Two things:
School has now settled, and has taken its toll on me. Do not be surprised at the time in between chapters.
You'll notice that as this series progresses, in a way, it is an alternative take on the actual Season 7 and its finale. So, let's see who will anticipate what comes next based on the real life counterpart?
Read, review, but most importantly, enjoy.
It had been almost two weeks since the reuniting of House and Cuddy. Life went back—relatively—to normal, and they went about their days again. In the course of their experiment however, something seemed to have changed. There were no evident factors that implied something had changed—no choice of words or phrase, no actions that took place. They acted just as they had done before—but better. They were better now. It seems that their separation had calloused their bodies from the inside out. In that action, they became closer for what they both experienced. However, troubles were waiting for them—like a series of deep falls up the river that they couldn't see. Some things they wouldn't expect. For in the bitter truth of life, what goes up—must come down.
Their anniversary was steadily approaching within the next month or so, and House was convincing himself to go through with some spontaneous plan in his head. So ill-prepared, he had conjured up something—what, was not totally clear—and he had intentions to see it through when the day came. He didn't even relay much detail to Wilson—for this aspect of his relationship with Cuddy was actually very tender and to be handled with care. He attempted his best, and sought not to ruin things entirely.
Cuddy had been more focused on the lack of conversation involving the mild vicodin set back—both accepted it as such—and still had the urge to discuss the matter, analyzing the underlying cause. She hadn't brought it up in a while, and she wasn't planning to until she thought the proper moment would arise. About two weeks away from their anniversary, the subject took a random stab in the air, making for some tight conversation.
They had just gotten home from work, and picking up Rachel from the babysitters, both of them virtually exhausted; it was one of those bad Tuesdays. When they walked through the door, Rachel had sprinted for her room; Cuddy went for the bedroom, while House walked into the kitchen. He carefully reached up for a glass in the higher cupboards, being very wary about his leg. It had given him such a hard time today—a dumbbell chained to his thigh, putting the highest restraint on it. After splashing some scotch in the glass, he downed it fast and left it by the sink. He breathed in hard, and held onto the edge of the counter. Grabbing his thigh, his faced winced.
"You okay?" Cuddy asked, coming out of nowhere. As soon as he had heard the first syllable of her worry slip out of her mouth, he let go of his grasp and turned on his heel to walk away from the counter.
"Just grabbing a drink," he deflected. He tried walking out, but she took a hold of his arm.
"We need to talk," she stated rather seriously.
"We don't need to do anything. I would like to catch up on some lost sleep due to our—"
"Cut it. I'm not letting you sleep till we finish this conversation." She spoke, now stern. He shifted his head from side to side, evidently annoyed but proceeded to follow her into the bedroom.
Cuddy quickly returned from putting Rachel to bed about ten minutes later after a quick read of Rachel's stories. They did not speak right away—Cuddy went for the bathroom, getting the routine done before coming out, leaning against the doorframe as House stood the same against the opposing corner of the room, with his hand against the window frame—they somehow always found a way to separate themselves in discussions like this. It was like magnetic forces repelling, yet attracted at the same exact time.
"How much worse has your leg been?" she came right out to say. "Don't give me the cute stuff. I want numbers."
"Go to six on the scale, and then add five. Addicts turn everything up to eleven, remember?"
"You're not an addict of pain, as I can recall." She replied coolly. "That's a heavy number for such a sudden onset. Unless you've just kept your mouth shut longer than I thought." she stated rather suspiciously.
"It's been a few or so months. Nothing more than, or leading up to a year. At least I think—how many months in a year again?" he asked sarcastically. She ignored him.
"And you're only acting now? Why tell me only now?"
"I didn't tell you only now. You cleverly deduced something else was going on from the act of taking vicodin, and you're only asking now. Don't take that statement as a confession for which I took the vicodin for something else."
"I would've noticed your leg getting worse if it's been for months...It's only been acting up lately...Did you take it for something else? Why would you finally take the pill now and not months before? You've fought the temptation for practically two years now."
"The fight gave me a push," he said. She wasn't convinced, catching the emptiness of his words.
"It can't be all just that fight that night. There's more to it than that. You only resort when you know—when you know you're going to be in pain, unless you already are. You essentially wanted to stop it in its tracks. The only question is what you were stopping, and why was it there in the first place."
"One, that makes two questions and two, I hope you realize the true extent of how much of a turn off this is."
"I hope you realize the more you refuse to respond to this analysis, the longer we will be up tonight figuring out what you're hiding from me."
"That's what this is about? You think I'm hiding something from you?"
"Clearly you are, seeing as you've already cleverly hidden a rather valuable piece of information dating a couple months back." Her voice rose. She caught herself and just walked forward and sat on the bed, a clear sign, or expression of openness.
