out of the mouths of babes
Summary: "At this point, you guys are just being stupid." If she were talking to her mother, he knows, she would have added a hasty "no offense" in spite of the fact that she wouldn't have meant it, simply because it's what her mother has taught her. But Rachel doesn't bother with that when it comes to him. House/Cuddy with Rachel influence and meddling. AU
A/N: just a random one-shot, that didn't entirely go the direction i planned it to go...but hopefully you enjoy it anyway.
House halts almost immediately in his steps just seconds before entering his office - stopping himself just as he has one foot planted in the doorway and the other on the outside of it, with the rubber tip of his cane resting somewhere in the middle - when he realizes he is not alone.
He frowns, his head tilted almost comically to the side and eyes narrowed as he observes the completely unfazed and impassive figure already present in the room, waiting for him. House doesn't let his surprise at seeing her show, doesn't even let on to the fact that he has actually missed her in these past few weeks; not when he fought so hard at first to resist her presence in his life, not when he was against her very existence since almost the beginning - even if it's been years since then, and what she means now is nowhere near comparable to what she meant then. But still, unbidden, the corner of his mouth quirks upwards in the tiniest of motions, an expression that could not quite be defined as a smile but still not completely the opposite, and she smirks in return because she's noticed it, too.
She's sitting behind his desk, comfortably leaning back in his chair. A half-eaten turkey sandwich - the remnants of which she is presently wiping from her cheek - sits on top of piles of paperwork, sans a napkin. The jacket from her school uniform is strewn thoughtlessly off to the side, hanging precariously off one of the desk's corners, while her book-bag sits in a defeated heap on the floor at her feet, its zipper straining to stay open around AP textbooks, sheets of notebook paper, and a handful of vinyl records that look suspiciously familiar. House is struck by a rather sudden sense of déjà vu, having stumbled upon a similar sight of restrained chaos when walking down the hall at home and past the open door to her bedroom.
He heaves a loaded sigh before stepping further into his office. He knows that her presence here can only mean one of two things: either she's using his office as a hiding place from her mother or, worse, she wants to talk to him about her mother.
"Hey, House," she says as soon as he enters, and for a moment he thinks her bright and cheery tone is only undercut by a hint of mild sarcasm.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just... visiting," Rachel replies offhandedly. It's bullshit and they both know it, as her tone is far too casual, and she hasn't been to his office 'just to visit' for days, probably out of some inexplicable sense of solidarity to her mother - which, admittedly, House can understand.
But he waits - partly because House has nothing better to do at the moment since his patient was cured less than ten minutes ago and at ten to one he's not about to go searching for a new one. But also partly, mainly, because he knows her and he knows from the way she's letting her fingers focus mindlessly on disassembling his rubber band ball while she keeps her gaze focused on him, that she's warming up to telling him the truth.
"Right."
"School was let out early because the seniors' prank resulted in the building being..."uninhabitable"." Here, she smirks before adding, "Well, at least until Monday."
His eyes narrow in suspicion. "And you had nothing to do with that?"
"Of course not. I'm just a lowly sophomore," she evades, shrugging one shoulder in a display of feigned casualness. Unfortunately, the slight, upward quirk of her mouth - an action eerily similar to his, he realizes - gives her away. He's taken back, for just a moment, to when she was barely two years old and successfully aiding and abetting in his lying and scheming Cuddy during the process of applying to her first choice pre-school.
Rachel glances down, briefly, and starts to put back together the mess she's made of his ball before looking up again. "So...have you talked to her yet?"
"Who?" he asks, feigning ignorance.
"You should, you know," she continues, ignoring him. He frowns slightly at her tone, which is deliberately ominous, and House wonders briefly if being covertly manipulative is a trait that could fall under that 'nature versus nurture' debate. "I mean, it's been over a month. At this point, you guys are just being stupid." If she were talking to her mother, he knows, she would have added a hasty "No offense", in spite of the fact that she wouldn't have meant it, simply because it's what her mother has taught her. But Rachel doesn't bother with that when it comes to him. (She never really has.)
He knows what she's trying to do and at that realization he can't help but sigh as he leans forward on the handle of his cane, anxiously and nervously licking dry lips. He may not be Rachel's actual father, but she is good at this thing: playing on the emotional manipulation of a parent - or, in his case, parental figure - and pitting one parent against the other in an attempt to achieve the end result that she wants.
