Timeline: Soon after House's release from Mayfield in the Season 6 premiere.
A/N: This is my first fic EVER. I wrote it back in the summer of 2009 (before "Broken", hence the slight canonical differences), posted it on livejournal months ago, and finally decided to post it here tonight. Prior to writing this, I'd only written scripts before (for school, I'm not like a professional screenplay writer or anything. LOL.), so I kind of ended up writing it more like a screenplay than a story. I hope it still makes sense. Constructive criticism is always helpful.
A/N2: For Oc7ober. This is a PYP story (Plot, Yes, Plot). Well, sort of. :D
Rediscovering Reality
Shuffle. Shuffle. Thunk.
House silently curses his useless leg while striving to remember what a brisk walk feels like. His cane thunks the ground as he makes his way toward the doors of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, trying to escape before a certain administrator notices not his absence, but his presence. His head swivels left as he eyes her doors through the glass partitions of the clinic, silently willing them not to open. He doesn't immediately notice, then, when his body stops abruptly, halted by the very same administrator he's trying to avoid. Her voice is scratchy as she looks up at him.
"You can't be here."
He recovers quickly, looking down. Blue meets blue.
"I'm not."
He stalks toward her office, caught.
"It's a liability."
"Good thing I'm not here."
"House."
He looks around.
"No. Office. I could see how you get the two confused. Both are overrun with estrogen and desperation."
She pauses, sighs, tries again.
"What are you doing in my hospital? You are on suspension pending -"
"Just visiting some old friends. Grumpy, Tiny, and… well, Thirteen already has a nickname. Turns out, they're a bit busy. Patient. Rapid weight loss, depression, fatigue, decimated immune system. Thought I'd help out."
"Sounds like the flu."
"Blood work is clean."
"Actual depression?"
"You're the endocrinologist."
"You think it's Addison's? That's very rare."
"Cortisol output is normal. He's not –"
She interrupts.
"Wait. You never want to help out. You do everything possible to avoid helping out. Which means you're either bored, or avoiding your therapy. You do realize that not going to therapy means staying away from here longer."
"Oh! I thought it was the opposite. My bad. I'll get right on that."
He turns to head out the door.
"Wait."
He pauses, his back to her.
"Does Foreman have any idea what this guy's got?"
"I'm sure he'll figure it out. He's a big boy."
He walks out. She pauses, then follows, quickly catching up to him.
"Unless…"
"Unless nothing. You caught me. Avoiding therapy. That's me, always avoiding."
His eyes refuse to make contact with hers.
"Yeah, you're doing it right now. You came to see me, didn't you?"
He points, in earnest, toward the elevators.
"The patient. He's why I'm -"
"And I wasn't in my office, so you traipsed upstairs -"
"I took the elevator, actually. Sorry to ruin the mental picture."
"- To check on the kids."
He's suddenly quiet.
"So, I have to ask myself," she continues, "why would you come here looking for me today after you avoided me at Mayfield, refused to answer your door when I came over…"
"I was naked at the time. Didn't think you could handle it."
"… and now, two weeks later, you're practically begging to get caught on your way out the door?"
She leans in closer, her voice a husky whisper.
"Do you have something to tell me, House?"
His eyes search hers, unsure of her intentions and wary of the playful smile on her lips.
"I…"
She waits, her breath warm against his neck.
"I'd heard you had a boob job and I came to see if some insane plastic surgeon had the gall to mess with perfection."
A flash of disappointment darkens her features before being replaced with a knowing smile.
"Perfection?"
Caught. He backs away quickly, resuming his speed-limp toward the outdoors.
"Gotta go. Therapy."
"House…"
"I'm not here. Remember?"
"God, you're annoying."
Wilson's tinny, exasperated voice comes over the phone line as House sits on his couch. The TV drones ignorantly in the background.
"I get that a lot."
"And you're an idiot."
"I get that a lot, too."
"Doesn't make it not true."