"I need to know if you need help beyond what Wilson and I can give you. If it really is your leg, fine, we'll get you some better meds than ibuprofen. But if there is something else going on here..." She spoke softly. His following body movements suggested how slightly offended he had gotten.
"Help is for sissies. By help, I mean therapy, rehab and asylums. I mean, you know just as well as I do that Mayfield barely took the edge off me," he spat. His eyes shifted from irritated to earnest when he saw the expression on her face.
"This isn't working," she uttered so honest. Judging by her look—the earnest plea that was subtle in presentation—he knew that as empty as her words seemed, the bold honesty living in them made the implicit call for an answer, impossible to not answer. He tried for one, in cut-off sentences, accompanied by a crisp edge of truth plowing through and out of him.
"That fight was enough. Our fights are—always enough for me question whether or not you've finally decided to leave me. I—you know how much—I don't know if I could—" he couldn't find the words. He struggled so much trying to make sense of everything.
"I need you in my life. You know that. You also know as well as I that there is a strong possibility that this relationship can turn on a dime and end horrifically. I am an ass. That's a fact. You need a stable man in your life. That is another fact. Somewhere down the road I know, you are going to leave me. Those facts don't exactly add up together. What's still got me in a tight fix is the doubt that I will be able to handle myself when that day comes." Her heart sank.
"Why do you have to do that?" she asked simply.
"Tell the truth? You asked me to."
"You really think I'm going to leave you?" she asked, obviously hurt.
"Eventually—and if you're going to ask for the truth, be prepared to stand up to it. Don't be surprised at what you hear."
"We've lasted this far. You're basically waving your white flag at our relationship before there's any sign of threat to act on."
"I never said I was giving up—"
"—the hell you aren't. So why are we still together? Are you waiting around for something as an excuse to break us up—?" her sentence seemed to have more tied to it, but she decided not to finish it in realization. She shot up off the bed and began to pace around.
"You were using the Vicodin—you thought I would leave if I ever found out about the Vicodin. You knew I would eventually find out, but maybe telling me yourself would make the break up less brutal. Less fighting. However, when I didn't end things, you came up with the vacation so you could indirectly enable me to realize that you aren't what I need. This whole time—you lied. You lied about why you took the hit. It was all part-of-the-plan. You wanted me to find out about the Vicodin." she took a pause, and her words became breathless as they escaped from her mouth.
"You're willing to end this relationship based on a lie, rather than the truth so you won't be as hurt?" she trembled.
"The truth always hurts more, that, of which you are experiencing right now."
"You selfish son of a bitch." she stated with angry tears. "I hate you."
"If you ended it based off of my lie—I could live with that. Why? It wouldn't be true. Inside, I could push back my feelings for you and forget. You? You would move on. But if you ended—everything based on one mistake I made..." his voice was tense, direct and forward. Almost like he was strongly trying to prove a diagnosis.
She didn't reply for a minute or so. Her face was damp; his hands were both shaking.
"You're so insecure with who you are that you're plotting against something that's made you happy. How messed up is that."
"I know."
"You think you don't deserve to be happy?"
"It's not whether or not I think I deserve it. It's a matter of, 'is this going to last.' I know me. I also know you. How we've gone so long without ripping each other's heads off is beyond me."
"How can you be so okay with this—"
"It's not who we are." For a moment, the silence was deadening. The statement alone terrified her.
"The fact that you're not even fighting for this...us." she swallowed and he did as well. He walked a little closer toward the bed.
"There are things that we should fight for. There are also things we can't fight for." She tightened her eyes closed—as much right as he probably was...it was as much stubborn as she knew herself to be.
"I'm not gonna let go."
"You think you can make us work." he stated cynically.
"Again, we've done it for nearly a year now."
"Love doesn't conquer all." he spoke firm. She smirked.
"I'm not doing it because I think love can fix this. I'm doing it because I love you enough to try and risk failure trying."
"You can either do, or do not. There is no 'try'." he said, a-matter-of-fact-ly.
"Don't give me semantics, you ass." His gaze on her softened as she continued.
"And until you give me enough reason to leave you once and for all—get the fuck in this bed and go sleep."
He wasn't quite sure on how to respond except with a curt nod. After she nodded as well, he started undressing out of work clothes as she climbed into bed, wiping her face. He eventually joined her in bed, and realized that she was still shaking with slight anger and possibly adrenaline. Sensing that he was still staring at her in bed, she forcefully grabbed his arm and set it on her pillow, lying down on it. He reached up his hand from that arm to hold her hand that was beside her face.
Neither said a word for the rest of the night.