A/N: I should be drawing instead of writing, you know. 'Tis only a break.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Or.. anyone.
It's never over.
There's a shadow right behind your front door, and for a second, you freeze. Then, when realization crawls upon you, you chide yourself for being scared of the post man. But it's another sign, one you can't ignore. Not this time.
People around you whisper, sneak suspicious glances at you when they think you're busy pretending to be in charge. You know what they talk about.. how they talk about it. It's hard not to notice. The stares are getting to you, and you feel the distance between your heart and your mind increase with each passing moment. You keep it together, though. Tell yourself how much they worship you and your administrative skills. It's a mantra that's easy to repeat, and even more easier to believe. If you hadn't known just how false it was.
Everybody thinks you're out of your mind.
They shouldn't bother, really – because it's nothing to talk about.
"Hey, Brenda... you noticed anything strange going on with Cuddy?"
"Did she just shut the door in your face?"
"Has she been sleeping in her office again?"
"She didn't even seem to care when I told her about the blow-up."
"Naw, don't mind her. She's just a little jumpy lately."
"She totally lost it when I pointed out how bad she looked! And she does."
"I swear I saw her in the ladies' restroom the other day, crying."
"Poor girl. That job is really getting on her nerves."
You wince when you hear the last line one afternoon in the clinic. Your job has never been more pleasant, but you actually wish for some kind of issues to pop out from nowhere. Distractions keep you... well, distracted.
Only there aren't any battles to fight lately, not even with House.
You suspect he's just as much gossiping about your state of mind as anybody else, if not spreading the worst rumors himself. But you can't tell for sure because you haven't been able to track him down lately. And Wilson's a poor source since he keeps questioning you.
You tell him to shut the hell up – and he does.
When you arrive at your office that evening, your Eames is already occupied by a tall figure lazily lounging in it, and for a moment, your heart forgets how to beat. It's only when your hear the crude snicker that your mind finally wraps itself around the thought that there is only one person in the world .. or at least in this hospital.. who would make your chair so obviously shameless his. House.
"I locked this door," you tell him, your voice dangerously low.
"I opened it."
"I bet it was more like 'figured out how to pick it'. House."
"Funbags."
You don't move as he finally rises, but your eyes are firmly locked on the polished floor beneath your feet.
"Leave."
"I will, Lisa."
You look up. It's weird to hear your name fall from his lips so easily, and you can tell he's equally surprised. But then he comes closer and you take a forceful step back, hating the smirk that's quickly forming on the very same lips.
"Stop telling me you're fine and I will."
You can feel his eyes burning into you, deeply searching your soul, and you know you can't lie to him. It's the same magic working on you like all those years ago, and it doesn't fail to make you silently squirm with the unspoken statement.
I know what happened to you, Lisa.
But for once, it doesn't sound like a threat.
He takes another step towards you, invading your personal space with no intention of scaring you, but he does. Your back is against the wall now and you panic, searching for an escape route and finding none. He sees the light in your eyes change and holds his hands up in an apologizing manner. You calm slightly. He doesn't want to hurt you.
He reaches out, his strong fingers gently encircling your elbows, and you don't resist. You let yourself be drawn to him, basking in the strength and warmth he provides. It's nice to feel save again, even if it's only for a few seconds.
"We'll get through this."
You nod, your face buried deeply in the soft fabric of his shirt.
When the phone rings, you know it's never over.