Shame, Pt. 2
Just a small chapter to get us from there to here.
Cuddy didn’t know what to do.
House had slid to the ground, almost in slow motion, and was now sitting on her front stoop, his head in his hands, looking distraught.
He was the man who had nearly ruined her life, could’ve killed her, actually. But her need to comfort him-even now-was instinctive, atavistic. Reluctantly, she sat down next to him.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said, firmly.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t look up from his hands.
“You had a setback. . .That’s all.”
He blinked. She wasn’t sure he could actually hear her.
“How many pills did you take?”
Still no reply.
She reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. There were two pills left. The prescription had been filled yesterday.
“This has to stop, House,” she said. She felt frustrated, helpless.
She touched his arm.
He recoiled, his shame manifesting as anger. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped.
She withdrew her hand. Sometimes he really was like a wounded animal.
“Okay, House. . .” she said, keeping her voice soothing. “It’s okay.”
They sat side-by-side like that for a long while.
Finally, he looked at her.
“I’m pathetic.”
“No, House. You’re not. You had a setback.”
“A setback,” he repeated bitterly. “It’s more than a setback. I’m losing my mind. I’m broken. Unfixable.”
“You’re just sick House. And you need to get better.”
His Adam’s apple tensed in his throat.
“I’m scared,” he admitted.
He had never said that to her before. She shuddered, involuntarily, because she was scared, too-for him.
She put her arm over his shoulder and this time he let her.
“You’re strong,” she said. “Stronger than you know. You’ll get through this.”
He looked at her.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, truthfully. Then she stood up. “Come into the house.”
“And do what?” he said. “Break bread in the dining room that you had to rebuild because of me?”
She gaped at him, shocked he would bring that up.
“I’m going to go,” he said, standing up. “I’ve darkened your doorstep more than enough-quite literally.”
He began limping away. She grabbed his arm.
“If you think I’m letting you just get back on your motorcycle and drive away from here you don’t know me very well.”
He spun around.
“Why not? What if I just kept driving until I drove off a cliff? Who would care? Isn’t it time we all admitted that the world be better off if I wasn’t in it?”
“Tell that to the countless lives you’ve saved!”
He gave a queasy laugh.
“That’s all I am. A good doctor. A brain in a fucking jar. Except now not even my brain is working anymore. Do you know what it’s like to be me right now? I’m not even sure this conversation is happening.”
“It is,” she said. “I’m right here. We’re together in front of my house and we’re going to go inside and we’re going to get you help.”
He sighed.
“I’m so tired,” he said, closing his eyes a bit.
“Then come inside.”
His shoulders slumped a bit and he exhaled.
Finally, obediently, he followed her inside.
####
Cuddy was on the phone in the next room. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. He heard murmurs. A few words: “Just showed up” “I’ve never seen him this bad.”
He closed his eyes, sipped the tea she had given him. (Herbal tea: What to give to the man who has…nothing.)
Her house felt nice-comforting, familiar. The blanket she had given him smelled of that organic laundry detergent she bought-with the lavender. Maybe she would take care of him. Maybe she would fix him again.
He must’ve dozed off, because when he woke up there were more murmured voices. His eyes blinked into focus.
Wilson was standing there, talking to Cuddy.
Of course she had called Wilson. Of course she wasn’t going to take care of him.
“How you feeling?” Wilson said.
House scratched his head.
“Umm, did you see A Beautiful Mind?”
“You’re not schizophrenic House. You’re just strung out.”
“We can’t really be sure of that, can we? And by we, I mean, myself and my 11 alters.”
They both stared at him.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “I only have 10 alters.”
Cuddy shook her head. There was a reason why people never noticed when House was on a verge of a mental breakdown. He tended to wisecrack his way through them.
“I called Nolan,” Wilson said.
“I assume you don’t mean Nolan Ryan, Hall of Fame pitcher. Cause that would be cool. I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
“I’m taking you back to Mayfield in the morning.”
House bowed his head.
“Where I belong-clearly. I wonder if my parole officer will come visit me there, or if they’ll give me a day pass?”
Both Cuddy and Wilson sighed grimly.
“The extremely fucked up nature of my life really comes into sharp focus when I put it like that, huh?” House said, with mock cheer.
“House,” Cuddy said, gesturing toward Rachel’s door. “Keep your voice down.”
As if on cue, a pair of small legs, in footie pajamas, emerged from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes with balled up fists.
