A/N: Short chapter. Springsteen lyrics and references throughout. My apologies to anybody who thinks mixing Springsteen within a Stones inspired story is a musical travesty. Mostly this chapter is my interpretation of s7 spoilers within the DF previous chapter ended in such a way that a friend suggested I end the entire story there. So if it fails from this point on, I'm sorry. If it doesn't, let me know. Thanks for reading! Reviews are spectacular.
Greetings from Asbury Park
"I'll drive."
House takes the keys from Cuddy's hand as her phone chimes. Preoccupied by the message on the screen, she gets in the passenger seat without protest. He turns the key and feels for the first time in a long time like he's at the beginning.
born to run
By the time Cuddy looks up from her blackberry they're fifteen minutes into their misadventure, moving in the in the opposite direction of PPTH.
"House," she starts.
"Yeah?"
"Where are we going?"
"Beach, eventually. Maybe catch a show," he squints at the gas gauge.
"Have to get gas first."
"We can't."
"We can actually. It's simple, we just pull up to the pump, turn the car off, pay ––
"I mean this roadtrip. I have meetings all morning. A new insurance rep is coming in at one. The nurse's union is trying to negotiate again… Marina's only staying until––"
"All taken care of."
Cuddy pauses. She isn't sure how to react if not angry. She wants to kiss him but holds it in, sighing instead.
At the gas station, she has a choice. Move forward with him and risk whatever misdemeanors they're capable of committing. Or turn back, change her mind, not go through with any of it.
"So, what's the verdict, boss?" He asks after filling up the tank.
"Fine," she concedes. "But we have to get back early tomorrow."
After the short respite, they stop again only at a drug store for House to buy more ibuprofen and a new cane, having remembered he left his at the crane crash site.
Cuddy stays planted in the passenger seat, spotting the sign when they enter Monmouth County, grinning girlishly and loving him for reducing her to irresponsible impulses.
They park in Asbury Park and grab a late lunch from a street vendor.
With their arms linked, they stroll along the boardwalk acting more like this is their twenty year anniversary than their first day away and together.
His cheap cane keeps falling in the gaps between planks and rather than strategically plotting the next place it drops, House surrenders it to the Atlantic, casting if off into the water without a second thought.
They spend the next hour scouring shops for a new one.
In the meantime, Cuddy is his crutch again. He leans on and follows her until, on a whim, he pulls her into a photobooth for a long kiss, all slippery unexpectedness. He slings his arms around her loose and presses his lips to her dark shining hair. In the last frame he winces more than smiles, feigning back pain for abdominal pain when she asks, with only some vague inkling of what it might mean. He limps out smiling and slips the black and white strip into his wallet.
They chase yesterday down backstreets, wandering out toward the beach. People are packing up and heading home so that as they watch the sun set it feels like they're alone, hand in hand on a deserted stretch. Restless or anxious or too in love to take it slow, Cuddy rushes ahead, into the waves and back again. Music roars in the distance, lights flicker. A familiar chord is strum. Behind her, House realizes that she was born to run, and that he might never catch up.
He also realizes he left the ibuprofen in the car and that this new cane doesn't fit either, but it's too late now because they're too close to the club to turn back.
show a little faith, there's magic in the night
The tickets are burning a hole in his pocket. He wants to shout the surprise but stays quiet until they're at the door of the club.
"What are we doing here?" She asks, a neon halo outlining her suspicious
silhouette. He hands her a ticket and watches her mouth gape gradually as she reads it.
"Springsteen? Seriously?"
"He's supposed to play a few shows here this summer. Unannounced, unofficial but tonight is supposedly one of them."
"How did you…?"
He isn't sure if she's asking how he knew or how he got them so he just shrugs. It was after the infarction. He broke into her house searching for her spare prescription pad. He was raiding the bedroom when, beside her desk, he happened to see her record collection.
The real reason he knows the boss' secret obsession is the Boss he can't say but Cuddy doesn't pry or question it anyway. The burly bouncer at the door is checking her out; House clears his throat. They hand him their tickets.
"These aren't real."
"What? They have to be," House insists.
"No. Legit tickets have a watermark," he holds it up to House's face, pointing patronizingly at the place the watermark should be.
"These don't."
House sighs a soul puncturing sigh. His scalper sabotaged him; this attempt at an unforgettable night is ruined. It's all going wrong already. He's still scowling at the gravel, trying to think of some other way in when out of the corner of his eye he sees Cuddy adjust her posture.
