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Lawrence Choudhary Kutner has always had a good life. Atleast that's what he tells people.
His parents immigrated from India and birthed him in California, and while he struggles to fit in, his parents always told him to 'be proud of who he is, and someone will like you', which soon became his motto in life. His parents supported him through all he did, even till death. Lawrence still remembers that day, replaying in his head like clockwork. It was one night, he was helping close with his parents when he was supposed to be in bed. A man dressed in black came in, gun pointed at his mother's head, yelling and insulting. His father had told him to run, but Lawrence had remained frozen, watching as the man shot his father between the temples and cursed at his mother to give him the cash.
When she had obeyed, she had met the same fate, and the man took the cash and left, leaving him alone, in a pool of blood that was not his own. He told others that he had parted ways with it, that it didn't bother him so much anymore because he has great foster parents now. He loves them, he does, they do so much for him and love him all the same. They love him even as he came out to them as gay and when they found out he was smoking weed to cope.
Even now, he has a good life. He is surrounded by great people, he works for Gregory House, for fucks sake, even as rude as the man is, he's a good man. People would quite literally throw themselves over to have the life he has. He should he grateful, not holding a gun to the bottom of his jaw praying for it to end. His hands are shaky as he holds the barrel of the pistol to his jaw, it's a sleek thing, gifted to him by his father, a present supposedly to keep intruders at bay after he acknowledged he was afraid his parents would meet the same fate as his last. His father had taught him how to use it and clean it, knowledge he know nows to use on.. well himself.
The tip of the gun is cold as it meets the warmth of his mandible, pressed softly against it. One clean bullet through and Lawrence Choudhary Kutner is no more. That's all he has to do.
.....why can't he shoot?
He's practiced this, every night after he left his shift, he practiced how and where he would shoot for a fast and painless death, but now, as his hands shake even harder, he finds himself unable to, he finds himself dropping the gun on his lap. It lands with a soft thud, and Lawrence spends the rest of the night sobbing, hating at how weak and selfish he fucking is.
He lays in bed, the moonlight from his window hitting the gun currently on the floor, almost drawing a halo over it, tempting like a sin.
Lawrence is too tired to get up. His limbs feel heavy and his head is pounding.
Next time, he tells himself. Next time will be different.
— — —
Something is wrong, is what House immediately thinks when he walks into his office, seeing Foreman and Taub, but weirdly enough, no Kutner nor Thirteen. He's coming in late like always, so to not see the loud man telling stories or whatever is.. off, or seeing his favorite bisexual daughter (he would never admit that openly) is even more off. It's wrong, it ruins his daily schedule and makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand straight up.
He doesn't even care to what Taub is saying as he walks in, standing in front of the door bisecting his office and the conference room.
He hums, tapping his cane absentmindedly. "I will give you 30 reasons, one for each pound that cause the apnea which enflamed the epiglottis." He says, walking around the room before asking, "Why is our rainbow coalition missing brown and bi?" The two men look at him, Foreman giving him an annoyed shrug and Taub not looking you from the file before he responds.
"Thirteen’s with a patient, and Kutner’s dog’s sick. He should be in by lunch." He explains. God, this is why he hired Taub, the man always seems to have everyone's dirt, his favorite gossip girl, if you're asking him. House doesn't let it pass, but it feels a bit better when Thirteen walks into the room, but for some reason the feeling of wrongness doesn't seem to go away, in fact, it lingers the longer Kutner doesn't seem to come back. It's off. He feels off-kilter by this.
They're at the clinic desk as of now, hours passing by with no signs of his favorite Indian. Foreman walks up to him with clearly some news House doesnt give a rat's shit about.
"Treatment worked. Charlotte’s breathing’s back to normal. She’s being discharged." Foreman informs, House giving a distracted nod before Taub joins in.
"She can resume her vigil over her husband who started fading again." He replies, no singular expression passing on this man's face. Wow, House sometimes wishes he had the power to look so emotionally dead like that.
