A/N – Sooo, I was trying to work on one of my unfinished fics last night, but ngh, wasn't getting anywhere. So I was lying in bed and suddenly this random plot bunny hopped into my head and was all "Write me or I'll jump on you and pound you to death with my powerful back legs!" So, obviously, I kind of had to write this. Sorry if it's crap.
Title – Shatter
Rating – T
Word Count – 799
Genre – Angst
Characters – House, Cuddy
Warning – It's in second person format, so if you don't like that sorta thing, probably best to stay away. It's also one of my first House fics, and I'm worried it's maybe a little out of character. Please be at least a little bit nice if you leave a comment!?
Inspired by – gidget89's one-shot Undone. You should seriously read it, it rocks.
Summary – The words are welling up in your throat, pressing against your teeth and tongue until you have no choice but to say them. Your glass confession hangs fragile and hopeful in the air, waiting for an answer.
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You think a lot about words. You always seem to notice them more than everyone else – the way they're said, how a subtle nuance or single inflection can change the meaning of a whole speech, sometimes so drastically it seems impossible that such a tiny thing could be the cause of it. There are a few particular words you've been thinking of more than most recently – a carefully selected few which you mull over endlessly in your mind, changing, rearranging and more often than not going back to what you had before. You like things exactly right, and words are no exception.
He saunters into your office, tossing a sardonic remark that thinly veils the question you know he'll never ask directly. You motion for him to sit, and he does, affecting an air of boredom to mask his curiosity. He knows that if this was a work matter you would have started talking as soon as he came into the room, started in on the lectures and complaints with your voice raised and accusing. He knows you too well not to see that you're nervous, that your hands are clenched tightly beneath your desk and you're shaking, so slightly it's barely perceptible. He reads you like a book, and you've never really been sure if you like that.
Your tongue is leaden and unmoving as you force yourself to meet his gaze. The first of the practiced words come out sounding shaky and off-key, at least half an octave higher than your normal voice. A tiny spark of concern flares momentarily in his eyes, but he says nothing. You press on, laying the foundations, a novice skater on paper-thin ice. Despite your intentions to stay calm, your words are becoming faster, more difficult to understand. You're panicking, for some stupid reason, deviating from your carefully scripted speech and into pointless, illogical ramblings that make no sense even to your ears.
When he speaks, his voice has little of the usual harsh quality you are so used to hearing. Your first name slips involuntarily from his lips and you both start, surprised. He lets the word tail off and it lingers for a second, floating in a memory-filled haze between you before dissolving into nothing. You shiver, knowing at that moment that you're going to say it. Up until now you weren't sure, thinking that there was still time to put it off and slot a work-related topic into the awkward silence. But now you have to. The words are welling up in your throat, pressing against your teeth and tongue until you have no choice but to say them. They hang fragile and hopeful in the air, glass-spun and waiting.
His voice is a low warning, asking, almost pleading. Cautiously, you push a question around the edges of your glass confession, still suspended glittering between you. It's a single, choked-out word, barely louder than a whisper, and you see pain flash through his eyes as your own sparkle with unshed tears. You tell yourself that it would be weak and stupid to cry, that he might still say yes… But still you steel yourself for the answer you don't want to hear as you watch the kaleidoscope of conflictions dart back and forth across his face in a wild Technicolor battle for centre stage. Time lurches drunkenly in uneven strides and it seems hours, even days, have passed before he opens his mouth.
There is so much anger in the few words he speaks that you flinch as if he had hit you. Your glass-words shatter instantly, broken again and again by the bitter resent in his shouts. Looking down, you see them fragmented into a thousand diamond shards on the floor of your office. Your eyes burn, but you refuse to give up until you're both equal, until he's cut and broken and bleeding like you. You look up abruptly, with your eyes hissing and sparking and your words daggers, short and sharp and painfully accurate. But he has guilt on his side. Words dripping poisonously from his tongue, he speaks with cyanide, arsenic. It eats you from the inside, corroding your defences, and you can't stop the tears from falling this time.
His words are impossible to counter, and you crumble, begging him to change his mind and hating how pathetic you sound. He glares at you with venom curdling in his eyes and spits one final insult over his shoulder as he stalks out of the door, slamming it so hard that several pictures fall off the walls. You had risen to your feet during the fierce power-play of the argument, but now your legs feel shaky and hollow as you sink down into your chair, cover your face with your hands and shatter like glass.