Fic: Cut Off
Title: Cut Off
Characters: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Summary: Post Finding Judas. House reacts badly.
Warnings:Major angst. If you don’t like angst, don’t read this. You’ve been warned.
Spoilers: Through 3x09 Finding Judas. Also the promo for 3x10.
“I’m cutting off your Vicodin.”
House leaned his knuckles on her desk and stared down at her in disbelief. Then he straightened up. “Fine,” he said. “Good. And I’ll save you the trouble of suspending me.” He fished inside a jacket pocket and pulled out his hospital ID, the one he never wore. Cuddy was surprised to learn he even carried it around with him. He flung the badge down on her desk. “I’m going home.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen. Quitting won’t help anything. You’ll still go to jail if you don’t accept Tritter’s deal.” She ignored the badge on the desk and reached for a prescription pad. “And I’m not making you go cold turkey on pain meds, just on Vicodin.” House, who had been halfway to the door paused. Cuddy smiled grimly. She had known that would get his attention. She held up a prescription for him. House plucked it from her hand and stared at it briefly.
“Neurontin,” he said, then crumpled it in one hand and let it drop to the floor. “Makes me vomit.”
Cuddy was unphased. She wrote out another script. House looked at that one. “Fentanyl,” he said, crumpling that one as well. “Gave me double vision.” She wrote another. He read it upside down. “Percocet. Can’t think straight when I take Percocet.”
“Percodan then.”
He laid his cane across the prescription pad. “Let me help you out here. Unless they’ve come up with something new in the last month, I’ve tried them all. The only thing that works is Vicodin. And you’re cutting me off.” He turned to leave.
Cuddy followed him, holding out the Percodan scrip. “Stop playing games. You know you can’t quit your job. What else are you going to do?” When he ignored her, she blocked the door. “All right. Have it your way. Run away. But you can’t leave without a scrip. What’s the nearest pharmacy to your house? I’m phoning this in for you.”
They stood like that for a long moment, their eyes locked, Cuddy just inches away from him. She became aware that he was breathing hard. Finally he dropped his gaze to the floor, and when he met her eyes again his demeanor had changed utterly. The look he gave her was one of such naked misery that her breath hitched in her.
“Cuddy,” he began, oddly stiff and awkward. “What I said to you, yesterday. That was unforgivable.”
“House, you were-“
“Shut up. Let me finish. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just wanted to say that you’re not unfit to be a mother. Not any more than all the other morons I see in the clinic every day, anyway.”
“That’s so sweet.” She put a hand on his sleeve.
He didn’t smile, just gave that curt little nod of acknowledgement, like he had checked something off a list. He was staring at the floor again, the naked look gone, the wall back up. He removed her hand, and grasped the door handle. “I’ll send a formal letter of resignation, if you like.”
She followed him out to the lobby. “I won’t accept your resignation.”
He paused with his back to her. “Don’t call,” he said. “And don’t come by.”
****************************
Cuddy was on the phone when Wilson knocked. She motioned him into the office.
“You’re sure?” she said into the phone. “Can you double check? Okay. Thanks.”
“What’s up?” asked Wilson as soon as she had hung up. She was dialing again, but she looked at Wilson as she did it, waited a brief moment, and then hung up.
“He won’t pick up the phone,” she said without preamble.
“He told you he wouldn’t.”
“The motorcycle hasn’t budged in three days.”
“You went by his place?”
She nodded. “He wouldn’t answer the door. Does he even have any food in there?”
“That depends if you count beer and scotch as a food.” Wilson regretted the joke as soon as he said it. “He has a giant thing of peanut butter. And there’s always delivery. Stop worrying. He’s just pitching a huge fit, hoping you’ll beg him to come back.”
His words did not have the desired effect. Cuddy got up from behind the desk and looked out the window. “He hasn’t picked up his prescription,” she said in a low voice. She turned around. “That means-“
“I know what it means. He’s going cold turkey on the Vicodin.”
“Alone in there.”
