Author's Notes: This story contains slight spoilers from "Joy" . I do not own House, md charcacters, because If I did, you'd see more Huddy Action on your TV screen. This is also my first House fic, and one of my poor attempts at writing in english without a beta. Please, no flames.
You're dating Cuddy.
'Am not.
Yes you are. I got you a reservation at Le Renoir. Pick her up at seven. Don't be late.
House, ask her out.
The door bangs and Wilson sighs. Let the show start all over again.
***
She's out on the balcony, staring at the landscape. Maybe crying, maybe sighting, maybe thinking.
He's out in the parking lot, staring at her. Wondering.
Wilson's in, at the table, staring at his cell phone. He dials the number and waits.
***
This is so not working.
...
He hangs up.
She's still on the balcony. Takes a mirror, tries to adjust invisible marks under her eyes, gives one last check.
She turns. And even if he knows he's too far, too hidden, too dark for her to see him, he shivers. She's locked her eyes with him and won't let go. It's her way to tell him he's a jerk. It almost works. Almost.
***
Wilson is a real gentleman, and accompanies her to her porch. He doesn't ask for a goodnight kiss and doesn't get one.
They both wave goodbyes and the door clicks closed.
***
The whole evening was completely useless, he muses. It's cold. And pathetic.
He's still standing at her front window, spying on her. She sips from a hot coffee mug, her hair's a mess, a pink tank top on, reading a book, maybe, working, probably. She doesn't turn.
She's no longer on the sofa, and he's wondering where she went when he hears the door opens.
You're not in love with me.
A statement.
Now, please, just...go.
I was not trying to...
Shut up, House.
...
...
Goodnight, Cuddy.
Goodnight, House.
***
A vase full of white roses reigns over her desk. That is so not of him that makes her even more annoyed.
He's always tried to prove her wrong, after all. And he almost always succeeded anyway.
***
Why do you mean to negate everything?
Beacause.
And when he kisses her once again, maybe he's still looking for answers, maybe it's his way to give her some, maybe it's everything and nothing, maybe it's them, once again racing on a circle road, panting, exhausted, hot and sweaty; maybe it's not love. Maybe it is. Because.
