Title: Old Scars, Old Wounds
Fandom: House
Summary: "Certain things—failures, foolish dreams, and memories—he simply couldn't escape. But those were old scars, old wounds, he reminded himself: things he'd long ago dealt with and buried away. Old scars, old wounds."
Rating: PG
Pairings/Characters: House/Cuddy
Length: 1,400 words
Genres: angst
A/N: This was originally written for a Huddy ficathon on LiveJournal, but the ficathon kind of fell apart... But there's this fic and another one ("The Other Woman") I did anyway. This fic also originally started out as sort of a tag to "One Day, One Room", but, really, it can be taken independently, I guess. Anyway, enjoy!
Old Scars, Old Wounds
The afternoon light fell through the window, not breaking or bending until it hit the carpeted floor. It was, he mused, quite unlike the world, whose truths were always bent and distorted before reaching their final destinations.
Had he been anyone else, he might have thought, "It's a shame the world isn't like that." But he wasn't anyone else: he was Greg House and he didn't think that.
Everybody lies, he said.
It was true—it was the story of his life.
His father lied about abusing him. His mother lied about knowing. His grandparents all (perhaps accidentally) lied about how well they'd raised their children. And Greg House had simply inherited the generational curse of his family—really, the curse of all humanity.
Muttering to himself, he limped around his desk.
Those were old scars, old wounds. Why should he reopen them now?
He scowled as he answered that question to himself—he hadn't purposely chosen to reopen them, but had accidentally done so in a brief moment of insanity. A patient had persisted and pestered him until he'd finally snapped and it had just come out. In that instant, the bandages of lies that he surrounded himself with had been so callously torn away by his own folly.
Yes, foolishness too, it seemed, was another curse he'd inherited.
Grumbling to himself again, House slipped his coat on. It might not be quite the end of the work day—there should have been an hour or two yet—but he was going to call it a day. It was time to get out of here.
Grabbing his cane and his keys, he set off down the hallway. He took solace in the rhythmic tapping of his cane against the floor but the following arrhythmic thump of his footfalls against that same floor.
The sounds, he mused, were the opposite of the unbending sunlight. Those sounds were like life.
Sometimes there was noticeable rhythm; sometimes there were only random and out-of-beat sounds.
He'd spent his entire life running from being tied to any sort of constant rhythm. Trying to keep himself a random jumble of noises that didn't make any sense.
But certain rhythms always haunted him, catching up no matter how hard or fast he ran. Certain beats were always obvious to him amongst the jumble he created. Certain things—failures, foolish dreams, and memories—he simply couldn't escape.
But those were old scars, old wounds, he reminded himself: things he'd long ago dealt with and buried away. Old scars, old wounds.
Still, his grip on his cane tightened. After a few more steps he grumbled and picked it up, tucking it beneath his arm for safekeeping. No more pesky rhythms bothered him now: there was only the mild hubbub of the hospital around him and his random footfalls.
"House!"
He cursed sharply under his breath. He'd have sped up to get away if he thought he could've, but instead he stopped and waited for Cuddy to catch up.
"Where're you going?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Home, maybe," he answered, starting to walk away again. "Mostly anywhere but here."
Cuddy caught him by the arm, forcing him to stop again. She looked him up and down for a moment before saying, "You look like you could use a drink, House."
He snorted. "Or ten."
Half-laughing, she released his arm. "Tell me about it. Just let me get my coat and I'll buy." Without even waiting for a response, she turned and ducked into her office.
He might've taken the opportunity and bolted, but Greg House never turned down a free drink. Not even if it was coming from his boss. Not even in a time like this when he was struggling to rebury old scars and old wounds.
So he stood there and waited for Cuddy to return. He sighed to himself and glanced up the hallway, trying to decide if being seen leaving with her would be a good thing or a bad thing. It would certainly breathe life into the constantly circulating rumors, and as much as the rumors amused him, sometimes they were just a pain.
He hadn't made up his mind by the time she returned with a regular jacket replacing her white doctor's coat.
"Let's go," she said, brushing past him.
He obediently followed, noticing they passed practically no one on the way out of the hospital. Well, at least he didn't have to make up his mind about being seen leaving with Cuddy.
In the parking lot, he started limping—still without his cane, in spite of the pain in his leg—towards his car when Cuddy stopped him again. Now it was House's turn to raise a questioning eyebrow.
"We'll just walk to Joe's around the corner," she said, starting off in that direction already. "It's always open, and that way we'll be able to leave our cars here. No one will be able to prove we left work early." She smiled faintly and winked.
"Oh, but what will they say when they can't find either of us?" he quipped automatically.
Cuddy looked back over her shoulder at him. "Who cares?" she responded. "There are tons of rumors circulating anyway. Especially since everyone in the hospital has caught you staring at my ass at one point or another."
Walking after Cuddy—now with the help of his cane since there was next to no sound when the end hit the sidewalk—House's eyes dropped to the ground and he swallowed hard. The rhythm Cuddy had just unknowingly reminded him of was one of those he tried to escape.
The silence hung in the air between them for a block and a half before he stumbled over something on the sidewalk and seized the opportunity to say something unrelated to the previous conversation. "After you buy my drink, remind me to kill you for suggesting we walk," he mumbled. "Better yet, let me kill you now and take your wallet."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "House, I know you have the maturity of a five year old, but don't be a baby." She pointed to the doors of the bar just ahead. "Babies don't get anything to drink from Joe's."
Rolling his eyes back at her, he followed her in.
They took up adjoining seats at the practically empty bar and ordered drinks. While they waited for the bartender to return with the drinks, Cuddy looked sidelong at House with a faint smile.
"Well, this feels familiar," she murmured quietly, so House could barely hear. Her eyes dropped briefly to the table. "Mmm. Very familiar. Twenty years later and we still order the same way, like nothing's changed."
House swallowed against the lump in his throat again. Twenty years ago was not something they spoke of—ever—and he was glad it didn't usually come up—and wished it hadn't come up now. He didn't like to be reminded of the past between himself and Cuddy—the wild and carefree relationship, the messy dorm rooms, the college bars where they apparently ordered drinks the same way they did now…
Those memories were ones he couldn't quite shake on some lonely, empty nights. Just the same, the memory of her leaving one night, slamming the door closed behind her and his stupid mistake in not following her continued to haunt him every time he watched her walk away.
And though he would never admit it, there was a folded picture in his wallet with twenty years' worth of wear that he had never been able to throw away (he blamed it on his never cleaning out his wallet).
Old scars, old wounds, he told himself again. Old scars, old wounds.
"Everything has changed," he mumbled back to her a little more bitterly than he'd hoped to. But still, she simply nodded, oblivious to the things running through House's mind and heart.
Well, he thought, even old wounds hurt sometimes when it's cold out.
Taking the bottle from his pocket, House swallowed a pair of pills to help with a pain not found in his leg. And when the bartender returned, House took his drink and took a long, satisfying swallow.
And for another day, he would simply bury his old scars and hide the old wounds that never really went away.
END
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