“Not fun, but he’s done it before. You know he always has to do things his way. You won’t get any thanks for it but if it will make you feel better”-he pulled out a key chain and extracted a key-“you can go bring him some chicken soup.”
Cuddy took the key with a nod of thanks. “I was hoping you had one.” She headed for the door but hesitated. “There’s one other thing. Before he left, he…apologized to me.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“No. No. But it was almost as if he was…”
“Trying to make a new start? You know, like the Twelve Step thing.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was just setting things straight before…” She couldn’t finish. She held up the key, and her next words came out as a plea. “Come with me?”
Wilson nodded slowly. “I’ll drive.”
*****************************
“House! Open the damn door. I know you’re in there. I can hear you not caring.”
Wilson pounded one more time and waited. When there was no response, he stuck the key in the lock and pushed the door open, only to discover that House had anticipated this very thing and installed a chain across the door. Beside him, Cuddy groaned in exasperation. Through the crack in the door they could see only a sliver of the apartment, but it was enough. The back of House’s head was just visible. He was lying on the sofa.
“House!” Wilson shouted, and when House didn’t move he put his shoulder to the door and shoved. The chain gave way easily, and then the two of them were crouching beside the sofa trying to find a pulse. It took only one touch of his skin to know that they were far too late.
House had left nothing to chance. The empty vials of morphine left no doubt that this hadn’t been a ‘cry for help’ but a determined and carefully planned exit strategy.
Beside the lock box of morphine were two envelopes. One had Cuddy’s name on it. She picked it up and carried it over to the piano bench, sitting for a long time just gazing at the Bach prelude lying open on the keyboard. In the background she could hear Wilson calling the emergency services. Finally she opened the envelope.
It contained three letters, neatly typed on PPTH stationery, bearing that day’s date, and beginning the same way: To Whom It May Concern. The top one had a Post It note with a scrawl: “File these somewhere.” They were letters of recommendation for the three fellows in his department. Cuddy read them quickly. House being House, he hadn’t skated over their shortcomings or failings. But he was also clearly aware of the caliber of the doctors working under him. He had reserved his strongest praise for Chase, whom he described as a “creative thinker” under pressure who had survived the worst House could throw at him and lacked only maturity and self-confidence to be a first rate doctor and diagnostician.
The second envelope was addressed to John House, but it wasn’t sealed, and Wilson had only a passing qualm about opening it. It contained a single sheet of paper, covered in what looked like House’s distinctive handwriting, except that he hadn’t been able to keep his hand from shaking as he wrote it. It was dated that same day and had neither salutation nor signature. He read it through and then placed it on the piano, on top of the sheet music, for Cuddy to read.
I know I haven’t often made you proud, and that you won’t understand this. You will think it is the easy way out. I hope you’ll accept that it was not just the only thing I could do, but the right thing to do.
No one who hasn’t suffered intractable pain will understand when you say there comes a point when you can’t go on any longer. There have been days when I thought about those animals who get caught in leg-hold traps and chew off their own limb in order to escape. Today was one of those days.
I had thought I had it all under control, but lately I’ve had to accept that it wasn’t even remotely under control, and that my pain had become everyone else’s pain. That’s not really acceptable any more; in the past there had been a trade-off: at least I had something to offer to make up for causing all that pain, but now that’s been taken away too.
There aren’t going to be many people left who care one way or the other, aside from you and Mom. Instead of flowers, tell all my friends I want them to make a donation to the new oncology lab at PPTH. I owe Cuddy 100 million dollars, and those donations should go a long way toward covering that debt. My own personal donation toward her cause is in a plastic container in the fridge. Tell her she’s the only person I’d entrust with it.
Make sure James gets his DVD player back. He pretty much owns my motorcycle too. If you see him, tell him he did the right thing. He’ll know what you mean by that.
He had died with his eyes open and a wistful expression on his face, as if waiting for something he suspected wouldn’t come. Death hadn’t extinguished the bright blue of those eyes, only the light of wit, intelligence, and curiosity that animated them. The hardest thing Wilson ever had to do in his life was to reach up and close them.
