It Ends Tonight

"Dying is easy, living is hard."

—James Evan Wilson

By: Ophelia Forbes

Disclaimer: The ones you don't know are mine, the ones you do aren't.

Summary: She's holding a gun to her head, ready to take her own life with the same gun she bought to save herself should anything happen to her. Then: "Take me with you." But she doesn't want to be the one to kill him.

Spoilers: a mix of scenes, events and dialogues from 'Joy' and 'Simple Explanation'.

--o0o-o0o-o0o--

It was dark outside, so dark that it seemed even the stars were shying away from the darkness as if they knew even their brightness could not compete. A lone figure sits in the corner by a window, hands loosely entwined on her lap. The room is dark, the only source of light coming from the flickering lamp post outside, casting a light glow on her face, hiding parts in shadows just as the shadows hide everything else in the corners of the room. Her hands shake even as she tries to still them, it is no use, she's too nervous, too scared…too everything.

She's also too determined.

There were many things she learned in life, one of them was second chances. Maybe that's why she easily forgave the chosen few around her, maybe that's why most people saw her as a fool. No one ever said it to her face, of course, but she knew from the way they looked at her and they way they spoke in hushed tones as she passed.

They thought she was a fool.

Then again, maybe she was.

A firm believer in chances she was, but she couldn't be faulted for that, at least, not entirely. Her mother had left her at home with her father, but later came back, bags in tow, forgiveness dribbling from her quivering lips. Her father took her mother back—chances were something to be given to those who deserved it after all.

Her mother came back, life went on and suddenly, they were happy…almost.

Her best friend took the boy she knew she was in love with in tenth grade, they fought, said words and cried. She asked for forgiveness, that she would forget him—he was a jerk anyway—and they could go on being friends. She accepted with a hard embrace, forgiving her, granting her a second chance.

Friends mattered more than any boy—no matter how cute or smart or perfect.

Her acceptance letter came from Harvard on a Tuesday, her mother found it and gave it to her father. She didn't know until they came into her room that night, she was studying for a quiz the next day while at the same time dreaming what she would do once she donned the crimson red vest with the H that so many knew so well and tour the old buildings in red bricks.

They came in, hand held in the other, smiles on their faces, the envelope in hand. They handed it to her, telling her how proud they were, how they knew she was going to make it. She lit up like a candle and immediately she was on her feet, bouncing, giddy and high.

It took her a minute to notice their smiles were faltering, that her mother was trying not to crack while her father was trying not to look away.

She'd been accepted by Harvard, but there was no way she could go.

A baby was on the way, money wasn't enough.

She applied for a scholarship, still positive, still determined. The letter came back—'denied'—her father earned enough supposedly to get her in.

They just didn't know about the baby.

So she settled for non-Ivy, somewhere far from her parents because she'd been accepted there and because it was far. She wasn't angry, she wasn't going to hold it against them, but she held on to the right to feel disappointed.

She needed to get away, she was afraid she might end up ruining their happiness or worst, resenting the baby that was coming.

It was just a baby; it didn't deserve to be hated by a selfish teenager who was supposed to be its sister.

A year goes by, she's in a university that was not originally a serious choice on her list, and she meets a guy, older than her by a few years. He shows her things she's never experienced or seen or felt, he shows her a part of life she didn't dare touch before. He showed her many things.

She fell in love.

Then he left.

He was older, he had a life to live, a rare type of brilliance to share to the world. She had a few years left and her goals remained the same so they separated. Her goals took the permanent spot on the front seat.

She swore not to fall in love again for a while.

Years later, she's successful—her goals were reached, though not quite perfectly but nonetheless, they were accomplished and the great part was, she accomplished more than she'd planned. She's a success, her parents lived a few hours away and her baby sister was in California, living a life she was happy with, a career that may not have been as successful, but enough to make her happy.

