Disclaimer: As usual, I do not make any claim to the characters (House, Cuddy, Wilson, etc) used in this story that I have not created in my weird little rat maze brain. They belong to Fox and David Shore.
Authors Note: Hello all! I'm back, as promised. And I come baring fanfiction! I want to first say thank you to everyone who reviewed my last story and I hope you continue to do so. This story is a post Both Sides Now story but does little in dealing with the direct aftermath of that story. If you haven't seen season five and don't want to be spoiled, don't read this. To everyone else, enjoy!
One more thing: this is by no means a song fic. BUT. I was really inspired to write while listening to Star Mile (by Joshua Radin) and The Scientist (by Cold Play). Also "Something Pretty" (by Patrick Park) really reminds me of House in general. I encourage you all to listen to them because they're awesome songs but also because they might make it more fun to read the fic.
xxxx
"I think I have the flu." The young man bore a skullcap with his greasy mussed hair sticking out like the straw from a scarecrow. His hunched posture and baggy style of dress gave away his youth long before his pimply, boyish looks.
"And?" House wore his trademark, raised brow expression. And a wrinkled button-up shirt.
"And..." The young man trailed off confusedly.
"And you're not going to mention the neck pain?"
"How'd you know about my neck?" The boy's voice sounded nervous and caught off guard.
"Because patients don't typically diagnose themselves with an incurable and completely harmless illness before showing up to the doctor." He paused before adding. "Also you've been gripping your neck since I walked in."
"So... my neck hurts?"
"Is that a question?"
"My neck hurts," the boy confirmed with a nod.
"Yeah, I know," House said, rolling his eyes dramatically.
"But I just thought I'd been sleeping on it wrong."
"So you came to the clinic because you have the flu and you have a crick in your neck?"
"Well, I've had the flu for, like, ever."
"How long?" House rose from his chair to examine, his interest piqued.
"Like two months," the boy answers. House propped his cane against the exam table, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a bottle of prescription pills that did nothing for his leg pain. They were much weaker than the Vicodin so they barely took the edge off. But they subconsciously helped with his oral fixation, or so he told himself.
"Turn your head this way." House pointed horizontally to his left, the boy did so and winces in pain.
"That's a cool cane," the boy noticed.
"Yeah, I don't really need it, I just think it looks fly." The boy smiled at the use of such a dated term. "What are your symptoms?" House continued to examine the neck, gaping the collar of his shirt with his finger to look at his chest.
"Coughing, sneezing, runny nose, you know… flu stuff. I saw my doctor and he gave me stuff for it but it just keeps getting worse."
"Well, as I always say: other doctors are idiots." House leaned back, satisfied with his examination.
"You think he was wrong? It doesn't look like the flu?"
"Of course it looks like the flu. Give him some credit, he's a doctor!" House remarked with mock exclamation.
"But you just said he's an idiot." The boy spoke slowly and with a furrowed brow.
"Yeah, he's probably an idiot. It looks like the flu but if it was, the medicine would have done something, right?"
"That's what I thought. The sneezing and stuff I can deal with. It's the fever that really sucks."
"Fever?" House asked in a low annoyed voice.
"Yeah I wake up in sweats, it's hard to get back to sleep. And I've got finals coming up."
"And when I asked what your symptoms were, you just thought you'd round down?"
"Well, it's part of the flu, right?"
"But as you have just astutely assessed, you do not have the flu."
"Just symptoms that look like the flu."
"Wow- that's just- you! You're good!" House said with a big smile, a pointed finger and his usual sarcasm.
"I was looking on the internet, and it said that thyroid conditions can have symptoms kinda like the flu. But I don't know how I-"
"Then why are you here? Dr. WebMD must have started treatment immediately!"
"Do you know what I have or not? Is it serious?"
"New car," he announced as he grabs his cane and took a seat, satisfied with his diagnosis.
"What?" the boy's obvious confusion getting the better of him.
"You have a new car." House said with an inflection that suggested this is obvious information.
"How'd you-?"
"When'd you get it?"
"A little over three months ago." The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"About a month and a half before your symptoms started?"
"Yeah… what does that have to do with-?"
"At which point did you notice the seat-belt was on too tight?" House looked up at the boy with a glint of a sparkle in his eyes and an almost-smile.
"My seatbe—I… I dunno. Like right away. How'd you know?"
