A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? As some of you know, I've been working on another multi fic (don't get your hopes up; it won't be posted for a few months), but the good news is, that I like to take a break every once in a while and dig through the archives. In other words, write a oneshot based off a line that I have written down on Fat Betty (the trusty iphone). I got this idea after re-reading The Fault in Our Stars this summer. For those who haven't read it, there is a line in the book that disputes the idea of "Without pain, how could we know joy?". I drew inspiration for this story from the wise words of Hazel Grace:
"The existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate."
The past twenty-four hours had been, quite frankly, unnecessarily pathetic. Lisa Cuddy was stuck in that awful, disoriented, post-breakup world; she walked around with chipped nail polish, pressed the snooze button on occasion, and gave in to her daughter's pleas more often than usual.
Last night she'd planned on cooking dinner, but instead she and Rachel went out for frozen yogurt—and instead of working on the budget report that was due in two weeks, she let Rachel climb into her bed while she combed through her online ASOS shopping cart. She'd ended up buying everything, due to Rachel's repeated mumbles of "pretty Mommy."
She knew it was time to stop when the little girl laid her head in her lap, pointed to a black, lace embroidered dress and said:
"House likes when you wear black Mommy."
Cuddy had quickly shut down her computer and turned off the lights, sighing to herself as she heard her daughter fall into a deep slumber while a tear trickled down her own face. She'd quickly wiped it away and settled into her pillows, but she couldn't escape her thoughts of him.
They plagued her days and consumed her nights; he was the lead in both her nightmares and her dreams; her savior and her downfall. He was her place of comfort and the reason for her heartbreak.
And he didn't seem to understand that her feelings didn't simply go away when she uttered those three awful words; that just because she couldn't do it anymore, didn't mean she didn't want to.
About a month had passed since she'd ended it. He'd had his week of vicodin induced detachment and distraction, allowing hookers to consume his thoughts as he tried to push out the ones of her; they both knew it wouldn't work, but she made no comment—she no longer felt she deserved the right. But she was worried—which was why she'd breathed a sigh of relief when Wilson told her House was on his way back to the low-functioning semi-adult he'd been before they'd started dating. He'd ditched the vicodin and the hookers, but his cold, aloof presence seemed to be making a reappearance.
She figured it was better than nothing. But if she was being honest, she missed the playful snark that used to accompany their arguments. She hoped he missed it, too.
Which was why she was slightly caught off guard when she walked into her office late one afternoon, latte in hand, only to find Gregory House lounging lazily in the chair across from her desk.
She paused as she entered her office, mouth slightly agape as she eyed him suspiciously. He turned and gave her a look, nodding at her to acknowledge her presence. She gulped, her eyes cast downward as she made her way to her desk.
"Can I help you with something?" she asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He wasn't holding a file, which meant it wasn't medical—which could only leave personal, and she wasn't quite sure she was up for that yet.
Her scars were etched across her face, and she wasn't sure they would ever go away. And even if they did, she knew he would still be able to see them.
He nodded at her again.
"You," he said, lifting his cane and pointing his cane at her, "have committed the post-breakup cardinal sin," he accused. "As if the initial break-up wasn't enough," he said casually, almost emotionless.
She sighed, slightly cringing as she let her eyes close for a brief minute; she knew he would hide his emotions behind jokes and sarcasm, but that didn't stop the punch lines from creating a giant, guilt ridden pit in the bottom of her stomach.
"What do you want, House?" she asked tiredly, sitting down in her chair and setting her latte to the side. She ran a hand through her hair, not caring when she saw his eyes wander to her—he'd always loved to watch her do that. "I'm not interested in hearing you berate me while you talk in circles."
He averted his eyes away from her and shrugged.
"You have my Rolling Stones t-shirt," he said. "Need it back."
She gulped. She loved that shirt. He knew she loved that shirt.
"I don't have it," she lied, turning her attention to her computer screen and pretending to write something on a post-it note.
He smirked.
"Yes you do. And even if I didn't know you were lying—you have a tell, in case you'd forgotten—I'd still know, because I remember where I left it."
Cuddy rolled her eyes.
"And where would that be?" she asked primly. She could picture it in her house; it was folded neatly on top of her dryer, halfway between her bedroom and the door to her house. If she wanted to, she could bring it back to him—but she could also just as easily put it back in her bedroom.
"On you," he answered flatly.
She gulped, turning her head away from her computer and back towards him, conveying the same blank, emotionless stare that he was giving her and said:
"You'll have it back by tomorrow."
Later that night, she set the t-shirt by the front door and dismissed the feeling of finality that accompanied it.
The next day, he strutted into her office sporting the newly returned t-shirt underneath the black jacket that she could have sworn was tailored specifically for him. It was as if he'd moved from being aloof to being cruel, and she couldn't figure out which is worse.
"What do you want, House?" she asked, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. She wondered if he realized she had nothing left to give.
He shrugged, leaning slightly forward as he placed one hand on his cane, the other hidden behind his back.
