A/N: Meh. Sorry this took long. And sorry that it's too short and sucky.
"House vs. God" was one of the best episodes ever. And yet now I'm really sad.
No slash intended.
Chapter 3
"If I Die"
When House cracked his eyes open, a weak light seeped in. He lay still for a moment, his ears gradually tuning in to an unfamiliar voice. He didn't immediately know where he was, but the chilled tar beneath his cheek soon reminded him. He turned his head up and groaned, looking into a stranger's face.
"Hey, man, you all right?"
A kid. One of those teenaged boys who constantly sounded half-stoned. House blinked.
"Where am I?"
"Uh – parking lot, dude. You must have been wasted."
"Yeah, right... What time is it?"
"About a quarter after six. Pretty early for a Saturday. Hung over much?"
The kid grinned knowingly, and House was tempted to mutter something obscene. Instead, he turned his head back down and eyed his cane. The kid straightened up, while House reached over and grabbed his fifth limb.
"So what's an old guy like you doing at this place?"
House began to sit up, grunting with the heavy ache that penetrated his whole body. His head suddenly throbbed enough to induce nausea, and he grew light-headed. He paused, resting his elbow on his good knee and holding on to his head. Fuck.
"Did you come alone? Doesn't seem like anyone who cared would leave a guy like you out here all night."
"A guy like me?" House echoed.
"Yeah." The kid shrugged. "You know – with a cane and all."
Right. House sighed, rubbed uselessly at his temple, shifted his weight. He pocketed his empty wallet, held out his hand, and told the kid to help. The teen furrowed his face but obliged, tugging House up unsteadily. The cane punched at the tar, and House leaned in, feeling too unstable.
"Do you have a ride, man?"
House glanced at the kid who was about six inches shorter than him.
"That's my ride."
He indicated the motorcycle with a head jerk.
"Whoa, really? Nice. I didn't think guys like you could even drive."
The kid drew near the bike, oblivious to House's sinking mood. He really needed to get home. But even though he was still intoxicated, he knew better now than to try riding that bike back on his own. He momentarily considered asking the kid to help him out, but he tossed the idea away. Teenage boys and motorcycles had never been a smart combination.
"You'd be surprised what guys like me can do," he said, and the boy half-turned to look back at him.
"So what are you waiting for?"
House's face scrunched up in disbelief. He should've known this kid was an idiot. "I'm hung over. I'm not going to ride a motorbike all the way back to Princeton."
"You live in Princeton? Huh. So if you're not going to ride back, how are you going to get home?"
House looked back at the tar. No idea. He could call Cuddy or one of his team, but he doubted any of them would appreciate having to come pick him up all the way out here this early on a Saturday. And he had no one else to call. He was beginning to wish it were Thursday again.
"Know someone with a pickup truck?" the kid asked.
House shook his head, concentrating on the shiny specks in the tar and appreciating the dim twilight. The kid shifted from one foot to another, trying to think of what to do, sticking his hands into his pockets. He suddenly smirked and whipped out his cell phone, dialing quietly and waiting as it rang.
"Yeah, Jace? It's me, Chris. Listen, can you come down to Lou's place? Some guy with a bike needs a lift."
House looked up at the teen in mild surprise. Since when did strangers help him out?
"Princeton," the kid continued. "He's got a cane... All right, thanks, man. I'll wait up."
The phone flipped shut and disappeared back into the boy's pocket. House stared, the throbbing in his head receding a bit. The kid offered a smile, and House blinked.
"Thanks," he said after a pause.
"I only called him 'cuz he does have a truck."
House nodded.
Not more than fifteen minutes later, an old, red pickup pulled into the parking lot, and House watched along with the kid. The driver parked and hopped out, revealing himself to be another young guy, though older than Chris. He looked sloppy, House noted, probably just rolled out of bed and dressed in whatever was lying around.
"Hey, what's up?" the new stranger greeted.
"Hey, man. This is the guy," said Chris.
"That the bike?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. We'll just load it up in the back and get going, if that's all."
House squinted at him and nodded. The two boys moved toward the bike, and Jace wheeled it over to his truck. Together, they pushed and pulled it up into the back, while House stood watching. If he were sober and in a better mood, he might have found it amusing. It took a good ten to fifteen minutes for the boys to get the hunk of death, as Wilson liked to call it, up into the truck's cargo space. House still didn't understand why they bothered. Maybe it was because he hadn't really been an asshole yet.
House pulled himself up into the passenger's seat, once his bike was taken care of. He looked out the open window to Chris and inclined his head, mumbling another "thanks." The kid smiled cheerfully and saluted, as the truck began to pull away.