“I heard voices,” she said.
Rachel first saw her mother and Wilson. Then she looked up, saw House, and ran to him.
“Howse!” she said, enveloping him in a pint-sized bear hug.
“Nice to see you, too, Rachel,” Wilson said, ironically.
House swallowed hard and looked at Cuddy gratefully. This was not the hug of a child who had been hearing her mother badmouth someone for the past year. Cuddy nodded at him-and for a brief moment, something coursed between them, a kind of mutual understanding.
“Who is this grown woman and what has she done with Rachel?” House managed to joke, holding Rachel at arm’s length.
“It’s me!” Rachel said, grinning at him. “Rachel!”
“Ohmygod, it IS you!” he said.
She giggled, then squinted at him.
“Are you still sick?” she said. “You look sick.”
House sighed. Still sick. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bleeding out in a bathtub.
“Yeah, baby. House isn’t feeling that well,” Cuddy said, swooping in and putting her arm around Rachel protectively.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel said. “Do you have fever?”
“Not that kind of sick,” House said. “I’m sick in the he-”
“House is going to a treatment center tomorrow and they’re going to make him all better,” Cuddy interrupted, hastily.
“A treatment center?” Rachel said, confused.
“A place where they treat people who have the same illness he has.”
“Is the treatment going to hurt?” Rachel asked.
“You have no idea,” House said.
“Oh,” she said. Then she whispered something in Cuddy’s ear. Cuddy smiled a bit and nodded. Rachel scampered away. When she came back, she was holding a teddy bear in her hands-well-loved, with patchy fur from having been washed too many times, and missing one of its two black button eyes.
“This is Milo,” Rachel said, handing the bear to House. “He makes me feel better when I’m sick.”
Cuddy expected a typical House response: “Teddy bears don’t make you feel better, medicine does.” Or “Real men don’t carry stuffed animals.”
Instead, he looked at the bear curiously. “Yeah?” he said, like he half-believed her.
“Yeah,” Rachel said.
“But if you give the bear to me, who’s going to make you feel better if you get sick?”
Rachel gave that some thought.
“You need him more than I do,” she said. Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a look.
House tucked the bear under his arm.
“Yeah…I probably do.”
“You have to go back to bed, Rach,” Cuddy said. “It’s late. We have some grownup stuff we need to discuss.”
“Can I visit Howse in the treatment center?” Rachel said.
“No visitors allowed,” Cuddy improvised.
“Can I see him when he gets better?”
“Um . . .” House said, glancing at Cuddy.
“We’ll see,” Cuddy said, guiding Rachel back to her room.
When they were out of earshot, House said: “Cuddy freaking out and dumping me on you: Just like old times.”
“She’s worried about you,” Wilson said. “I’m worried about you.”
“And we’re three-for-three,” House said.
“How are you doing now? Any hallucinations?”
“Funny thing abut hallucinations. You don’t always know when you’re having them. But what is Abraham Lincoln doing here?”
“Very funny, House.”
“Hey, if you can’t laugh at your own complete break from reality, what can you laugh at?” Then he frowned. “So what did Nolan say?”
“He was surprised. I had to fill him in a lot. He didn’t know you had…relapsed. He hadn’t even heard you went to prison.”
“And I here I thought he had a Google alert set up in my name. I’m disappointed.”
Wilson hesitated, then said:
“Cuddy didn’t go into details about tonight’s. . . episode. You want to fill me in?”
House attempted a laugh.
“The usual. Cuddy forgave me and we had sex. I’ll give my subconscious some credit: I’m always getting laid.”
At that moment, Cuddy came back into living room. House wasn’t sure if she had heard him or not.
“She’s not going to get any sleep,” Cuddy said. “She’s bouncing off the walls. She was very excited to see you.”
“I was excited to see her, too,” House said, eyeing her hopefully.
Cuddy ignored him.
“I hate to break up the class reunion, but it’s late…” she said. House looked at his watch. It was 1:30 am.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Shall we?” Wilson said, gesturing toward the door.
House turned to Cuddy. “Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t have to help me and you did. It . . . meant a lot.”
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re getting the help you need.” She tried to keep her voice formal-like she was giving encouragement to a stranger.
“Right,” he said, sadly.
“Take care of yourself House,” she said.
And she watched them walk down her driveway and get into Wilson’s car.
She rubbed her temples, feeling like she might cry.
Gregory House had this incredibly annoying habit of making her care about him.
