A/N: I dunno…I don't write a lot of House, because I'm Zay and I'm not often out of my comfort zone, but something has recently changed. Maybe it's this House hiatus that is ripping my sanity to shreds; maybe it's this great song I'm listening to; maybe it's my irritation at how poorly the Huddy drama is currently being handled on-screen. But either way, I felt the need to write this – like, give it my full attention and everything – which doesn't happen often.
Essentially, this is two stories: my take on the famous one night stand discussed in Season 6's "Known Unknowns" and my take on a bit of a resolution for the Huddy dilemma, set after the most recent episode, "Wilson." The timeline might not be perfect – I had to guess a little – but bear with me.
So I hope you like it. I really, really hope you do. Because for once, I'm okay with most of it.
Cheers.
--
Rendezvous
By: Zayz
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House: I was going to call you, figure out where things would go from there. That was the morning I got a call from the dean, got expelled from my first med school, and there didn't seem to be any point.
–Known Unknowns
--
2009
The New Jersey winter was upon the city like the Apocalypse, cold winds like slaps and snow like sharp, icy tears swirling, screaming, in the night air. Winter was a cruel season and tonight was a cruel night – it chilled to the bone, almost preternatural with its intensity. Unforgivable, unrelenting. Unstoppable.
It got dark early in winter, but you could swear it was midnight if you looked outside, despite the fact that it was just six-thirty. Radios squawked the temperature and conditions, going on and on about broken weather records, and the doctors at Princeton Plainsboro dawdled indoors, unwilling to leave the warmth and joy of central heating for the monstrous conditions outside.
Gregory House was one of these dawdling doctors.
And Lisa Cuddy was another.
The lobby was full of people bundled in thick winter coats, the air full of friendly, sterile chatter. Almost everyone was paired or grouped up, smiles visible, hands tucked into pockets, and these two, only two standing alone, stuck out like Christmas lights in a dark neighborhood.
House leaned against the front desk; Cuddy stood nearer to the door. Just once, he lifted his head up to face the crowd, and she flicked her head back, and their eyes caught – electric blue on murky slate.
The moment seemed to freeze like the icicles hanging from the front door, and they had only two possible choices. Her mouth opened ever so slightly, like she was going to say something, and he stood ever so slightly straighter, like he was going to take a step towards her.
But then, just as something was about to change, just as they made a choice, they didn't.
She subsided, closing her lips and turning away, and he slumped back against the desk. Frustration welled in him like a bruise in bloom. She had chosen the second option, running her hand through her curly brown hair and running for the door, and he was forced to take her lead, watch her choose the winter storm without him over the central heating with him.
Things had been so awkward for the past week. It had become something of a mirror dance – he would one step forward, she would take one back. He went to the left, she to the right. He reached out, she pulled back. He tried to catch her eye, she turned away.
He had tried. Really, he had. His methods were an odd mixture of mature and woefully juvenile, but he had tried for her and he had, eventually, lost.
He was in here, warm and safe, and she was out there, taking her chances against the snow.
With a fresh knot in his stomach – so unaccustomed to feeling this way – he took only a split-second to make his decision. He kept his head down against the wind and hobbled out somewhat-carefully to his motorcycle, ignoring the snow coating his hair.
Turning the key and hearing the machine wheeze to life, his helmet on his head, he, too, was here, battling the elements. And then he, too, was gone.
-
1982
Later, when Cuddy recalled that fateful night, she always said she knew the evening was special because nights were never so warm in October.
She was quite right, of course. The University of Michigan, being in Michigan, was a campus famous for its frequent snowfalls and frigid temperatures. Winter was a beast of awe-inspiring proportions, battled by the staff and students alike, and warm days were practically unheard of.
However, that October night in 1982 was warm, a lazy, balmy breeze lurking on the campus, and the party – loud, unruly, and solely to celebrate the weather – took place outside in the courtyard.