"I concede that point. What do you want, Wilson? I mean, other than to point out the obvious."
"You chickened out. You went all the way over there to talk to her and then you completely chickened out."
House looks down at the tumbler of scotch in his hand, ashamed. Not that he'd ever tell Wilson that.
"Do you expect her to just throw herself at you? After all the shit you put her through?"
"Oh, come on. If she wants a relationship with me, she'd better get used to me being an annoying idiot. As you so eloquently put it. People don't change. Love is just hormones and brain chemistry."
As soon as the words fly out of his mouth, he realizes his mistake. A sudden mental image of him grabbing the word out of the air and stuffing it back into his mouth distracts him long enough for Wilson to realize the error, too.
"Love?"
"Attraction. Sex. Whatever."
"You're evading."
"You're an ass."
"Fine. Does she at least know about what happened in May? The hallucination?"
"Did you tell her?"
"Would I be asking if I told her?"
"Now you're evading."
"I am not. I did not. I told her that you were hallucinating, yes, but about Amber. That's all."
House sighs.
A knock. Light, hesitant.
"Oops. There's the door. My ten o'clock is here."
"You didn't call a hoo-"
House hangs up the phone, grabbing his cane. He winces as he stands, reaching for a Vicodin bottle that isn't there, hasn't been there for months. He growls in frustration, rubbing his thigh.
Another knock.
"Coming! Jesus."
Hand meets doorknob.
"What happened, the patient crash?"
It's Cuddy, surprised.
"How did you know?"
"Why else would someone come knocking on my door at this ungodly hour?"
"It's nine thirty."
"Why are you here?"
"The patient. He -"
"Yeah, I heard. He's crashed. I assume he's stable now, or you wouldn't be at my door, you'd be on the phone telling me the patient kicked the bucket. Why are you here? Dean of Medicine running errands for a Diagnostics fellow?"
"All right. You dragged it out of me. I'm secretly here to jump you. Is that want you want to hear?"
Eyes widen as House's grip on the doorknob tightens. She hands him the folder.
"The patient had cholesterolosis of the gallbladder so Chase removed it. Then he crashed."
"And we're sure it's not Addison's? Sounds like it."
"It's not. Glucocorticoids and mineralocorticoids dropped only slightly after the surgery. This is definitely not secondary adrenal crisis."
"Potassium?"
"Elevated, but not significantly."
"MRI whatshisname's brain. Check for a tumor in the pituitary -"
"We did that already. I am an endocrinologist, House. I know what adrenal insufficiency looks like."
"You're an administrator."
He opens the file, reads aloud.
"Joint pain."
"How's that significant? It went away months ago."
"What's a guy with multiple Addison's symptoms doing with a Cushing's symptom?"
"It went away. Maybe it has nothing to do with Cushing's. Maybe he was exercising too hard. He ran cross country for years. That could cause -"
"He's 25 years old. He ran, what, in college? That's quite a delay if it's just running, and he's too young to have arthritis."
She grabs the file back.
"Look. As much fun as this is, if you don't have anything significant to contribute, I need to get back to the hospital. I thought you wanted to help this patient."
"My therapist says I should back away for a while."
"And you're actually listening to her?"
He shrugs.
"Her neckline was high today."
"Uh-huh. So, what, you weren't distracted?"
He doesn't answer, leaving an awkward silence.
"Well. I need to go. If this is all we're gonna dis…"
"What?"
"What, what?"
"What else would we be discussing?"
She sighs, taking a moment, as though she's constructing an answer that will simultaneously wound him and make his heart sing. She points her finger at herself, then at him, her voice hesitant.
"Before you went to Mayfield, did you… hallucinate… us?"
"Us, what? Playing poker? Drag racing?"
He can tell she's frustrated.
"Us. Having -"
She looks around, feeling suddenly exposed in the hallway.
"Can I come in, please?"
