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House
She didn't want anyone else to know, she said, with a glisten in her eye and a curl over her ear.
She didn't want anyone else to know.
Else, meaning that there is a one to the else, a one that is an exception; special, not included with others; other elses, other ones.
He always thought he was a one.
He knew he probably wasn't 'the' one, having been Stacy's one, or so she said.
But, he thought he might have at least been 'a' one.
He was wrong.
The moment that he came to this realization, realized his mistake, his naivety and that was never a word he associated with himself before, ever—
The moment it happened—
It stopped.
It; the moment, the bounce of her curl, the lift of Wilson's lips, the tinkling over the door that echoed in the stale air and vibrated on the breath he has yet to release causing resonance pitch perfect—
A lonely oboe before a practice; a single breath pushed, shoved, squeezed through reed to bounce off the walls of the auditorium to lodge between his ears and behind his eyes and he was dumb.
He closed his mouth without realizing he'd left it open. He opened it again without meaning to say a single word.
Paused.
The air was still even though he knew it wasn't, like the change that he should have seen coming but didn't.
Too late now, he thought, too late for shoulda-woulda-couldas and asphalt flowers where the sidewalk ends. He could turn on all the lights in the attic and change would still come; but he was not ready, damn it, he was not prepared.
She smiled then, her whole face lighting up with happiness, and he wasn't prepared for that, either.
He wanted to look away, but found that he couldn't see very well, anyway. When did that happen?
Oboes, he thought. Middle A.
Aren't you going to congratulate me? She whispered, as if afraid.
Afraid of what, he wanted to yell, you have your one next to you and your dream in front of you and what about me? He wanted to ask. What about me? What about the air that is too thick and the thickness that is too loud and the painted walls he couldn't reach even if he wanted to?
But then, he reminded himself, Wilson could. Wilson could, and maybe Wilson had. Nice, safe Wilson, who always knew what to say and when to not and how to wrap others around his finger instead of the other way round.
Yellow, he thought. Yellow. Neutral; safe. Like Wilson, he thought. And why was yellow neutral, anyway?
But Cuddy was looking at him, waiting for a reply, waiting for the congratulations that she maybe thought she'd never get, waiting, always waiting—
If you're happy, I'm—
And he turned, pivoted, missing the glance between her and him, the pastel suddenly too bright for his eyes.
He slipped the shades back onto his nose, and walked away.
____________________________________________________
Cuddy
House.
House?
It was his voice. It was his shadow cast gray and skewed across the crib.
It was him.
When she looked up she cringed, still ebullient and relatively relieved. Her secret leaked, but the fact that Wilson told him meant that they were truly reconciled.
Tension mounted beneath relief.
'Finally,' was the last thing she thought before she heard that voice, before she saw his silhouette enter her field of view, her life, complicate the composition, her moment, complicate it all. She's finally been approved, she's finally shopping for her son or daughter, she's finally going to be happy, a little closer to completion.
He made a joke, that sardonic, acerbic mechanism of wit that masks everything he's thinking, everything he's feeling.
She shouldn't have cared how House felt, not really. But she did.
She saw the shock, the utter disbelief on his face.
I'm adopting a baby.
Surprise? Not exactly. She wished she could say blank, but she knows him too well. The man looked bewildered, like she was speaking a different language, saying something profound that went past his pastel pink ears and was a struggle for his mind to interpret. Cuddy liked her ability to still usurp his suspicion. She liked knowing that she could still keep a secret from House. He never suspected, he couldn't deduce her ongoing pursuit of maternity, there were no clues, no evidence, or there was but he was too conceited, too obsessed with a case or his best friend.
Regret.
That's what it was, she finally realized as he gaped a little, speechless, staring, trying to not feel sad, pathetic, alone. But he was. He regretted not paying closer attention. He regretted not being the one entrusted with her secret, again. Wilson was a character reference, sure, but what was he? No confidant, not even a friend, House didn't see this coming. He always pictured her pregnant with her own progeny or not at all. She knew he liked it when he had proof (for his conscience and ego) that she trusted him. Trust means something.
Regret means he had expectations.
Of course part of him probably thought she gave up, part of him wanted to be a donor, but not a big enough part.
She knew that part still existed and a part of her wished it had grown. But he just stood mute, his next words masked by sarcasm and clouded by confusion. He looked at her, looked at Wilson, the crib and back at her.
Maybe she was wrong.
She shouldn't have cared how House felt, though. She got approved. It's certain, it's going to happen. There's no more hoping, no more rationalizing unhappiness. It's definite, it's reality. She's going to have a baby.
She's going to be a mother.
Yellow. The room should be yellow, she thought in the stale silence, waiting. She always waited for him. But now she's stopped waiting, she took the initiative, she did something to make herself happy instead of him. If joy were a color it'd be yellow. A bright beautiful shade, so she smiled. The walls of the store were her joy and he was overwhelmed at the sight.
Today I did.
Three words, four life changing syllables and House didn't react. Not really, not any way she was expecting. But he was still happy for her, wasn't he?
Aren't you going to congratulate me?
She encouraged the proper response concealing her doubt and he finally blinked. Then she saw it, it wasn't just panic, shock, regret.
He was hurt.
Hurt that she didn't tell him, hurt that she didn't ask him, hurt that she didn't trust him, his pain was always her pain, even in a moment of making plans for a perfect, promising future.
As she watched him walk out, the pain receded. His or hers, it was a blurred border.
She looked at the crib again, her hand on it and her smile contagious. Wilson was still there, standing beside her with a sincere semicircle of a grin. She had him at least, and the crib--tangible, real--it was all her choice and she knew she'd make the right one. House was just an irritable interruption as his sad shadow drifted away, out the door and out of her life. For a moment her stomach sank, fearing she'd lost him for the last time. But soon her mind and heart were consumed again by the thought of every little heartbeat and every little breath of the baby that will soon be in the crib, her baby.
Finally.
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