He hums, turning to face them. "Win some, lose some." He shrugs. "And strictly speaking, since he’s not my patient, win some." He grins. "Look at the time," he looks at his empty wrist like it's a watch. "It’s half past “Taub was lying about Kutner.”" House deadpans, earning an eyeroll from the short, balding minion.
"He probably went to a comic book fest, spent the night at some Wonder Woman’s lair," Taub explains, annoyed. "I’m sure he’ll —"
House interrupts him then. "Find out what or who he’s doing," he orders, before realizing he sounds like he cares too much. Can't have that. "Either way, Cuddy’s gonna want me to write it under “reason for termination.”" He simply shrugs.
He's cut off by Taub's pager going off. House looks down at him.
"That's Kutner?" He asks, a smidgen of hope slipping into his words.
"Charlotte." Taub says instead, making House rolls his eyes. He doesn't give a shit about Charlotte. He wants to know where the fuck Kutner is.
House decides if all his lackeys are gonna worry about some annoying patient, he will simply have to do this himself. Accompanied with Wilson, of course, because if House will be jailed, so will Wilson. And the man is good company too. Not to mention eye candy.
"Can't you just accept Kutner may be sick or something?" Wilson asks, exasperated, trailing behind House as House limps to find the man's apartment building. "You know, like a normal person?" He adds, and when they reach the familiar door, 5-C, House turns to face him.
"I'm not normal," he excuses, and Wilson only groans. "Yeah, figures." He murmurs.
House pulls a key from his pocket, a copy he got when Kutner had forgotten his keys at the table one day, a little just in case. "Where did you get that!?" Wilson whisper-yells, as if this is the worst thing he has done. House chuckles.
"You don't wanna know." He grins as the door finally gives, opening to find an apartment that simply screams loserville.
"No wonder Kutner never scored a girl.." He snickers, Wilson smacking him behind the head for that.
"Kutner? We are so sorry, someone here can't-"
"Its quiet." House observes. Both men pause. There is a bowl of cereal seemingly fresh, eaten a mere few hours ago but paused. It's half eaten. The milk is still cold when House dips his pinky into it. Wilson then gasps, rushing over to Kutner's bedroom. The sight he sees makes his blood cold.
House barely listens to Wilson calling the cops as he is immediately running, cane and infarction be damned, to fall onto his knees to preform CPR on Kutner. There's a gun wound to the temple, and by the perfect state of the apartment, no one could have broken in, it seems to have been self-inflicted. Smart way to kill yourself, House thinks.
"C'mon Kutner.." he whispers, his voice shaky, Wilson near him looking at him sadly, the man's own hands willing his away but House slaps them off of him, resuming what he was doing.
"House, House stop it," Wilson begs. House doesn't listen, his hands continuously pumping at Kutner's heart, sirens blaring louder and louder as they arrive, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.
No, no, no, no!
He can save him, he can, he has saved countless of lives, why can't he save this one?
"House, he's cold." Wilson comments. It cuts in like a knife. House sits back on his knees, hands leaving the now cold body on the floor, tears streaming down non-stop. He doesn't look at Wilson, he can't leave the sight Kutner makes. He should've been faster. He should've stopped him. He's a great doctor, why couldn't he save him?
The EMT's get here, House being talked to by Wilson and others yet he doesn't listen, not when he is instructed to leave and not when Wilson is dragging him out of the apartment building and to the car where House sobs as they drive back to PPTH, Kutner finally proclaimed dead by suicide and it's not fucking fair. Kutner was young, he was bright, he was intelligent and stupid, he brought that light everyone needed in such a dark workplace full of sickness and death. If anyone deserved to go such a way it'd be anyone else in the world but Kutner.
House doesn't take a case that day after. He spends his hours in Kutner's apartment looking for false evidence that it was a murder or anything else but suicide. All he finds are baby pictures of Kutner, and he looks so young. House cries for what could've been, comforted by Wilson who followed him there. Wilson offers to take House to Kutner's funeral, but House could never stomach funerals. It made it all too real.
He went anyways.