White fairy lights – provided by some nameless, faceless college student – lighted the dying trees and red plastic cups glowed in the dark. Music with synthesized beats – symptomatic of the eighties – played from another nameless, faceless college student's boom-box and young adults talked, drank, danced.
Gregory House was one of these meandering young adults.
And Lisa Cuddy was another.
The atmosphere buzzed with the animation only thrill-seeking college students can provide, the boy-girl whispers carrying in the air, but House was alone – the only one standing alone. He sipped from the red plastic cup in his hand, surveying his peers with his unusually blue eyes, leaning against a tree. He had come with a girl, but she was talking to her other friends on the other side of the courtyard and this, honestly, suited him just fine.
Lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn't notice when a young lady with curly brown hair – also alone – approached him, softly saying, "Hi."
Starting slightly as he came back to reality, he took in the sight of her face – the sparkling slate eyes, the somewhat familiar features – and replied, "Hi."
"You're Gregory House, aren't you?" she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
"Yeah," he said, a bit disconcerted. "And you?"
"Lisa," she said with an air of playfulness, intentionally ambiguous.
"Hey, that's not fair," House responded, his tone matching hers, his eyes coming alive as he assessed this woman, this challenge. "Why do you get to know my full name and I'm not allowed to know yours? Do I even know you?"
"We've met before, if that's what you're asking," Cuddy said with a smirk. "Don't you remember?"
"No," he said.
"I guess I can't expect you to," Cuddy allowed, tucking her unruly curls behind her ear. "I was one girl in a bookshop weeks ago. Of course I'd be difficult to remember specifically."
"Then why do you remember me?"
Cuddy's laugh was soft, girlish, and singularly appealing, with the music in the background and the drink in his veins.
"Good question," she said. "I'm not really sure. I mean, you insulted me without even knowing who I was. But…you've been on my mind lately. It's interesting that I should bump into you tonight."
"I wouldn't call it 'bumping into' me," House remarked. "You found me quite purposely – I saw you come in, scrutinize every face in the crowd, and then come over here. And you've got me curious now – what did I say to insult you?"
Choosing to ignore the first portion of this, she casually said, "Oh, nothing that wasn't true. But it's a little disarming, to innocently go into a store for your books and be informed by a perfect stranger that you've got a chip on your shoulder, something to prove, and the ability to party."
Recognition lit up House's face from the inside out as the memory flooded back.
"Ah," he said with a grin. "Miss Party-pants. I remember now."
Cuddy laughed again, almost giddy. If she was honest with herself, this business with tracking House down through all her available contacts, looking him up in the class roster, following him to this party…it was highly unlike her. She was a headstrong woman, single-minded and goal-oriented, and sneaking around like an infatuated schoolgirl was irksome for her.
But she hadn't been lying when she said she had thought a lot about that guy in the bookshop – and being headstrong, throwing her energy into tracking him down was a more attractive option to her than quietly standing by, doing nothing.
Now, standing around here under a tree lit by white fairy lights, that lazy, balmy breeze playing around her ankles and through her hair, under the gaze of this mysterious, legendary someone, she could feel the adrenaline flowing, making her lightheaded.
Even after this brief discourse, she could feel herself warming up to him. Maybe he wasn't the best-looking bachelor on campus, but there was something about him – something about his rumpled hair, the layer of stubble on his face, his un-ironed clothes and his casual, devil-may-care attitude – that attracted her inexplicably.
And she could swear, watching him watch her carefully under the mixed glow of natural and manmade light, that the attraction was mutual.
She waited a few seconds, but her suspicion was quickly confirmed – the corners of House's mouth turned up and he said, "So…let's see how right I was about your ability to party. Dance with me."
Something fluttered in her stomach and flew loose – she smiled a dazzling smile and said, "Okay."
-
2009
The radio hadn't been kidding when it said the roads were treacherous.
