lisa and House were having dinner."
"So…just shooting wildly? Like one of those crazed gunmen you see on TV?"
"Um, no. It was more targeted."
"Who would target my sister?" Julia said, incredulously. "That's madness." Then she stopped, stared at House. "You were the target."
House closed his eyes, but said nothing.
"Weren't you shot once before? Do you make a habit of this? Pissing people off so much they try to kill you?"
"The man's wife had died," Wilson tried to explain. "He was very upset."
"This is a hospital. People die all the time. But they don't try to shoot doctors—except for him! Because he's such a …toxic person, he makes people resort to violence."
"I'm…sorry," House said, pathetically.
"I wish my sister had never met you," Julia said. "You bring a trail misery and destruction wherever you go. If you had a shred of human decency, you'd break up with her. Free her from a life of pain and misery with you."
"Okay," Wilson said, holding up his hand. "You're upset."
But Julia was on a roll.
"If my sister dies, I'm going to kill you, you know that. I'll be the one with the gun. I'll be the one doing the shooting."
"She's not going to DIE!" Wilson repeated.
As if on cue, Chase came into the waiting room, still in scrubs, his surgical mask dangling around his neck.
"Surgery went great," he said. "We got the whole bullet, no nerve damage, no arteries effected. She's not going to be playing tennis anytime soon, but she'll be fine."
"Thank God," Julia said, slumping into a chair.
"Bravo," Wilson said.
House put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook, just the tiniest bit.
"She's awake and asking for you, House."
House looked up.
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," House said nervously. "Good."
"You're going to go see my sister like that?" Julia said, indicating House's shirt. "Looking like Jack the Ripper?"
"She won't care," House said, following Chase into the recovery room.
Cuddy was lying in a bed, her eyes closed, a large bandage covering his shoulder and torso.
When she sensed House's presence, her eyes fluttered open.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," he said.
"I got shot!"
His mouth twitched into a tiny smile.
"Yeah, you did."
"I didn't want you to be the only one in this relationship to have experienced it."
House laughed, squeezed her hand, then kissed it.
"Does it hurt?"
"I'm on morphine. I'm feeling no pain."
"Good," he said.
"You know what I kept thinking, in the ambulance, as I was drifting in and out of consciousness?"
"What?"
"That asshole ruined date night."
Was it possible for him to love this woman any more? No, it was literally not possible.
"They got him," House said. "They arrested him, took him into custody. He won't be bothering us ever again."
"Good," Cuddy said, closing her eyes, falling back asleep. "Because getting shot sucks."
######
The next day, Arlene came, with Rachel, who announced to everyone—nurses, doctors, complete strangers—"My mama got shot!" She seemed to think it was some sort of badge of honor, although it wasn't totally clear if she actually knew what it meant.
All day long, there was a parade of visitors: Literally the entire staff of the hospital, plus several of Cuddy's friends.
Mostly, House lurked outside the door, checked in on her, only came in when the coast was clear.
After taking those body blows from Julia, he avoided Arlene totally.
And then the next day, she was ready to go home.
She called him at around 3 pm.
"I'm getting sprung! When can you drive me home?"
House hesitated.
"I'm, uh, in the middle of something with my case," he said. "Can Julia take you?"
"Oh," her voice reflected disappointment and surprise. "Sure. I just thought you would want to take me…"
"Normally I would, but we're waiting on some lab results so. . ."
"Don't worry about it. Just call me when you want to come over."
"Will do," House said. "Talk to you later."
When he hung up, Cuddy frowned a bit and shrugged.
That night, at about 9 pm, she called him again.
"Are you still at work?"
"No, I'm home," he admitted.
"Home, as in your apartment?" she said. He hadn't slept at his place in months.
"Yeah."
"But why?"
"I, uh, assumed you needed your rest."
"I've been resting all day! I need you to come over and indulge me. I'm going to make you watch that Colin Firth movie again."
"I don't think so."
"Okay, we can watch Caddyshack for the 40th time," she teased.
"I…uh…. I'm not feeling that hot. I think I'll just stay here for tonight."
A long pause.
"Okay, what's up with you? Is this about me being shot?"
"No…." he said, weakly.
"It is, isn't it? You feel guilty, or responsible or God knows what else is going on in that twisted mind of yours. You want to make me feel better? Come over! Now!"
"I. . .can't. Actually I. . ." he hesitated.
"Actually you what?"
"I think we should stop seeing each other."
Cuddy made a sound, a sort of strangled gasp.
"What?" she said.
House felt tears stinging his eyes. Man up, you coward, he exhorted himself.
"You heard me. . ." he said quietly.
"But it wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. . . " Then a thought suddenly crossed her mind: "Did Julia put you up to this? Is this about her? Because she's been against this relationship from the start."
"Julia and I had. . .words," House admitted.
"You can't listen to her! She doesn't know the real you. And she doesn't know shit about the real us. You're not going to let something my overprotective, totally clueless, killjoy sister said affect our future, are you?"
"I will when she's making sense," House said.
"But she isn't."
"You said the exact same thing yourself."
"Me?
"You said, 'People who get close to you, get hurt. That's a fact.'"
"I never said that!"
"Yes, you did. Right before I went to Mayfield. Before you fired me."
"House, I was upset. Hurt. And besides, I didn't mean physically hurt. I meant emotionally hurt!"
"Apparently, I excel at both."
Cuddy tried to remain calm.
"House, this was a fluke. I know you think you see some sort of grand pattern, because you were shot before, but I assure you, a maniac with a gun is a random occurrence."
"That's the thing," House said, reflectively. "He wasn't a maniac. He came into my office and he wanted to talk and I just…blew him off. He was just a regular guy who was really sad that his wife died and who was angry at me because I was cruel to her. And then, in turn, I was cruel to him and he . . . snapped."
"I'm sure you weren't cruel to either of them…" Cuddy said, unconvincingly.
"You know me better than that."
"So stop being cruel to people!"
"I can't! It's who I am. It's like I said to you the day we first hooked up: I've done horrible to things to you. I'll do horrible things again."
"You didn't do this to me!"
"But I did. Don't you see?"
"House, this is insanity. Just please come over so we can talk."
"I can't," House said evenly.
"Why not?"
"Because there's something else. . ." He took a deep breath. "The last couple of days, I've had some time to think. We've been together, what now? Ten months? I mean, we're practically living together."
"So I thought…" Cuddy said, ironically.
"So what's the next step? Marriage? Me adopting Rachel? Think about how ridiculous that sounds. It's not who I am. We both knew that, getting into the relationship. In a way, your getting shot was a blessing in disguise. Not that I'm glad you got hurt, of course. But it gave us a chance to reflect and regroup."
"Regroup?" Cuddy said.
"Yeah. Regroup. Like I said, there's no place left for this relationship to go except marriage. And you know I'm not the marrying kind."
"Who said anything about marriage?" Cuddy said. He could hear the frustration and tears in her voice. "I just want my boyfriend to come over and take care of me after I've been shot. Is that too much to ask?"
House gulped. He shut his eyes very tightly, then opened them.
"I really think it's for the best if we stop seeing each other," he said. Then, before she could reply, he said, "Good night, Cuddy."
And he hung up.
To be continued…