He sat there, Wilson's hand in his, watching as everyone spoke about Kutner until everyone but himself went. He stood up anyways, heading to the altar, watching as everyone remained silent yet shocked. Many words swam in his mouth, cane in his hand, clenched in anger. "Suicide is a selfish way to die," he sneers, watching as everyone gasps, Wilson frowning. He steps off and walks out of the church, Wilson surely following like always. He expects to be punched, but for Wilson to wait until he is limping down the church steps for the man to trip him? Not at all.
He meets hard, hot gravel when he lands, palms scraped from failing to catch his fall and thigh burning like a bitch from the impact.
"You disgust me." Wilson snarks, standing somewhere near him. House hums as he gets up to his knees, duating his face off. He thinks some may have gotten into his mouth too. Ugh.
"Not what you said in bed last night, though." He grins, it's weak, but it pisses Wilson off like he expects it to, the man taking his cane before House can even reach for it, holding it out of grasp.
"Can't you deal with grief like a normal person?" Wilson huffs, almost beginning to laugh. House is still trying to get up without his cane. It proved fruitless.
"Thought- thought we had this conversation." House winces, managing to get up but at what cost? Thigh still burns like a bitch and hes sure his palms will get infected if he doesn't find himself something to clean it. Oh well. Wilson still holds the cane from him, even as House rubs at his thigh, the pain worsening. His jeans feel wet at the knees, he's definitely bleeding, doesn't know how bad, but it's there.
"You- you- you can't handle grief like a normal person so- so you deflect. You attack." Wilson analyzes, and god, House does not need this. In fact, this is the least thing he needs currently. House rolls his eyes, going for his cane, but Wilson, much faster, dodges and continues to speak. "You were raised with parents who shut down every negative emotion, so now when you feel it, your first instinct is to attack, not to feel." Wilson continues, and do his parents really need to be brought up here?
"Sorry, was the sobbing I did in your car not enough for you?" House asks, annoyed. Wilson seems to ignore that little detail. Of course he does.
"No, that was different. That was shock in your system. This," Wilson shows, pointing with House's cane. House rolls his eyes harder. "Is you trying to- to gain back control." Wilson observes, crossing his arms over his chest. Good lord.
"And right now I'm also trying to gain back control of my own fucking cane." He snarks, snatching his cane forcefully from Wilson, the brunette finally deciding to give in. Wilson frowns at him, hands on his hips like he's his mother, a pose House has to constantly see. House manages to not roll his eyes finally, done with this conversation with the way he walks away, shoving Wilson's shoulder meanly on his way. Wilson doesn't let him go, hand gripping his forearm tightly.
"I know you miss him, we all do." Wilson hums. House swallows tightly, moving his arm away from Wilson's grip, Wilson letting go easily.
"Im going home." He announces. Wilson sighs.
"Let me drive you-"
"Im taking a cab."
"Don't be a fucking child, your leg clearly hurts." Wilson sighs angrily. House rolls his eyes. Damn, he was so close.
"Wonder why." He deadpans. Wilson makes an angry sound, murmuring something under his breath before walking away. But not before walking back to lead House to the car, because Wilson would clearly miss a funeral just to make sure House doesnt end up in a pretty little casket like Kutner did. And they said romance was dead.
"Im.. sorry..?" He tries for the millionth time, Wilson still ignoring him as he drives them home, very much radiating disappointed parent. House groans.
"Ill.. start therapy." He gives up, glad it atleast gets Wilson to look at him.
"And?" The man urges. Selfish bastard.
"And... I'll let you fuck me?" He grins. He gets a pinch in his side at that. He groans.
"Ill.. apologize to his parents. And to him." House murmurs. Wilson pats his thigh.
"Do you want Thai or Chinese for dinner?" Wilson's asks then.
"Wow, already inviting me for hookers?" House chuckles, Wilson about to pinch him against until he too chuckles at his stupid joke.
"God, you're insufferable." Wilson murmurs fondly.
"Love ya too, sweetcheeks." House replies.
They go quiet, House toying with the image of a young, quiet, Indian boy who saw too much for his age in the pocket of his jacket, a little something to keep his son, whether biological or not, close.