In his moment of enlightenment in the cozy, insulated hospital, House had failed to realize that there really was a storm outside and being exposed, crippled, and clinging to a bicycle with an engine was probably not the best state to be in. He was forced to drive carefully, stay under the speed limit and avoid sudden braking. But he did it, his brain focused in on one mission and one mission alone.
After maneuvering through several slushy, look-alike streets, he arrived at the one he wanted and drove silently to the house stuck in his mind's eye, Cuddy's house. The lights were on inside, a honey glow lighting the window – a good sign, meaning she was home.
He parked his motorcycle in front of the curb and stood beside it, just staring at the house, letting the snow fall around him, so lost in his own world that he was numb to the flakes trickling inside his jacket, into his shirt.
In the lobby, once again spurned by her, this felt like a good idea; but now, in front of the physical structure in which she lived, he isn't so sure. Bad things have happened to him when he visited her. She's already made it abundantly clear that she doesn't want him playing a starring role in the story of her life, so what business did he have here? What else was there left to say, when she's already stolen the words from out of his mouth?
His body gave an involuntary shiver and he straightened up, sitting back on his motorcycle, straightening his helmet. It was cold and windy out here and there's nothing he can do here that would benefit him.
What was it that Nolan said, all those months ago? Move on. Stop trying to fix what is beyond your reach. Let it go.
And even though it made him feel funny in a bad way, leaving here without doing something, anything, he knew it was for the better.
The game was up, over. He'd had his chances and he'd blown every single one of them. They wouldn't work out anyway. He was wrong to hope. He had left her standing alone in his wake, in this exact same way, too many times before. She, too, had been wrong to hope, but she had stopped. It was his turn to do the same.
So, kicking his bike into gear, listening to the familiar purr of the engine, he let her go and drove off into the night.
-
1982
The air – so incredibly warm for October – was sticky with drink, wild with movement, and buzzing with music. Someone had turned the boom-box up; people were finally dancing for real; hands held and breath caught and mouths met. There was a rhythm to the chaos of the courtyard, an almost tangible energy so much bigger than all of them; and it was this, this window of time in every party, that she lived for.
She could feel the environment in every fiber of her being. She was one with each passing second of time, absorbing the music, the cold, wet grass, all the smells and colors. It was the pinnacle moment, when everything was perfect and nothing else in the world mattered.
And as it turned out, both House and Cuddy were excellent party guests.
To Cuddy's great surprise, House was not as surly as he had seemed, sulking on his own, watching the party go on. The two of them danced to every song, not bothering to stop for a drink. It wasn't often that she had only one dance partner at a single party, but tonight, she had eyes for no one but the guy from the bookstore, who somehow seemed to know her better than anyone.
Now, here, when she was at her loosest, her most vulnerable, he spoke for the first time in a while.
"So…you said your name was Lisa?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, the smell of him heavy in her nose.
They were barely an inch apart, not touching but definitely close, their breath intermingling in the small space between them. She could feel everything about him, too, and it was intoxicating. Their energy was crackling like fire threatening to rampage the countryside.
"What's your last name?" inquired House, his eyes never leaving hers, the moment strangely too intimate for the boisterous dance music around them.
She considered toying with him, making him play a guessing game or something, but she decided not to. Instead, she leaned in even closer and said, "Cuddy."
"Lisa Cuddy." The name tasted funny on his tongue. "Interesting."
"What, that's all you can say? Interesting?"
"It is interesting," said House. "I know more about you than I thought I did. Just took a name to remind me."
"Yeah? What do you know about me?"
"You're second in the class right now," he stated. "You went out with my roommate once – and sent him back raving for two nights, thanks a lot. You're majoring in nephrology – so am I – and you're rumored to be a fabulous kisser."
Cuddy's smile was wide and rather impish. "Am I?"
"Judging from the slightly bruised texture of your lips, yes, I would hazard a guess that you've spent a fair amount of time proving your talent," House said, smirking. "And the slight bags under your eyes suggest that you don't sleep much – anyone else would guess it's because you spend your nights doing something more interesting, but I'm guessing that you're less of a slut than you seem. I think it's because you actually do work to keep that high class rank. It matters more to you than some idiot with a small dick you won't even remember the next morning."
