Ironical
Summary: Oh, how great it would feel to have a day of irony. Just one day where everything that went wrong would be right, where dead men would talk and live men would lie still. One-shot, Cuddy centric, HouseCuddy implied.
Disclaimer: I do not own House, but, if I did, I would make the previews less melodramatic.
Author's Note: I wrote this just because I love irony, and I thought I should pay some tribute to it. Did I do my duty? Yes. Did I do it well? I'll leave that for you to decide. Read and review as you wish.
Irony: incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result.
Irony was a catalyst of pain, or, so she thought. But, wasn't it ironic that it was also a mechanism for relief? A man could lie on the brink of death, teetering precariously on the extreme edge of demise, and yet, within days, hours, minutes, seconds, that man could slowly and surely move towards the center of life?
That was relief.
Oh, how good it would feel, to peel away the mask with fingers fancily, letting that emotion cause commotion and chaos. And that sweet sigh of serenity would fill her with glee, allowing her to gracefully glide, gown blowing and flowing, in the breeze.
Wouldn't it feel wonderful to let the irony of the situation slip between the cracks, to let it fall into the wrong hands, allowing her to smile?
She loved him, and she didn't care who knew. And, the ironic thing was, she wanted people know her secrets, yet, she did not think of them for fear they would be revealed.
But, the true irony of it all was, she hated him as well. She hated him to a point where it was no longer hatred but loathing. And she loathed him to a point where it was no longer loathing but love.
It was a perverse circle that surrounded her, enveloping her in a mist of mixed feeling.
Oh, wouldn't it feel great to have a day of irony. Just one day where everything that went wrong would be right, a day where dead men would walk and live men would lie still? A day where those who loathe would love and those who adore would abhor?
Cuddy needed a day like that, just one day to freely liberate the feelings she had for him.
House.
It may have been expected of them that they distance themselves from one another, to live a life of lenient celibacy, but, how it hurt her so to keep her feelings inside, each one clawing at her heart like a savage beast.
She wanted to contrast the pallor that was her life now. She wanted to be the red blood nesting in the crevices of the pale skin of a vampire's victim, the diamond hidden in the peasant's shawl.
How content would she be to dance upon the graves of her respected predecessors, to fight for something in which she did not believe? Could she walk the beaten path and claim to march to the beat of a different drummer, or could she wish upon a star and pray that her wish would never come true?
She could, and she had done so all her life. She wished for his love upon every star, and yet, at night, as she lied alone in her bed, she prayed that her wish would not come true. She had felt his lips against hers, and yet, every morning, she woke with a distorted sense of disgust, as though she had forever been violated. Every noon as the sun rose to the middle of the sky, she would watch it, letting the heat burn his irises, allowing it to warm the visions of their physical relationship, but, every night, she cried. Her tears cooled the burning, erasing what ever part of the image it could. But, they could not expunge it all, and so, everyday, the vague outline became more definite. Eventually, she assumed, it would be forever-present, and nothing, not even her tears, could eliminate it.
What would she do if she only had one chance at life, or only one chance to take a life? Would she hold the knife high, or would she let it down low, low enough to touch flesh, low enough to touch the heart, the blood? But, if she held the knife high, wouldn't that signify that she was unsure of her actions, and, therefore, she would not dignify herself by committing them? Or would it be the great speed at which metal pierced skin make her feel devastating?
Part of her job was to accept death, to embrace it with alacrity and aplomb whenever it occurred. But she could not and would not do so, no matter how much pressure was set upon her. She, even under her objective shell, had emotions as well, and they were clearly visible at times where she collapsed under the immense burden of melancholy. But only melancholy. Ecstasy was not permitted at her position, or, so she thought.
Yet, when ever the illusion of his arms wrapped around her came to mind, she could not help but smile, yet, afterwards, when the sensation ended, she shivered with repugnance.
Oh, what irony would be set upon her if the man of indifference and handicap could love her so, letting the feeling show blindly through the skin as thin paper? What would become of her as she fell into his arms, listlessly tripping, and slipping, into his trap?
And she already had. But, even so, she had escaped, and she had smiled. Maybe she didn't love him; maybe she loved to defy him. She had authority over him, and she could flaunt her power and tenure as she wished.
But he couldn't.
Irony was a catalyst for pain, or, so she thought. But wasn't it ironic that it was a mechanism for relief?
And, there was that relief. Oh, and how good it felt to feel that relief.
And how horrible as well.
How melancholic, how uncouth, how logical, how jovial, how civil, how ironic.
How ironic.