Part 2/9

II. Love and Sleep

The term in vitro, from the Latin root meaning 'in glass', is used because early biological experiments involving cultivation of tissues outside the living organism from which they came, were carried out in glass containers such as beakers, test tubes, or petri dishes. Today, the term in vitro is used to refer to any biological procedure that is performed outside the organism it would normally be occurring in, to distinguish it from an in vivo procedure, where the tissue remains inside the living organism within which it is normally found. Initially in vitro fertilization was developed to overcome infertility due to problems with the fallopian tube, but it turned out that it was successful in many other infertility situations as well. Hence its contemporary popularity.

Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, endocrinologist, aspiring matriarch wants a less clinical conception. She also wants to be a doctor rather than an administrator, to have a husband in bed beside her late at night when the floor boards creak, and a time machine so that she can go back and rewrite her life's story.

But you can't always get what you want. And even if she could could, she would run from it.

Cuddy actually cringes at the thought of restarting the IVF. Three cycles of it convinced her that it wasn't worth it. And now as she's trying to persuade herself to begin again, she feels guilty assigning a value, a limit to the life that could have been. How could she think it wasn't 'worth' it?

Desperation drove her to the dehumanizing process. And now the thought of repeating it - being stretched open, scraped out, stuffed full of cold metal, pumped full of air, injected with dye and hormones and drugs of all sorts, is evoking hesitation, to say the least. Having her most intimate self poked, prodded, probed, and generally manipulated in another series of procedures will not be easy. But it's not the process of conceiving the child that isn't 'worth' it, it's the trials, the vain attempts, the final failure, confirming her infertility, that is useless and lamentable. If it all succeeds, it's priceless.

But really, it wasn't the money or the time or the bodily infringement that made the entire episode unbearable. It was the fact that she was left doing it all completely alone. Through the entire violating insemination process an endless stream of tears married silent sobs every second she knew nobody was looking. All she could think about was Richard. Each time she wanted nothing more than somebody to hold her hand, some sort of encouragement. Wishing for a husband, somebody to make love to her, rescue her from the unnatural situation. Somebody in the waiting room for reassurance. Anybody to comfort her and say she was brave, independent, doing the right thing. But each time all she had was a sterile room and some strange doctor on her payroll touching her, offering only his hypocritical bedside manner.

And her heartfelt longing for a child.

Whatever the outcome, Cuddy was determined to remain an emotionally functional woman. But she failed miserably. Became detached, spending all of her energy in the war against infertility. She tried red clover, she tried hormones, she tried acupuncture and every gimmick she could afford. She even prayed, begging God for the chance, the opportunity to prove herself as an acceptable mother. The prayer was actually answered, for a short time Lisa Cuddy was pregnant.

The most disturbing aspect of it all she decided, out of the many before her,was the one she didn't have the audacity to do anything about. The anonymity of the donor. Granted, Cuddy knew that pregnancy wasn't some magical, romantic rarity that only happened to starcrossed lovers. But, she did dread the process of looking through cryogenic banks and trying to choose promising semen based on letters and numbers, ink on a page.

She considered Wilson, a friend, a doctor, but he was fickle. A few failed marriages, and he couldn't even handle Hector. Then she considered House, and before she could ask him, he made her realize she wanted more. Made her even more disgusted at the prospect of some nameless, illogically (genetically) suitable man's remnants of a five knuckle shuffle being thawed, thrown into a petri dish and forced to make friends with her ova.

It made her feel undesired, foolish. Wasn't there any sperm out there that wanted to take her egg out to a movie?

The miscarriage broke her. House telling her what a bad mother she would be shattered the remains of the illusion. She believed it and stopped. House was right, he's always right.

What she did not know, and still doesn't suspect, is that House's hostility at the time was rooted in his disappointment in not being asked. Even he may not have realized the envy, the bitter blighted hope he was a victim of and directing at her.

algernon charles swinburne

Today at work, Cuddy arrives so absently and so quickly that she half believes she slept here again last night. With the few moments she has to herself, she sits behind her desk, feigning administration, looking out into the clinic, and trying to direct her thoughts away from the trepidation she's feeling about asking the fateful question, tonight.

The moment she removes House from her mind, Richard replaces him.