Though she was significantly taken aback, she kept up her smile. "Wow," she said. "You're observant."
Now it was House's turn to flash her a grin. "Among other things."
"Maybe it would interest you to know the things people say about you, then," she said.
"It would interest me, but it wouldn't do much more than that," he responded. "If you're trying to impress, startle, or bamboozle me, I should tell you – I don't really care what people think of me."
"That's actually the first thing I heard about you," she said with a snort. "You don't care what people think of you."
"You'd think people could be more insightful," House said with a roll of his eyes. "You could figure that out just by looking at me. I'm not exactly set to win a Best-Dressed contest."
"Well, I've also heard that you play around recreationally with drugs," Cuddy continued. "You drink and occasionally acquire, shall we say, extra assistance on your tests. And you're almost always alone."
"These are the kinds of things that sound profound, but are actually just generalized observations," House scoffed.
"But that doesn't make them any less true," Cuddy pointed out. "You are alone much more often than not. I have never seen you with any friends, or a girlfriend. And coupled with the drug habit…"
House's grin was as wide and impish as his companion's had been a few moments ago. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. You are not nearly as profound as you think youare," he said simply.
She opened her mouth to say something; but before any words came out, a hand was on the underside of her bare thigh, her breath hitched, and she found herself kissing House, Gregory House, the most famous soon-to-be-doctor on campus.
And she hadn't made the first move. He had.
-
2009
The following morning, after a thorough search of the ER and the degrading mockery of at least two or three male nurses, House found himself a new patient – not a particularly riveting one, merely a teenage girl with a persistent headache – and set his team to work on the preliminary tests. He could feel the restlessness buzzing inside him like a swarm of bees and it was killing him.
At times like these, popping a couple of Vicodin or visiting Wilson would be the answer, but somehow that wasn't so feasible today. He was a recovering drug-addict – that meant he was in remission now – and he had no idea what to say to Wilson. The most comfortable options were gone and now he was left with the uncomfortable ones. And he was famous for hiding from uncomfortable options.
Knowing himself as he did, he knew that right now, he wasn't in the mood to confront anything or anyone. He needed to avoid it. He needed to keep busy with the patient – maybe break a cardinal rule and have two at the same time – and keep away from messy affairs of the heart. Those only led to trouble and he had sworn off of meddling anyway.
He sat around in his office with a cup of coffee, munching animal crackers and watching the cloud cover outside, until his team returned to the room with the usual complaints. In a way, he was grateful for them. He made a clever crack about Taub's nose and returned to the differential, to the world he was so comfortable in, and it felt as close to home as he ever was.
-
1982
"Mine or yours?"
"Mine."
"Where?"
"Here."
Their few brief, nearly-incoherent words dissolved into yet another kiss as Cuddy attempted to both hold onto House and lead the way to her dorm room, which was luckily quite close by. She hadn't let go of him from the first kiss on the dance floor – they stumbled together, like some awkward two-bodied beast, through the corridors. They were lucky no one had caught them, because they wouldn't have known what to say if questions were asked.
Finally, she kicked the door open and the two managed to collapse on Cuddy's bed. It felt good, letting gravity do the work, sinking into House and shutting off her thinking brain for the night. Whatever rumors she had heard about him, his habits, his fear of commitment, she naively believed they were mere rumors created by spurned girlfriends and their big mouths.
Kisses are kisses and they say as much about a person as words do; and somehow, she was sure that this wasn't going to be a one-night stand.
House's hand slid up her leg and into her shirt, up the warm skin of her back, and she didn't stop him. Clumsily, he started trying to slip off her skirt and she could feel it, she could feel the rush of adrenaline through her veins, and she knew she was ready.
"You want to?" he mumbled against her mouth.
