A/N: This story came out of nowhere. I honestly have no idea where the inspiration came from. I was just listening to All the Right Moves, by One Republic, and it hit me and I ran with it and I made it up as I went. I wouldn't get used to this two-in-a-row posting streak, though. My muse is famous for being sporadic.
There's really no timeline, no Lucas, no baby Rachel, though I guess it takes place somewhere after season 5 and House is still living with Wilson. It just sort of exists – truly hypothetical, if you think about it.
As it starts, you may be a little confused, because there is little initial explanation as to where this came from. But don't worry. There's a reason for the madness. I'm actually rather proud of my plotting genius that way. Just keep reading and it'll make sense. Promise.
So…enjoy. Maybe.
Hypothetically
By: Zayz
All the right moves
In all the right places
Yeah, we're going down
They say everybody knows
Everybody knows where we're going
Yeah, we're going down
- All the Right Moves, One Republic
Hypothetically, there were a lot of places this relationship could go.
Hypothetically, she could get dressed up tonight, wear her hair down and drench her neck in her favorite perfume, and the evening could go like clock-work. She would flirt; he would make an innuendo; they would dance and the whole thing could end hot and sweaty in one of their beds. Disregarding practicality for a moment, the possibility was there. It was always there.
Of course, hypothetically, it could also go the other way. He could show up late; she could spill her wine; they could argue about something silly and stomp away angry, refusing to speak for months. This was a little more likely; definitely possible.
But really, there were a million possible scenarios in between the two obvious ones and she would never know which would play out, unless she went there and gave it a shot. More than the mystery, the mutual attraction, the curiosity – the mystery surrounding how this would actually unfold – drove her to hands down one of the most riskiest events of her lifetime.
She sighs and surveys her appearance in the mirror – the little black dress, the pearl necklace, her hair curly and loose over her shoulders – and deems herself acceptable. She checks the clock and realizes she can't dawdle anymore, or she'll be late. And God knows she can't be late for this. This date has been in the making for more than twenty years after all.
She leaves the room without another glance back.
The restaurant is newly open, which you can tell the moment you walked in. The waiters are too eager to please; the place is too clean; there are too many people being informed of specials at their tables. It is gourmet and Italian – very smart, which is clear in the uniforms and the company – but the atmosphere is tentative, somehow, as if they aren't entirely sure they are going through the motions correctly.
It had been House's idea to come here – he was the one who had made the reservation – and Cuddy is not entirely sure what to think, stepping in and taking a glance around. This clearly isn't to his tastes, because it involves dressing up (something he strives not to do if he can help it), but he evidently thought she would like it. And she does…it just makes her nervous in this context. Everything makes her nervous in this context.
She tells the hostess girl with fluffy hair and bright smile – Maureen – that she has a reservation for two. Maureen informs her that Mr. House is not here yet, but she will send him back when he arrives.
As another mousy girl wordlessly arrives to lead her to her table, Cuddy almost breathes a sigh of relief: at the very least, the irreverence for punctuality is something familiar, something she is used to.
She waits at the table in her little black dress, aware that some casual eyes linger on her a moment too long. She's sure she's conspicuous, waiting alone at this nice restaurant, at a table for two, but she prefers it this way, honestly. She has some time to compose herself before he gets here.
She doesn't wait long. Maybe five minutes, maybe ten. Her eyes happen to be in the right place at the right time and she catches the mousy girl leading none other than House to her table. Her heart skips a beat and she wonders vaguely if anticipation triggers some sort of universal myopathy in people. She must get a research team on that.
"Hey," says Cuddy, doing her best to smile as she stands to awkwardly greet him, kiss him on the cheek (read: bump her jaw against his). "You made it."
"Sorry I'm late," he says gruffly, though he isn't.
"It's fine," she counters, though it might not be.