"Got you something," he said nonchalantly. She eyed him skeptically as he reached behind him and presented her with a small bouquet of peonies—her favorite flower.
"How did you know these were my favorite?" she asked, her voice softening. She'd never told him what her favorite flower was, because she never even considered the possibility of him buying her something like that.
She'd add that to her ever-growing list of mistakes when it came to their relationship.
He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, turning his head slightly at her. She let out a slight smile as she tentatively took the flowers from him.
"What's the catch?" she asked, her voice returning to normal as she tried to hide the fact that she was almost touched.
"No catch," he said dismissively, ignoring her as she scoffed to herself.
"Flowers aren't going to make me let you do something crazy and irrational like inject your patient with HIV," she said mockingly.
"Not about a patient," he said. "Although now that you mention it—"
"House, I'm busy," she interrupted. "Cut to the chase," she demanded.
He nodded, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.
"I have a rebuttal."
She eyed him suspiciously.
"To what?"
"To our breakup," he said matter-of-factly.
She let out a deep sigh.
"House," she said sadly, her voice trailing; she realized she had nothing more to say.
"Your argument lacks a substantial amount of logic and rationale. Which, as I'm sure you know, are the two main components of a legitimate argument," he said, narrowing his eyes at her.
"House," she began seriously, her voice never faltering, "whatever you may think you know about my reasoning, you have to realize that I had legitimate cause to end our relationship."
"That's where you're wrong," he said, pointing his finger at her as he made his way over to the chair across from her desk. He plopped down into it, lounging the same way that he had before. "I'm not saying that you didn't have cause. What I'm saying is that the evidence you use to back up your claim is irrational. No evidence, no claim. No claim, not breakup. It's a win-win."
"Oh, that's what this is?" Cuddy asked, her voice growing louder as she gestured between the two of them. "This situation is a win-win? House," she said sternly, her voice growing slightly colder. "You've got to stop doing this. I can't…I can't take it much longer."
He rolled his eyes.
"I'm going to do you a favor and not remind you that neither one of us would be in this situation if it weren't for you in the first place. Instead I'm just going to leave you with this: The existence of broccoli does not in any way effect the taste of chocolate."
Cuddy sighed, defeated.
"Excuse me?"
"Do I really have to repeat myself?" he mumbled rhetorically, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. "You broke up with me because according to you, and apparently the universe—because the rest of the world should really be a factor when making a personal decision—you can't know love if you don't know pain. I'm here to tell you that you're wrong," he said simply.
"Is this really necessary, House? Is rehashing this helping you in some nonsensical abstract way? Because from where I'm sitting, all it's doing is dredging up the past."
"You're miserable, Cuddy" he said softly. "You chipped your nail polish three days ago and you haven't bothered to fix it. You come to work in the morning looking like you just woke up, which means you skipped your morning yoga. You don't correct the coffee cart when they give you a vanilla latte instead of a skinny vanilla latte, and you've worn the same dress twice in the past two weeks."
She glared at him.
"Are you spying on me?" she asked sternly, not letting him see the butterflies that were fluttering around in her stomach; she missed hearing him talk to her like that.
He shook his head, his blue eyes meeting hers for the first time in what felt like months.
"I just miss you, Cuddy," he said softly. "And I know you miss me. So cut the crap and have dinner with me tonight."
She shook her head.
"I can't," she said dismissively.
"Why not?" he demanded. "Cuddy, listen to me. I know pain. I feel it every day. Emotional, physical, it doesn't matter. It's all the same. Losing the functioning of my leg was pain. Detoxing from vicodin was pain. Losing you was pain. But none of it compares to what it felt like to having the privilege of loving you."
Her voice caught in her throat and she stared at him, wide-eyed. She watched as he leered at her, his eyes roaming up and down as he tried to anticipate her next move.
She sighed, looking straight at him as she said:
"You're trivializing this, House. And you're also forgetting something: not everyone is as utterly terrified and opposed to broccoli as you are."
About a week later, not much had changed. House seemed to have dropped the idea of them getting back together, and as far as she knew, he was drug free. She refrained from asking Wilson about the hookers, mostly because she couldn't bear the thought of it, and partly because it was sometimes more painful to watch Wilson lie to her.
She'd slowly gotten back into her normal routine. She and Rachel only got frozen yogurt on Friday nights, her hands had gone back to being perfectly manicured, and her wardrobe had gone back to its usual rotation. And that morning, the things she'd ordered had come in the mail. But instead of putting on the black dress that she knew House would love, she put on a slightly loose fitting grey one, cinching it with a black belt and slipping into her heels.
And while she almost felt like herself again, she could feel House slowly slipping away from her.
She'd prided herself on never having a normal relationship with the man she loved. But ever since their conversation in her office last week, their relationship had been reduced to courteous nods in the hallway amidst other co-workers, polite conversing through email as opposed to the zippy one liners she was used to receiving from him, and professional requests for diagnostic tests and treatments.
