Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing for fun.
Author's Note: This is my second attempt at House fanfiction. I'm utterly fascinated by the show and can't seem to write anything else at the moment. Like my previous attempt this is a House/Cuddy fic - a look at what their past could have been like. Unlike my previous attempt, this is going to be a multi-chapter story. I still haven't decided on the length. That should come later, depending on whether it will continue through to their time at PPTH or not. The title is still very tentative, and I'm still passively searching for a beta who can wrestle my moody muse. I'm just testing the waters right now and would love to hear your thoughts. The rating is subject to change eventually.
The quote at the beginning is taken from Feist's "Let It Die".
I hope this proves to be at least mildly entertaining. :-)
ONE
"The saddest part of a broken heart
Isn't the ending so much as the start."
Gregory House was a creature of habit.
On a Monday morning in late October, he braved the chill of the Ann Arbor autumn in a white Rolling Stones t-shirt and a black cashmere scarf his mother had sent him last Christmas. His backpack unfashionably slung over his right shoulder, he stepped out of the apartment building and crossed Oak Avenue to the tunes of No Expectations blaring out of his Sony headphones. The high-end headphones and accompanying Walkman were yet another gift from his mother. The occasion had been his twenty-third birthday last June, and the reason for splurging on his gifts had been her admirable attempt at overcompensation. His father wouldn't have remembered had she not passed the phone to him, more than likely pressing it into his unwilling hands. Happy birthday, Greg, John House had said dryly, humoring his persistent wife. Without waiting for a response, John had given the phone back to his mother, asking her with disdain in his deep voice what cheaters deserved for their birthdays. Through a false smile he could almost visualize, she'd sighed into the receiver. Your father's just having a bad day. I have the biggest surprise for you!
Greg shrugged the memories off as he took the long route to Central Campus, his easy pace at odds with the biting cold of the Michigan morning. Five minutes later he was on South University Avenue, heading in the direction of Ann's Café. The owner's name was Al – short for Alfred – and Greg liked the latte he made. He liked that Al didn't make him pay extra for the generous layer of whipped cream and cocoa powder.
Pushing the glass door open, he slid the headphones off his ears so that they were slung haphazardly around his neck and welcomed the familiar sound of chimes announcing his arrival. Instinctively, his sharp blue eyes landed on the table tucked into the far left corner of the café, closest to the glass panes overlooking the quaint street. He found her bent over the twenty-ninth edition of Gray's Anatomy, her dark hair a charming mass of wavy locks that fell below her shoulders. Oblivious to the soft morning buzz of the busy café, she scribbled notes in the margins of her brand new book, her quick hands small and delicate-looking. The usual plain white mug of unsweetened coffee made a short trip to her mouth before being returned to its rightful place on the pale wooden table. He allowed that she was by far the favorite part of his morning ritual, and she was as much a creature of habit as he was. The thought made him smile in amusement as he made his way to the counter and greeted Al with the familiarity of an old friend.
"Latte, lots of sugar, extra whipped cream," Al recited, accepting the proffered cash with a grin.
He thanked him and found his usual table unoccupied. His backpack fell to the floor with a thud. Pulling the latest medical journal out of the bag, he slid into the unpadded wooden chair and flattened the unkempt magazine against the table. He read and watched her intermittently, noting the same little things he discovered about her every morning. She had smoky blue eyes that were often absorbed with the morning's reading material. Her face was finely-boned, cheekbones arrogantly high, the line of her jaw well-defined and softened by plump pink lips. She drank coffee like normal people drank water. Twice over the past two months, she'd indulged in a blueberry muffin. When baffled by what she was reading, a distinct little frown would tug at the graceful arcs of her black eyebrows, and she would twirl her pen uneasily between thumb and forefinger. Around her neck, she wore a long-chained golden locket that was always tucked beneath her shirt which led him to believe it was more a sentimental piece than a decorative item. She had a knack for balancing comfort and fashion, and the color red did wicked things to her slender body.
The sweater she wore this Monday hung coyly off one shoulder, baring an indulging amount of creamy shoulder. It was white and almost sheer, but she wore a tube top under it that lessened the nude effect his mind had concocted.
