Surfline
There were no stars out; a cool breeze blew off the water, carrying the sting of brine and creosote. Lisa Cuddy sat in the sand, working her toes deeper into the coolness, her arms wrapped around her knees.
The beach was merely a long stretch of paleness in the dim light of the houses behind her, and no one else was here; the holiday weekend was nearly over and most of the crowds had already packed up and headed onto the turnpikes, back to whatever nine to five jobs awaited them on Monday morning. She looked out over the water and the waves, enjoying the susurration of them as the sound seeped into her mind, and worked like white noise against the ongoing frantic spin there.
So much to think about, always. But here, along the quiet of Monmouth far from the madding crowd, away from the torments of time and tenure and trouble; away from patients and physicians, away, away from her own bete noir . . . peace. If only for a while. Lisa knew she'd have to pack up soon, and would make the two AM drive along an uncrowded highway, getting to the hospital in enough time to go straight to work. It was getting a little harder these days to pull it off, but still, she could manage.
It was always a thrill to still feel a little sand between her toes in her pumps.
Lisa saw the thin white ribbons of phosphorescence curling on the caps of the waves, glowing eerily at the crest before the crash, disappearing into the dark water, the roll of the surf a never-ending rhythm. From her earliest classes she knew the salinity of her blood matched that of the sea, and that the pull of the moon on the tides pulled her own cycle just as surely, just as regularly. It would start in two and a half weeks in fact, unless—
Unless she got pregnant.
Her appointment was for three on Tuesday, and part of her despaired the drill even now. Same cheery banter from Doctor Kane, same cold procedure, same hollow assurances. Another fifteen hundred dollars for a conception that MIGHT happen. Two attempts hadn't and now . . .
She sighed, and reached for her sandals, shaking the sand out of them, then fished in her purse for her car keys.
They weren't there.
Lisa took a breath and started a quick careful search. Her purse, the blanket, the surrounding sand, the parking lot, all yielded nothing. She fought her sense of panic and tried to think logically, retracing her steps twice, but neither trip turned up anything, and by the time Lisa had made her way back to the sand, she knew she was going to have to call someone.
Her car insurance could send someone out, but they'd take forever, especially on a holiday weekend, and she'd have to pay for the new key as well. Lisa gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. She could see her spare set, hanging on the hook by the back door, so clearly there that she wanted to grab them. Who to call?
Not Jimmy—he was out at his parents in the Hamptons this weekend. Not the Bernsteins; they were great neighbors, but both Mame and Howie were over seventy now, and not good at night driving . . . crap. The only one she thought MIGHT be able to get into her place and out to the beach was the one person she didn't really want knowing she needed his help.
But at the same time—it was either call House or pay an outrageous fee for a taxi now and coming back for the car later. Lisa scowled, utterly unthrilled with either of her choices.
Sighing harshly, she reached for her cell phone.
By the time she caught sight of the headlights sweeping into the parking lot it was nearly an hour and a half later, and cooler. She warily watched the taxi swing past her car and stop. As House unfolded himself from the back seat, Lisa frowned in confusion. He ducked his head back in to pay the driver, and straightened up again, his sardonic smile beaming out, unexpectedly white in the dim lights of the parking lot.
Lisa crossed to him, her expression tempered with relief. "I thought you'd be here on your Carrotsaki. Keys?"
"Not so fast," House chided, jingling the pocket of his blazer and eyeing her blatantly. "To answer your question, I could have ridden out here, probably, but the leg wouldn't have taken kindly to the ride back. Forty miles one way is pushing things a bit, but doubling it would be a very big no-no at this juncture. Nice shorts."
This last was delivered in a low and somewhat sincere tone; startled, Lisa looked down at herself, then up again at House. She shrugged. "Thanks."
"So this is where you come to escape . . . " House mused, looking over the rise of the dunes, and the wooden boardwalk extending between them towards the dark water. The tufts of sea oats stood sentinel on the highest peaks, and Lisa turned to follow his line of vision. She knew she should have been annoyed at having to give this away to him; House hoarded this sort of personal information, banking it away in his memory. But the look on his face softened her irritation.
He WAS doing her a favor.
"One place I come," she amended, brushing a strand of curly hair from her face. "One of many."
"Liar." House's tone was soft, and a little sad. Lisa shifted, caught between arguing and sighing. Instead, she moved away from him and looked out over the water again, taking a tiny pleasure in watching a long wave break in a sweep along the water's edge. House spoke again. "You go on vacations and trips, Cuddy, but this is the ONLY place you go to escape your troubles. Let's see if it's worth it—"
So saying, House confidently began to hobble along the boardwalk, his cane thumping on the wooden slats underfoot, making them echo. Alarmed, Lisa moved after him. "House! For God's sake, it's the beach—nothing unusual here, all right?"
