Sons and Lovers
(with apologies to DH Lawrence for the Use of the Title)
House/Cuddy established relationship (since the end of The Jerk); takes place in the summer between seasons 3 and 4, with echoes and spoilers for Daddy's Boy and anything else.
House was shivering; shaking with cold. "Please let me out," he whimpered almost inaudibly. "I promise I'll tell you. Just stop!" But the timer hadn't rung—he knew still had 15 minutes to endure, and complaining would only buy him more time; more pain. Although House could sense the feeling leaving his feet; the stinging only intensified everywhere else: his abdomen, his back; his groin. As the ice melted, more was poured on top of him, until the ice no longer melted only piled higher and higher until he was drowning in it. "Stop!" he yelled. "Please stop!"
"Fine. You'll never be a man. You'll always be a disappointment. A little liar. That's all you'll ever amount to…"House was now thrashing wildly, tears streaming down his face.
"Please. Just stop…."
"House." A whispered voice from somewhere nearby. Familiar. A woman's voice. "House," it repeated gently. "Wake up." Now he felt a hand brush his upper arm, causing him to flinch away.
The hand's touch firmed on his arm and was now shaking him. Who….? Slightly disoriented, House sucked in a breath as his eyes popped open, startled. He glanced to his left, only to see Cuddy, lying next to him, a concerned look on her face. "Cuddy." House let out a breath, sagging back into the pillows of his bed. "I must've been…"
"You're freezing." In his thrashing, House had kicked the away the blankets; and the stiff northeast breeze had chilled him. Cuddy threw the tossed blankets around his shoulder and lay facing him on her side, head propped on her right hand. "I think you were having a nightmare." Cuddy saw that House was still shivering despite the blankets; she edged closer, urging him to roll onto his side, so she could warm him. House touched his forehead to hers, willing himself calm; sucking in deep, even breaths.
"Sorry. I… Sometimes..." He looked away, embarrassed. He fought for words to cover and deflect his distress, and failing. This, he would not be able to cover.
"Wanna talk about it? It might help." House's eyes went wide. Clearly not.
"It's a dream I have sometimes when I'm… It's nothing." His kissed Cuddy, surprising her—it was not something he really never did outside the bounds of their lovemaking--drawing her close; she could still feel his trembling, although it seemed to have mostly subsided. She tucked her head in the crook of his neck as he lay on his left side, his arm draped around her. Slowly she fell back to sleep.
It had been a beautiful evening: clear and cool, typical for early July. "So how long has it been since you've seen fireworks?" House looked at his wristwatch, before casting angelically innocent eyes at Cuddy.
"Too long. One hour, seventeen minutes ready for another…" Cuddy rolled her eyes, slapping him hard on his arm.
"I mean…"
"I know exactly what you mean. I was hoping you'd take the hint." She didn't, waiting him out patiently, until he decided to answer the actual question. "Been awhile," he continued finally with a deep sigh. "I really don't…"
The last time he had watched fireworks had been alone on a hilltop with Stacy. That Fourth of July, one week before the infarction changed everything. He had decided that night to propose. Make an honest woman of her, he had planned on declaring. He'd wanted to have the ring with him when he asked, or he would have asked her that night sitting on the hilltop. But a ring in hand would make less likely that she would say "no." He had it picked out the next day; and it was an absurdly romantic and expensive piece of jewelry: white-gold filigree wrapping around a one-carat perfect stone.
Then everything changed. And nothing was the same ever again. And the absolute last thing House wanted to do was to go see Fourth of July fireworks, with anyone, even Cuddy, childlike eagerness in her eyes and voice. And, in the interest of trying to make whatever it was he had with Cuddy work, they went.
House couldn't help himself as he narrated the show for Cuddy as they sat on a blanket shoulder to shoulder: which chemical combination created what colors; how they were packed into the skyrocket so they would make just that particular pattern in the night sky. Simple chemistry, a bit of physics, and a little Asian magic. Half an hour of smelling sulfur; a bottle of wine consumed.
They got back to House's flat by midnight; celebrated the Fourth with their own, more intimate display of fireworks and fell asleep in House's large antique bed. Until House had awoken, shivering in a cold sweat, yelling.
It hadn't been the first time House had suffered that particular nightmare. It had plagued his sleep periodically since college, peaking about a year earlier, right after the ketamine, when the vivid dreaming that accompanied the drug was at its height. But even now, that particular nightmare visited upon him every couple of months. It was one of an array of terrifying visions that seemed to always keep him away from a good night's sleep. Having it happen now; with Cuddy lying next to him was humiliating at best.
House looked down at her, her hair splayed across his arm and chest, sleeping. No longer sleepy, he gently untwined himself from her, careful to not disturb her. Grabbing the Vicodin bottle and his cane, he made his way to the living room.
House knew that this had been inevitable: Cuddy being there when House took an involuntary trip down memory lane. But what would happen when he woke up one night screaming his father's name to stop? What then? What would he tell her? What explanation was there for having a recurrent nightmare featuring your own father torturing you?
The dreams had not been frequent enough when he was with Stacy for him to have needed to explain. A quick sloughing off of the question by: "I must've eaten something. Mexican food always does that to me." She never really cared enough, or was too sleepy to probe him further the few times it had happened. Cuddy would probe. And prod. And question. But not for awhile, House reasoned. No, right now she was walking on eggshells like he was, trying very hard to not screw this thing up. So she wouldn't ask him uncomfortable questions and he wouldn't have to lie…or worse tell her the truth.
Cuddy knew that House hated his dad. Enough to avoid him at all costs when his parents had come to visit nearly two years past. It was a good hatred. A righteous hatred that had burned deep and scarred even deeper.
House was six when it started. And didn't end until House was bigger—and stronger—than his father.
