Notes: This is officially hiatus-long fic. Maybe longer. Updates won't be immediate, but I promise this is going somewhere. Title from a Rolling Stones song. Thanks for reading! Reviews are very appreciated.
Symmetry (pt 2)
The Two of Them Against the World
The next chapter in their sinuous teleology came as accidental as the first.
vertigo in hindsight
The pain started in the morning.
Stacy asked what was wrong, House shrugged. In her cynical voice she said she hoped he wasn't planning to play hookie, that they'd had the golf date with the partners of this firm for months. He nodded, dressed. On the green of the third hole he started sweating, faint from the excruciating ache wrenching in his leg. By the seventh he'd collapsed.
Three days later Cuddy found him––writhing helpless in a hospital bed, misdiagnosed and dying if she couldn't convince him surgery was his only chance. He wasn't alone.
It was too late, in too many ways. Cuddy had no time to mourn the second loss of him––this time to a woman. She was too resolved to save him.
For him there was the requisite panic attack of seeing someone from so long ago who meant, still means something to him. He could only lie an invalid, pitiable, attached.
He treated her like a stranger, never acknowledging that they knew each other before this, and she couldn't blame him. The circumstances induced amnesia. He had to ignore their past in order to forget everything he was about to lose. There was no optimism, only a prognosis. An intervention. He'd have rather died than ruin it. Only after it all fell away did he realize what he had.
Cuddy saved him, charged the defibrillator and stood strong when Stacy could only cry. House called it grace. But the familiar face was less than consolation, insisting on amputation.
The middle ground was born out of the fear the two women who loved him couldn't overcome: losing him. After, neither would be the same person to him. He'd hate Stacy for making a decision that wasn't hers to make, and Cuddy for telling her to do it.
They could never pick up where they left off. Her presence was unwanted; Cuddy could only watch him recover from a distance. She maimed him, saw him die and brought him back, now she might never see him again.
I don't love you, she wanted to tell him the day he was discharged. Except she couldn't, too afraid he'd see through the lie, or worse, believe her.
Late November, fall was losing to winter. Stacy had finally left. House stormed into the clinic, demanding a refill for an old prescription. As per the new Dean's request, the nurses called her before they called security.
He was a mess. His gaunt, pale complexion marred even more by a full beard rendered him almost unrecognizable.
"House, it's late."
"You're still here," he turned to say. The menace had vanished from his voice though the words were a prescient criticism of her constancy.
"I'm going home." She was standing in front of his uneven frame doing the visual primary survey doctors do, mock objectivity.
"My leg hurts."
"I know."
"C'mon," she said the same way he said it to her years before.
"I'll take you home."
"But––"
"I'll write the prescription myself, okay. But the hospital pharmacy is closed. We'll have to stop on the way."
He nodded, a wave of relief making his eyes water. Her hand reached out and he hesitated before he took it. His was shaking, a sign of withdrawal, or chronic pain. For now it didn't matter. Reciprocate, don't complicate the overdue rescue, she told herself.
Dead leaves cluttered the sidewalk outside. It was dark and he was struggling to see any obstacles in front his feet, trying to deny the dependency. He didn't ask her to be his crutch. At the far end of the parking lot, he was about to complain about how far away they make the Dean park, with some sexist remark to amend, when his leg gave out. She held onto him, resisting the same gravity. She wasn't afraid of falling, and she wasn't afraid of falling with him. If he fell hard, he knew from that second on, she would fall harder.
House sighed when he had steadier footing, slumped in the passenger seat. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He needed a haircut, wore the musk of someone who hadn't bathed in a week, hadn't shaved since this happened to his leg. She remembered the bronze skin of a fading September tan. She wanted, more than anything, to make him whole again.
They stopped at the pharmacy. The bottle rattled bleak as he pulled it out of her grip the second he could reach. The impatience of an addict could be reversed, rehabilitated. At least that's what she wanted to believe.
At his apartment she helped him out of her car, reaching out her hand, warming it with his. She hooked their arms together until he shrugged her away, and settled with her hand pressed at the small of his back. She was in the middle of a famine of affection, and standing beside him, helping physically seemed to assuage it. Whether she could admit it yet, he was the facet unfulfilled.
He unlocked the door and staggered inside. Scrabbling for the lamp, he turned it on and she could see his first gray hairs in the beard. Where did the time go, neither could say, just that they'd been too long apart and this was too high a price to pay.