"Wrong. If this place has had you enthralled for years there has to be something more to it. You're obviously anxious for us to leave, therefore we're staying a while."
"Greg!" In exasperation, Lisa trailed after him, her momentary gratitude fast evaporating. House sped up, walking between the dunes and down to the end of the wooden sidewalk, the breeze blowing his hair a bit. With the thumping, Lisa was reminded of some sea captain pacing the deck of a ship. She trotted behind, shifting her straw tote and purse to her other arm.
"Not bad," came his comment. "I can see some of the charm—uncrowded, not too polluted . . . " As if to mock his words a plastic shopping bag blew by; House waved his cane and snagged it, fishing it off the wood and crumpling it in one hand. Lisa sighed.
"It's seen better days," she admitted, moving to stand beside him. House made a noncommittal sound deep in his throat. For a long moment they stood together, and Cuddy felt something odd in House's posture; something new in the set of his shoulders. Looking up she realized he wasn't slumping.
"You like it."
"Maybe," he admitted honestly. "It's been a long time since I stepped on a beach." The flat pain in his voice hit her unexpectedly, and in Lisa's mind flashed a fantasy slideshow of House, from curly-headed child to reckless pre-teen to lanky young adult, all of them walking easily, running across the sand, long muscled legs and flat stomach, with grins and noses protected by a cap of zinc oxide.
She bit her lips, and slipped her arm around his free one; he didn't look down, but his answering squeeze was quick.
"It's not the most stable of surfaces." That came out before Lisa could stop herself; House rolled his face toward hers and made his 'duh' expression at her. She rolled her eyes in return, "BUT, if you're willing to hang on to me and the cane, we could . . . " she trailed off, leaving the invitation open.
House straightened his head and seemed to consider it.
Then with a grunt, he planted the cane off the end of the boardwalk and stepped down, into the sloping sand. Lisa tightened her grip on his bicep and stepped down as well, trying to brace him. He gave a short laugh. "The downward direction isn't bad. Right or left?"
Cuddy pointed with her chin towards the right, towards the more level side. There were dunes here, but the spaces between them were wider, and the areas flatter, like little arenas. House willingly walked with her several yards, until the walkway was nearly out of sight, and only a few lights twinkled along the curve of the horizon where the coast met the dark water.
"Nice," House upgraded his assessment, taking a deep breath. "I miss the bikinis of course, but—"
"—I've still got—" realizing she'd said too much, Lisa clamped her mouth shut, but House flashed her a grin, his chin low and his smirk almost sweet.
"Oh yes, now there's a nice thought. Lisa Cuddy, sandy bottomed bikini babe. It's a damned shame Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital doesn't do a pinup calendar. We could have you in a little pink number draped over the MRI."
"Why stop there?" she groused back. "We could get Foreman to pose in a red Speedo, or maybe Cameron and Chase playing volleyball over the Coma Patient."
House laughed silently, his shoulders shaking, and Lisa felt proud; it was a hell of a coup to make Greg laugh about anything. He glanced over at her, and his look was sly but gentle too. "Jimmy—you know he'd be so slathered in sunscreen he'd look like a basted turkey."
A snort escaped her, and House reached over to tug at her tote, pulling her beach blanket out. He spread it out in one of the little natural alcoves in the high dunes, so that they were protected from the wind on three sides with only the open view of the ocean in front of them. Giving in with good grace, Lisa helped House sit, rubbing his leg briefly as he settled in, resting the cane on top of the sugary-fine sand.
House gave a soft sigh, the air escaping in as he turned his gaze back out towards the water. Lisa watched his profile in the dim light as she sat next to him on the old quilt.
"So . . ." House began, and that was when Lisa knew she was in trouble. She shifted away from him; as if physical distance would keep her from trouble. House didn't miss her action and gave her a slightly disappointed look. "I don't bite . . . unless it's requested."
"Liar. You've chewed off more heads than an alligator at a Barbie doll convention, House."
His amused snort at her imagery echoed in the stillness of the night. "Poetic."
"True," Lisa replied tartly, leaning back on her hands. She slipped her feet out of her sandals and back into the powdery sand, wiggling her toes. House watched, fascinated.
"Feet are not my thing . . . usually," he rumbled. "I think I could make an exception in your case."
"I have ugly feet. They're HUGE, and bony," Lisa grumbled, working them deeper into the sand. "I've got my vanities, but my feet aren't on the list."
"Maybe not yours. But I notice you still paint your toenails. You're probably ticklish too, and hate that vulnerability. You're terrified to let anyone touch them."