A few more years, now here she was…

Cold and lonely, alone except for her shaking hands, empty bedroom, empty bed and a heavy metal object placed delicately in her bottom bedside drawer.

She doesn't know why she bought it, doesn't know why she practiced with it—she reasoned it was for personal safety, a woman living alone was never a good thing. She doesn't know why now and again she pulls out the drawer, lifts it out carefully and practices the weight of it in her hands.

Tonight, she doesn't know what she's doing.

She's crying, in the darkness, after just running from the empty room beside her bedroom. Her hands shake, her mind reels…she doesn't know.

But she's determined.

She realizes she hasn't touched the half full—half empty?—glass with the crimson liquid on her coffee table. She really should drink it for it would be a waste not to.

Hands shaking, she reached for it, curling her cold fingers along the smooth glass curve, her palm following after to absorb more coldness. She brings the tip to her lips, lets the liquid slide into her mouth and she drinks readily and a bit greedily.

It's sweet with a touch of the usual bitterness. It really is a good wine. A friend gave it, to celebrate, not knowing she'd given it too early.

There was a reason to celebrate, now there wasn't.

She empties the glass, sets it back down where it was and moves on.

Her feet feel cold against the tiles, but she doesn't mind.

Inside, she's already cold.

Moving lethargically, as if in a walking coma, she moves to her bedroom noiselessly, passing the empty foyer, the empty living room, the empty room and straight into her bedroom. At the door, her hands go to her hair without command and they slip off the band that held her hair together. She lets them fall around her shoulders and for a moment, she feels loose.

Like as if the choking hold around her neck and the chains around her heart seemed to loosen, if only for a moment…

She slips out of her baggy sweater, her loose white pajama bottoms. She's a mess and like her mother taught her, messes needed to be cleaned. So she's going to clean herself.

Slipping out of her underwear, she grabs a light gray robe and heads for her bathroom. She doesn't turn on the light and instead, heads straight for the shower. She doesn't need the light to see where she goes since after all, this was her home, she knew everything like the back of her hand.

She tosses the robe out carelessly and turns on the shower.

She cleans herself.

On a normal night, she would savor the water, perhaps even have a bath filled with lavender scented bubbles, easing herself in after a work filled day.

But today isn't a normal day and she isn't up to being pampered by herself.

So she showers, squeezing out a tropical fruit scented shampoo for her hair and using Sandalwood scented soap on her body. She washes, methodically without thinking as her mind remains blank.

She finishes easily, having made sure she was clean which was her only goal for the night. She picks up her robe, slips it on and heads for the bedroom.

Grabbing a pair of shorts and a slip along with her underwear, she slips them on and carefully, eases herself into bed, sitting at the corner next to her bedside drawer.

She pulls out the bottom drawer.

Fingers shake and her throat suddenly feels dry. Nervously, she runs one hand through her wet hair before ultimately reaching in once again, this time with just one hand.

She always used two.

Tonight was different.

The weight isn't as heavy as before, somehow it feels lighter—feels right—and she guesses maybe it's the familiarity. Her finger traces delicately over the lines the brand name engraved on the side, the coldness of the metal, the roughness on the edges and the smoothness on the planes.

It seemed too easy.

Her fingers shake more so she decides it is time.

Holding on to the butt, as she had been instructed, she lets her fingers wrap around the handle smoothly. Her curled fingers feel as if they belonged there.

The one lone finger stays safely away from the trigger.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and she whispers to herself she can do this.

It's really quite easy.

And suddenly the metal thing feels heavy in her hands as she begins to lift it.

Position…

She feels the metal kiss her temple and she takes another breath.

The finger stays safely away still.

It feels heavier now.

Her other hand, dropped relaxed on her lap clenches into a fist.

It's so easy.

She's determined.

It only takes one.

It ends tonight.

Her eyes slip close and a soft sob escapes her lips.

The tears come, and for a moment, she wonders why she feels this way, why she feels like crying, why the choking hold around her neck tightens.