Cuddy could have turned, ran away, told herself he wasn't the same. Yet in her fidelity to his suffering, she went to him unreservedly, almost sexually. She wanted to take his face in her hands, embrace even his mistakes, so indelibly were they a part of him. She wanted to say we'll get through this. You're not alone.
Backlit by orange light through drawn blinds, the sarcophagus of his figure loomed too close. When he took off his jacket, she saw blood soaking through the sleeve of his shirt.
"House, you're bleeding."
"Yeah," sardonic grief resonated in the one word.
She went to his medicine cabinet and came back with peroxide. He pulled his arm away, not wanting to drawl out his explanation about endorphins while she wasted her time trying to make him feel better.
"You should clean the wound at least."
"Later," he said, nodding the negation. He needed to sit down. His leg was weakening, he tumbled forward, she caught him, and, a whiff of him.
"Can you stand long enough to shower?"
He looked past her, but there was no disguising his humiliation.
Cuddy whispered, "C'mon."
"I'll draw you a bath."
Sitting on the toilet, House undressed while she scoured his closet for clean linens. She came back in and he stood, less concerned with his nakedness than the fact he needed her help for something so simple as this.
"Here, lean on me," she said offering her hand and arm and shoulder, without the slightest indication of duty in her voice. She belonged here somehow. That instant he knew displacement's a myth. He wondered if she still had the photograph, or if she'd forgotten about it.
He lifted his left leg and sank a foot in, the water a few degrees hotter than expected. His right leg trembled but her support was strong. Once in, he squatted, then sat, submerged and looking up to her with the blue eyes of a brokenhearted little boy.
"Holler for me when you're done," she told him, a hint of maternal inflection in her voice.
House soaked a long while, running the water until it ran cold, waiting for the hot water to return, running more, really waiting for her to go. He didn't deserve her.
He was also waiting for his erection to fall flaccid; by this point it was just a frustrating biological reaction. He hated his body for so many reasons. He'd have taken it into his own hands, if not for fear of her walking in on him. The only thing more pathetic than having an inopportune hardon was getting caught a perverted cripple who can't even get out of the tub to lock the door before beating off. He also had some faraway hope he might get somewhere with her, again.
"Cuddy!" he finally yelled, waiting for silence, the confirmation that she'd left him.
But she was there, ready to help him stand and step out. She wrapped a towel around him and pretended not to notice the flagrant mast between his legs.
"Feel better?" She asked reaching out her hand.
House was hunched and leaning heavy. With swift unexpectedness he lunged forward, kissing her hard. Tongue steadfast, lips triumphant, he was dripping, sweat and water and tears when she yelled "House!" into his mouth. The glide of his tongue over hers, overheated oral tact, and love, made the urgent press of their bodies against the wall all that was left for either of them in the unfair conspiracy that had reunited them.
The hand around her back moved to her breast, cradling it, squeezing.
"House!" She shouted this time, breaking the kiss, pushing him away when she wanted to pull him closer, hold him through it. She knew he needed a distraction.
The tears that had cumulated in the corners of his eyes stung dire. Cuddy turned and walked away, indignant, leaving House to stare apologetically at the floor. When he heard a door open he cried, "Don't."
"Don't go."
She closed the door to the closet and reappeared, dabbing at herself with a hand towel. "I need something dry to put on," she reassured, exasperated. House dressed himself clumsily quick so that he could spy, watch her sift through his drawers, undress. Sneaking a peek was enough of an incentive.
There was a tshirt large enough to cover most of her. Tonight she had no intention of being a tease though, and continued searching for something to conceal the rest. An old pair of track shorts were in the back of the bottom drawer. She never knew he ran. From then on, she'd only know what she'd taken away from him.
House had limped into his bedroom by then, collapsed hopeless across the mattress. There was nothing she could say. Only his feet were under the covers, the rest of him shivered bare, in just his boxerbriefs, as if he had to remind her what she did to him.
Even with all his scarred disdain, she didn't see his injury under the same banal light as every other patient. There was still his soul, trapped in a damaged body, his lust for puzzles, that matchless and inimitable obsession. She wanted to bring it to the fore, wanted him to be again the interesting lunatic he once was.
It might have only been nostalgia, her longing for youth that was time spent and stolen. Now there wasn't even a thin line separating his anguish and her guilt. He was at his lowest and she had some part in putting him there.
"Does massage help?" She finally asked, a feeble perverse attempt at conciliation.