"Look, Rachel-"
Rachel sighs, her exasperation obvious. "Just... tell her you're sorry. That you didn't mean whatever you said and that you - you weren't thinking. Whatever. Just something. I mean, she'll forgive you." Here, she rolls her eyes just a little. "She always does."
Not always, he thinks distantly, with only a tinge of bitterness. "I could do that," he agrees sarcastically, "...except that I'm not sorry and I did mean it. I was right." He walks toward his desk, shooing her out of his seat. She complies, with obvious reluctance, sighing and rolling her eyes until she's standing in front his desk, hands firmly planted on her hips and chin jutted forward imploringly, in a way that is all too similar to her mother.
"You always think that-"
"Well, I was right about the laundry soap, wasn't I?" he asks, referring to the disastrous result of Rachel attempting to do her own laundry years ago.
She scoffs, pulling a face. "So? I was six! And you didn't even try to stop me."
"To teach you the value of me being right. Because it's better that you learn now about all the never-changing, great wonders of the world."
"Well, it doesn't matter, anyway-"
"And apparently I've failed at that-"
"What if I told you she met someone?" Rachel demands, blurting out the question with little finesse and a look of expectation.
He freezes. He doesn't want to believe it. It's only been roughly a month since their fight - break up, his mind amends reluctantly - but he hasn't put much thought into the amount of time that has passed; he's just been biding his time, using the space she'd decided to put between them and the four walls of his apartment to cool off. He didn't think it mattered. Fighting and bickering for them is a given, their dysfunctional way of functioning, and there has never been a break-up that has actually been permanent. He doesn't like the thought that he may have taken this for granted.
"I... wouldn't believe it."
"House," Rachel admonishes, in all her fifteen year old wisdom, "there will always be other guys."
In spite of the fact that his heart suddenly quickens from panic, House forces himself to lean back in his chair, regarding Rachel carefully, not letting any of his inner uneasiness show on the surface. "You think I don't know what you're trying to do?"
"His name is Jason," she blurts out. The words rush and tumble out of Rachel's mouth in the way that House knows only happens when she's actually telling the truth. His mouth opens, then closes, his jaw setting. She brushes her brown hair behind her ear, fiddles with the bracelets around her wrist. Telling the truth has always made her uneasy. Rachel is almost always calmer when she's lying - a trait that has always made Cuddy nervous and worrisome while House found it useful; it's always good to know Rachel's behavioral tics, especially the ones that give away whether she's lying or not.
"Mom met him when she went to that conference in Atlanta - you know, the one after your fight -" Here, Rachel glares at him and he rolls his eyes. "I mean, he's kind of a tool but-"
"Wait a minute - you've met him?"
"...Inadvertently," Rachel admits, "I don't think Mom was planning on me meeting him when I did - if at all, but..." House isn't entirely sure he wants to know what that means - yet. "He's already bought her flowers. And he shows up on time for their dates. I mean, Mom won't call them dates, obviously, but-"
House can't help but frown at the pluralization. "...How many?"
"Too many." She looks at him pointedly, eyebrows raised.
She's pouting, he realizes. "You miss me," he says accusingly, pointing a finger in her direction.
Rachel scoffs almost immediately, rolling her eyes skyward; he counts this as eye roll number five. "The same way you miss me," she retorts, crossing her arms. "It's just...this Jason guy is all wrong for her. I don't want him sticking around whistling his stupid country songs or putting the milk back in the wrong spot or 'suggesting' that maybe I'm too old to be watching Brownbeard reruns."
House sits up at that, and hooks the handle of his cane on the edge of his desk. He doesn't like the sound of this guy hanging around, giving Cuddy flowers, and judging Brownbeard, but he says nothing, waiting for Rachel to not so subtly give him more intel. "Okay, seriously, you guys are way too old to be acting this immature. God, you break up and get back together more than Ross and Rachel."
"How do you even know about that show?"
"Heather's sister has it on DVD," she replies flippantly. "...She misses you, too, you know."
"Heather's a little young for me," he quips dryly.
"House," she whines. "I'm serious."
"I'm sure your mother has found all the time in the world to miss me in between all her 'lunch dates'," he snarks.