One day in the span of time that Cuddy believed Richard wanted kids, they were comparing their experiences growing up as only children. Richard said that when he has children, he wants more than one, perhaps even twins, because he would never want to curse some little life with the boredom and loneliness of having only them- its parents.

At that point Cuddy took the opposing stance, the alternate perspective adopting it for the moment, as her own. She said that one child may not be a curse. They could afford to spoil it, send it to college, shower it with attention. One child may suffice, it may be enough when the day comes. One, she realized through this argument, would make her happy. And was defending her right to stop at one. More would be greedy, it would also be a struggle.

One is all she really wants.

Richard did not disagree with her anymore and they rarely discussed children after that except at social gatherings where they could openly critique the parenting practices of their friends.

They had a dog. A saint bernard named Swinburne. It was obviously Richard's, only an English professor would name a canine after a poet. Richard loved that dog, and although in a completely different way, he loved him more than he loved Cuddy. Swinburne would be waiting by his bedside every morning, with his leash in his mouth. He would jump up and lick his face the moment Richard stepped through the door, every evening when he returned from work. Cuddy didn't hate the dog, but she wasn't willing to compete for his affection. So, she didn't really like the mutt either. But it was mutual, Swinburne often growled, howled, and barked at her, especially when she was wearing her lab coat.

One day, Richard noticed an abscess, a bump on Swinburne's hind leg. Immediately, he took him to the vet, and after a week of tests, confirmed cancer. Richard tried all veterinary treatments to slow the progress, remove as much of it as possible. Canine oncology bills accrued, but he didn't care. Despite all efforts, Swinburne fell ill and died within months, quietly at Richard's bedside, with the leash in his mouth.

This marked the beginning of the end for Richard and Cuddy. He had no hope, no understanding for doctors anymore. Veterinary technology, science had failed him, and he took it out on her. She did after all, embody a philosophy founded on medicine.

Seeing Richard lose that dog broke Cuddy's heart, he fell out of love with his work, with literature, poetry, with life. He stopped shaving, grew a beard reminiscent of Rasputin, and withdrew from the world. Eventually, Cuddy suggested they adopt a new animal, but Richard wouldn't have it, Swinburne was with him for ten years, he could not be replaced. Cuddy kept trying to soothe his wounded spirit. But she didn't understand how any grown man could be so affected by the loss of an animal. She understood grieving, but depression, mourning to this extent, seemed ridiculous. She witnessed humans, people with mortgages, careers, children of their own, dying and suffering everyday for years. An animal seemed so insignificant.

Then Cuddy had an epiphany. That Swinburne was not just a pet to Richard, he was a son. And Richard was only doing what he thought a father should do after experiencing such a loss, he wasn't weak or insane, and he didn't need a new dog. He needed a child, he needed to refill that paternal vacancy.

Cuddy comforted him, cajoled him, went to therapy with him and most importantly got off birth control. For him. Richard healed, as he had in her hands before. And every night that they made love she considered it a favor for him, one she hoped ricocheted and made her maternal dream reality.

Success seemed imminent. As did marriage. But both were denied her, and now Cuddy decides House is more worthy of a space in her anxiety ridden consciousness than Richard. So, he returns.

all the world's a stage

Standing in her office, Cuddy closes all of the blinds, for both privacy and concentration as she starts to formulate the question that may change both of their lives and create another. She knows she will take him his cane tonight, make amends for having nurse Dickerson steal it. The cane will be a segway, a legitimate excuse for being there, again.

It will have to be approached from a clearly clinical viewpoint. They won't be people, they will be cells and fluid, pronuclei and unromantic incubation. They are doctors, they know the details. But still, he will undoubtedly come back with the essential, "You want me to masturbate in the hospital? Don't you think I jerk off enough here already?" Levity in the midst of the heaviest question. One she doesn't expect an answer to tonight. Cuddy definitely wants him to think about it. They'll have to discuss privacy, she doesn't want anybody knowing, especially before it's (if) a success. He kept her secret before though, trust is not an issue. Rejection is. The thought of him saying 'no' has tormented her since the first honest moment she considered House an option. They will have to discuss their roles. As if suddenly they are leads in the cast of a play that begins with pregnancy, and ends, well, when does it end? That's what they must decide, and they have no scripts to suggest dialogue and no director telling them how they should interpret each scene. They must improvise, and this precarious improvisation begins tonight.

