AN: I wrote the first part of this story nearly six months ago as part of a flash fiction for my English class—I got 100 in case you're wondering. I liked it a lot, and decided to adapt it in order to write something within the House fandom. If anybody is interested I'll post the original piece after the edited one. I really hope that all readers enjoy it and please review.
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Rating:K
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: A young Lisa Cuddy muses about a scruffy young man she meets on the subway.
I See You
It's kind of funny, you know? One day I'm sitting on a train, watching him watching me, and I'm trying to make it look like I'm not actually watching him, and the question hits me like a ton of ever so clichéd bricks: How did it happen? How is it that I can see a person, the same person, everyday, and yet somehow never really see who he is?
I look up, right at him. He's young, mid-twenties maybe. Scruffy brown hair hidden under a hat that is eighty percent polyester and twenty percent stylish. Eyes so turbulent and blue that I wonder if a storm is raging inside him. I can almost see myself perfectly in those eyes; they're like a mirror. If what they say is true, and eyes are indeed the windows to the soul, and I can see myself in them, then what does that say about me? About him? About…us?
We always exchange pleasantries. A hearty "Hello" when I get on at the station, and a subdued "Have a nice day" as he gets off four stops later, and a very sincere, albeit exaggerated "Sorry" as I step on his foot. I'm not sure if I do it on purpose really; if I do it just to see him flash his perfect smile my way. Ah, his perfect smile, complete with a total of thirty-two flawlessly straight and radiantly white teeth. When he does it, when he smiles that amazing smile, I feel like I'm the only other person onboard the cramped, pungent, and exceedingly over priced piece of steel that is our public transportation system. There is no businessman drinking coffee to our right, and there is no woman reading a sleazy tabloid straight ahead; there's only me, and him. All I know is that I step on his foot every morning, and it's the best three point seven seconds of my day. It really could be a reoccurring accident I suppose, but who knows about such things?
He smells. Not bad of course, quite well actually; a pleasant mix of soap and cologne that would probably smell odd on anybody that wasn't him. The smell makes me wonder why everybody on the train, isn't standing right next to him, like me, inhaling way more than they need to, just to keep the scent. To have it with them for the rest of the day. Can they not smell it too?
His clothes are casual. Always casual, but I can tell, he has somewhere important to be. I imagine that he's a rebel, an intern at some prestigious hospital. A place with white walls and even whiter men, whose only concern is how large their profit margins will be at the end of the quarter. I'll bet he wants to turn that place on its head, show all the old stiffs what it really means to practice medicine and I know he will. I know he dresses like this because he doesn't want to be hired simply because he can wear a suit and be like everybody else--he wants people to see him, the real him; I see him, I always have. I wonder though, does he see me?
His stop is next, and it's now or never. His long legs, perfectly entwined in dark blue denim are beginning to shift, his red converse shoes changing their direction, and he's doing his black leather jacket up. My heart starts to race and I can almost swear that it's beating in time with his, that he feels it too; the pain of leaving. And, it's an impulse, it's like second nature, my hand moves faster than my mind can tell it to stop, and when it finally does, it's too late; my hand is on his arm. I smile, and he smiles--that's twice this morning, and I have no doubt that those two smiles will collectively be the best seven point four seconds of my day. "Have a nice day." I say, and he nods; his chiseled jaw, complete with the makings of a soon to be five o'clock shadow, move up and down, a total of two and a half times, and I'm hypnotized, lost in it; so lost that I don't even notice him leave. Where did he go?
Wake me up before you go-go. Don't leave me hanging on like a y-
Lisa Cuddy's hand drops down hard upon her alarm clock with such contempt that for a brief moment she thinks she may have broken it—she rolls over to see that the numbers '5:45' flashing happily towards her. Cuddy notices that for some odd reason the station always insists on playing the most annoying music every morning, and she makes a mental note to change the station when she's able to see the buttons more clearly.
She lays her head against her pillow. She should get up, but she isn't ready yet. Her dream is still to fresh in her mind, and every time this specific memory comes upon her she finds it hard to do anything but sit, or in this case lie, and think about one Gregory House.