The question echoed and she sat tentatively out of place on the edge of the bed. He'd propped a pillow under his leg and she pulled at it, readjusting. She knew he'd ditched physical therapy after one session. And her deduction after that kiss was that he needed some kind of contact.
Her hair was wet from the way he fell on her after the bath, a crescent curl curving above her eyeline. She was nineteen to him again and it was too much, he had to deflect.
"Vicodin helps," each syllable punctuated with contempt.
Cuddy handed him the bottle from which he poured a few and dry swallowed, shutting his eyes. She used the opportunity to inch closer to his side. She knew he was listless, just waiting for her to leave. One palm covered his thigh, just above the scar. His skin was still warm, the room too cold. Trying to ignore it, his toes bent, his elbow crooked. When she didn't relent, his eyes opened. He cleared his throat.
"What are you doing?" He tried to ask but the ricocheting twinge and pang, the constant throb was derailing in what almost felt like relief. She dug her fingertips into the scar tissue, manipulating the muscle around it and working out a cramp until he stopped resisting and the trembling started to subside. Or maybe the opiates had taken effect.
Her kneading turned to a caress, so that he was aware only that she was touching him, stroking, her fingers bending in farther, pressing deeper as his arousal rebounded, unwanted because he couldn't reach out and touch her the way she was touching him. He could only lay there paralyzed by the intimacy, take what she gave him, telling himself he was too old for this.
Her pace and grip responded to the cadence of his breathing, the twitch and quiver of his stomach muscles until there was a rhythm, and it was only the back of her hand grazing the length of him through cotton. He thrust almost imperceptibly, trying to remember what it was like the first time they laid side by side in bed, the details of that night resurrected. He clenched one hand into a fist, reaching for her with the other. Without a word, a sound, or even a harsh breath, he came, and was, for a few moments, not in pain. She kept rubbing his thigh, her knuckles gradually getting stickier. A quiet shudder as it waned, he sighed deep, not meeting her eyes. How long had he covered his and seen her despite. Now he was holding the blindfold down and remembering her overly ambitious, their one night. In minutes he was asleep, dreaming, still dreaming of what might and should have been.
An interlude of self doubt later, Cuddy went back to her briefcase. Sitting silent in his desk chair with her legs crossed, she toiled to find a way to put him on the payroll. In the middle of the night she leaned over and kissed him, strangling whatever emotion that made her want to wake him, make love him, take vows or resign everything, anything to save him.
Day broke, gray light filtered through charcoal curtains. She woke him by knocking over a vase, misplaced on the windowsill. Flowers that he got Stacy, maybe, flowers someone sent him. Pastel pink and yellow, wilted and dry, scattered in a few droplets of water and shattered glass.
The crash commenced the morning after they'd never had. House watched her pick up the pieces and she felt him watching her, wished he'd say something.
"You should shave," she finally said, too unnerved by the unflinching examination.
"Monday you're meeting with the board and, pending the final paperwork of Wilcox's retirement, you'll have a position in nephrology."
She threw the glass and dead pedals in the trash.
"If you want it."
House blinked hazy. He'd rather have heard her say she was wrong than give him a job. Cuddy sat down, slipped on her heels. She tilted her head, waiting for him to say no, or okay or anything.
"I remember those ankles," he lamented, following some long internal tug of war.
It was the first time he'd acknowledged they'd known each other, loved each other, in what now felt like another life.
The room was warmer, he knew she'd adjusted the thermostat. Somehow she'd be his anchor. He'd find shaving cream on his bathroom sink later, and understand that this was a conjugal scene; in the reflection of the mirror he'd catch the faintest glimmer of where this was leading.
At the door she adjusted her suit collar. Her clothes smelled like his soap, his shampoo, like him. He had no idea she was being more selfish than selfless. Cuddy couldn't lose him again. She knew what it would cost her. But it was worth it, worth the waiting, worth bearing the brunt of his misery if one day he could see––
His hand was jiggling the knob.
"Why are you helping me?" He asked, with a sort of reflex curiosity.
"Because," she started, shaking her head. I love you was the answer and it wrung heart that she couldn't tell the truth.
"I know you, House."
"Yeah."
"You're going to be alright."
The backs of her curved fingers traced the line of his clenched jaw. She kissed him softly, regretfully at the corner of his closed mouth, sealing the fate of their relationship as platonic, professional, in abeyance from then on. That would be the last time she touched him with any intent other than arbitrary or clinical until the night he knocked on her door told her she'd be a great mother.
first date
She's touching him now.