They sit down a little too quickly, the full awkwardness of the situation beginning to manifest itself like a fatal disease between them. The thought bubble over their heads is mutual: perhaps this wasn't a good idea. She is his boss; he is her employee. She has flitted around him for years; he has deflected, harassed, and also insulted her for years. Their relationship is in several places at the same time: seen each other naked but never seen in public together; confided their profoundest emotions but unsure on the other's everyday habits.
They have been shockingly intimate in the past, physically and emotionally; and yet, seeing them now, trying to decide whether or not to let their gazes meet, you'd never be able to tell.
Their waiter has not arrived to take orders, so the two remain buried in their menus, pretending to choose a dish. It's a decent excuse, but the air is still uncomfortable, and she is the one to finally break it, convinced that he would spend the whole evening not talking to her if it meant not taking the necessary initiative, even if it was his idea in the first place.
"So…have you finished with your latest case?" she asks for the sake of asking something.
"Yeah," he says. "The team is running the final tests tonight to confirm."
"What was it?"
"A bizarre presentation of polymyotisis."
"Why don't you just give him steroids?"
"He's immuno-compromised after all the other stuff we did to him. Foreman whined for five straight minutes, so I let him do the test. But don't worry; I gave him the meds before I left. He's going to be fine."
She smiles faintly. "That's good."
House merely shrugs. "I guess."
"So this means I've got to go hunting for an interesting new case tomorrow," she says.
House rolls his eyes. "Seriously?"
"One case at a time is not exactly taxing," Cuddy points out.
"But that doesn't mean you have to give me one," he complains.
"Too bad." She sips the complimentary water; it's so chilled that it gives her a slight brain-freeze.
Now they fall silent again, looking for something to say; but fortunately, their waiter chooses this moment to appear at their table, holding a little pad and a fancy-looking pen.
"What would you like to drink, madam?" the waiter – Charlie – asks, turning to Cuddy. "Wine, perhaps?"
"Some white wine, please," she says, quickly glancing over the wine menu.
"Shall I get a bottle?" Charlie asks, turning to House.
"Why not," says House dryly.
"I'll be right back," says Charlie importantly, scuttling off towards the kitchen with his little pad. House watches him go, his expression one of deep concentration.
"What is it?" asks Cuddy, looking in the direction of retreating Charlie.
"That guy's shirt is meticulously tucked in when everyone else's shirts are jostled as part of the job," House noted. "He must tuck it regularly. His hair is neatly parted, swathed with gel, and there are no creases in his pants, making me think he ironed them before he came to work this evening. Obviously, he cares deeply about being at work and is trying his best to be a model waiter. He probably needs the money for college or something. But then I see that as he attempts to write down that woman's order over there, his hand is twitching ever so slightly over his pad; he tries to hide it by switching the pad to his other hand and running his hand through his hair, but his tightly contorted face and slightly over-pink cheeks tell me he knows exactly what's going on. He's got a twitch – my guess is a positive myoclonus, because it's small and area-specific – but he doesn't want to go to a doctor and get diagnosed because it might affect his job as a waiter, where he has to carry things back and forth."
Cuddy opens her mouth to say something, astonishment written all over her face, but she thinks better of it and closes her mouth again. House watches Charlie for another few seconds, seeming mesmerized, before facing his date again, an oddly triumphant look on his face.
"That's…fascinating, House," she says uncertainly.
"I know," he says. "We might have to ask for a different waiter."
"I think he's fine," Cuddy says quickly.
"If you say so." House drums his fingers on the table and looks distantly off into space. He honestly doesn't seem to have anything to say. This, more than anything, makes Cuddy uncomfortable, somehow responsible, as though they must conduct conversation throughout the course of this entire meal.
"So…what else is going on?" she asks.
"Nothing," he says smoothly.
"How's Wilson?"
"Good."
"The team?"
"Good."
She racks her brain for any more significant friends or family members, but she realizes there are none. And she's already asked about the patient.
"Um…"
She attempts to find some other conversation point, but as she looks into House's face, she sees that he is grinning at her.