"Take off your shirt." The boy does as he is told. When he lifted up his shirt he reveals a faded, red and purple diagonal streak against the otherwise pink complexion of his chest and neck."
"Notice anything odd?" House smiled "For instance, the appearance that you forgot to take the seatbelt off?"
"Whoa, I… never noticed that. I mean I knew it was too tight, but I just thought I was supposed to work it in, ya know? I barely notice it anymore."
"Yeah, the safety devices in vehicles are usually supposed to become less effective over time." Sarcasm comes all too easily in times like these.
"So that explains the neck thing but what about the flu?" he strained looking down at his discolored flesh with fascination.
"It explains that too," House said as he rose from his chair.
"So… my seatbelt gave me the flu?"
"Not quite. Your seatbelt rubbed against your thyroid, causing it to become enflamed and thus giving you both the flu-like symptoms and the pain in your neck." The neat little ribbon that tied it all together was a thing of beauty.
"Oh my god, it is the thyroid thing? Is that bad? Like- is it fatal? Is the thyroid important or is it- what's it called… vigil?
"No, thyroids don't typically keep odd hours."
"Huh?"
"No the thyroid is not vestigial," House clarified, correcting the boy. "I'dve thought you would have learned that from the decorated Doctor Google. You'll need to be on a hormone replacement for a few weeks which should decrease the size of your thyroid and you might want to think about replacing the seat belt."
"That's going to be expensive," the boy sighed.
"Well, you could just remove the thyroid. Of course you'd be on hormone medication for the rest of your life but at least your car doesn't have to have surgery." He reached in his pocket, pulled out his prescription pad, scribbled something down, and handed it off to the boy. He limped to the door. His fingertips touched the metal of the doorknob before the boy stopped him.
"You're really good," the boy hopped off of the exam table and joined him by the door. "I've only been here five minutes and you diagnosed me. Well, I've been here an hour but you were only here five minutes. That's pretty impressive."
"That's the free clinic for ya. Hour of waiting, five minutes with a doctor. You should have stuck with the Dr. Jeeves. At least he can show you naked people while you wait." House opened the door, letting the boy pass him and walk out as he put his shirt back on and pocketed his prescription. House watched him go before closing the door in front of him and limping back into the exam room, where a magazine was waiting on the counter top. He grabbed it and plopped down in a chair. He barely opened the pages before he heard the sound of the door opening in front of him.
"How did I know I'd find you here?" Cuddy smiled. As usual, her black dress hugged her body tightly. Her thick, brown waves of hair framed her face in large swoops.
"You said take a patient into exam one. You didn't say to follow him out." She paused, taking a moment to shoot him an annoyed glance.
"Interesting interpretation," she said, holding her pointer finger against the side of her lips. "I'm glad to see that some things haven't changed."
"Well, aren't you sentimental. See, I'm just mental."
"I hope not. Otherwise, I fought to get your job back for nothing," she quipped, propping one hand on her hip.
"If by 'fought' you mean 'did very little', then yes I'd say so."
"You're kidding, right? I wasn't just sitting on my hands the past few months. You can't just stroll out of a psychiatric facility and back into your department like nothing happened. Especially when you alienate the people who could help you."
House had come back from his six month stint at Mayfield six months ago to find that he was no longer the head of his department. It had taken five and a half months to get his old job back. A long and arduous five and a half months. At the end of it, two things had certainly changed: House was off Vicodin and his relationship with Cuddy was on the rocks. He was short with her, distant. She had to corner him in the clinic just to talk to him.
House got up from the chair, pressing down heavily on the top of his cane.
"Yes. You scheduled me an evaluation with the hospital shrink. Thank you so very much, Dr. Cuddy. I don't know how I would have picked up the phone and called him myself. All of that button pushing- see, I'd just get confused." Cuddy cocked the bottom part of her jaw to the side.
"Right. I've done you no favors over the years. It isn't as if I hired you in the first place, when no other institution would have you."
"You're right," House said, making a move towards the door. "Thank you." His voice was gruff and almost humble. But the humility was false and she knew it. A year ago, this behavior would have surprised Cuddy. But it has become all too common as of late. He'd shown little interest in spending more than five minutes in a room with her. Even if that means having to wave a metaphorical white flag in the air as he limped out the door. Her eyes flit to the ceiling and her tongue nurses her lower lip in a subtle display of disappointment that was both noticed and ignored.