He swings the door wider, finally allowing her entrance. He hangs the cane on the doorknob and follows her to the couch. He doesn't invite her to sit down, so she stands. If House were a fidgetor, he would be shuffling his toe around the hardwood floor. He's not, though, so he retreats to the kitchen to refill his glass instead. He does not offer her anything.
"I was stressed. I had a dream. It didn't -"
"You came into my office, acting like a jackass. You insulted my daughter. The next morning, you're all sunshine and happy places for no apparent reason. You send me a stripper, you steal my coffee."
House's eyebrows rise, surprised she noticed that.
"Then, two days later, you tell the entire lobby that we slept together. Now, either you suddenly started waxing nostalgic about the old med school days, or you -"
"Fine. What do you want from me? I was stressed about Amber, Kutner. I went to a goddamn mental institution, for Christ's sake. Obviously, I wasn't thinking clearly."
"You told me I helped you. You nearly went catatonic with shock in my office. You actually seemed upset that I was angry with you. Now, if we add all of these events together, only one conclusion can be drawn."
"Don't."
"You honestly thought I helped you. You honestly thought we -"
"Don't say it."
"Oh, my God. You're – Are you embarrassed, House?"
He feels the warmth of her hand as she puts it on his shoulder, reassuringly. He shrugs it off.
"I don't want your pity. Get out."
He refuses to make eye contact with her. She ignores the demand and bends down, forcing his eyes to meet hers.
"I don't pity you, House. I just need to know."
"Why?"
"Because you're my friend."
"Spare me the platitudes, Cuddy."
"Why is it that you insist on making everything more difficult than it has to be?"
Blindly, he backs up on his right leg, then nearly collapses in pain when the leg can't hold the full weight of his body.
"Dammit!"
She moves to help him up. He tries to shake her off, but she grabs his wrist and slings his arm over her shoulders, helping him to the couch. She sits next to him, worried.
"House -"
"Fine," he growls, "you're right. I was hallucinating you. You came here, you helped me detox. We stayed up all night, just talking. You told me you audited Herman's endocrinology just to sit next to me. I should have known it wasn't real.
"Amber disappeared, I thought things were back to normal. You kissed me. "
She gasps, quietly.
"You kissed me", he stresses, "right there."
He points toward the door.
"Then we -"
She follows his gaze back toward the bedroom, a look of sadness flashes across her features.
"The next morning, I woke up and found your lipstick on the bathroom counter. Turned out to be the Vicodin bottle."
"I'm sorry, House. I had no idea."
"Of course you didn't. It was my hallucination, wasn't it?"
"And you asking me to move in with you. Was that… real?"
"I don't know what's real anymore."
"Still?"
"Always."
Compassion, or pity (depending on your perspective), is etched on her face as she eyes him. She's not sure what to say next, so she doesn't say anything.
"Are you satisfied? Not only are you a witness to my humiliation, you've got a starring role in it."
At a loss for words, she repeats: " I'm sorry."
This angers him.
"What the hell do you have to be sorry about? Amber's death? Kutner's suicide? The fact that I can't – couldn't – control my pain? How is any of that your damn fault?"
"I'm not saying it is, I'm just -"
"You've made it very clear that this – whatever it is between us – is not going to happen, so why exactly are you here? Did you come to gloat? Poor, sad doctor, so miserable he has to invent someone to love?"
There's that word again.
"I'm here because, believe it or not, I care about you. About this… thing. You were just so… devastated."
Tears well in her eyes. She brushes them away angrily as House stands, retreating back to the kitchen to place his still-full glass of scotch in the sink. He returns after a moment to find that she hasn't moved from her place on the couch. He remains in the doorway, as though somehow the distance between them would act as a buffer.
"You don't want any part of this, Cuddy. No matter what you're thinking right now. I'm egotistical, misanthropic, argumentative, and not exactly monogamy-friendly. Not to mention that I was recently crazy. The best thing for you to do is to stand up, walk out that door, and never come back."
She stands, and he fears for a moment that she's actually taking him up on his suggestion. Time slows. He is surprised to find her walking toward him. She rests her hand on his cheek. This time, he doesn't shrug it away.