To be continued...
Cuddy didn’t know what to do.
House had slid to the ground, almost in slow motion, and was now sitting on her front stoop, his head in his hands, looking distraught.
He was the man who had nearly ruined her life, could’ve killed her, actually. But her need to comfort him-even now-was instinctive, atavistic. Reluctantly, she sat down next to him.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said, firmly.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t look up from his hands.
“You had a setback. . .That’s all.”
He blinked. She wasn’t sure he could actually hear her.
“How many pills did you take?”
Still no reply.
She reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. There were two pills left. The prescription had been filled yesterday.
“This has to stop, House,” she said. She felt frustrated, helpless.
She touched his arm.
He recoiled, his shame manifesting as anger. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped.
She withdrew her hand. Sometimes he really was like a wounded animal.
“Okay, House. . .” she said, keeping her voice soothing. “It’s okay.”
They sat side-by-side like that for a long while.
Finally, he looked at her.
“I’m pathetic.”
“No, House. You’re not. You had a setback.”
“A setback,” he repeated bitterly. “It’s more than a setback. I’m losing my mind. I’m broken. Unfixable.”
“You’re just sick House. And you need to get better.”
His Adam’s apple tensed in his throat.
“I’m scared,” he admitted.
He had never said that to her before. She shuddered, involuntarily, because she was scared, too-for him.
She put her arm over his shoulder and this time he let her.
“You’re strong,” she said. “Stronger than you know. You’ll get through this.”
He looked at her.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, truthfully. Then she stood up. “Come into the house.”
“And do what?” he said. “Break bread in the dining room that you had to rebuild because of me?”
She gaped at him, shocked he would bring that up.
“I’m going to go,” he said, standing up. “I’ve darkened your doorstep more than enough-quite literally.”
He began limping away. She grabbed his arm.
“If you think I’m letting you just get back on your motorcycle and drive away from here you don’t know me very well.”
He spun around.
“Why not? What if I just kept driving until I drove off a cliff? Who would care? Isn’t it time we all admitted that the world be better off if I wasn’t in it?”
“Tell that to the countless lives you’ve saved!”
He gave a queasy laugh.
“That’s all I am. A good doctor. A brain in a fucking jar. Except now not even my brain is working anymore. Do you know what it’s like to be me right now? I’m not even sure this conversation is happening.”
“It is,” she said. “I’m right here. We’re together in front of my house and we’re going to go inside and we’re going to get you help.”
He sighed.
“I’m so tired,” he said, closing his eyes a bit.
“Then come inside.”
His shoulders slumped a bit and he exhaled.
Finally, obediently, he followed her inside.
####
Cuddy was on the phone in the next room. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. He heard murmurs. A few words: “Just showed up” “I’ve never seen him this bad.”
He closed his eyes, sipped the tea she had given him. (Herbal tea: What to give to the man who has…nothing.)
Her house felt nice-comforting, familiar. The blanket she had given him smelled of that organic laundry detergent she bought-with the lavender. Maybe she would take care of him. Maybe she would fix him again.
He must’ve dozed off, because when he woke up there were more murmured voices. His eyes blinked into focus.
Wilson was standing there, talking to Cuddy.
Of course she had called Wilson. Of course she wasn’t going to take care of him.
“How you feeling?” Wilson said.
House scratched his head.
“Umm, did you see A Beautiful Mind?”
“You’re not schizophrenic House. You’re just strung out.”
“We can’t really be sure of that, can we? And by we, I mean, myself and my 11 alters.”
They both stared at him.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “I only have 10 alters.”
Cuddy shook her head. There was a reason why people never noticed when House was on a verge of a mental breakdown. He tended to wisecrack his way through them.
“I called Nolan,” Wilson said.
“I assume you don’t mean Nolan Ryan, Hall of Fame pitcher. Cause that would be cool. I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
“I’m taking you back to Mayfield in the morning.”
House bowed his head.
“Where I belong-clearly. I wonder if my parole officer will come visit me there, or if they’ll give me a day pass?”
Both Cuddy and Wilson sighed grimly.
“The extremely fucked up nature of my life really comes into sharp focus when I put it like that, huh?” House said, with mock cheer.
“House,” Cuddy said, gesturing toward Rachel’s door. “Keep your voice down.”
As if on cue, a pair of small legs, in footie pajamas, emerged from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes with balled up fists.
“I heard voices,” she said.