"Am not."
"Are too," House replied in a bored tone. "Just like you're afraid to have anybody touch your ears. Your feet and your ears are both off-limits."
Lisa stared at him confrontationally. "You think you know everything, don't you?"
House considered this, then shook his head reluctantly, his gaze still out over the fluffy curl of the incoming waves."Not everything. But some facts about you are easy to know."
"I'm an open book," Lisa sighed, but House shook his head again.
"Sure, the professional Cuddy is pretty easy to read, but not the private one. The woman called Lisa is a bit more of a challenge."
She liked the sound of that; his reluctant admission and apparent interest as well. Still worried it might be the lead-in to some hurtful remark though, Lisa sighed. "I'm not a challenge, House. I'm a private person, all right? I deal with more than enough drama day by day at the hospital. Away from there, I'm just . . . average."
"Give me your foot," House ordered. Lisa paused and he turned his head to look at her, unsmiling.
"Why?"
"I forget how suspicious you are. How . . . cautious," he managed to make it sound like a mild insult, and miffed, Lisa shifted, turning to place her right foot into his lap. Instantly House slid his hand under her bony heel and lifted it up. Lisa braced her hands behind her, tensing.
"House---"
Carefully, he used his other hand to rub his thumb hard on her instep and Lisa tensed, ready to yank her leg away. House kept rubbing, the pressure strong, but not painful and after a moment quivering between fear and comfort, Lisa relaxed a little.
Feeling it, his touch softened even more, his hands warm and strong. "See, that wasn't so difficult, was it? Other foot."
More willingly this time she lifted her other leg and permitted House to stroke it. He toyed with her toes for a moment, then applied the same pressure to the second instep, repeating his actions in slow, firm movements. Lisa tried not to show how good it felt, but something of her pleasure must have come through because House managed one of his shy smirks.
"Okay, my feet are relaxed, but I'm still suspicious," Lisa told him in a low voice. "You don't DO this sort of thing, and certainly not for altruistic reasons."
"No, the suspicious thing would be if I asked to touch your ears. THAT would have you tense up like a nun in a whorehouse," he told her cheerfully. The incongruous image made Lisa stifle a chuckle, and she flexed her toes. House stroked the undersides of them softly.
"That's not true," she challenged, suspecting it actually was, but curious as to his line of reasoning. House gently shifted her feet away and she felt the loss of contact immediately.
"It IS true. Both ears and feet are erogenous zones, but with different proximities. Feet are by their very placement, further away. Ears are dangerous because they're receptive to touch, sound and taste. Feet are only receptive to touch."
"Isn't taste a part of touch?" Lisa couldn't help but ask.
House waggled his eyebrows faintly. "For ears, yes; for feet---you'd have to ask a fetishist. I'm pretty sure Isenbach up in Podiatry could answer that."
Cuddy winced.
House smiled this time, and used his cane to poke at one of her empty sandals. "I bet he'd consider this the equivalent of a thong; all sexy flashy tease."
"Ugh," she rolled her eyes, "That's one less thing I really wanted to know about one of my doctors, House. Thanks for planting that image. I'll be sure to keep my pumps out of sight under the conference table the next time I sit on a department meeting with him."
House sighed. "Let's get back to ears."
"Why are you trying to seduce me?" Lisa asked in a slightly resigned tone. She could tell she'd caught him; the guilty hunch of his shoulders gave him away.
"Because we're sitting together on a deserted beach and you are looking very pretty and a little vulnerable," House replied in a monotone. "And I'm pretty sure that if I talked you into a few drinks, I could talk you into other things as well."
Lisa laughed.
Her tone was bemused and low; she stretched out backwards on the blanket and folded one arm behind her head, looking up at the dark night sky, feeling heat in her stomach; a glow of exasperated amusement for the man sitting next to her. "I know the HOW of it, Greg. I need more on the why part. Why now? Because the implantations failed? Because you want to throw a HUGE monkey wrench into our working relationship? Stop me when I get close---"
"Because . . . " and then he hesitated.
Lisa tensed.
House didn't hesitate; even when spinning bullshit, badgering or bullying, he always stormed on full-bore. It was his trademark-- his standard and default mode for every conversation. Without thinking about it, she reached out and laid a hand on his back. The muscles there were tight, and hard.
"Got a call a few days ago. My father died."
"Oh God—Greg—" Lisa sat up quickly, jackknifing to a sitting position. House drew in a hollow breath.
"Stop. It wasn't unexpected; he'd had a history of heart trouble for years, and my mother and talked about the eventuality a lot. I had Fort Worth send the IR and records to look it over. Classic blockage in both myocardial arteries."