"It's a good thing I never listen to you."
Her lips brush his tentatively. Once, twice. The air crackles with tension as she pulls him down to deepen the kiss.
He hesitates, his voice cutting through the thickening air.
"Is this real?" he whispers.
Her gaze lifts from his lips to his eyes. Blue meets blue.
"What?"
"Is this real?" he repeats, a hint of desperation in his voice.
She sighs, smiles.
"Yes. This is real."
His mouth slams down on hers in a bruising kiss. He pulls her closer as she wraps her arms around his neck. Her mouth opens, his tongue wraps around hers and he feels more than hears a contented sigh rumble through her. They kiss for what seems like hours. Tongues twine, teeth nibble, lips suck. When they finally come up for air, both are breathing heavily, and there's a smile on Cuddy's face.
Her fingertips touch his lips gently.
"No lipstick."
He smiles foolishly, grabbing her hand.
"C'mon."
He starts to guide her back to the bedroom, but she won't move.
"We can't."
"You're not gonna make me beg, are you? I can't exactly get down on my knees here."
"House."
"You worried about job security? The risks of sleeping with an underling?"
"Underling?"
She smiles.
"Or you just don't want to knock pelvises with an escaped mental patient?"
The smile fades. She pulls her hand out of his grip and rests it against his chest.
"Don't do this. Don't be glib. You just got out of the hospital, you're still in recovery. There's a reason they tell addicts not to enter into a relationship right away. I don't want to be your Vicodin substitute."
"That's pretty bold of you, Cuddy. You think you're that irresistible?"
"To you? Yes, I do."
He chuckles, but doesn't deny it.
"So, what does this mean?"
"It means… we take it slow. And when you're ready -"
"I'm ready."
She pats his chest playfully.
"When you're ready, you know where to find me."
He pulls her in for a hug, and she accepts, wrapping her arms around his chest and burrowing her nose in his shirt. Blue, she notices. It suits his eyes.
"Fine."
His left hand drifts down toward her ass.
"House."
Her voice is stern but the smile remains. She reaches back returns his hand to her waist.
"Mom," he whines, glancing down at her. Then glancing lower.
"Can the girls still come out and play every once in a while?"
"We'll see."
"Yes," he hisses in triumph.
They stay like this for a while, perfectly still, enjoying each other's warmth. Until she backs away, looking at her watch.
"I really do need to get back to work. I have some paperwork to do before I go home and the nanny leaves at nine. I only get an hour with Rachel before I have to get up and do it all over again. It's a vicious cycle."
"You could always ditch…"
His eyes glaze over as his focus shifts.
"Don't even say it, House."
He doesn't respond.
"House?"
"Cyclical Cushing's."
"What?"
"Your patient. His coritsol levels are normal, but he has Addison's symptoms. His body is used to increased cortisol production – Cushing's – which causes the joint pain. Probably packs on the poundage, heart rate increases. But when the cortisol cycles back to normal, like now, his body withdraws, causing weight loss, depression, low blood pressure…"
"And gallbladder cholesterolosis."
"Since his pituitary is fine, biopsy the kidney. Renal oncocytic carcinoid also causes Cyclical Cushing's symptoms. Cancer and Cushing's. Sucks to be him."
"I'll let Wilson know."
She grabs the patient's file from atop the coffee table. House follows her to the door, retrieving his cane from the doorknob. She turns, smiles.
"Be good."
"When am I not?"
He opens the door for her and she brushes past him into the hallway.
"You really want me to answer that question?"
An eyebrow raises. House leans in and kisses her briefly before pulling away. She licks her lips as her hand comes up to cup his cheek, her thumb gliding across his glistening lower lip. House closes his eyes, leaning into her hand. When he opens them again, she's gone. He smiles to no one in particular, shutting the door.
A/N I blatantly stole that last moment from an X-Files episode. Can anyone guess which one? No infringement intended.