Rachel first saw her mother and Wilson. Then she looked up, saw House, and ran to him.
“Howse!” she said, enveloping him in a pint-sized bear hug.
“Nice to see you, too, Rachel,” Wilson said, ironically.
House swallowed hard and looked at Cuddy gratefully. This was not the hug of a child who had been hearing her mother badmouth someone for the past year. Cuddy nodded at him-and for a brief moment, something coursed between them, a kind of mutual understanding.
“Who is this grown woman and what has she done with Rachel?” House managed to joke, holding Rachel at arm’s length.
“It’s me!” Rachel said, grinning at him. “Rachel!”
“Ohmygod, it IS you!” he said.
She giggled, then squinted at him.
“Are you still sick?” she said. “You look sick.”
House sighed. Still sick. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bleeding out in a bathtub.
“Yeah, baby. House isn’t feeling that well,” Cuddy said, swooping in and putting her arm around Rachel protectively.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel said. “Do you have fever?”
“Not that kind of sick,” House said. “I’m sick in the he-”
“House is going to a treatment center tomorrow and they’re going to make him all better,” Cuddy interrupted, hastily.
“A treatment center?” Rachel said, confused.
“A place where they treat people who have the same illness he has.”
“Is the treatment going to hurt?” Rachel asked.
“You have no idea,” House said.
“Oh,” she said. Then she whispered something in Cuddy’s ear. Cuddy smiled a bit and nodded. Rachel scampered away. When she came back, she was holding a teddy bear in her hands-well-loved, with patchy fur from having been washed too many times, and missing one of its two black button eyes.
“This is Milo,” Rachel said, handing the bear to House. “He makes me feel better when I’m sick.”
Cuddy expected a typical House response: “Teddy bears don’t make you feel better, medicine does.” Or “Real men don’t carry stuffed animals.”
Instead, he looked at the bear curiously. “Yeah?” he said, like he half-believed her.
“Yeah,” Rachel said.
“But if you give the bear to me, who’s going to make you feel better if you get sick?”
Rachel gave that some thought.
“You need him more than I do,” she said. Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a look.
House tucked the bear under his arm.
“Yeah…I probably do.”
“You have to go back to bed, Rach,” Cuddy said. “It’s late. We have some grownup stuff we need to discuss.”
“Can I visit Howse in the treatment center?” Rachel said.
“No visitors allowed,” Cuddy improvised.
“Can I see him when he gets better?”
“Um . . .” House said, glancing at Cuddy.
“We’ll see,” Cuddy said, guiding Rachel back to her room.
When they were out of earshot, House said: “Cuddy freaking out and dumping me on you: Just like old times.”
“She’s worried about you,” Wilson said. “I’m worried about you.”
“And we’re three-for-three,” House said.
“How are you doing now? Any hallucinations?”
“Funny thing abut hallucinations. You don’t always know when you’re having them. But what is Abraham Lincoln doing here?”
“Very funny, House.”
“Hey, if you can’t laugh at your own complete break from reality, what can you laugh at?” Then he frowned. “So what did Nolan say?”
“He was surprised. I had to fill him in a lot. He didn’t know you had…relapsed. He hadn’t even heard you went to prison.”
“And I here I thought he had a Google alert set up in my name. I’m disappointed.”
Wilson hesitated, then said:
“Cuddy didn’t go into details about tonight’s. . . episode. You want to fill me in?”
House attempted a laugh.
“The usual. Cuddy forgave me and we had sex. I’ll give my subconscious some credit: I’m always getting laid.”
At that moment, Cuddy came back into living room. House wasn’t sure if she had heard him or not.
“She’s not going to get any sleep,” Cuddy said. “She’s bouncing off the walls. She was very excited to see you.”
“I was excited to see her, too,” House said, eyeing her hopefully.
Cuddy ignored him.
“I hate to break up the class reunion, but it’s late…” she said. House looked at his watch. It was 1:30 am.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Shall we?” Wilson said, gesturing toward the door.
House turned to Cuddy. “Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t have to help me and you did. It . . . meant a lot.”
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re getting the help you need.” She tried to keep her voice formal-like she was giving encouragement to a stranger.
“Right,” he said, sadly.
“Take care of yourself House,” she said.
And she watched them walk down her driveway and get into Wilson’s car.
She rubbed her temples, feeling like she might cry.
Gregory House had this incredibly annoying habit of making her care about him.
To be continued...