"Got pretty trashed, eh?" Jace said, once they pulled out onto the road.
"Yeah," said House. "Guess you could say that."
The drive was quiet and breezy, the sun finally out by the time they reached House's neighborhood, traffic beginning to thicken. House tried not to think, already decided that no one would hear about his mugging incident. He figured he wasn't hurt, just needed some extra Vicodin. Flipping down the passenger mirror and looking confirmed that he didn't have a black eye. One less lie to tell.
About half an hour later, House didn't bother waving goodbye to Jace, who grinned before pulling away, and when he turned into his apartment, he quickened. He locked the door, knowing the only person who could get in anyway was Wilson, and tossed his keys onto the coffee table. He surveyed his apartment: quiet, dark, empty. Not even Steve was active. Sighing, he began to limp toward the kitchen but stopped cold when he remembered something.
He abandoned the kitchen and instead went to the storage closet and propped his cane up against the wall, reaching up for a brown chest. Fumbling awkwardly with his weight on his good leg, he opened it up and rummaged until he found a certain amber bottle. Luminal. A dangerous back-up plan he'd been harboring since the infarction. As he recalled, he had lied to the pharmacist, saying he had to pick up the prescription for a patient that couldn't make it on his own. The bottle had been locked away ever since.
He wasn't sure why he had bothered. He had the Vicodin. He also had numerous other methods available that were hell of a lot more macho. He had believed that he would never succumb to the idea, too. Or maybe that was a lie. Maybe he had just been waiting for the right time.
He pushed the box back up on the shelf and shut the closet door, limping into the living room and setting the bottle on the coffee table. He retrieved a bottle of Scotch Malt from his booze cabinet and didn't bother with a glass. His eyes fixed themselves on that plastic capsule and never left for more than a second, until he stretched out across the couch and unscrewed the whiskey cap.
He turned away for a while and tried to savor the alcohol. His leg rejoiced at finally being given some relief, some time to unwind, and the rest of his muscles thanked him. His stomach grumbled, and it took real effort not to linger on the thought of Wilson's cooking or to resist the urge to get up and make himself a sandwich. The booze and the pills would get along better on an empty stomach.
He stared hard again at the bottle, the familiar shapes within it tempting him further. He took another drink of his whiskey, decisive this time, and reached for the pills. Popping the cap off with his thumb, he grabbed a magazine from the table and laid it in his lap, shaking the bottle empty. He began to count.
"Well, Marilyn, I thought you deserved a male counterpart," he said aloud.
Thirty-six. A full bottle. Enough to do the job. He popped one in his mouth, drank, popped two more in, drank. As the pills began to disappear from the magazine, a growing heaviness pulled him down, a feeling that he couldn't deny was sadness. No one was going to bother looking for him until a few days had passed, and when someone finally would look for him, it would most likely be with an air of vexation that he had missed work. No concern.
He had no one to blame but himself. He knew that. He had gone out of his way to be an ass all his life, so that most people would leave him alone, and the few people that had tolerated him anyway, he had shut out with his dishonesty and his ongoing attempts at being too much of a jerk to bear. Had he expected anything more than total apathy in regards to his death? Had he expected it to end any other way, with nothing valuable in his life except his job?
Why had he even dared to consider asking Wilson to stay? He knew what the answer would be. He knew not even Wilson could stand to stay with him for long. He smiled bitterly to himself. Not even Wilson could coexist with him unless there was a wall, a shield, a break. God, why had he been so stupid? Why had he slipped, allowed himself to have hope? Hope was a fucking dead-end road to self-destruction.
He could hear it even now.
"No. I don't think that's such a good idea."
He shut his eyes, letting the words echo throughout all the empty brain space. Yes. That's exactly what Wilson would say. House would finally make himself vulnerable again, and Wilson – caring pseudo-saint that he was – would choose that one moment to crush his understated hopes.
House's head lolled back and forth, his eyes shut and his mouth fixed into that comfortable lie of being okay – a smile, a fake smile. He felt his chest burn. He really did have no choice, did he? He had locked himself into this prison of solitude, and he was going to die in it.
Hell yeah, he was going to die in it.
He finished the Scotch gradually, resting his head back on the sofa arm again, and it didn't take long for the drowsiness to intensify. He tossed the empty pill bottle as far as he could manage, in no particular direction. He sighed, the sound of the phone's ring faintly registering in the edges of his brain.
"I got no problem with people killing themselves, but don't think it makes you a hero."
No, he was no hero. He was just a man utilizing his last method of control.