"See? Working in the clinic has instilled some humanity in you," she said sarcastically, bouncing back.
"Wow. You're right, thank you. Now that I'm all fixed, I don't ever need to come back," he said over his shoulder. He opened the door and shuffled out into the mid-day bustle of the clinic. Cuddy quickly followed behind him.
"Well. The humanity is only part of the fun. The other part, as you know, is we are understaffed and you are, of course, my employee," she replied, leaning forward, propping her elbows on the counter of the nurse's station.
"Right, and I'm just a cog in the machine. The poorly oiled machine, I might add. What have I told you about the importance of lubricant?" His innuendo was lacking the old inflection.
"House, you're not just any cog. You're the sturdiest, shiniest cog in the whole hospital," she said facetiously.
"Love to stay and chat, but my twitter page isn't going to update itself." House turned to go, as he does so often these days, without a retort. She watched him walk away for a moment with her blue eyes wounded, taking in a deep breath before calling after him.
"House. I've got a case for you." He spins to look at her. She picks up a file from off of the counter and approaches him, gently shoving it against his chest.
"I already have a case." House states, taking the file but not even bothering to peruse it.
"The guy with athletes foot and a hangover? Foreman already found me and I discharged him."
House begins, looking around, "That could have been any number of-"
"House, take this case. It's interesting. You'll like it." Her voice was firm, as it is every so often, when she's not to be moved on one subject or another. House opened the file and thumbed through it. Cuddy spoke as he read,
"71-year-old patient presents with tremors and chronic intestinal problems. She's on meds to control her cholesterol, blood pressure, Type 2 diabetes, a thyroid condition and a mood disorder but hasn't -"
"Y-y-yeah, says all that in the file."
"She's been to five separate doctor's they're all stumped. The last one, Dr. McMillan, recommended you and she and her husband just drove here from Albany so I expect you to at least-"
"I'll take it." House closed the file and made for the elevator. She followed.
"The other doctor's have already ruled out Parkinson's, she wasn't responding to the treatment, in fact she's getting worse, and it would have to be very progressive to have such a rapid onset which is uncommon for someone with her-"
"I said I'd take it." He pressed the call button and waited.
"What tests are you going to run?"
"Test. I'm only gonna run one."
"MRI? EMG? At this point she might need an exploratory surgery. The OR is-"
"Phlebotomy." House states not looking at her. He stepped onto the elevator. She held her arm out, stopped the doors from closing.
"You're just going to do blood work? What do you expect to-"
"A good magician never reveals his secrets. If you want an update every five minutes, that's what Foreman's for." She pulled her arm away and took a step back, having been put back in her place as the administrator.
"Lemme know the results," she replied, knowing well that he wouldn't. He disappeared behind the closing doors. Cuddy stared vacantly at the metal paneling for a moment before spinning on her heels and slowly heading back through the clinic and into her office where she would sit and consider how things have changed.
Four hours later, she walked past the conference room adjoined with House's office. She saw it was empty and continued to his office. He sat alone at his desk, hunched in his chair, staring into the glow of his computer monitor. Dusk was shining through the blinds, casting lines on the floor and across his frame. She watched him for a moment, wondering what he was thinking about, though not necessarily wanting to know what he was looking at on his computer. His chin was buried in his palm. She watched as he looked down, running his hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. She cocked her head absently to one side for a moment. She took one more step further into view. He noticed her before she asked,
"Where's your team?"
"Went home." He looked back to the computer monitor. "13 mentioned something about Nurse Chang's condo but that's really none of my business."
"You've solved the case?" she asked, walking into the room further until she stood in front of his desk.
"No, they just tend to get whiny if I keep them after dark. Or turn into werewolves. I can't remember which." He looked up to the ceiling, pretending to mull it over before looking to her and adding, "And I didn't need them to solve the case."
"So you did solve it? What was it?" She took a step forward, resting her fingertips atop the glass top of his desk.
"Her lithium levels were 2.1. Toxic," he began casually, looking back to his computer. "A normal level is between 0.5 and 1.2 millimoles per liter, as I'm sure even you are aware." She rolled her eyes at him as he continued. "A bit too much can be toxic and too little is ineffective. Which is why people taking drugs containing the stuff usually receive blood tests to check their levels." Her shoulders sank and she sighed as she realized where he was going. "At such a high level the lithium she was taking for her mood disorder could cause tremors, convulsions, confusion, memory problems, coma, and, my favorite symptom, death. Or as the Dutch would say: '…dood!'" He turned to her excitedly before adding. "... that's, ya know, Dutch for death."