"What?" she asks, frowning slightly.
"You don't have to try so hard, you know," he says in such a way that she knows he's enjoying himself. "We don't have to talk every second."
"It's kind of stupid to eat dinner without a word," she says.
"It's also kind of stupid to pretend that we care about these little trivialities," he counters. "I'm not a bank manager or an insurance guy or your ex-boyfriend. You don't need to try and impress me."
She is obviously frazzled, but tries her best to hide it, taking a hearty sip of the water, regardless of how cold it is.
"I'm not trying to," she says. "This is what people do when they're on dates. They make conversation."
"If there's something you want to talk about, say it," says House, breaking down and taking a sip of his water too. "Don't put me through the foreplay."
"Fine," says Cuddy defiantly. "Then let's cut to the chase. Why are we here? Why me, why here, why now?"
He shrugs, making a brave attempt at nonchalance. "Because."
"That's not an answer," she insists.
He looks her in the eye and amends, "Because it seemed like the logical next step."
She is truly taken aback now and this time, she doesn't even make an effort to hide it.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" She is careful to make her tone curious rather than accusatory.
To her astonishment, he blushes slightly, looking highly uncomfortable for once. "It means we've got this thing, and I just figured…"
"Figured what?"
He pauses a long moment. "Figured it made sense," he says at last.
It's an answer, but it's an odd answer; she isn't sure how to make heads or tails of it. She sits, perplexed, thinking this one over, when their unfortunate, twitchy waiter Charlie returns with the wine.
"Here you go," he says, placing down two glasses and pouring the white wine into them. Cuddy watches as he does so and notices, with some dismay, that House was right – he is indeed twitching ever so slightly, gripping the bottle with absurd tension to ensure his muscles stay put.
"Are you ready to order dinner, or shall I come back in a few minutes?" asks Charlie.
"We're ready to order," says House, taking over before Cuddy can open her mouth.
"What would you like?" Charlie obediently opens his pad and poises his hand over the sheet.
"I'll have the Italian sausage platter," he says.
Charlie scribbles this down at once.
"And you, madam?" he asks politely.
"The shrimp pasta," says Cuddy.
Charlie scribbles this down as well.
"All right, then, I will put in the order and bring it out to you as soon as it is finished," he says, taking their menus.
"Thank you," says Cuddy, because someone has to.
Charlie nods pompously and scuttles off again to the kitchen, holding his precious pad tightly in his hand. This leaves House and Cuddy alone again – and Cuddy still has to respond to House's previous baffling statement. She falls deep into thought as they sit in wait, going over and re-going over the look on his face, the tone of his voice, the particular inflection on the word 'sense.'
Not for the first time tonight, she wonders if it was such a good idea to agree to this, to come to this swanky Italian restaurant with all the swanky couples, to pretend for a night that she and House could have a normal, healthy relationship. What have they gotten themselves into?
She sighs. House is honest, but he's also House – he specializes in game-playing, beating around the bush, carefully selecting words that somehow give nothing away. The only way to get anything out of him is to be blunt, direct, and utterly fearless – things she wasn't entirely sure she could be, when she was so discomfited.
"House, I have a question and I want you to answer it honestly," she says.
"That depends on the question," House responds smoothly.
She sighs.
"I really do want to know why you decided to bring me here," she says. "I know you went out with Cameron, but that was because that was her condition to come back to work. There's nothing like that here. I have to know…what we're doing."
House considers this as thoughtfully, as genuinely, as almost never does, when the question is so personal. He seems faraway again, in his own world, and it's all she can do to keep her mouth shut, to stop herself from demanding an answer more quickly.
However, in a snap, he looks her in the eye again, deadly serious, and says, "The honest answer to your question is not one you will want to hear. So I'm not going to say anything."
Alarm bells go off in her head at once; her eyes widen and she is suddenly on the defensive, wondering what horrible, twisted thought process led them to where they are now.
