It was eight o'clock—a steady silence in the Cuddy household held itself, without a stir or sound. Rachel was sound asleep in her crib, hands overlapped underneath her cheek and a small mouth gaping open with drool coming down. She was so peaceful looking.
In the living room, House and Cuddy were on opposing sides—House in the archway and Cuddy on the couch. She had sat down with tonight's choice of liquor, making herself comfortable for the conversation about to take place. Her eyes seemed swollen and red—evident of tears. She took a swig of her drink and waited for him to start talking.
"Well?" she inquired with a scratchy voice.
"I never swallowed the damn thing," he began quietly. "I threw it back up that night. I was—drunk. Enough to do something stupid, but I could drive. I tried telling you today—"
"Over a month after the facts—" she intervened.
"We were fighting. I was stupid. I got weak, it was one pill—" He spoke with as much honesty as he was capable.
"I understand lying for medical reasons—or, to protect yourself—protect me—but lying to my face? That's a new low for you." She uttered bitterly, drinking again. He just looked at her and she began to smile.
"You don't think what you did was stupid. You obviously wanted to take it—"
"—but I didn't." he slightly defended.
"You did. And you enjoyed yourself, but you knew you couldn't keep up with a stunt like this, and having to detox again, hah, like hell you would—so you threw it back up." House was taken aback. He was starting to get hysterical.
"I didn't take it because of you—us. Rachel—"
"Don't you dare." She spat out. "I understand the temptation. I understand the break. What I don't understand is the lies, which can only lead me to believe otherwise." She spoke angrily.
"I'm WEAK. I'm an addict! Yeah, there is a fifty-fifty chance I will relapse—which I thought you understood when you agreed to this relationship, since it happened nearly a year ago, when you agreed it was my choice to go back on drugs. Why are you so insistent that it's already happened?" Cuddy hopped up from the couch.
"Because this will happen again! You lied about it this time, I can only assume when it does happen again it will be for the same reason. You want to be back on drugs. The next time we have another fight? After that one? How much further down your system—or better yet, how many more doses will it be until it's too much? How much more until it's considered as a relapse?" she paused for a second, taking a breath.
"I'm upset that you lied for so long when you are involved with me, and my daughter, and you left me out of some valuable piece of information. The drugs—yeah that's big, that's an issue. However, that can be fixed. It's a little something that's called, 'talking to your girlfriend about whatever is bothering you'. When you lie, I can't trust you. How do I know you haven't done this several other times before? For all I know you could be back on vicodin. I need to know you will tell me everything—even if it's an issue with me. I need to know, House." Her voice had calmed a bit.
"There was one other time," he began to admit. "It was just a thought. No actual action taking place." She exhaled heavy, throwing back the rest of her drink and walked back into the kitchen to pour another glass. He followed her in.
"I—I don't know what you want me to say." He began again. "You want me to say I'm not sorry? Fine, I liked taking the pill. It felt good. It was a relief, until I thought of you. If anything that's—"
"I can't." she interrupted. She turned around with another glass of what appeared to be scotch and held it tight.
"What do you want me to do, get down on my knees and beg to you, start groveling? You wanted me to admit the truth."
"We need a break." She said simply. He got tense with a questioned face.
"It's like—you haven't heard a word I've said. I'm sorry. I'm sorry—I enjoyed it, I'm sorry it happened—more sorry I didn't tell you before—" Word after word spilled out, but it didn't matter.
"Before we can move any further—I need to—I need to think about everything."
"You're scared," he said fast. "You truly think I'm back on vicodin. Why are you doing this? If I had never said anything, if STAN had never—"
"I would've still found out eventually. Making this harder." She spoke. He laughed sarcastically and began pacing around.
"I can't believe you're doing this now. Unbelievable. Two months-" He finally said.
"I'm not kicking you out—" she began
"You think I'm going to stay here?" he asked surprised. "I'll be out tomorrow." He said quickly.
"Don't, House. Please. Your mind isn't thinking clearly right now," she began.
"It's working just as much as yours." He said resentful. "I'm out tonight," he started again. "Let the kid know...I'm not done here." He ranted. With a sweep of his jacket from the coat hanger and keys off a table, he slammed the door and headed out. He hadn't noticed, but she was already in tears again. His last words seemed to be bittersweet and reassuring, but her mind wasn't entirely clear—she was very uncertain about what lay ahead. She was only certain of one thing:
"I love you too, you idiot." She whispered hoarsely.
He was speeding through the streets, angry at himself for leaving. He wanted to go back but he ached too much inside—it would be too taxing to see her again. At the moment, at least. He sped for Wilson's, arriving at a reasonable time. Nearly nine o'clock. He would just be getting to bed with Sam.
House rapped on the door with his cane, even after it had opened to a scruffy and untidy Wilson—which seemed so foreign to him at night, rather than the morning—and greeted him with a dose of humor.
"Male stripper delivery!" he yelled, making sure it was loud enough for the building to hear. Wilson had somehow understood, from the look in his eyes, immediate deflection, or the real arrangement of his face underneath the mask he was wearing.
"You tell her?" he asked concerned. House looked down, left, then right quickly before meeting Wilson's eyes.
"You know where to go." Wilson said, stepping aside to let him into the condo. Wilson closed the door, and walked back to his bedroom, knowing something was going on, warning Sam he wouldn't be to bed for a while. Wilson came back out five minutes later to find House dead asleep on the couch, not surprised he preferred it to his old room, or, the guest room. He only caught half of a brief smile to his lips, before turning back to leave for his bedroom, leaving the situation at hand to become breakfast conversation.