Characters: House/Wilson/Cuddy
Summary: Post Finding Judas. House reacts badly.
Warnings:Major angst. If you don’t like angst, don’t read this. You’ve been warned.
Spoilers: Through 3x09 Finding Judas. Also the promo for 3x10.
“I’m cutting off your Vicodin.”
House leaned his knuckles on her desk and stared down at her in disbelief. Then he straightened up. “Fine,” he said. “Good. And I’ll save you the trouble of suspending me.” He fished inside a jacket pocket and pulled out his hospital ID, the one he never wore. Cuddy was surprised to learn he even carried it around with him. He flung the badge down on her desk. “I’m going home.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen. Quitting won’t help anything. You’ll still go to jail if you don’t accept Tritter’s deal.” She ignored the badge on the desk and reached for a prescription pad. “And I’m not making you go cold turkey on pain meds, just on Vicodin.” House, who had been halfway to the door paused. Cuddy smiled grimly. She had known that would get his attention. She held up a prescription for him. House plucked it from her hand and stared at it briefly.
“Neurontin,” he said, then crumpled it in one hand and let it drop to the floor. “Makes me vomit.”
Cuddy was unphased. She wrote out another script. House looked at that one. “Fentanyl,” he said, crumpling that one as well. “Gave me double vision.” She wrote another. He read it upside down. “Percocet. Can’t think straight when I take Percocet.”
“Percodan then.”
He laid his cane across the prescription pad. “Let me help you out here. Unless they’ve come up with something new in the last month, I’ve tried them all. The only thing that works is Vicodin. And you’re cutting me off.” He turned to leave.
Cuddy followed him, holding out the Percodan scrip. “Stop playing games. You know you can’t quit your job. What else are you going to do?” When he ignored her, she blocked the door. “All right. Have it your way. Run away. But you can’t leave without a scrip. What’s the nearest pharmacy to your house? I’m phoning this in for you.”
They stood like that for a long moment, their eyes locked, Cuddy just inches away from him. She became aware that he was breathing hard. Finally he dropped his gaze to the floor, and when he met her eyes again his demeanor had changed utterly. The look he gave her was one of such naked misery that her breath hitched in her.
“Cuddy,” he began, oddly stiff and awkward. “What I said to you, yesterday. That was unforgivable.”
“House, you were-“
“Shut up. Let me finish. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just wanted to say that you’re not unfit to be a mother. Not any more than all the other morons I see in the clinic every day, anyway.”
“That’s so sweet.” She put a hand on his sleeve.
He didn’t smile, just gave that curt little nod of acknowledgement, like he had checked something off a list. He was staring at the floor again, the naked look gone, the wall back up. He removed her hand, and grasped the door handle. “I’ll send a formal letter of resignation, if you like.”
She followed him out to the lobby. “I won’t accept your resignation.”
He paused with his back to her. “Don’t call,” he said. “And don’t come by.”
****************************
Cuddy was on the phone when Wilson knocked. She motioned him into the office.
“You’re sure?” she said into the phone. “Can you double check? Okay. Thanks.”
“What’s up?” asked Wilson as soon as she had hung up. She was dialing again, but she looked at Wilson as she did it, waited a brief moment, and then hung up.
“He won’t pick up the phone,” she said without preamble.
“He told you he wouldn’t.”
“The motorcycle hasn’t budged in three days.”
“You went by his place?”
She nodded. “He wouldn’t answer the door. Does he even have any food in there?”
“That depends if you count beer and scotch as a food.” Wilson regretted the joke as soon as he said it. “He has a giant thing of peanut butter. And there’s always delivery. Stop worrying. He’s just pitching a huge fit, hoping you’ll beg him to come back.”
His words did not have the desired effect. Cuddy got up from behind the desk and looked out the window. “He hasn’t picked up his prescription,” she said in a low voice. She turned around. “That means-“
“I know what it means. He’s going cold turkey on the Vicodin.”
“Alone in there.”