Now, Lisa Cuddy must become a playwright. She must find words, inject meaning and assign punctuation. The question mark is the most difficult, yes. The first line of her play will read:

"House..."

Then there will be a beat, one of about a hundred in this scene, but they are actors now, they can handle it.

"I'm going to be starting the IVF again, soon."

He will interject with something about hormone shots, her huge ass, and a turkey baster.

"I was wondering if..."

If, oh if. Two letters with the ability to taunt her more than the rest of the alphabet.

"If you would consider being a donor."

Finally, expelled, and there's not even a question mark.

"Before you seemed like you were interested..."

No, don't say that, it's implying that he might have changed his mind. Don't even entertain the possibility. Stay in the present, not the past.

"If not, that's okay. Please think about it. You have time."

Does he? Does anybody? Why ask this now? The man recently had a trio of near-death experiences. Let him heal. Let his scrotum recover before its given such a tremendous demand.

But.

If Cuddy doesn't ask him now, she may never. So as ridiculous and desperate and assailable as she feels approaching him with such an outrageous proposition, she must. And she must do it tonight.

There is no other choice, she can't escape the desire for a baby and doesn't want a faceless stranger helping her make one.

The creation of life is exhilarating and overwhelming even when it is theoretical.

The rest of the day is spent behind shaded blinds chewing nails and worrying her lip. Cuddy doesn't understand why she's so intimidated by a question. Except it's not the question that bothers her, it's who she's asking, it's the answer, and the consequences of 'yes' or 'no'.

Suddenly anxious and impelled, her heart a little arrhythmic, Cuddy stands, hurrying out of her office and the clinic, with only a cane, leaving the hospital and her unfinished stage play as far behind as possible.

act one

By the time she finds the courage to turn down his street, it is dusk. A mild and hopeful early May evening. Spring is in the air, circulating through her lungs with a lot of fear and very little faith.

Even her knock is nervous.

House goes to the door rather than hollering, although it isn't locked. The wait makes her sweat, her face paler than ever when the door finally opens. He gives her an expectant glare, not entirely insincere, and opens the door wider, leaning heavy on the knob. Cuddy goes to say something but raises the cane instead and walks in.

Seeing House, limping, his fractured head and the thinning, grayish hair on it, almost makes her forget tonight's agenda. She is consumed again by gratitude for his survival. The grace of his life. The man himself is not as appreciative. Cuddy is flush with the pleasure of his presence, struggling to suppress it, speechless.

"That my cane?"

She nods, adding a long blink, ending a mesmeric stare.

House takes it from her hand, tips of fingers touching, bringing this scene to life. Suddenly it is all very real. He is here, she is here, something has to happen.

Cuddy cannot be defeated by involuntary silence tonight. Not again.

Say something, say anything.

"You smell better."

Okay.

House turns around, she's avoiding eye contact.

"Are you coming on to me?"

Cuddy's blushing, the tension is easing up, moment by moment.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not as good as I smell, apparently."

"How's your h-"

"My head's fine."

"Any mo-"

"Motor function, memory, it's all good. Every dismal detail of my miserable life. Didn't lose any of it."

House is anticipating everything, perhaps he might already know the question.

Maybe she won't even have to say it.

"Have you heard from Wilson?"

Cuddy deals with the change of subject,

"No."

Then,

"He took some time off. But he didn't leave a number with the hospital or anything.

It's a lie. Both know Wilson left a number and a location and instructions to not tell House either. He nods anyway.

Cuddy stands mute and motionless for minutes, unsure how to transition from Wilson to her empty uterus.

"Well, if you're just going to stand there, I'm going to bed."

And House starts toward his room. Cuddy follows, finding the words as soon as he's out of sight. Behind him now, past the barrier doorway of the bedroom, the sentence forms in her mind. But he turns around, his look erasing every letter. Eyes fix to eyes for an eternity, House waiting for her to say something, explain why she followed him.

"Is there something else?"

A rather appropriate yet haphazard inquiry, Cuddy thinks.

'The truth, say the truth, he asked, just answer.'

"I was wondering..."