A solitary tear slips down her cheek with no permission.

Her bottom lip trembles.

She can do this.

It's better this way.

The finger begins to slide forward, curling slightly as it remembers where its supposed to be and heads there.

Closer, closer and closer.

Each second feels like an hour, like her world suddenly started spinning in a bowl of lard, spinning so slowly it felt as if everything had stood completely still.

Closer…

So close…one second.

It ends tonight.

It's so simple.

It's so easy.

A knock came, echoing through the empty house.

She ignores it, but the finger freezes in place.

A second knock comes and she silently curses the gods for doing this. She would ignore it, she decides, whoever it was would go away if they knew what happened and why she would need a moment alone.

Another knock, this time louder and it shifts immediately to banging.

The metal object stays in place and the kiss on her temple presses harder, she is reminded of what she's determined to do.

The finger slides in place without thought.

Just one more second.

"Cuddy! Open the door, I know you're in there!"

Please, god, no. Not now, not him. Not him.

Her mind screams.

She's stuck in between.

The finger is in place, so is the aim.

All she needed to do now was…do it.

A sob escapes her lips as the banging resumes.

"Cuddy!"

He sounds frantic, as if he knew what was going on.

He couldn't, could he?

He always knew too much too fast.

"Open the damned door!"

Another sob escapes her lips and only then does she realize she's crying.

Then suddenly, just as it began, the knocking stops, the screaming ends, her names dies away like a memory and silence resumes only louder this time.

He gave up.

And now so should she.

It's so simple.

Her fingers no longer shake, there are only streaks of tears left, her sobs have died down.

Finally…

She was doing this.

Now or never…it's too easy.

Her eyes slip close again, blacking away the dark world.

Then…

"Lisa."

Oh, god.

Her eyes open, wide. He's there, standing, dressed in back, his eyes wide as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, what he was walking into.

She stares at him, in shock with her mouth partially open.

"Lisa…" he begins, but stops himself.

His eyes grow suddenly cold and she flinches, as if his stare slaps against her skin like a whip. She feels the sudden urge to cower back.

"You're quitting…just like that."

The finger cowers back, lifting in the air, safely away, "Just like that."

Her voice is quiet and weak, but it still sounds so much like her. She's amazed she even has a voice now.

He stares at her, then at the object at her head, "Why?"

"It's easier."

She wonders for a moment if this is real. Maybe she had too much wine, maybe she was hallucinating, maybe she was literally insane now.

Maybe he wasn't really there.

"You don't do easy."

"There's a first time for everything."

It's easy to fall into the sparring match. This was a game they started more than two decades ago. Doing the familiar was easy.

It was, in a way, a comfort.

They talk as if there isn't something pointed at her head, ready to end everything and change the rest in a matter of seconds.

They talk as if it's a normal day.

"It's too bad," he says, softly. "You would have made a great mother."

Her hand freezes and her body follows, but she can't find the words to say anything.

"Don't do it."

She fights a sob, "Why not?"

"There are a thousand others, teenage boys riding bareback," he says. "Thousand more insecure teenager girls who need to please them."

"I…I can't go through that again."

She really can't.

"There are other babies out there," he says as if he didn't hear her. "Thousand other motherless children, ready to be taken in by a rich single doctor lady with a solid, high paying job and a big house who would dote on them every day, drown them in pink if it's a girl, give him the coolest toys if it's a boy.."

She shakes her head slightly, part in refusal, part in defeat.

"Don't."

He only says one word this time, she can feel his voice lull her slightly away from the edge, tempting her to stop, do as he says.

But one word isn't enough, not really.

"Why are you here?" she tries to deflect this conversation away from herself though she knows there isn't a chance in hell for that. There's something against her temple that won't really make it that easy to divert attention away from her.

"I don't know," he's always been honest. To her, at least. "But it doesn't have to end this way, not for you."

"I can't take this…not more of this."