"Whatever time you need . . . " Lisa breathed gently, her hand still on his back. He didn't look at her, still keeping his gaze on the waves.
"Funeral's at Arlington in three days," came his thoughtful murmur. "I can be there and back on the redeye in a day or so."
"Don't you want to stay? Be with your family?" Lisa blurted, taken aback by his quiet, forceful tone.
"No. My mother is fine. She's got more people buzzing around her now than a presidential entourage, and I've had enough of the quality time of my life sucked dry by military types as it is. I'll make the funeral but that's pretty much it."
Still slightly stunned, Lisa murmured, "Okay." House looked as if he was trying to figure out how to say something, and when he actually turned to her, she grew more worried.
In all of House's most sincere, most direct conversations, he couldn't make eye contact; it had been obvious with Stacy, and later with the one moment she'd watched him with his parents in the cafeteria. Now, here he was studying the quilt between them, his head hung low. She leaned forward, wondering when he'd last taken his meds, and if he'd eaten.
"Greg . . . what?"
"I was going to say . . . I wanted to reconsider my refusal."
Lisa blinked as his words washed over her. She remembered with painful clarity the moment when he'd regretfully told her no, laying out his reasons with blunt honesty. He'd never wanted to be a father; there were issues enough between them without a further complication . . . and that impersonal donation wasn't his style anyway. She'd taken his rejection with a pang of despair, accepting his decision but regretting it for weeks.
She scowled. "You're kidding. I mean, excuse me for going blunt here, but your father dies so you decide now that YOU want to be a father?"
"I didn't say," House began in a low, pinched voice, "That I wanted to be a father, precisely. I'm not sure now or ever that I COULD be a father. Despite my amazing intelligence and withering sarcasm, my ready-for-athletics build and endless loving patience with the unwashed and incontinent, I've got a few doubts about fitting the bill."
Cuddy made a rude noise, bringing the ghost of a smile to his mouth. He lifted his eyes to her, and in the dim light there were sharp and bright. "But I've never had a doubt that YOU'D make an amazing mother. All the guilt that makes you a crappy doctor is perfect for motherhood."
"Gee I'm flattered," Lisa grumbled back dryly. "Thanks a lot for the ringing endorsement."
"I'm not done. I once told you that you're not happy unless things are just right and that it meant two things—that you're a good boss and that you'll never be happy. Mostly that still holds true."
"However—?" she prompted, curious now to see the point he was trying to make. House sighed and rubbed a hand along his thigh.
"However, you have every right to TRY and be happy. In light of what's happened, I realized that in one small way I had the chance to contribute to that and didn't take it. I . . . want to change that."
Lisa thought about what House had just said, and about the underlying implications of his words; his quiet offer. She wasn't blind to his pain, nor was she completely sure on his motives, but here in the quiet of the dark beach this wasn't the man everyone else saw at Princeton-Plainsboro either.
The dangerous thing about House was that when he had these moments of painful sincerity they hit with devastating impact.
"So what you're saying is that you've suddenly realized your own mortality, and are yielding to pressure from your mother about having a grandkid," she ventured.
House stiffened, and shot Lisa a withering look. "I hadn't actually considered telling my mother, although for the record she'd be ecstatic I suppose. You'd have to duke it out with her on limiting the baby gifts."
"For the moment, let's leave your mother out of this; any child I have will already have nanas and bubbes aplenty," Lisa commented, choosing to ignore his expression for that remark. She cleared her throat. "Your father's death has NOTHING to do with this sudden reversal, Greg? Not buying it."
"Yeah, I was fairly sure you'd react with a healthy dose of cynicism. Nice to know SOME constants remain for the universe," he muttered, and his shoulders slumped a bit.
Lisa suddenly felt bad. The man had come all the way out to bring out her extra set of car keys, he'd told her about a personal tragedy and her she was giving him a hard time.
She sat up and slung an arm around his shoulders in a carelessly comradely fashion, giving in to her need to offer SOME sort of comfort.
He stiffened, then with a slow sigh, softened against her offered warmth. They said nothing, both of them very still in the quiet of the beach, not colleagues or adversaries for the moment, but merely a man and a woman taking comfort in each other in a gentle, quiet way.
Lisa remembered the other times when she'd held House; cuddled him to her in the darkness. One night in the hospital after the infarction surgery, when he'd been restless and in quiet agony in the darkness. And again, half a year later, when Stacy had left him and he'd shown up at her place, collapsing on her sofa in exhaustion and unresolved anger, his inability to even vocalize his hurt clear.
He trusted her, Lisa knew. He argued and fought with her, but when it came down to his life, he trusted her and that was precious.