"And the drugs she was taking for Parkinson's exacerbated her symptoms." she continued for him. "Wow. Tremors and persistent intestinal problems are classic indicators of lithium intoxication." She shook her head in disappointment "How could five doctors miss this? It's so-" she paused, thinking of the right word.
"Elementary," House finished for her. "The other doctors should have checked for it. I'm sure if Margaret Thatcher knew how to use the internet she could have figured it out herself." He swivels his chair away from the computer to face her. Cuddy slowly took a seat in the chair in front of House's desk.
"If she had, it probably could have saved her insurance company $100,000 in tests and hospitalization fees." She propped her elbow in her lap and her chin in her hand.
"And of course, you're all for saving insurance companies money." She shot him a glare. " But yes. William of Ockham would turn in his grave. Or chew dumbly on his own death shroud," he shrugged. She shot him a fleeting smile. There was a moment where neither of them said anything.
"House," she said his name quietly. "Is everything alright?" He raised his eyes defensively, as if not knowing why she'd even ask.
"I'm fine. I don't need a heart-to-heart."
"You can't be just fine."
"Yep. I'm defying all odds," he replied, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe you shouldn't have worked so hard to get me reinstated if you thought I was still nuts," his tone was casual but his words weren't.
"I don't think you're mentally unstable," she reasoned. "I just think you seem a little more miserable than your usual, caustic, default state of miserable. You're certainly more lackluster than you were before. Or I guess the word I should use is 'appropriate'."
"So that's what this is about?"
"What?"
"You want me to tease you. Talk about your ass, your cup size. Insert some clever sexual innuendo into your otherwise boring work environment."
"Please," she scoffed. "And I would hardly call it clever."
"You miss it," his voice was both playful and accusatory.
"Well," she glanced down at her feet, not caring how bashful she seemed, perhaps seeming so on purpose. "Why have you stopped?" He appeared unprepared to answer the question for all of one second before recovering.
"My heart's not in it," he shrugged. "Maybe you should check with Taub. He's probably into Jews with back. Although I think he's still on the strait and narrow."
"House. I don't expect you to open up to me. I just thought-" she stopped herself, unsure of how to finish that sentence. She knew she couldn't get him to talk to her without leverage. She used to simply be able to wave a prescription in her hand and he'd be forced to spill. But now that she had nothing he wanted, it proved much more difficult to get anything out of him. But something had happened a year ago. Something involving his hallucinating sex between the two of them. Maybe something more than that. And she hoped that they could confront it. But neither of them had spoken of it since his return. In fact, they've hardly spoken about anything but work. "I just thought I'd try," she kept her voice light, to avoid seeming too serious. She didn't want to make things any more awkward than they already were.
"Wilson's got the alarmist pestering covered. But thanks for trying." He wanted her out. Twelve months ago, he had confronted his feelings and she hadn't. And that made it uncomfortable, which was something he was sure she was aware of. But what she was not aware of and therefore could not understand was what he had lost. For a brief moment, he'd obtained something that had illuded him for years: his own readiness to be happy. Then he lost it. He lost her. He'd had her briefly, if only in his mind. And now he could barely stand to look at her. "Is there something else?" he asked, his eyebrows high, wrinkling his forehead. "'Cause I was about to beat my high score in Tetris." She sighed, getting up from the chair.
"Don't you ever get tired of this?" Her voice was weathered and frustrated.
"What, Tetris?" he asked, knowing well that it was not what she meant at all. "Yeah but they have a really handy pause button."
"Tired of shutting people out," she corrected. "Or of deflecting every personal question with a joke.
"-Don't you get tired of deflecting every joke with a personal question?" he interjected.
"-Or tired of us?" She hadn't really meant to say it quite like that. But it was already out there. She could see it piqued his interest. So she pressed on, against her better judgment. "Tired of never being on the same page. Tired of never being ready at the same time. One of us is always doing the chasing. And the other is always running from it." House sat, watching her with the gaze of his deep-sea eyes, shadowed by his brow, which hung low over them. "It's like something Fitzgerald would write." He breathed a short nervous laugh.