A wave of boldness, daring, flooded through her and she grabbed onto the buttons of his shirt. Her skirt came off, his shirt began to follow suit, and her heartbeat was going so fast she could swear…
-
2009
For the next few days, he did his best. He really did. He kept himself busy, led the differentials, held back a few epiphanies in order to keep the case going a little bit longer. He made sure they kept the game innocent, not bothering with radical procedures that involved consent from the Cuddy. The team was slightly alienated – they were more accustomed to House's usual brand of high-risk medicine – but they played along loyally, alleviating at least one worry.
However, when they reached their final diagnosis – a small neurocytoma, virtually undetectable – a brain biopsy was necessary. And brain biopsies, particularly on minors, required clearance from Cuddy before they could be done.
Of course, it was House's job to appeal to Cuddy. Even Foreman acknowledged that House was the only one Cuddy ever listened to when it came to dangerous medicine.
So, equipped with forms and the patient file for back-up, House made his way to Cuddy's office, opening up the door with his usual gusto (naturally without knocking) and stepping inside. Cuddy, as usual, was bustling around her office, calmly handling two phones and trying to fax something at the same time.
"Hang on," she managed upon seeing him. "I'll be with you in a minute."
House nodded, equally calm, and watched as she transferred the two callers and finished with the fax. She picked up a couple of things from her Inbox tray and arranged them on her desk, scanning through them quickly and prioritizing. When she was through, she cleared her throat, ran her hand through her hair, sat at her desk and then said, "Yes?"
"Brain biopsy," said House, handing her the file and forms. "Need your okay."
Seemingly relieved at the lack of the customary sexual harassment, she nodded – cool, professional, deadly calm – and accepted the pile of papers. She flipped through them briefly, her brow furrowed in concentration, and he was silent, watching her.
Finally, she picked up a pen, signed the signature line, and handed him back the papers. "Okay," she said. "You can have your biopsy."
"Thanks," he said, softer and politer than usual.
"You're welcome." She spoke to him like she would speak to any other employee – she wasn't even looking at him, already back at the papers on her desk. She pursed her lips like she did was concentrating very hard on something, but instinctively House knew it wasn't the papers that demanded the attention from her gray matter.
For years, House had been in contact with all sides of Cuddy's personality. Depressed Cuddy, hopeless Cuddy, fiery Cuddy, joyful Cuddy, bitter Cuddy, vulnerable Cuddy. He knew that she was tough, but he also knew that she had limits – limits he had been reaching for almost ever since he met her. He knew her inside out – she was the only person besides Wilson that he could consider a friend – and he knew, knew like he knew he had two hands, that she was thinking of him.
He was about to leave her office, let her sit and fester if that's what she wanted, but he suddenly realized with a jolt that festering wasn't what he wanted. And this was as much his story as it was hers.
So he turned around – she flicked her head up – and for the second time in two days, their vision caught.
But this time, they didn't look away.
-
1982
Cuddy knew, somewhere inside of her, that she was happy. She was happy in a primitive, animalistic kind of way – happy like a pig in poop – but it was happiness unreal with vividness. It almost hurt, being here. It was as if something had clicked, unlocked some sharp, beautiful secret that flooded through her body, rendering her breathless.
Sex was a curious thing. It was an odd mix of mechanical and shockingly intimate. It was really a natural process with an evolutionary purpose, done with relative ease; but then again, it was also the closest two people could get to one another. Sex. Even when abused, there was something about it, something about the amount of trust willingly or unwillingly given, that eluded mere human comprehension.
Regardless of her faults and flirtations, Cuddy didn't treat sex like a game or a toy. She knew it was serious and when she committed, she intended to follow through with the relationship on some level, for at least some time. She didn't like one-night stands. Really, she didn't.
And lying there on her dorm sheets, his body next to hers, her breath hot and heavy and irregular, the moon peeking through the clouds outside her window, seeming close enough to touch, Cuddy honestly thought she could pursue a relationship with Gregory House.
