4.
It was House's turn to take a step back. Although she had once accused him of knowing exactly where to stick the point in and twist the blade, it was obvious now that Cuddy was just as adept in ferociously and grievously wounding her opponent.
House had let her in, had opened his heart to her. And this was how she repaid him, by attacking him where he was most vulnerable, by flaunting his own terrible self-loathing, his inability to ever feel loved, even or especially by himself.
He looked at her again with eyes that seemed to be stripped of impediment. He saw her for the flawed, insanely controlling, spiteful woman that she really was.
And faced with all of that, he still loved her.
For House had never deluded himself into thinking that Lisa Cuddy was someone she was not. He knew both her strengths and limitations. And he accepted them equally as part of the same beautiful yet fragile, fascinating, multi-dimensional, problematic woman that stood before him now.
In fact the only thing that had come as a shock to him was the apparent effortlessness in which Cuddy had cut him loose. He thought she cared enough for him that she would be willing to weather at least a few storms by his side. She said she did. But then again, he reminded himself bitterly, everybody lies.
The fact that he had believed her, perhaps because he wanted to so very badly, proved not only that everybody lies but that, most importantly, they lie to themselves as well.
Yet House had been trying, really trying for quite some time to let the scales fall from his eyes. The first, most important step had been for him to detox from the Vicodin. Part and parcel with that decision was his self-realization that he was, indeed, an addict and would always be an addict.
Even long after he had kicked the Vicodin, House recognized that like any junkie, he would be looking to score his next fix, probably for the rest of his life. He also knew that he must be the one who made the choice of what he would allow himself to become addicted to. Whether it was alcohol, meaningless sex, monster trucks, what have you, he and he alone must choose his poison.
That's when the uncomfortable thought crossed his mind; was he using Cuddy as a replacement for the Vicodin? Without hesitation, House knew in his heart that while he did need her, craved her, wanted her, he also truly loved her.
It had taken him nearly the entire five weeks alone to figure this out and now that he knew, he simply needed the impetus to go and tell Cuddy. But an overwhelming fear had gripped him, nearly overshadowing the love he felt for her.
His old nemesis, self-hatred spiraling into self-destruction had come crashing back upon him. And yet, within the vortex of his downward spiral, there was comfort. He had spent so much of his life there, loathing himself, hating not only his actions and words but his very being, his very existence, he had spent so much of his life in that place, that it was hard for him to imagine anything else, anything better.
House was a recovering addict, emotionally mercurial and secretive about his feelings, an arrogant, needing to be right, egomaniacal ass. He was, in short, completely unworthy for someone like Lisa Cuddy. Certainly, not a good role model or father figure for her daughter.
And yet, he understood Cuddy like no one else, saw past her walls, through her deflections and fears to the person inside, to the frightened little girl afraid of rejection and failure. His own terrified boy called out to her and she answered him with a cry of her own.
Yet, when the two voices combined, the shrieks became music that was both wonderful and undeniable. They each could heal the other, if they would only trust and allow them access to their wounded souls.
House eyed her suspiciously. She had hurt him . . . again. His immediate reaction was to lash out and take his vengeance upon her as well.
But House knew the answer did not lie in escalation. Rather, his best option was to attempt to mollify the scared, angry child within himself. The best way he knew to do that was to offer it a puzzle to solve. Gregory House had always liked puzzles.
"Is that why you dumped me and now you're trying to bury me as quickly as possible, as if I, we, never existed? Do my demons frighten you that much?"
Cuddy was struck again to the very core of her soul by this unfamiliar tack, House's naked emotional sincerity. In the face of his aching truth, she had no choice but to answer him honestly.
"Yes," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
She turned and retreated several paces before she could look him in the eye, afraid of the expression on his face, the visual veracity that she knew she would see there that emanated from his heart.
With her back to him, she suddenly felt unencumbered. She could confess her sins to him and receive absolution. In her heart, she fanned a small flame of hope that he could forgive her, pardon her fears and weaknesses.