"What do you mean?" she asks suspiciously.
"I mean, you really don't want to know," he says, so solemn that she is even more anxious.
"House, I'm telling you, I don't care how bad it is, I just want to know what's going on," she says determinedly. "I have that right."
House sighs, looking at her with something almost like pity. But he's also a bit nervous. These are not good signs and she is growing more fretful by every second he makes her wait. She holds his gaze steadily, resolutely, making sure he knows that she isn't going to let it go.
And at last, her patience is rewarded. He subsides and takes a sip of wine before saying, "I invited you out because I wanted to prove to Wilson that I could."
Her jaw hangs the slightest bit as she processes this sentence, word by word and then as a whole, what it means and what it implicates.
"So…what was this, some sort of bet?" she asks in a faraway voice that doesn't feel like her own.
He shakes his head. "There wasn't any money involved."
"So what do you get out of this?"
He shrugs, not looking at her. "The satisfaction of being right," he says.
"And that's good enough for you."
She is bitter, but she feels she has every right to be. The anger swelling in her gut – black like midnight, black like fury at its deepest – is harder to explain.
She should've known. That's the fact, the tragedy of the matter. Coming out tonight, she had her reservations. She knew this probably wouldn't go smoothly. How could it, if she was going out with House? God, what was she thinking? Why hadn't she known better? He didn't care about her. He never had. How could she delude herself, for this one night, in her little black dress, that this could work out otherwise?
Hypothetically, this night could have gone in a million different directions, a spider-web spun to infinity; but realistically, there was only one way this could have gone: down the toilet. How could she have forgotten that?
Blood pounds in her ears, hot and forceful, but she swallows thickly and takes in everything about him: his blue eyes, electric and sorry; his face, so still, waiting for her; his painfully dressy suit and tie; his cane, leaning against the side of the table.
"I'm curious now," she says in a tone of forced calm. "What exactly was the deal? Did he think that you couldn't ask me out, or that I wouldn't say yes if you did?"
The pity is even more profound in his face as he says one word: "Both."
She nods, shaking slightly, the hurt reverberating through her body like shockwaves.
"But I said yes," she says.
"I told you that you didn't want to know."
She meets his gaze for a moment, and she sees his face hasn't changed. Why hasn't it changed? Why can't he show her one morsel of humanity, when he's already exposed and shredded all of hers?
"I'm glad I found out," she says coolly. "At least I know where I stand."
They sit in silence again, this time with their eyes averted to the floor. The horrible, ugly truth sits between them like a thousand-pound elephant and it won't let up. The wine, the food, the restaurant, the people…all of it is forgotten.
Underneath the dressy trappings of this place, of this evening, things are exactly the same as they have always been. She was gullible and got tricked into thinking she meant something to one of the biggest known manipulators she knew. That part stings the most.
"I think I'm going to wait for the food and take it to go," she says, taking her wine and downing her helping in one gulp. "You can stay if you want."
"Look, Lisa…"
Hearing her first name on his lips – a phenomenon that never occurs unless her last name is attached at the end – flares her up like nothing else could have. But she keeps her mouth shut, choosing instead to glare resentfully at him.
"This wasn't ideal…and I agreed with Wilson, I didn't think you'd say yes…and I know you're probably pretty pissed at me," he says. "But…"
"But what?"
She is tired and wary and no longer cares if she hinders his progress by interrupting him. She is looking forward to going home, changing out of this stupid dress, going to bed and staying there, drifting into unconsciousness at her own speed.
She stares at him, wondering what the tail-end of that sentence is, wondering if he's going to finish. When he doesn't, her gaze bores into his, and suddenly it makes sense.
"Are you…sorry?"
He says nothing, but something deadens behind his blue irises and she knows instinctively that she's right.
But she is so caught up in him, in the way he's looking at her right now – so constricted, purposely expressionless, with that glimmer of Something she can't identify – that she almost doesn't notice their waiter, Charlie, arriving with their dinner.