She smiled at him and curled up close, the blanket sticky against her skin, every part of them touching. "So…House," she said, running her hand gently around his chest.
"So…Cuddy," he responded, his hand firmly cupping her breast.
She kissed him firmly and asked, "What are you doing here?"
"Excuse me?" House's tone was incredulous – maybe even a bit hurt. "I'm in your bed and we're having sex and suddenly you want to know what I'm doing here? I have some pretty raunchy answers I can give you, if you really want to go there."
She rolled her eyes. "No," she said. "I mean…why are you here? Why me, why now?"
"You wait until after you've practically sucked my mouth off my face to ask me this," he stated.
"I need to know what I'm getting into," she said carefully. "You've felt me up and you've seen me naked – you've had your fun. If…if this is just because you're horny and I'm convenient, then tell me now and we can forget it. But if you're here because you want to be, because of me…"
"So you'll only finish having sex if I say it's because of your control-freak habits and your winning smile?" House snorted. "Yeah, there's a great litmus test."
But Cuddy held her ground. "Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't come right out and ask you. But…you're honest," she said. "Even if you play games, I know you'll still tell it exactly how it is. All I'm asking is the same courtesy."
House contemplated this a moment, holding her gaze and not letting it go. Seconds ticked by and there he was, still staring at her, like she was the only person in the world for this small window of time.
Then, without warning, he pulled her on top of him, his hands defiantly on her backside, and practically ravaged the hollow between her neck and shoulder, making her cry out with a suspicious mix of surprise and pleasure.
"I'm here because you've got a winning smile, and I'm horny," he mumbled into her neck. "I hope that's okay."
Apparently, it was – because a smile flickered on her mouth for just a second or two before she kissed him vigorously and the bedsheet-tango began again.
-
2009
"Yes, House?" asked Cuddy, feigning irritation. But she couldn't be irritated – her eyes were too anxious.
"So…let me guess," he said abruptly. "We're not okay."
Cuddy sighed, suddenly looking a million years old, letting her face fall into her palm.
"Don't do this with me," she said.
"Then I can safely assume things with Lucas are going well?"
"Stop," she warned.
"And you get a free babysitter, too, for Rachel. How convenient!"
She opened her mouth to counter, continue the banter, but she knew better and stopped herself. "Is that why you're in here? To harass me?"
"Maybe, maybe not, but it's certainly a lucky side-effect, don't you think?"
His humor was almost as forced as her nonchalance. They had their roles to play – Cuddy, the she-devil boss, House, the dare-devil employee – and they tried to stick to them, cling to them, even as other feelings surfaced and tried to peep through the fragile surface. But they couldn't ignore what they felt, what they had, and Cuddy was the one to give up at last, pushing her papers away and giving him her full attention, her slate eyes now piercing.
"So go on, tell me what you want," she said. "Obviously, we need to talk."
"Nope." House slowly limped towards her desk, his face purposely cool, wiped absolutely clear of betraying emotion. "We don't need to talk."
Cuddy pursed her lips, closing her eyes briefly, seeming to think hard and fast – but then she opened her eyes, freed her lips, and said, "Well, then let me put it this way: I don't want to be in a relationship with you."
"How is telling me what I already know going to achieve anything?" inquired House.
"Because I did, at one point, want a relationship with you," she finally admitted, with so much weariness that he was mildly surprised. "Last year, when we kissed…I thought that meant you wanted to start something. I thought a lot about it, and I decided I wanted to try, but you showed me pretty clearly that you weren't interested. And then all of a sudden, I got Rachel, and you went to Mayfield, and you were trying to get your license back, and I was involved with Lucas…everything seemed to snowball and happen at once. And now, I realize that I don't want a relationship with you after all. I…can't."
She sighed and watched him, her expression indecipherable. He stared back at her, but his expression was easier – he was hurt, confused. What was he expected to say to that? What did she want him to say? Was there even a right answer to be found?