"So this is you chasing me?" He smiled amusedly. She opened her mouth to deny it, but stopped herself, realizing the irony; she'd be the one running. She made an unintentional pout (a facial expression he'd admired for 20 years). He let the smile stay on his mouth unintentionally, as he appreciated the jut of her lower lip and the crease that it made her in chin.
She ignored the desire to cower as he watched her, feeling smaller under his stare. She always felt as if he were picking her apart. He notices everything.
"I guess I am."
"You're not very good at it."
"I usually don't have to be."
"I assumed as much." He smiled faintly. "So what is it that you want from me exactly?" He was almost smiling, as intensely uncomfortable as the conversation made him; he was enjoying watching her squirm.
"I don't know."
"Come on. You just said all that. It was a nice little speech. And now you need to back it up with something."
"Like what?"
"You tell me."
"You want me to kiss you?"
"Always." The familiarity of the moment frightened him. He resisted the urge to pinch her to find out if she was real or not.
She rested her fingertips on the edge of his desk, dragging them along the glass surface as she slowly made her way to his side of the desk. He looked down at the skirt of her black dress from where he sat in his office chair. It was one of those low-cut ones, no doubt purchased with him in mind. He reached out his hand and pinched just an inch of fabric, gently tugging it towards him. She took a step closer to him and he turned his chair to face her more directly. He tugged harder until she took another step and she was so close her knees were touching his knees. He dropped his hand just a little, until it reached the skin of her lower thigh. He moved his finger up against the smooth skin of her leg. Just underneath the fabric of her dress. He did the same with his other hand until he could feel the lace of her panties with his fingertips. He wrapped his hands around to the back of her, looking into her face the whole time, pulling her closer until she had to wrap her hands on his shoulders. She brought her knee up and rested it on the leather cushioning between his legs and leaned forward, bringing her face so closer to hers, she felt the breath from his nose on her lips. Briefly, she placed her lips on his. Resting them there for just a moment before letting her tongue leaver her mouth and graze his lower lip. Just as he leaned forward to deepen the kiss, she suddenly sprang backward, sliding her knee of the seat and placing both feet on the ground, turning to look out the window where she was relieved to see that no one was watching.
He took a brief moment to recover from what had just transpired and then a faint smile crossed his lips. "Close the blinds," he said.
xxxx
7 months later.
"House. We should talk," she said, looking into his tired face from where she stood in the doorway of his apartment. Her face was vacant an expression. At least to anyone but House. He could see the trepidation. He could see the disappointment.
"Yeah, I figured. I watched that Quantum leap marathon last night too. A lot to discuss," he joked half-heartedly.
"Can we sit?" She moved past him and into his apartment.
"If by 'talk' you meant 'make out', then yes. We can sit," he had almost annoyed himself with the statement.
"House," her voice was tired and frustrated. "You know why I'm here," she looked up at him sadly.
"Not to talk about Quantum leap," he feigned disappointment. "I have an idea. Really, more of an inkling."
"You've been avoiding me," she looked down at her feet as she walked a bit further into his apartment. Then looked up to him again before adding, "We haven't spent a night together in two weeks."
"We did the other night."
"You left right after," she sighed. "You don't answer your phone when I call you," she pressed on, having thought up a list on the drive over.
"I don't answer my phone when anyone calls me," he reasoned, sounding annoyed.
"You did a month ago," she insisted.
"A month ago, we were still in the 'late night booty-call' stage of our relationship."
"House. Talk to me. Please." Her head tilted to one side. She furrowed her brow, pleading with him.
"You're unhappy," he stated, looking down into her face. His mirroring the serious nature of hers. He was already beginning to make up his mind on what he would do next.
"I'm unhappy with the way things have been between us the past few weeks," she nodded.
"This is the way I operate, you know that. You knew it three months ago, before you started seeing me."
"Yeah, I know you. The insensitivity, I was dealing with. You needing space, I can deal with that too. But you can't just opt out of the relationship for weeks at a time and not talk to me and expect me to be okay with it," her voice was beginning to pick up traces of anger. "Just tell me if it's something I did," she added tiredly. "Or something we can fix. I can't keep waiting around for you."
"Maybe you shouldn't," he responded, tilting his head down.
"What?"
"I'm not going to change," he let out a short scoff of a laugh.