"Don't be stupid. I mean, Nana has always said Mom has terrible taste in men, but-"
He frowns. "Am I included in that list?"
"But," Rachel continues, "still, why would you want to risk it?"
It's difficult for House to admit he may have been bested by a fifteen year old; stubbornness is a trait that he and Cuddy (and Rachel) have in spades. He's quiet for a moment, before he grabs his cane and stands up. He gestures to the mess scattered about his office. "I want this cleaned up by the time I get back. And twenty bucks if you finish up the filing Chase started."
Rachel grins, moving to sit back behind his desk. "She's in her office, by the way."
"Every couple has that one argument that they keep coming back to and can never seem to resolve," Wilson told him once. As usual, House chose to ignore him, as he hadn't seen the point in taking relationship advice from someone who'd been divorced three times and seemed to be working effortlessly on the fourth.
"Cuddy and I aren't that boring. There's plenty for us to argue about," House had replied flippantly.
But he'd been wrong.
The fight that sparked that particular end happened after dinner on a seemingly innocuous Thursday night. He'd sensed Cuddy's uneasiness throughout, intimated her mood through every sigh and clipped response, and the distant way she dismissed Rachel from the table, who'd tossed him a "You're in trouble" look before darting to her room. He sighed as Cuddy forcefully scrubbed the dirty dishes in the sink, keeping her back to him even as he stood behind her. He closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly feeling as though he's tiptoeing through a minefield. "...What?"
She shook her head, continuing to scrub hard enough he was sure she would break something. "Nothing."
"Obviously, something. What is it?"
Cuddy crossed her arms over her chest as she turned to face him, leaning against the kitchen counter. "...You said 'my place'. Again."
He frowned and, knowing where this was headed, evaded. "...Considering my name is still on the lease, I'd say that's an accurate description."
"I thought it stopped being 'your place' a long time ago."
"I thought you stopped being hung up on labels and semantics a long time ago."
Cuddy frowned. "You can't even try to see my perspective?"
"How old is Rachel going to be on her next birthday?" he asked, pointedly ignoring her question.
"House, that isn't the point-"
"Just answer the question."
"...She'll be fifteen," she admits reluctantly.
"And we've been together - more or less - since she was three. Do you really think, at this point, I'm not committed?"
"That's not what I'm saying. But you... keeping that place is just another reminder in the back of my mind that you haven't stopped waiting for the bottom to fall out of this relationship - despite how long it's been. And what does that say about us?"
"I eat, sleep, and shit here," he replied crassly. "The only thing left in that apartment are a few miscellaneous things."
"Why is there anything left there at all, House? What exactly are you holding on to?" she demanded.
And he couldn't quite figure out the answer to that one.
He knocks on the door to her office and waits for her to tell him to come in. When she looks up, the surprise on her face is obvious and, admittedly, what he was going for. "...Hey."
"Hey."
"...Rachel still in your office?"
"You knew she was in there?" he asks, surprised.
Cuddy shrugs, breaking eye contact with him to straighten out a few papers on her desk. "She said she wanted to see you, House. I wasn't going to tell her not to just because we're...whatever we are." Though he's disappointed by her defeated tone, he's grateful she didn't say outright 'broken up'. "Why - did you think I would?"
House decides no to answer that, because he isn't entirely sure what he thought. He sits down in one of the chairs in front of her desk and slides a file across her desk, waiting patiently for her to take notice of it. It's the typical blue folder, that usually contains only case-related information. Cuddy frowns before setting her pen to the side and picks it up, but doesn't open it yet. "I thought you solved your case already."
"I did."
"Then, what's this?"
He doesn't respond, simply gestures for her to open it. She arches an eyebrow in suspicion before complying. Inside the folder are two signs, one proclaiming "FOR SALE" and the other "FOR RENT". "House...?"
"For the past few nights I've been staying the night at Wilson's because there's no food at my apartment. No one to nag me about my bad habits or watch marathons of crappy reality TV with me or try to keep me around longer by cooking indigestible rabbit food..." He looks up then, meeting Cuddy's gaze and watching the hopeful expression bloom on her face, a vulnerability, he knows, that many aren't privy to. "Or anything else that I need - anything else that I want."
"...And Wilson's has all that?" she asks with a watery chuckle as she picks up both signs.
House shrugs, with a small grin. "He's a poor substitute for the real thing."