"You see," she starts, stepping closer to the bouncer. She's not talking in her business voice anymore. "We're doctors…"
House can only stand back and watch as she manipulates their way inside.
The opening act is a local band, playing a cover and then wrapping up. There is no guarantee that they'll see Springsteen but one hope has been blighted and reborn so he doesn't let his cynicism consume him.
They stand patient and off to the side and when she cranes her neck to kiss him, it doesn't matter what they do tonight, all he can do is kiss her back because the doubt is gone and he knows that she's the one.
The lights dim a minute later and Cuddy turns, rapt in anticipation. The spotlight flashes and he's standing on stage, an artifact of a telecaster strapped low and hanging from his shoulders. Cuddy and the rest of the audience scream ecstatic.
She sings, first line to last word of every song. Around them bodies move, sway, take them into the conspiracy: witnesses to something profoundly unrepeatable.
Fingers snatch at House's hand, intertwined and locked in a way that spreads the bones apart and almost makes them hurt. He looks at her and she's lost, elated.
This is the moment he's been waiting for and perfectly ironic. The inconceivable pitch of intensity isn't making mad passionate love in a seaside hotel, it's just watching her smile.
With the first few songs played, they settle into an acoustic set. Cuddy calms a little, the small and intimate setting leaving a trail of sweat down her temples.
The sudden lull in music has left a hiss in her ears and a void in which to hear House inhale. He's holding her and no matter how engrossed, she hasn't forgotten that's the true reward. He's hard, grinding his hips into her backside. She wriggles encouragingly against him, like they're too young and don't owe each other more and he laughs, his breath condensing over her skin.
They steal moments between chorus and refrain and he can't help feel like he'll never be this happy again. House has been full of the idea for so long, taking her away from the burden of administration, her baby, every other worry. Lyrically, this is their one last chance to make it real.
It's near the end of the show when they're caught, no stamps on the backs of their hands, no tickets or defense. Then they're out on the street, House feeling like a rat in jungleland, Cuddy still high on the adrenaline.
Silent a few steps, they look out at the ocean, the moonlight casting kaleidoscopic refractions off the shadowy azure waves. His jacket settles over her shoulders before she has a chance to shiver.
Cuddy is about to say something when House takes her hand and veers off toward the clear darkness of the shore. The sound of her laughing nervously dies slow on the cool summer air.
Out of the blue tide washing in at their feet, it comes to her, that collegiate distinction she couldn't recall at the time. He can't be sentimental because it hinges on the assumption that everything will last. He is House the romantic with the blind confidence that nothing will.
On the sand, where a fire has just extinguished, House sits, pulling her down so that they're both braced against a waterlogged log.
"Sorry," he says finally breaking the silence.
The apology spans broader than this night. Sorry you found me on the brink of relapse, sorry you've had to clean up all my messes, even though he knows she knows that all that's been lost today he's tried to replenish.
"What? Don't be. Tonight was…"
Leaning in, she rests her head on his shoulder and says with a sort of poignant finality, "Thank you."
Her hand is on his thigh, just like old times. House lifts it, stroking her palm with his thumb. It's been aching all night and now without some blaring distraction it's too much.
"It's good to know the rock music put you in the mood. But…"
The handful of sand he lifted he lets it go, watching every lusterless grain fall through his fingers.
"What?"
"My leg hurts."
"We'll go back," she tries.
"If we leave now we can be in Princeton before––"
"I don't want to go back."
Except he does, boomeranged ceaselessly between here and then, back before there were no words to tell her he loves her more than anything.
"I want to stay here, with you. Without the pain, not incapable of concentrating on this, you, Cuddy."
She stares at her bare feet a long minute. She doesn't want to placate him, and she doesn't know what's been left irreparable, only that they have to take their chance for happiness.
"It'll get easier."
"If it doesn't?"
"We've been through it. We'll get through it again."
He pulls back and looks at her, wanting to believe it. Some part of him is still missing the strength. Her hand cradles his cheek, drifting along his jaw, bringing him back to her.
"Whatever it takes, I think we can do this."
Her arms tighten around him and stretching over, she kisses him softly in corroboration.
For this moment sea and sky are breathless. A pale moon has risen and the faraway light's like a dream, enveloping them until they seem gossamer relics of the late night, tragically transient and already fading.
"House," she whispers, feeling relief when they break the kiss.
"Let's go home."