Author's Note: This part was definitely difficult to write, because it had no movement at all in terms of plot, and I don't exactly know how to write what goes on in House's head. But I tried. I hope it paid off. Oh! And thank you for reading!
Part II: Light
It surprised him that he didn't know anything about Cuddy's whereabouts. Not after two years.
If it was such an anomaly to let Cuddy be, the truth was that he let himself simmer and brood over how their relationship finally ended all this time. What spurred him to such heights of self control, he didn't quite know. Maybe it was regret. Anger. Hurt. Maybe it was guilt, which he was sure he never felt. He wasn't Cuddy, after all. It comforted him these past two years that he never knew what became of her.
But now he was here. That fucking scared him. His hands shook violently as he opened the manila folder. He took another swig of scotch and poured himself another glass. Here goes.
"So she is married," he said to no one in particular. Maybe to his subconscious. "Doctor Lisa Cuddy-Roth."
He was nearly pleasantly surprised that this was the reason it took the P.I. a couple of days. So that's why, he thought. He wondered if he should still call her Cuddy-if he could still think of her as Cuddy. But she would always be Cuddy to him, no matter what her name was now.
By the time he was nearly done with her file, he abandoned his glass of scotch for the bottle. So she was married with two kids, Rachel and Colin. Rachel was now five, in first grade, at a prestigious private school. The kid wasn't an idiot, after all. Colin was in third grade.
He didn't know what to feel about the fact that Cuddy-or Cuddy-Roth, or Roth-wasn't able to get pregnant. Should he feel elated that she didn't have a kid with her husband? Did she even want to get pregnant in the two years that have passed? Did she want to get pregnant when she was with him?
He felt his stomach lurch but ignored it. He took another drink.
She had been married for three months now, to Phillip Roth, geneticist and executive at a huge biotech. firm. Wait. No. She had married him again. The first was in Jersey more than twenty years ago, and the second (and he deduced that it would be her last) was here in Minnesota. Maybe they really were meant to be together. Maybe he wasn't enough.
And as for Cuddy (or Cuddy-Roth or Roth), she was back to being a real doctor. Cuddy was now a board-certified endocrinologist at the Mayo Clinic with several articles published in various medical journals.
"The PGA Service Group. Nice," he told no one again.
According to the file, she had written articles on:
(1) digestive neuroendocrine tumors – one article
(2) perinatal influence on mental health – two articles (Interesting.)
(3) hormonal effects on the developing brain – four articles (Thank you, Rachel.)
(4) hormonal effects on behavior – six articles (Could that say something about her?)
(5) neuroendocrine carcinomas – one article
(6) Cushing's Disease – three articles
She definitely had been busy, and he guessed that it wasn't going to change. Not one bit. He smiled, taking note of each category. He would read her articles later. He wasn't quite sure if he felt a twinge of pride or something akin to excitement.
"Cuddy. Cuddy." He was chanting her name, as if he could summon her. "Cuddy," he said. He read the next page.
Like all families with a geneticist-slash-biotech-firm-executive father and an endocrinologist for a mother, the four of them lived in a huge house with huge yards and a huge dog in Rochester. House was pretty sure Phillip Roth had a huge ego.
He carelessly laid the papers beside him on the bed, saving them for later. He wanted to get to the juicy parts. He finally got to a thick manila envelope and tore tape off of its surface. A-ha. He took photos and a thin, black CD case out of the envelope. The P.I. definitely got his job done.
There were photos of a nanny with Rachel and Colin, and of the kids at what seemed to him a completely pretentious school. There were more photos of Cuddy's pretentious house, and their pretentious car (or cars, for that matter). He held his breath when he got to the pile of what he surmised to be of Cuddy and her family. There were photos of the picture-perfect family in a pretentious restaurant and a pretentious ice cream parlor. There were photos of Cuddy and her husband at work. There were photos of…House decided that he was no masochist. Phillip Roth looked like a regular Jean Dujardin, and House wanted to smash his face with his cane. He felt a bit defeated and ambivalent. Phillip Roth truly looked like a good guy. More importantly, Cuddy looked happy. Happier than he saw her last; that was obvious. Happier than when she was with him; he didn't know. He didn't want to know.
He looked up at the dirty ceiling and sighed. He wasn't sure what to do with the photos. Should he burn them, throw them away, or keep them? And what about that video the P.I. talked about?
He finally had the CD in his hands, but he couldn't bring himself to open the case. It felt heavy, like it was made of lead. He couldn't watch what that damn P.I. had on video. To him, the CD was sacred. To him, the idea of Cuddy was sacred (or something like it) and to participate in an act of voyeurism, like watching her like this, ruined Cuddy. Not that he didn't want to. By god, he missed her. He missed her scent and her smile; he missed her hands. He missed kissing her, and being with her. But he knew that he couldn't have her. Not ever, not again.
He took the laserdisc out of its case and saw light glinting on the walls of the motel room. He couldn't watch it. He bent the disc until it split in half. Shards of plastic flew from the bed. He was pretty sure he was going to step on those sooner or later.
He sobbed, once.
He tried to sleep, but as always, he couldn't.
He wondered if she still thought of him, or if she knew that Wilson was gone. He wondered if she knew he was dead or that he just faked his own death. He wondered if she would always love him, and if she wasn't lying when she told him that he was always going to be the most incredible man she has ever known; quote, end quote.
He wondered how much he hurt her when he fucked up two years ago; how long she cried over him, or how much she detested Dominika. Did she know about the hookers, or how empty he still felt afterwards? Why the hell had she agreed on dinner with Jerry? What happened to her house back in Jersey? Was Arlene still alive, and will he find himself castrated in the future? Would Rachel remember him? Did she remember what he did?
He wondered how long it took Cuddy to move on. He wondered how long it took Cuddy to move on with Phillip Roth. He wanted to know what brought them together again. He wanted to know how much he loved her and wanted to do anything for her. He wanted to know how much she loved him. Did Cuddy tell Phillip about him, like she did with Lucas?
He felt his chest tighten and fought the tears which threatened to fall again. He took another drink and wondered if the motel had anything stronger than scotch.
He wondered how guilty Cuddy was, and if she was aware of how much she hurt him. He wondered if she knew how much he tried to please her; he wondered if she knew that he couldn't change. He still thought that she had wanted him to change. He finally admitted that they both stumbled somewhere, at some time in their relationship.
He wondered if she still kept tabs on him. He really wanted her to know that he was breathing; alive. He wanted her to know that he was miserable, as he always knew he would be. He wanted her to know that during the time they were together, he wasn't as miserable as he thought he would. He wanted her to know that he was happy with her. He wanted her to be happy. He still wants her to be happy.
He sat up on the bed and placed the contents of her file inside the folder. He popped several Vicodin in his mouth and closed his eyes.
"Cuddy," he said to no one.