"Here you are," he says, beaming, as he puts the plates down in front of them. "Do you need anything else."
"No, thank you," says Cuddy.
Charlie nods. "Have a nice dinner." And then he's gone.
The two plates sit before them, steam rising, warm and enticing. But neither moves to begin the meal. Despite her threat to pack it up and leave, she doesn't think she's going to.
She hesitates a few more seconds, then picks up her fork and begins to roll the spaghetti onto it, tasting the sauce. She takes a bite and finds that it's pretty good. She starts to make another. From across the small table, she hears House pick up his knife and fork as well and begin to eat.
The only sounds for several minutes are the sounds of food being cut and eaten. Against Cuddy's initial wishes, the meal is an entirely silent one. There's nothing left to say, after all.
They finish quickly without the distraction of conversation and Cuddy waves over Charlie to get the check. When he does, he puts it in the middle, between them, and flees. Their eyes met briefly, wondering what to do next, when House wordlessly picks up the bill and scans it over. He signs the bill and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He slips out a credit-card – Visa – and tucks it into the plush little booklet. He catches Charlie's eye and leaves it back in the center of the table.
Cuddy stares at the check, free to chew her lower lip in contemplation since her lipstick is gone anyway. She feels guilty, in a way, for the way the evening turned out. Odd, since she is the victim in this game, but she does.
Hypothetically and realistically, this could still have been a nice evening. But she had chosen to get personal, to take this date for more than it was or could have been, and for that she had been punished. It had been stupid to care so much.
Charlie takes the check and promises to be right back. There are nerves unrelated to his possible positive myoclonus in his demeanor that show he, too, has noticed the chill at the table. He really will be right back, if it means getting this weird couple out of here.
Sure enough, within a few seconds, Charlie has brought them the check, wishes them a pleasant evening, and runs to the next table, which is flagging him over.
The meal is finished. The date is finished. They are free to go home.
Their eyes meeting briefly again, House and Cuddy stand and push in their chairs. Without looking at her again, House limps towards the exit, not looking back. Something hard in her chest breaks and smolders, spreading warmth through her, and she knows she has to follow. She always follows. She has never been one to stay away, even if he ends up doing things like this.
She catches him in the foyer of the restaurant.
"House!"
He turns and sees her, rushing towards him, out of breath. The confusion registers in his face before he can think to hide it. But he stands still, waiting for her to come to him.
This is the first time in the evening when he really, honestly, looks at her, everything about her: the curly hair left out; the little black dress, showing off her figure; the necklace and earrings and the lipstick; the black heeled shoes.
She had made an effort to look nice, just as he had. She had made an effort to make this work, as he had not. And in his own way, he does feel sorry that it had to work out this way. She looks pretty tonight.
"House, I just want to say thank you," she says. "I mean…you never said the restaurant reservations or any of that was part of the deal."
"They weren't," he admits.
"And…well…you made a good decision," she says. "The restaurant is beautiful and the food was very nice."
He nods in acknowledgment, eyes averted, and they stand awkwardly for another second or two, House's hand on the door, ready to leave at a moment's notice.
"So…good night, House," she says shyly, managing a smile.
"Good night, Cuddy," he says back softly. He does meet her gaze this time and is all the more striking for it, seeming more like a wounded animal here than a manipulative bastard.
She leans in and she's going for his cheek, just a quick peck, when he turns instinctively, accidentally, and she finds his lips instead. But instead of pulling away, she follows through, her kiss almost too gentle for the context it was given in. To her surprise, he kisses back, just as gently – unpretentious, uncharacteristically kind – and they are locked in place for longer than she had intended.
But she is the one to pull away, blushing significantly, and she says, "I'll see you at work tomorrow. And you're getting two cases, whether you like it or not."