"Don't," she said angrily. "Don't make this about me expecting you to change. Or me unable to accept House being House. We were making it work. And then you just gave up. Out of nowhere. I tried to give you a little space. But I don't know if you're ever coming back. Or if I should just give up on you too." She took a breath. She almost felt guilty as she watched him make an annoyed face out of discomfort. But she reminded herself that he brought this on himself. "House, I know this is hard for you." He rolled his eyes, standing up, mumbling something about needing a drink. She ignored it. "I know you don't like to open up and I rarely ask that of you. But right now, tell me how this is going to end."
"Like this," he stated, making his mind up about what he had to do next.
"What?"
"It's going to end like this," he shrugged. He poured himself a glass of gin and took a large sip. He was definitely going to need some liquid courage to do what he was about to do to her. "The inevitable blow up. I was always going to hurt you. And you were always going to get fed up. You did know that, right? You had to know that."
"This is you self destructing as usual," she stressed, letting out a long and frustrated breath. "I'm just asking you to talk to me."
"Exactly. I don't talk to you enough. I drink too much. You can't take me to any work functions because I'll embarrass you. All these things you've complained about before and none of them are going to change," he took another drink, finishing the glass and beginning to pour another. "And your daughter."
"Don't make this about her," she spat. She was always afraid it would come down to this. They had never had a discussion about Rachel. She thought that maybe they'd had a mutual understanding about her. That they would figure it out as they went along. That she never expected anything from him. She braced herself to finally hear what she had always suspected but had been to afraid to ask.
"She's a big part of it. In a few years, she's going to wonder who this House fellow is and why she can't count on him for anything. And why he makes her mother scream in the next room," he smiled to himself.
"This has nothing to do with her," she reasoned. "You're great with her. In your own way," she clarified. "Though you'd never admit it. You're just afraid to let yourself be happy."
"Okay. If that makes it easier for you, then lets go with that," he shrugged, gulping from his glass. It wasn't the response she had expected. She hated him in that moment, not even bothering to argue with her.
"You are such an ass," she almost laughed the sentence. How could she have let herself get involved with him like this? "There's no coming back from this." Her voice was stern as she motioned towards the door with her finger.
"That's the idea," he responded, taking a drink to keep from simply dryly gulping down air.
He listened to her let out a short breath. He sat himself down on the couch, not watching her go. He heard the door shut timidly behind her when she left. He finished his drink. Then another. And one more. Then passed out on the couch.
The next day, House stood in the alcove in front of Wilson's office, staring into the glint of light on the silver lettering that sat two feet from his face. He was debating whether to turn the door handle and face the inevitable conversation. House stood for a moment, thumping his cane against the linoleum. He pursed his lips to the side as he played through the lecturing in his head. He took a quick look behind him, ready to turn around and leave this conversation for another day but before he could, he heard the click and turn of the door knob and watched the door swing open to reveal his best friend standing in front of him.
"Oh," Wilson said, surprised to see House standing there. "I was just coming to find you," he said, glancing around.
"Yeah, I figured this would be the first place you'd look," House responded with a nod.
"Are you just now getting here?" Wilson checked his watch. "It's almost noon. Don't you have to turn in your quarterlies today?"
"-Oh, you're so cute when you lecture." House moved past him, limping into Wilson's office, immediately going to face out the window.
"-Not that you'd actually do them anyway." Wilson shut the door behind him, watching his friend for a moment before speaking. "So, how'd the talk go?"
"Doesn't anyone read my blog?"
"She didn't tell me she was going to talk to you. She didn't have to. What with you practically ignoring her for two weeks." Wilson propped his hands on his hips, as he usually does.
"Ten days," House corrected, over his shoulder.
"Well, how'd it go?"
"We broke up." House walked over to the couch, plopping himself down, resting his cane on the arm.
"What?" Wilson's voice was a high, incredulous whisper.
"I broke up with her," House stretched his arms out, resting them on the tops of the couch cushions.
"You what?" Wilson's whisper was meant to simulate loudness without actually yelling. It made House want to hit him with his cane. "You broke up… with her? Why?"
"It wasn't going anywhere."
"Yeah, you made sure of that." House rolled his eyes, turning to pick some lint off of a cushion and flicking it on the floor. "Okay. You freaked out," Wilson reasons. "And you were irrational."
"Quite rational actually. She was upset with just about everything I did. Or said. We fought constantly." House said flippantly.
"Yeah. Its called having a girlfriend," Wilson deadpanned.