She left him alone, the way he asked for as long as she could. In getting up to check on Rachel, she stands and watches him sleep a while. She goes to him, seeing the photograph close and something tightens in her chest, twisting, reminding her the tenuous way they started this. She crawls onto the bed beside him, and drifts into a light sleep feeling like it still is and has always been she and House against the world.
Morning comes stolid, the sky the color of the cusp of summer. Cuddy is curled up behind him, her knees smooth against the backs of his. House tries to stretch out of the fetal position he's found himself in but gives up when she won't let go.
He could get used to this. Being here, being loved. His leg hurts but this eclipses it.
It took more than a decade to come to terms with her bleeding heart and his undeserved infarction. She has waded through the tears, been his life support. They had to be buried under concrete facing catastrophe and an engagement ring before he could finally admit he might have been wrong about everything, that he'd be happier if he'd let her, forgave her, could stay with her.
Cuddy knows he's awake. She's nervous. She's holding a newer, more willing House in her new house and has no idea what to expect this morning. Her hug around him loosens. His hand runs the length of her forearm, circling her wrist when he opens his eyes. House turns over so that he's facing her. He bows his head to kiss her throat, breathing in the scent of her hair, concentrating on all the places he's sure Lucas and no other man ever knew existed, until their drowsy arousal fades into every shared memory.
Straddling the decision of sleeping in or having sex, or both, the alarm clock starts shrieking in Cuddy's bedroom and she races to shut it off before it wakes Rachel. House stares at the ceiling, blinking sand out of his eyes and wondering why they never let this happen sooner, before there was a toddler in the picture.
Reentering quietly, she lies down beside him and says "Good morning," pressing her lips to his cheek. Her hand is warm under his tshirt, and he can't not love her for the way she's holding him overprotectively.
This is the part where, any day before this, he'd either start making love to her or leave. Here and now, both get crossed off his mental whiteboard. House sits up, reaches for the ibuprofen and strokes his index finger down her pale thigh as she stands, stretching.
Cuddy thinks she hears Rachel waking and they meander, trying on their togetherness, into the kitchen. House starts a pot of coffee and combs her cupboards to find there is no food for grown ups.
The door to the empty pantry is open when she walks in, tousled and preoccupied by whatever's on her mind. House is tapping his cane.
"You didn't tell me I'd be coupling with Mother Hubbard."
"I haven't had a chance to get a lot of groceries for this place yet. As soon as Marina shows up…"
On cue they're interrupted by the doorbell. It's the sitter, early for once. Cuddy dresses in a rush. House, content to wear the same clothes he wore yesterday, watches. Old habits die hard that way.
"Come on. We'll grab a bite on the way," she tells him, half an order.
The other half is invitation and he's surprised that she's willing to drive to work together. However innocuous it may seem, they both know it's not. There's a hell of a lot on the line here.
Forty five minutes later and as many miles out of their way, they wind up at a waffle house in Plainfield because House wants waffles. They park and he holds the door. Cuddy is waiting for him to let go, for the ornery schoolboy to go back to pulling her pigtails. But he doesn't. He behaves and there's no negotiation. She wonders what if she'd told him she loved him sooner, all the lawsuits and arguments and anguish it'd have spared her.
They sit, perusing the menu and she starts fidgeting with the strap of this summery piece she bought herself a week ago. He's trying not to gawk but the hunger is rising, like they're still in their twenties, like nothing has changed.
"So, I guess this is our first date?" She asks after they order.
House grins that tight lipped grin. She's right.
It's not going to come back. There's no recreating it, just making it, trying to make it happen this time. And after all she's sacrificed, how long she's stood by him, this woman deserves some grand romantic gesture. He owes her that much––to make this work, to get them away from the reality that it might not. It's the two of them against that. It always has been.
"Could you get some more maple syrup?" House asks, spilling the last of what he has over the formidable stack that's just been put in front of him.
While she's waiting in line at the counter House makes a few phone calls. One to the hospital, claiming them both a few vacation days, one to buy tickets, one to offer the babysitter overtime.
Cuddy comes back unsuspecting with the syrup. She sits in front of her fruit salad and there's no small talk, no catching up, just a long comfortable silence where he watches her eat a strawberry, and has the diffuse epiphany that he's been waiting his whole life to watch her eat that strawberry.
They've been running from this for so long, time after time and to the same place. This is it, his last chance to tempt fate, fix what he's spent half his life breaking. He has got to make it work this time.