She had thus far been unable to do that for herself. If House could give her that, after the pain she inflicted upon him, then perhaps she could finally find release.
"When you went away to Mayfield . . . I thought I would lose my mind too. I wanted . . . I wanted to die. If I hadn't had Rachel, I don't know what I would've done."
The tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks. She made no attempt to stop them now, knowing that it would be futile for her to try.
"I felt like it was my fault," she continued. "Because I didn't see it coming. You're so brilliant. How could you ever get yourself into a hole that you could not get out of? I never thought . . . I never thought that I could lose you like that. That YOU would be the means to destroy yourself."
Cuddy struggled to meter her breath, slowing her respiration in order to try and keep her pounding heart contained within her breast.
"I saw it again that night you came over after you'd gotten drunk and missed my awards dinner. You'd lost a patient and you were imploding. You told me you didn't care House. But that's a lie. You've always cared. You always will care. And that's when I realized that it could happen again. And I would never see it coming."
She turned to face him only to find that he had turned away from her. The dim lighting accentuated his lean, stooped frame, his head hanging low in front of him. She stepped closer and saw that his shoulders were rising and falling rapidly, not in time to his breathing but as if he were . . .
"House?"
He shook his head and one hand left his side to move to his face.
Cuddy all but forgot her own tears as she stood mesmerized by the quietly sobbing form of the man she loved, whom she still loved even after all that had happened between them.
"House? Please. Look at me."
He shook his head again, wiping his face with his hand and raising his head. He slowly turned to face her.
House was magnificent in his pride, wearing it like a robe that he wrapped about himself in the silence and heartbreak of the room. He had collected himself, had composed his features to maintain his sense of masculinity and dignity. The only give away to his emotional vent were his tear-stained cheeks and his large eyes which had turned the color of dark sapphire, edged in silver tears.
Cuddy knew that she had never loved House more than at this moment in time. Her heart was filled with love . . . and fear for she also knew that she was never more in danger of losing him forever.
"I can't change Cuddy. It's too late."
"It's not too late House," she said, earnestly searching his face, his eyes for some sign of hope. "It's not too late for you . . . or for us."
House raised his eyes to her face, taking in for the millionth time the delicate features, porcelain complexion, expressive eyes, smooth lips.
"No. I can't go through that again . . . I can't." House's voice had become hoarse with emotion. "This IS really the only me you get. I can't change."
He paused again. A single tear trickled from his right eye as he gazed at her with a soulful expression.
"And neither can you."
House made to turn away but Cuddy grabbed him by the arm. She felt his bicep flex under her fingertips.
"You're wrong House. You're right about everything else but you're wrong about me, about us and even, I think, about yourself."
"Let me go."
"No. I heard what you had to say, now you need to listen to me."
House shook his head. "I can't . . . I can't. I can't go through this again. I can't let myself . . ." He paused and turned to face her once more. "I can't let myself feel like that again. I can't let myself . . . love you like that again. Because it hurts too much. When you change your mind . . ."
"House, I never changed my mind. I was frightened, yes. I ran away from you. I hurt you AND myself," Cuddy said tearfully, "But I never changed my mind about you. I loved you. I still love you. I'll always love you."
"It's not enough."
"Then what is? Tell me!" Her voiced raised an octave as she spoke more loudly.
"I don't know."
"House if you do this, if you walk away now because of your fear of pain," Cuddy had lowered her voice once more, "Then you'll continue to let pain and fear run your life." She slid her hand up his arm, along his shoulder to gently touch his face. He trembled at the delicacy of her contact.
"Is that what you want? Is that what you really want?"
"I don't have a choice."
"You do. You have a choice right now. I'm giving you that choice. I love you."
Cuddy's fingers clasped the side of his face and gently tugged. House lowered his head and as he did so, closed his eyes. Fear was replaced by need, by want, by emotion, by love.
He kissed her.
