Title: The Truths of Gods
Summary: It was her night. Her night to be a god. That was what she wanted, and she was good at getting what she wanted.
A/N: Formerly "Coming to an End." Title wasn't working for me. Constructive criticism always received eagerly.
It would feel like it had always felt. It would feel like she had always thought it would feel. Nothing like it, nothing else but the real, real feel of the truth of the life she was living each day.
She was fuzzy right now, felt okay but it was not what she wanted. Not what she wanted to feel.
It was nighttime, it was chill, and the one thought running loops inside her head was something she remembered Hemingway had said: start any story with something that is true.
It was nighttime, it was chill, and Dr. Lisa Cuddy sat atop the roof of her hospital alone. Sat with her back against the low wall and an open bottle of Jack Daniels and an unopened pack of Marboros at her feet. She didn't really know why she was there, tonight, except she had never wanted this before.
Every day, you should do one impossible thing.
Who said this? She couldn't remember. Maybe no one ever had. Maybe you were meant daily to dream an impossible thing, and only expected to do something that was possible, but novel. It wasn't a distinction she felt inclined to ponder further. Anyway, it was certainly an impossible thing for the Princeston Plainsboro Dean of Medicine to be drinking hard liquor and contemplating a smoke there on those hallowed grounds of medicine.
Impossible, and here she was. One down, either way. Here she was hoping, perhaps foolishly, to travel back in time during the one night she had stolen for the attempt.
One night to do her life over, if only in her mind. One night in which she didn't feel lost, or confused. One night in which she felt like an omnipotent god watching over the building and people beneath her. Because she knew everything.
It was a romantic mission. It didn't feel romantic. A little hazy, mostly tired, all the things she needed to do swirling in her mind in constant danger of falling out if she didn't keep checking them back into line.
She closed her eyes. Leaned her head against the cold cement. She wouldn't give in, because she had vowed she would not. Not tonight.
Always begin with one true thing. With closed eyes, all that existed was her own train of thought. I think, therefore I am – but where did that get her? When all she knew herself to be was the very thing she had resolved to get up?
She was... She breathed. Cold air pricked inside her nose, down her throat. More cold – wind – exhaled on her face and neck, playfully ruffling loose strands of her hair. Her shoulders, arms and breasts were confined by the stiff tailored material of her structured jacket. So then. Slowly, savoring her movements, she took it off. She allowed goosebumps to rise on flesh now unprotected but for the silky ruffles of her shirt.
All she had to do was start with one true thing, and she had lied. To the wind. To the building. To herself. She was only pretending. She had wanted to know the feeling, and now she was shrinking back.
There was wind. And a siren. Calling, close by, coming closer and when her eyes sprang open her careful cocoon of sensation and thought was lost. Her mind sprang open, lost focus, tangled in nothings and everythings around her.
A siren. And a hospital. Life was moving forwards all around and she felt herself pulled downstairs to join in the fight of the body. All that held her back were the cigarettes: unopened, the bottle: still almost full, and the thing in her pocket she didn't want to have to put back. It was okay. She wasn't drunk. Couldn't be, on what was missing. She was on her feet now. Almost ready to leave but...
She had wanted to feel. Had gathered her supplies, finished her paperwork and brought herself up to the roof. Had coded it into her schedule that tonight was her night to try.
Lisa Cuddy did what she told herself to do.
She sat back down, chugged another slug of whiskey. Pulled her secret from her pocket and tucked it under her tongue. It was still not too late but she had promised herself, and all she had to do was sit quiet until it dissolved.
So she sat, and was quiet, and she waited. And she knew she was not ready. Not to go downstairs. Not now, not to talk to a donor, or talk to a family. Not to face a lawyer. Or Wilson or any other doctor or patient or even any person off the street. Not tonight, when -he- was meant to be gone for sure and -she- was meant to have the hospital alone to herself. It was her night, tonight, and with her luck it would yet be ruined but there was no reason she couldn't have it. No reason she wouldn't have it.
To while the time she opened her cigarettes, and brought one to her lips.
Cuddy sat quiet and felt the breeze, and shivered a little and hoped, secretly, that her night wouldn't work even more than she hoped it would work. Because she'd moved on and was a little to mature for all this and really, it was a pleasant and peaceful night with a wonderful view here from the top of her hospital. And with the wisps of smoke curling next to her, she felt a little bit wicked and realized she was smiling and this made her quite pleased with herself and her night but for the ungainly thumping she could hear from behind the door leading downstairs.
It was a janitor, at an unfortunate time. It must be. No one knew she was here, no one would be coming up here, by stairs. No one. She would be alone tonight. Except, to admit the truth, she would have company shortly. And those footsteps, the clunks. They didn't sound like erratic footsteps anymore, but a musical beat, the kind for which you had to build claps into a complex rhythm, just to pull out the three specific notes you wanted. And she could hear those claps, and tapped her fingers lightly along, hitting just a bit harder along with the stresses. When her arm moved, when the tobacco hissed as she inhaled, notes were added and she -felt- them melding along, indicating a symphony she couldn't quite hear.
And when the door swung open she remembered what those stressed beats were, and knew it was House. She didn't turn her head, but her fingers slowed in the relative silence, in holding pattern, waiting for the next movement. Her mind felt razor sharp, taking in everything, but there was nothing there now and maybe she was wrong and it had all been a dream. Or a truck passing below. "Go away House." If there was no one but her, no one would care if she was embarrassing herself. No one would bother her if she was wrong.
The silence continued, and she liked her sense of hope, but for the twinge of disappointment that came with it.
And then:
Her fingers fell once more into the complicated rhythm as she anticipated each footfall, each rap of the cane. So different now, but so much the same. If she closed her eyes she could see him walking, and with curiosity imagined how it would feel. Which muscles would be working, how much, how would her right shoulder move in relation to her left hip. Her muscles twitched in response, mimicking the movements in her mind. A waltz.
And she looked down, in her mind, as she came to a halt. Planting cane shifting weight just like every other stop before. Waiting for herself to look up, and break her moment of clarity. Already it was leaving, already she knew she wasn't alone, it was with regret she felt her stolen night of solitude coming to an end.
