Countdown to Disappointment
Ten
He would show up on her front porch like a stray cat, wiry and lean, perpetually hungry. Wide eyes wouldn't blink as he stood, asking entrance with cool detachment that let her know he would flee at the least provocation. She would step aside to let him in and he would brush past, stepping too close into her space, making a point.
He would rummage her fridge, bitching that his choices consisted of yogurt and baby formula. She would point to the bananas on the counter and he would blanche as though she'd offended him greatly.
"A man needs real food." He would call for pizza before she could object, secretly pleased he was with her.
Nine
Bottles of his favorite ale would appear beside Rachel's bottles, and she would sigh at the dichotomy. He was her greatest contradiction. Even, ordered, ambitious Lisa Cuddy lived the dream. Only her dream had flashes of a nightmare, slick and cold and thrilling.
House, becoming a part of her life. House, settling himself on her couch as she worked.
House.
Eight
He would know when her days had been particularly difficult, considering he was usually the cause of her stress. He would appear unrepentent, but would show up with a peace offering. Never romantic, it was most often alcohol.
She would ask, only somewhat playfully, if he was hoping the alcohol would muddy her senses enough that she would sleep with him again.
His look was enigmatic, as if he knew she didn't need that much provocation.
Seven
She would stay up all night the nights he didn't show up, equal parts fearful, angry, and lonely. She would debate calling Wilson, flustered when he would answer in a slur. House, in the background, yelled about the harpy ruining their good time.
"We're not married!" He'd holler, even as Cuddy slammed down the phone.
He wouldn't apologize, but it would be weeks before he'd pull that dumbass stunt again.
Six
He would surprise her with a flower, undoubtedly nicked from an arrangement left in the cancer ward. It would be out of character, sweet and boggling all in the same instant. Her suspicion would be confirmed by Wilson, telling her about the methadone.
He would joggle Rachel on his good knee, smile, even laugh. When he prepared to leave, he would kiss her gently.
"This is the only me you get." He'd say, days later.
She would cry.
Five
A bottle of scotch, two glasses, his leather jacket tossed carelessly over the back of her couch.
Rachel would sleep soundly, thank God, as Cuddy feigned inebriation and crawled into his lap. House would make off-color remarks about the last loser she let feel her up on her couch, and she would bite him, hard. He ruined her last chance at sex.
"And now, I'm ruining the next one." It would take a graceful man to slip out from beneath her, even as she tried to keep him still, without sending her crashing to the floor.
She wouldn't be able to bring herself to ask him to stay, knowing that metaphorically running away was the only way he knew how to deal with it.
Four
She would tend his cracked skull as she had the many that had come before. He would rest his fingers on her hips, wishing therapy would help. Did help. Could help. She was steady under his hands, warm and pressing into him, nails scraping over his scalp before asking again what he was doing in the city.
Perhaps, he would think, he was trapped. Perhaps, Cuddy could release him.
Perhaps...they shouldn't have slept together that night.
Three
He would delight in her jealousy, watching Cameron as the wolf eyes the doe.
MINE, she would say without saying anything. He wouldn't even see her coming before she pinned him to a wall, her mouth catching his in a kiss that stole even his sarcasm.
His mind was quick, and he would capture her wrists before she could pull away. They wouldn't have sex in the hospital, but God they'd come awfully close.
Two
Rachel would be sick, House would be irascible, and Cuddy would be at the end of her rope. She would tell him to get the hell out, but the door would be shut before she could form the words.
This is why she can't be with him, this is why nobody should.
She'd see him tomorrow, and she would probably forgive him for being an ass, too.
Would she be able to forgive herself for her weakness?
One
He would show up on her front porch like a stray cat, wiry and lean, perpetually hungry. Wide eyes wouldn't blink as he stood, asking entrance with cool detachment that let her know he would flee at the least provocation. She would step aside to let him in and he would brush past, stepping too close into her space, making a point.
The end would be the beginning would be the end. Their relationship would be marked with continual upheaval, breaking apart and making up. Unfinished without the other, they would build something tenuous then let each other down.
Only...they would keep trying.
(1/1)