“Not fun, but he’s done it before. You know he always has to do things his way. You won’t get any thanks for it but if it will make you feel better”-he pulled out a key chain and extracted a key-“you can go bring him some chicken soup.”
Cuddy took the key with a nod of thanks. “I was hoping you had one.” She headed for the door but hesitated. “There’s one other thing. Before he left, he…apologized to me.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“No. No. But it was almost as if he was…”
“Trying to make a new start? You know, like the Twelve Step thing.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was just setting things straight before…” She couldn’t finish. She held up the key, and her next words came out as a plea. “Come with me?”
Wilson nodded slowly. “I’ll drive.”
*****************************
“House! Open the damn door. I know you’re in there. I can hear you not caring.”
Wilson pounded one more time and waited. When there was no response, he stuck the key in the lock and pushed the door open, only to discover that House had anticipated this very thing and installed a chain across the door. Beside him, Cuddy groaned in exasperation. Through the crack in the door they could see only a sliver of the apartment, but it was enough. The back of House’s head was just visible. He was lying on the sofa.
“House!” Wilson shouted, and when House didn’t move he put his shoulder to the door and shoved. The chain gave way easily, and then the two of them were crouching beside the sofa trying to find a pulse. It took only one touch of his skin to know that they were far too late.
House had left nothing to chance. The empty vials of morphine left no doubt that this hadn’t been a ‘cry for help’ but a determined and carefully planned exit strategy.
Beside the lock box of morphine were two envelopes. One had Cuddy’s name on it. She picked it up and carried it over to the piano bench, sitting for a long time just gazing at the Bach prelude lying open on the keyboard. In the background she could hear Wilson calling the emergency services. Finally she opened the envelope.
It contained three letters, neatly typed on PPTH stationery, bearing that day’s date, and beginning the same way: To Whom It May Concern. The top one had a Post It note with a scrawl: “File these somewhere.” They were letters of recommendation for the three fellows in his department. Cuddy read them quickly. House being House, he hadn’t skated over their shortcomings or failings. But he was also clearly aware of the caliber of the doctors working under him. He had reserved his strongest praise for Chase, whom he described as a “creative thinker” under pressure who had survived the worst House could throw at him and lacked only maturity and self-confidence to be a first rate doctor and diagnostician.
The second envelope was addressed to John House, but it wasn’t sealed, and Wilson had only a passing qualm about opening it. It contained a single sheet of paper, covered in what looked like House’s distinctive handwriting, except that he hadn’t been able to keep his hand from shaking as he wrote it. It was dated that same day and had neither salutation nor signature. He read it through and then placed it on the piano, on top of the sheet music, for Cuddy to read.
I know I haven’t often made you proud, and that you won’t understand this. You will think it is the easy way out. I hope you’ll accept that it was not just the only thing I could do, but the right thing to do.
No one who hasn’t suffered intractable pain will understand when you say there comes a point when you can’t go on any longer. There have been days when I thought about those animals who get caught in leg-hold traps and chew off their own limb in order to escape. Today was one of those days.
I had thought I had it all under control, but lately I’ve had to accept that it wasn’t even remotely under control, and that my pain had become everyone else’s pain. That’s not really acceptable any more; in the past there had been a trade-off: at least I had something to offer to make up for causing all that pain, but now that’s been taken away too.
There aren’t going to be many people left who care one way or the other, aside from you and Mom. Instead of flowers, tell all my friends I want them to make a donation to the new oncology lab at PPTH. I owe Cuddy 100 million dollars, and those donations should go a long way toward covering that debt. My own personal donation toward her cause is in a plastic container in the fridge. Tell her she’s the only person I’d entrust with it.
Make sure James gets his DVD player back. He pretty much owns my motorcycle too. If you see him, tell him he did the right thing. He’ll know what you mean by that.
He had died with his eyes open and a wistful expression on his face, as if waiting for something he suspected wouldn’t come. Death hadn’t extinguished the bright blue of those eyes, only the light of wit, intelligence, and curiosity that animated them. The hardest thing Wilson ever had to do in his life was to reach up and close them.