Title: Paying Up
Summary: Grief is the price we pay for love.
Rating: PG-13, for impolite words
Spoilers: there's a quote from Detox, but other than that.
Disclaimer: Technically, I do own House. All 22 eps, on pretty, shiny discs.
A/N: Some clarification: normal text is happening present-time, italics are flashbacks. Also, the last two scenes are from a different POV. Finally, read the summary. This is not a happy ending; someone dies. You've been warned.
He entered the dark apartment slowly, his mental map allowing him to navigate between the furniture: armchair there, couch here, piano there. He could walk through his rooms with confidence, be he half-drunk, half-asleep, or drugged to the eyebrows.
They stood in his doorway and in a weary tone he told her why this liking each other thing was doomed to fail. "You're the kind of person who wants a 'happily-ever-after', and I can't give that to you."
She shook her head. "You're wrong."
"I'm never wrong."
"Then you don't know me very well." He kept his gaze on the floor; his fingers tapped an increasingly nervous rhythm on his cane. One-two-three, one-two-three... "I'm not looking for happily-ever-after. It's cliche, it's boring, and it's completely unrealistic. It would require both of us to change beyond recognition, and I don't want that. I just want to be with you, sarcasm and all, and take each day as it comes."
"So, unlike every other woman on this planet, you'll actually settle for 'happy-right-now'?"
She let his mocking tone wash over her and simply answered, "Yes."
"And just how long do you expect 'right now' to last?"
Her hand moved to his cheek, and if he leaned into it, it was only because his balance wasn't quite what it used to be. "As long as it can."
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His coat landed on the couch with a quiet thwap before slithering to the floor as he shuffled toward the kitchen. He flicked on the light and told himself that his eyes were burning in reaction to the sudden illumination, because Dr. Gregory House never, ever cried.
He hung her shawl carefully on a hook before carelessly draping his jacket over the closet doorknob. He followed her to the kitchen, admiring the way her skirt pulled taut over her ass as she neatly stowed the leftovers in the fridge.
"Stop ogling me." She pulled something from the fridge and hid it behind her body as she turned to face him.
"I'm deprived." He pouted, pushing out his lower lip and attempting puppy dog eyes. "You wouldn't let me order dessert."
"I didn't want you to spoil your... appetite." His blood pressure hit the stratosphere as she waggled the can of whipped cream in front of his nose.
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He didn't even glance at the refrigerator; he wasn't hungry at all. He grabbed a bottle of scotch and a glass, then hobbled back to the living room. He collapsed on the couch, poured and swallowed a drink.
Poured a second.
Poured a third.
Poured a fourth...
"This is nice." Allison handed him his coffee, then gracefully curled onto the couch, her arm grazing his.
"In some circles this would be viewed as pathetic. It's Friday night and we're sitting at home, drinking coffee. All we need is a game of Scrabble, and we'll be nominees for the 'Most Boring Couple of the Year' award." He set the mug down, untasted, and toyed with the ends of her hair.
"No Scrabble. You cheat."
"Do not!"
"You spelled 'xenophobic'–on a triple word score!"
"That was not cheating; that was sheer beauty. You're just jealous because you got stuck with all the E's."
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The pounding of a fist on the door ripped the kaleidoscope of memory from before his eyes. He heaved himself upright, told himself that his stomach was churning from the alcohol, and limped toward the bedroom.
"Where is she?" He shoved past harried nurses, ignoring their indignant squawks. "Where the FUCK is she?" His scream stripped his throat raw and silenced the buzzing of the ER for a moment.
"House!" He turned to see Cuddy striding down the hallway, trailed by Wilson.
"Where's Allison?" Bile rose in his esophagus; he gulped it down, the burn barely registering.
"Greg..." Wilson grabbed his arm--too tightly, he would leave a bruise–but House didn't feel the pain. "Greg, they couldn't stop the bleeding."
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Wilson was two steps into Greg's apartment when he heard an odd noise from the bedroom–a wooden thud overlaid by a sick-sounding snap, followed by a sharp gasp. He dashed through the living room, stopping short when he saw House. The older man was leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, cradling his left hand to his chest; blood from his shredded knuckles was staining his shirts.
"The brain has a gating mechanism for pain. Registers the most severe injury and blocks out the others."
"It didn't work, did it?"
"No."
He reached for House's arm, intending, needing, to comfort. "Greg–"
"Shut up. Just...shut up," he whispered. House wrenched away, limping heavily to the bathroom.
Wilson realized what was wrong and made it to Greg's side in time to catch his friend as he fell to the floor, heaving. He held Greg as the other's stomach rebelled; held him as he yelled and cried; held him until his voice ran out and his tears dried up.
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He left House sleeping off a double-dose of Vicodin. He went to the kitchen and poured the remaining scotch down the sink, then slumped onto the living room couch and counted the remaining pills, fixing the number in his mind.
Just in case.