He takes a slight step forward, cane thumping lightly in the silence. "Don't do it anyway. It's not over for you."

"Yes, it is."

"Then at least take me with you," he takes her off guard.

What the hell?

Suddenly she's mostly willing to believe this is really a hallucination now.

"What?" her hands falter, the kiss shifts against her skin.

"Take me with you."

"No."

No way in hell.

He shrugs and his cane falls to the floor with a thud, "If you do it, I'll do it anyway. I'm coming, whether you like it or not. You wouldn't know anyway, you'd be too busy being dead to notice."

"No, get out," your voice is stronger now. She doesn't want him to die.

The world, she knows, would lose a great deal without him. The bastard was a damned good doctor—good enough to save the hopeless and the damned.

Unlike her because she's not even a doctor anymore.

Not really.

"I'll do it, I'll follow," he says and takes a faltering step closer. "Maybe we'll see each other…the Catholics think once you take your own life, you damn yourself to hell where you'll suffer the rest of eternity in agony."

"Or maybe we'll end up in the same bunk beds, who knows?" he shrugs as if its nothing. "We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

Then it clicks, like a trigger, she realizes right then what he's doing.

"You son of a bitch," she hears herself say harshly with such power, with such emotion she didn't know she still had.

"I'll do it," his eyes stun her because they're not taunting like they should. They're soft, in a shade of blue she hasn't seen him wear for quite some time now. "I don't have much to lose, not really."

Her hand and arm are feeling tired now, the blood not passing enough through the odd angle she's locked them on. It feels heavy, like she wants to put it down, end the metal's kiss onto her skin.

But no, she's determined.

Yet at the same time, he's there.

And she knows he's not bluffing and for some reason, her conscience, even though logic dictates she'd be too dead to care, tells her this will be on her head, this will be on her.

She opens her mouth to say something vicious, something cutting…something to slap some sense into him in her final attempt to save him.

She doesn't want to be the one to kill him.

And it's only then she realizes what she's doing.

She's holding a gun to her head, ready to take her own life with the same gun she bought to save herself should anything happen to her.

She realizes what and why.

She has a gun to her head.

She's doing this because she…lost her baby.

Even in her thoughts, it's hard to say her name.

No, her mind says softly, not her baby.

She was never hers.

Joy was never hers.

She just saved her because she was a doctor, she belonged to her mother.

She belonged to Becca.

Joy belonged to Becca.

Who knows what comes next? But she's not hers, she never was.

And the tears slip down her cheeks.

Oh, god.

What was she doing?

"Don't do it," he says again, softer this time.

He's in her room, he's the only one there.

And with a sob, she drops her hand, the metal dropping carelessly against her lap. She doesn't know why or how, but suddenly, she's weeping into her hands, falling on her knees by her bed.

She mourns for her loss, she mourns for what cruel trick fate dangled in front of her, she mourns for the baby she lost all those years ago, she mourns those years she spent hoping and praying for a miracle even though she's never been truly faithful. She mourns for the child she learned to love even before she came to earth.

She mourns for the things she lost and perhaps will never have.

"Lisa," he says softly and suddenly, she feels warmth as his arms, covered in his stupid leather jacket, curl around her. He doesn't say anything else, maybe because he doesn't know what to say or maybe because he thinks there are no words needed.

It doesn't matter, she doesn't really care. Not right now, no.

He shifts his body, leaning his back against the bed and she feels his movements even as she wept. He cradles her close, dragging her body close and he held on to her tighter than she's ever been held for quite some time now.

And that is all the comfort she needs.

--o0o-o0o-o0o—

Yes, well, this was a sad one... weird too. I don't know why. I think this is a one-shot.

Very out of character, especially Cuddy, but for some reason I felt this and wrote this. I don't know—I was trying to update the next chapter for HtOHL, my other work in progress fic, but this came instead.

Oh, well. Review or tell me what you think.

It Ends Tonight by All-American Rejects