He waited several long, awkward seconds, him standing and she sitting at her desk, thinking. Then, quietly, he said, "So…where do you want to go from here?"
"I don't know," she said. "I guess…we could just go back to how things were. You come in here for a crazy procedure, we argue, you say something crude about my body and get what you want. It doesn't have to be more than that."
"In other words, you want to skip over the complicated stuff and run backwards," House translated.
"Well, I like where I am with Lucas," she said. "I'm not willing to break us up. It's not just me I have to consider anymore – I have to keep Rachel's future in mind and I'm sorry, but you aren't an ideal father figure."
"I cannot believe you're trying to break up with me." Some of House's signature humor crept back in his voice as he grasped this concept – Cuddy, the eternal romantic, trying to shove away House, the realist.
But Cuddy looked sad as she gazed at him, the feeble joke passing right over her head. "The game isn't fun anymore," she said. "It's awkward and it's tiring. We are clearly not capable of maintaining a decent relationship and I…I'm sorry. I don't want to play anymore."
House merely nodded. He could sense already that his feelings on this matter were complicated – guilt, hurt, anger, disappointment, bitterness – but right now, he was numb. He couldn't feel anything.
"Okay," he said simply. "Well, thanks for the biopsy, boss. I'll make sure the patient gets out of it alive."
Concern lit up her face – she knew enough to be suspicious when House understated something – but she didn't get up from her chair. If they really were going backwards, to the teasing-but-distant boss-employee relationship, then it wasn't up to her to worry anymore. It was his problem, not hers. She had no lasting liability.
It really was over. There was nothing else to say. She had let him down as gently as she could and the rest was up to him.
The tension had smoothed itself out, the electricity fizzled away to nothing. This was it – this was how the story finally ended. It had ended before it even started.
He walked out of the office and made sure the door was firmly shut behind him.
-
1982
She woke up the next morning to a jostle.
It was accidental, and she knew it, but it still startled her into reality. She wasn't a morning person, but she could feel primitive awareness shaking her body awake. It was dark like midnight outside – the sun hadn't risen yet – but she could feel someone moving around her. Someone who was trying very hard not to wake her.
She made some incoherent noise to make her consciousness known and stretched out, coaxing her eyelids open. A dark, fuzzy shape was sitting on the edge of her bed.
"House?" she asked softly. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," House replied, just as softly. "Shhh. Go back to sleep."
"Where are you going?"
House paused. Somehow, she knew he was thinking fast.
"I have to go," he said at last, discomfort in his voice whether he knew it or not.
"Why?" Now she was properly awake, rubbing her eyes and sitting up. She held the blanket up to her neck, cold in the morning draft, and tried to discern that odd look on House's face. Something dark bubbled dangerously in her stomach. "What could you possibly have to do right now?" She checked her clock. "It's four thirty in the morning."
"I'm sorry," he said. He was standing now, slipping into his pants, pulling his shirt over his head. His shoes were by the door – sneakers, easy to stuff his feet in and flee. He was really going to leave.
"Don't go," she called to him, fragile, delicate. A little desperate.
He didn't look at her. Even if she could barely see a thing in the dark, her eyes were adjusting, and she could see his head was averted down. He couldn't look at her. Her stomach started to ache, bubbles rising into her throat, overflowing into her arms, her legs.
"Please," she said, quieter this time.
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't answer. She listened as he buttoned his shirt, stuffed his feet into those sneakers, and flee out her door. He closed it gently, wordlessly, so that the click of the door's mechanism was the only sound in her room besides her breathing, shallow and distraught as it was.
And then there was no more sound at all. She was completely and utterly alone at four thirty in the morning.
The darkness in her stomach seemed to consume her. Disappointment, anger, shame, humiliation. It flickered through her, so many shades of these feelings, blending and blurring into one another but hurting her equally, like she was being clamped down somewhere, unable to move or think or blink or breathe.