She'd wished for things to go back to normal. She'd hoped and she'd begged and she'd prayed to any god that would take her, but this—this wasn't what she wanted.
Because there was a difference in normal and their normal, and she'd never been so utterly terrified of being normal until now.
And it wasn't until she heard his identifiable, unceremonious tapping of his cane on her front door that she realized just how miserable she really was—and just how right he may be.
"Didn't expect to see you here," she said, smiling sadly as she opened the door.
"You associate with other misanthropic geniuses that knock on your door with their cane? I'm hurt, Cuddy," he joked; neither one were willing to point out just how hurt they really were.
He pulled out another bouquet of peonies, this time a larger bushel with a myriad of vibrant colors. She blushed, smiling bashfully as she brought them to her face, smelling them for a brief moment.
"What for?" she asked, slightly confused.
He shrugged.
"Because I know you like them," he answered. "And I still miss you. And I still think your argument is bullshit."
She let out a slight laugh, shaking her head.
"At least you're honest," she murmured. "House," she said softly, extending her arm out to him; it grazed his forearm for the briefest of moments, and for a second, she thought he might not pull away. But he did, and she wondered if he knew just how heartbreaking a simple move as that could be. "I just…I need you to know that just because I ended our relationship doesn't mean that I didn't love you, or care about you. Because I did." She paused, casting her eyes downward as she debated on whether or not to continue. She took a deep breath and lifted her eyes towards his. "I still do."
He nodded.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?" he demanded sternly, glaring at her. "Why haven't you forgiven me yet?"
"What are you talking about?" she asked, taken aback. "It's over…it's done. There's nothing we can do about it."
"Of course there is!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at her. "Addicts relapse. It happens. You knew it could happen. In fact, I told you it would happen and you chose to ignore it. You pushed away the thought of something in of our relationship going wrong because you think you can control everything. You think that as long as you have the upper hand, nothing bad will happen."
"When did I ever have the upper hand in our relationship?" she hissed. "Everything was on your terms."
He scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"Do I need to remind you of the "she's not a hooker she's a masseur debacle"? The Great Lie Debate of 2010? Or what about the case of the mangled toothbrush? The forgotten overflowing garbage?"
"You think I had the upper hand in our relationship because I expected you to tell me the truth?" she hissed, folding her arms over her chest. "Forgive me for wanting you to treat me like a human being," she said, defeated.
"No," he said, "I think you had the upper hand in our relationship because no matter what I did, I was always disappointing you. And the punishment was always the same: you kicked me out. And once day you decided to kick me out for good. Simple as that."
"That's not—that decision wasn't simple, House. You have to know that," she pleaded, her eyes softening as she lifted them up towards his.
"Seemed pretty simple to me," he countered.
She shook her head, lifting a hand to her face as her shoulders slumped.
"I didn't mean for—I didn't want you to think that," she said. "You didn't disappoint me, House. Our relationship was hard. Believe me, I was there too. I went through the same exact things you did."
"It would have been a lot easier if you'd let us go through them together," he said tersely, catching her off guard. "I tried to do that with you. You never did."
"I didn't need to be high in order to make an effort!" she exclaimed.
"That's because you never made an effort!" he fired back. "Look, I screwed up. I should have been with you from the start. But you screwed up too, on more than one occasion. You can't pretend that you didn't. The difference is, I'm willing to look past that. "
She cast her eyes away, her eyes welling up with tears. She felt him move closer to her, his hands tentatively making their way to her arm. His pinkie grazed the material of her dress before moving upward, pausing at her elbow.
She looked up, her eyes meeting his as she allowed him to pull her closer.
"And you can't pretend that you don't miss me," he claimed. She felt his lips gently graze hers, her fingers tingling at the jolt of electricity that ran through her bones before he pulled away. "Or that you don't want to open that door and let me inside right now."
Cuddy sighed, not wanting to pull away from him but forcing herself to out of self-preservation.
"I can't do that yet," she said softly, placing her hand on his chest. He sighed, his shoulder dropping in defeat. She gripped onto his shirt and pulled him closer, a small smile escaping her lips. "But if you give me a minute to change, I might consider letting you take me to dinner."
"Only if you pay," he countered. She glared at him. "I'm kidding, of course I'll pay. I know Wilson's credit card number."
She smirked, shaking her head as she playfully shoved him away.
"Go change," he ordered. "I can wait."
And a few minutes later, Cuddy emerged wearing the black, lace embroidered dress she'd ordered a week ago, her hair in loose curls and her lips stained with a bright red color. And later that night, she'd let him back into her home, back into her bed, and most importantly, back into her heart.
All because when the waiter came and asked for their order, House said:
"I'll take a plate of broccoli."
If you haven't read The Fault in Our Stars, I highly suggest it. Utterly depressing, yet strangely satisfying. Anyway, like I said, I'll be working on the occasional one-shot, so feel free to send me prompts. And as always, feedback is appreciated.
-Alison