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Summary: An alternative encounter between House and Cuddy at the end of Forever. Cuddy wants more. House/Cuddy.
Disclaimer: Don't own the show or the characters. Please don't sue me.
"You're trying to get pregnant."
Somehow she thought that by not acknowledging his presence, by continuing to stare at her half-finished budget proposal, that he would take a hint and leave her alone. Obviously, she was mistaken.
She had heard him coming a mile away—the step-tap of his gait, the hasty and rude remark thrown at her protesting assistant, the swish of her glass office door being flung open and the softer thud as it swung shut. It took all of her willpower to continue to stare at the page of dancing numbers, currently meaningless to her. She could feel her heartbeat quicken at the sound of his gravelly voice, as she grasped desperately for something to say, for the right thing to say, for something that he wouldn't be able to see straight through.
It didn't surprise her that he knew. He always knew. She was only surprised that it had taken him this long to figure it out.
"And good morning to you, Doctor House." She greeted him pathetically, forcing her gaze upwards. His piercing blue eyes were staring straight into hers, unwavering. He stood directly in front of her desk; long fingers of one hand gripped his cane, the other hand was shoved in the pocket of his jeans haphazardly. She tried to keep her gaze steady—one flinch, one dart of the eyes and it was all over. She would be presenting the crack in her armor to him on a silver platter, and he wouldn't hesitate to use it against her.
"You're trying to get pregnant." He said again, unmoving. He was waiting…waiting for her to respond, to let a glimpse of emotion slip through.
"What'd you do this time, House? Bribe my fertility specialist? Tap my phone? Read my secret diary?" She was hoping to catch him off guard with her easy admittance of the truth. An outsider would think House unfazed, but she knew him better than that. One small flash in his eyes, a slight narrowing of the eyebrows, fingers clenched tighter around the handle of his cane—when dealing with House, these minute happenings qualified as shock. Outwardly she kept her expression serious, but inside she allowed herself to be pleased with her control of the situation.
"Went through your garbage, actually."
She raised one eyebrow in barely concealed surprise.
"This surprises you? Seriously?" He slumped into the chair across from her. "How long have you known me? Twenty years? Twenty-five?"
"You know what? You're right. I'm not surprised. In fact, I find it completely normal for you to sift through my garbage like a homeless man looking for cans."
He didn't respond. There were a million snarky retorts he could have thrown her way, yet the room was bathed in silence. Her breathing became slightly, almost imperceptibly, quicker, in anticipation of what was to come. With House, silence was almost always deadly.
He rested his chin on top of his cane, his gaze steady and body still.
"When you're trying to get pregnant, it's usually not the best idea to stop having sex."
Well there it was. She knew it was coming, knew that was the real reason he had barged into her office. She knew it was coming, knew that it would be coming for days now, and still she hadn't thought of the right thing to say. She could deal with the most high-maintenance donors, pacify the most difficult public relations nightmares, yet she could not successfully have this conversation with him. Not when those eyes were on her. The truth was unacceptable, and he would easily dismantle her lies.
"I know how babies are made, House."
"Yeah you do." He raised his head off of his cane and grinned. One hand dipped into his pocket and pulled out his little orange bottle. He popped the cap off, and dry swallowed an unknown amount of Vicodin. She sighed, frowning, and dropped her chin into her hands.
"Anything else? Or are you just here to state the obvious?"
"You're ignoring me."
"You're sitting right in front of me. There's no one else here. I'm not ignoring you." She had decided, instantaneously, to play dumb. One look at his face told her that was a stupid idea.
"You decided to try to get pregnant, and now you're ignoring me."
The fear of finding the right thing to say was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sadness. Her body ached with regret. He picked a pen up off of her desk, and twirled it between his fingers. He wasn't looking at her anymore, and it made her feel somehow…disconnected.
"What do you want me to say, House? What we were doing…it didn't mean anything, it wasn't going anywhere." Her voice wavered slightly. The truth hurt. Hurt her, at least. "You made that abundantly clear."
"It meant something. It meant great sex—mind-blowing sex—and no strings. You didn't seem to mind." His burning gaze was back on her, eyebrows narrowed. She could feel his underlying anger.
She didn't mind. She loved being with him. She looked forward to their nights spent together. His hot breath against her neck, long fingers on her soft skin…she loved it all. But after the sex, as he slept, their limbs intertwined, her feelings never dissipated. As she watched his lean chest rise and fall, and ran a hand through his tousled hair, her love for him would swell. The next morning, as they made breakfast together, her in her silk robe and he in only his jeans, she would be overwhelmed with happiness. They would eat together, bantering back and forth, and then he would leave. As his bike roared to life and sped away, her house would suddenly seem much too big and far too cold.
No, she didn't mind, and that was the problem. She loved the sex. But she also loved him. A feeling she knew he couldn't reciprocate.
"I want more then great sex." Her voice was soft, but she contained her sadness. She couldn't allow herself to appear that vulnerable in front of him. "I want a baby, House. I want to be a mother. And I know you don't want children. What am I supposed to do?"
He stared at her for a moment, frowning slightly. He dropped the pen into the cup on her desk, and stood.
"My patient's being discharged. She's fine…well, besides the cancer."
"Where are you going?"
"Does it matter?" He walked to the door, without looking back. Swish open, one sneakered foot stopping it from shutting. "I did my job. That's all you care about, right?"
The door thudded shut, and he was gone. Gone again. She pulled her sweater tighter around her body.
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