"She has a toddler," House stated, as if there were no need for explanation. Wilson waited for one before asking,
"And?"
"Am I supposed to rear her? Or be the fun uncle?" House laughed.
"Whatever you feel comfortable with," Wilson shrugged.
"I don't want the pseudo-family. I don't want to ride off into the sunset in her Barbie dream convertible," he turned to look out the window and onto the balcony.
"Somehow I doubt that's what she had planned," Wilson crossed his arms. "You don't want to be happy."
"Do you ever get tired of regurgitating the same, tired lines over and-"
"-You don't want to fall into a routine or lose what you think drives you, makes you special. Same thing that happened with Stacy."
"Cut it out," House sat forward, wiping his face in his hands.
"And you don't want to accept that you're that predictable. But it's true. And I should have seen it coming. Maybe I could have-"
"It's done," House said quickly, looking up.
"House don't." Wilson shook his head. "You need to think about this."
"I did. For ten days," House said, widening his eyes with false sincerity.
"So you don't love her?" House breathes out a short scoff of laughter. "Well?"
"That's not the issue," House said, rubbing his forehead.
"So you just think you're better off without her," Wilson offered.
"I'm better off alone."
"It's just easier being alone," Wilson began lecturing. "It's easier when your happiness isn't so contingent upon someone else. When you're alone, you know you'll be miserable. When you're with Cuddy, you're happy but you don't know for how long. There's too many unknown variables. It's not predictable. It's scares the hell out of you."
"Or I want to sleep with my mother," House offered casually. Wilson's face contorted into one of sheer confusion. "Analyze that, Freudy pants."
"House-"
"I don't want to be in a relationship," he interjected. "With her or anyone else."
"Bullshit," Wilson laughed. "The second she starts seeing someone else-- which she will-- you'll be all over her."
"Nope."
"So if she starts dating someone tomorrow, you'll leave her alone? You wouldn't care?" Wilson raised his eyebrows, knowing his friend all too well.
"You like needy women. She's perfect for you: just got dumped. Maybe you should ask her out." House opened the door of Wilson's office and walked out into the hallway. "But give it a few days, you vulture." Wilson shook his head as his friend limped around the corner and out of sight.
Late in the afternoon, Wilson made his way down to Cuddy's office. Standing in front of her assistant's desk. He watched her through her office doors as she looked down at her paperwork, writing something. He watched her as she stopped what she was doing and ran her fingers down the bridge of her nose. He took a breath before opening the door. She looked up to see him entering, sighing immediately upon seeing him.
"Not in the mood," she said, staring at him blankly.
"I know," Wilson nods. "I just wanted to see how you're doing."
"I'm fine," she responds, with a transparent smile stretched across her face. "Peachy."
"Good." Wilson stands, nodding with his hands in his pockets.
"Is there something else?" She stares with raised eyebrows.
"You want me to go?"
"I'm kind of busy," she glanced down at the small stack of folders on her desk.
"Yeah," he said. "Of course. But. My girlfriend broke up with me a few weeks ago," Wilson stated, taking a step further towards her desk.
"I'm… sorry," Cuddy replied with her brow furrowed, as if it were a question.
"We only went out a month but," he let his voice trail off with a shrug. "I figured since neither of us have anyone else, maybe you might want to get dinner tonight." Cuddy opened her mouth to respond taking a breath of air. "Or tomorrow. You know, as friends. We haven't really talked in a while."
"I do have someone else." She corrected. "My daughter." She needlessly rearranged a few papers on her desk.
"Someone you can talk to. Or at least someone who can conjugate their verbs properly," he smiles.
"Wilson, I know what you're up to. And I'm fine," she insisted, attempting to sound convincing. "So stop it."
"You'd be doing me a favor. I've done nothing but work the past couple of weeks." She thought about it for a moment, releasing a long breath of air from her ballooned lungs.
"Alright," she smiled faintly. "But no break-up talk."
"Deal. How about six?" She nodded. He returned the nod and turned to walk out the door. Cuddy watched him go. The smile faded from her lips. She wasn't sure going out to dinner with the best friend of the guy who just dumped her was such a good idea. Even if he was the nicest guy she knew. Even if he was only trying to soften the blow and get her mind off of the wet, slimy pieces of broken eggshell that was her heart. But she reminded herself that Wilson is her friend too. And sometimes you need a friend.
She picked up the phone to call her babysitter.