From the moment she first saw House she was intrigued by him. His walk, his eyes, his unique sense of style—his whole being called out to her and she wanted nothing more than to be near him, to be with him. 'Not much has changed' she muses, a smile slowly creeping onto her face.
She rolls over again, this time facing the opposite way of her alarm clock, and he's there still facing her, in the exact same position he was when he fell asleep. She loves the way Greg sleeps; it's the only time he's still.
"Greg?" She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Mmmmmm?" His eyes remain closed, and still he doesn't move, even when she places a soft kiss on his forehead.
"Time to get up." He stirs slightly and opens his eyes slowly, like they're unsure of what they'll see when they open. They lay there facing each other, blue meeting blue and she realizes that this will be the best six point four seconds of her day, because, he sees her too.
End.
-HC-
This is the original for anybody who is interested. There a few differences, and although I do like the above version, the original is still my favourite.
It's kind of funny, you know? One day I'm sitting on a train, watching him watching me, and I'm trying to make it look like I'm not actuallywatching him, and the question hits me like a ton of ever so clichéd bricks: How did it happen? How is it that I can see a person; the same person, everyday, and yet somehow never really see who he is?
I look up, right at him. He's young, mid-twenties maybe. Long brown hair hidden under a hat that is eighty percent polyester and twenty percent stylish. Eyes so big and dark that I wonder where his pupils end and the rest of his eyes begin. I can almost see myself perfectly in those eyes; they're like a mirror. If what they say is true, and eyes are indeed the windows to the soul, and I can see myself in them, then what does that say about me? About him? About…us?
We always exchange pleasantries. A hearty "Hello" when I get on at the station, and a subdued "Have a nice day" as he gets off four stops later, and a very sincere, albeit exaggerated "Sorry" as I step on his foot. I'm not sure if I do it on purpose really; if I do it just to see him flash his perfect smile my way. Ah, his perfect smile, complete with a total of thirty two flawlessly straight and radiantly white teeth. When he does it, when he smiles that amazing smile, I feel like I'm the only other person onboard the cramped, pungent, and exceedingly over priced piece of steel that is our public transportation system. There is no businessman drinking coffee to our right, and there is no woman reading a sleazy tabloid straight ahead; there's only me, and him. All I know is that I step on his foot every morning, and it's the best three point seven seconds of my day. It really could be a reoccurring accident I suppose, but who knows about such things?
He smells. Not bad of course, quite good actually; a pleasant mix of Zest soap and Adidas cologne that would probably smell odd on anybody that wasn't him. The smell makes me wonder why everybody on the train, isn't standing right next to him, like me, inhaling way more than they need to, just to keep the scent. To have it with them for the rest of the day. Can they not smell it too?
His clothes are casual. Always casual, but I can tell, he has somewhere important to be. I imagine that he's a rebel, an intern at some prestigious company. White walls and even whiter men, whose only concern is how large their profit margins will be at the end of the quarter. I'll bet he wants to work there so that he can change all of that; start from the bottom and make the world a better place, and I'll bet he can, and he will, I know he will. I know he dresses like this because he doesn't want to be hired simply because he can wear a suit and be like everybody else--he wants people to see him, the real him; I see him, I always have. I wonder though, does he see me?
His stop is next, and it's now or never. His long legs, perfectly entwined in dark blue denim are beginning to shift, his red converse shoes changing their direction, and he's doing his black leather jacket up. My heart starts to race and I can almost swear that it's beating in time with his, that he feels it too; the pain of leaving. And, it's an impulse, it's like second nature, my hand moves faster than my mind can tell it to stop, and when it finally does, it's too late; my hand is on his arm. I smile, and he smiles--that's twice this morning, and I have no doubt that those two smiles will collectively be the best seven point four seconds of my day. "Have a nice day." I say, and he nods; his chiseled jaw, complete with the makings of a soon to be five o'clock shadow, move up and down, a total of two and a half times, and I'm hypnotized, lost in it; so lost that I don't even notice him leave. Where did he go?
I get off of the train one stop later. I may not know exactly who he is yet, but that doesn't really bother me. After all, there's always tomorrow, right?