How could she have been so stupid? Last night had been a party, a fairytale of sorts. She'd met (or, rather, tracked down) an enigmatic guy with a reputation. They'd flirted, kissed, and somehow she lost her head, lost herself in the moment, and went too far too fast. Last night, she could've sworn she wasn't the only one, that he wanted her too. But she had been blinded by the dream – and wrong.
She bunched up the blanket around herself, making a little cocoon to shield her from the sharp reality of the morning. The sun still wasn't up yet. She didn't know how long she lay there, awake and bitter, but she fell asleep eventually, waking again when the sun was fully up in the sky, shining there like it had a right to do so.
She waited for three days. He never called. That was it, then, she thought. That was how the story really ended. It had ended before it even started.
But by day four, she had stopped thinking obsessively about that morning and she had stopped hoping he would stop by, apologize, explain. It was done and over. And she thought she was too.
-
2009
Wilson waited until the end of the day, when the two of them were in his car going home, to make his first gentle attempt at conversation.
"So," Wilson began significantly, his still on the road.
"So," said House equally significantly. His voice was flat, though, and both of them knew it.
"So how was your day?" asked Wilson. "You had that teenage girl, didn't you?"
"Yeah," House replied heavily, not bothering to make eye contact. "Biopsied her brain, found the trouble spot. She's fine now. Should be leaving in a couple of days."
"That's good." Wilson nodded. "What else?"
"Nothing else," said House impassively. "Now we go home. I think we've got beer."
"We do – you stocked up last night," Wilson reminded him.
"Good." House paused. "You want to go out for a movie?"
"What movie?"
"I don't care," said House. "Anything. Your choice."
"Very kind of you. I almost don't know what to make of this generous gift." Wilson considered. "We could see what's on in the movie theater."
"Fine. Sounds good."
The stoplight turned some yards ahead and the car slowed down to a stop. Only now did Wilson turn to look at his friend, really look at him, and ask, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." House turned to look at Wilson as well, as innocently as he could.
"You don't look it," Wilson noted.
"Long day."
Wilson sighed. "Cuddy didn't look so good either, this afternoon."
"Really?"
"Really." Now it was Wilson's turn to pause. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Nope." House looked away, his eyes trained ahead at the windshield. Snow and ice were caked all over it, thanks to the fresh bout of snow that had come down this afternoon. The wipers attempted to combat the issue, but the snow was stubborn. It didn't want to leave just yet.
"Okay," said Wilson. "Theater first, or apartment?"
"Let's stop at the apartment for a little beer first."
Wilson nodded, understanding passing like a flicker of lightning between them. The stoplight turned again and the car accelerated forward, like a metal ghost gliding through the cold night. Wilson babbled about the movies playing, for the sake of filling up the silent air, and House looked up times on the iPhone, trying to ignore any thoughts or images or sound-bites floating around in his brain.
Somewhere else in the city, Cuddy was in her car, simultaneously driving and calling Lucas, asking him when he'd be back at her place. He told he already was – Rachel was having a nap and he'd ordered Chinese. He'd also picked a movie. Relieved, she told him she'd be right there and he told her to take her time. He loved her. He'd see her later. She said good-bye and hung up the phone, feeling the warmth and guilt battle it out in her chest, wondering which took prevalence tonight. It was a close call.
The evening was dark like midnight, even though it was only seven, but life went on anyway, trudging through the New Jersey winter and beyond. Winds picked up, died down; snow came down, evaporated up; smiles lit up and faded away. A twenty-seven year rendezvous had crumbled apart, but no one was to say if it would build itself back again, when fairer weather came to rule the skies once more.
--
A/N: Wow. I'm done. There's your winter miracle, folks. Me finishing a long, involved House fic that I don't want to stab to death (yet). I mean, really. Wow.
So, since you made it to the end, please leave a review on your way out of the browser. It'd mean a lot, with the whole "I don't write House and I'm astonished that I even finished" thing. Happy holidays and thanks in advance!