Good. Progress, now be honest.

"When you were planning on returning to work."

Damn, so close.

House raises his eyebrows, knowing it is a lie, and curious why she's choosing to lie now, to him.

"Four, six weeks. At least."

"Okay."

Cuddy nods, looking over his shoulder, at the bed.

"I'll take eight if you let me."

"Whatever you need."

A certain self disdain in her voice, knowing the question will not be asked tonight, hating her procrastination. Hating herself, this cowardice. It's too late, they're in his bedroom for God's sake. She can't ask it here, not now. She has to rewrite the scene, the entire first act, spontaneously, with little inspiration- now.

House can tell something is troubling her, that Cuddy is not herself. More uneasy than she usually is with him, he tries to be nice,

"Thank -"

Before he can say 'you,' her lips are on top of his. The shape of their mouths meeting. Soft, warm, a kiss but barely. The happiness of having him before her, of House somehow still being alive and with her at this moment comes rushing forth. Cuddy tries to say as much but this is all she can make happen.

It is a word, without sound. A platonic expression of gratitude, an exchange between friends, not a sensual initiation or a romantic gesture. A confession of her fear of ever losing him, and a promise to never be abandoned again.

Closed mouths, lips touching it is still enough to taste a hint of each other. House is uncertain it's her who's kissing him. Reality has been a delusion lately. Unreality an increasing lot. It is abrupt and unexpected but when he opens his eyes she's standing there looking up at him. It's definitely Lisa Cuddy, with a strange combination of pain, regret, and inexplicable joy in her eyes. A hand is high on his back, behind his heart, admiring its resilience. When he goes to open his mouth, to deepen this kiss, to breathe, extend the moment, she pulls back, ending the connection.

Cuddy looks at him, and then her eyes change direction. She's suddenly aware of how blue the room is and that it's night now. Their latent shadows coupling in the darkness, neither uncomfortable nor embarrassed. It felt good. There it is, she's feeling something again. And turns away, not speaking because it was both a good bye kiss and the last word. Time to go and her feet begin leading her back to loneliness.

"Stay."

He requests without considering.

It is more than an invitation but not an attempt at seduction.

It is House's first compassionate deed. He is transcending his selfishness, he is being a friend, he is offering her company. He wants to say more, to find out what's bothering her, why she's really here, but he just sits down on the bed, looking up at her with that boyish expression, as if it's the first day of school and he's trying to make a new friend.

Unwilling to leave before intermission, she sits beside him. They are at the bottom of the bed, feet swinging above the floor, pretending it's all perfectly normal. Starlight through a window and the solace of silence. A fleeting stretch of time and then House lies back and Cuddy lands beside him. They stare side by side at the ceiling, the reflection of traffic lights painting the room with the colors of 'stop' and 'go' a few times before a voice breaks through.

"What's wrong?"

Cuddy shakes her head, blinking away tears. Knowing a sob would escape if her lips parted even a little. It is still an answer.

After a few minutes House reaches a hand out and takes hold of one of hers. It is supple and trembling and precious in his grasp. Cuddy falls asleep like this, holding on to only him, both refusing to let go. He doesn't want to fall asleep, convinced that if he examines her long enough he might see the origin of her anxiety rise to the surface. See her struggle and be able to share it, reduce it, end it.

He wants to kiss her again. Affection has become foreign to him, the last woman he felt like this with was Stacy, a married Stacy, and it seems so long ago.

Looking at her, it's perfect, the gaze, the woman, the fact that she's in his bed. It's satisfying to see her asleep. Sex and sleeping together are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love first makes itself felt in the desire for shared sleep, not the desire to copulate. The ability to sleep soundly with someone is monumental. It involves trust, comfort, and to want it is a new level of intimacy. And he wants it.

Both need it.

House yawns, eyelids heavy, still wanting to kiss her. A sleeping beauty kind of kiss, but he is no valiant prince. Really, he wants to wrap his arms around her, to hold her close and whisper whatever she needs to hear into her ear until she's completely cured. But he's afraid of waking or offending her, of losing the warmth, the body next to him. So he relaxes at her side, appreciating the space she's filling, strokes the top of her hand with his thumb and falls asleep.

They never touch more than limbs the entire night.