A ghost of a smile flickers on his mouth and he doesn't complain. She smiles and leaves the restaurant, her heels clacking against the gravel in the cool night, her cheeks still warm as she thinks of that last moment, of that kiss, the little splash of sweetness in the midst of a disastrous evening.
Despite his confession regarding his deal with Wilson, she knows that while he's a sucker for a challenge, he won't always do them unless he has a reason to. There was more to this than he let on; she can tell and she can live with that. He had kissed her. That meant something, didn't it?
She smiled wider to herself as she turned the key in the ignition and decided that it did.
Hypothetically, there were a lot of places this relationship could have gone.
Hypothetically, he could get dressed up tonight, wearing his suit with his hair combed (for once), and the evening could have gone like clock-work. He would have made an innuendo; she would have flirted back; they would dance and the whole thing could end hot and sweaty in one of their beds. Disregarding practicality for a moment, the possibility was there. It was always there.
Of course, hypothetically, it could have also gone the other way. He could have shown up really late; she could have said something stupid; they could have had a shouting match in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching. This was, sadly, quite likely; definitely possible.
But actually, it had ended up somewhere in-between those two scenarios – he had shown up late, they had awkwardly tried to maintain idle conversation, he told the truth and they kissed on the way out. Honestly, he wouldn't have been able to predict it, even with his impressive knowledge of human nature.
He arrives home tonight and finds that Wilson had been waiting up for him, in PJ's but sitting on the couch, watching TV. He hears the door open, House steps in, and he turns the TV off.
"Hey," he says. "How'd it go?"
House smirks. Despite his obviously rehearsed, determinedly casual tone, Wilson has clearly been dying to know what happened.
"It went…okay," he confesses just to drive his friend crazy, throwing his coat on a chair and coming to sit with Wilson on the couch.
"What does that mean?" Abandoning all pretence, Wilson turns to look at House, mania in his schoolboy features. "Did you remember to compliment her shoes? Did you insult her? What did you talk about?"
"She found out why I was there," says House.
"What, that you have a thing for her?" asks Wilson.
"Nope," he says. "Because we made a deal. Because you thought I couldn't and I wanted to prove you wrong."
Wilson stares. "No we didn't," he says.
"I know," he says. "But she doesn't."
The two are silent for a moment, absorbing this information. House helps himself to the sandwich Wilson had evidently been eating; it's tuna, so after one bite, he puts it back and reaches for the remote. Wilson's eyes narrow as House turns the power on and switches to the Discovery Channel.
"Wait…so you lied to her about your motives for the date?" Wilson demands. "Why the hell did you do that? And why the hell did you involve me?"
"It's plausible," says House with a shrug. "And it was what she wanted to hear."
Wilson shook his head sadly. "For someone so intelligent, you have the capacity to be so dense sometimes," he remarks. "She was there for you. Why did you make her think you were there for me?"
"Just drop it," mumbles House, his eyes on the TV, where a crocodile is devouring a small stork.
"I'm not going to drop it!"
"Fine. Then do you mind if I tune you out?"
Wilson sighs. "I still can't believe you lied to her."
"I was testing her."
"Did she pass?"
House considers this.
"Yeah. I think she did."
"What does that prove?"
House smirks. "I'm sure you can come up with something all by yourself."
Wilson picks up his sandwich and eats it. "Well, did you at least enjoy yourself?"
"It was certainly illuminating."
"Did you kiss?"
House gives Wilson an incredulous look. "What are we, fourteen? Who asks those kinds of questions?"
Wilson's face breaks into a grin. "You totally kissed," he deduces.
"Shut up and eat your sandwich," grumbles House, back to the television.
Wilson has a very wry, very pleased expression on his face as he follows the order, his mouth full of bread and tuna, and the two focus on the screen for the rest of the evening. Not another word is spoken for the rest of the evening.
A/N: I told you, it's kind of hypothetical and a little removed from the House universe as we know it, but I thought it was fun to write anyway.
Hope you enjoyed it. Please remember to review on your way out.