If she noticed his fascination with watching her, she never made it obvious.
"A little cold for that shirt," Amanda – Al's only waitress – remarked in greeting, placing his latte before him.
He snapped his gaze away from the dark-haired girl and encountered Amanda's knowing smile. "I hail from Alaska," he lied and winked when she rolled her eyes disbelievingly.
"You hailed from Texas last week," she reminded him, planting her hands on her hips.
Greg shrugged unapologetically. "Don't have the accent for it," he explained dismissively and took a sip of the latte. A dollop of whipped cream clung to his nose, and Amanda reached into one of her apron's pockets to dig out a napkin. She handed it to him with a small fond smile. "How's George?" he inquired, and her smile became a little more radiant at the mention of her five-year-old son. At thirty, Amanda was a single mother who looked much too young to be either.
"Hating school," she admitted, chuckling softly.
He scoffed and glanced out of the corners of his eyes when the dark-haired girl closed Gray's Anatomy and laid it to the side. "The kid's a genius," he asserted.
Amanda shook her head at him, dark eyes full of laughter. "She's not leaving yet," she teased.
His eyes widened in mock surprise. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I'm sure you don't," she told him, looking over her shoulder at the sound of her name. "Duty calls," she sighed, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She followed the direction of his gaze, a fanciful smile playing against her lips. "Her name is Lisa by the way," she said before turning around to meet Al at the counter. He handed her another tray of orders to distribute.
Greg leaned back into his chair, sipping contentedly from the candy-sweet beverage. Lisa. His eyes touched on her hair, her lips, the tantalizing curve of that naked shoulder, and he tried to associate the name with the strangely familiar features. It made her seem like less of a vision, more flesh and blood, names and lives. He wasn't sure he liked the lucid feeling elicited by her name. Shifting his attention to an article on diagnosing a rare case of lupus, he read through the two blocks of paragraphs as she flipped through a stapled wad of papers. Midway through another article on a new surgical technique, he was distracted by Bill Winters ambling down the street, clearly aiming for the café.
Bill was a messy tangle of limbs and books when he barreled through the door, the chimes rattling furious protests at the disturbance. He heaved a great dramatic breath and made a show of walking over to Greg's table to deposit his books next to the latte. He dropped onto the chair to his right with little grace. "Dude, I have the craziest week ahead of me," he complained, glancing around the café with only a modicum of interest. "Oh," he breathed in curious realization. "Still looking and not touching," he observed, having picked up on the curious habit on a Wednesday morning two weeks before.
"Hm," Greg hummed in confirmation, watching as she straightened out the papers and tucked them into the thick book.
"You could talk to her," he suggested, grabbing the discarded latte and gulping the last quarter.
"And risk losing brain cells when she disappoints me with her one-digit IQ?" he asked mockingly, shoving a hand into his crew-cut brown hair.
Bill let out a surprised chuckle as if he still hadn't quite adapted to the shockingly rude things Gregory House could say. "Keep the conversation minimal," he joked. "Get her out of your system. You know she won't say no to you," he stated matter-of-factly, brown eyes following Lisa as she came to her feet and tugged a patterned scarf out of her large purse. The warm colors of the rich material complimented her plain sweater and skinny black leggings. She draped it around her neck artistically, pulled her hair from underneath it and slung the golden metallic strap of her quilted purse over her shoulder. Bending slightly at the waist, she picked up the stack of books and papers from the table and held them against her chest. "Killer legs," Bill whispered in awe, his voice almost reverent.
"And killer ass," Greg added, looking away when she sensed his gaze and regarded him curiously. She didn't pause for long and waved goodbye at Al and Amanda before sweeping out of the café and hurrying along South University Avenue. When she disappeared around a corner, he turned to Bill and grinned winsomely. "You were saying?"
"She won't say no, House," he asserted, rolling his eyes in an intimation of boredom.
"Probably," Greg agreed, flipping his worn copy of Medicine Monthly to the cover page and tucking it into the backpack by his feet.
"Then why have you been watching her like a lovesick child for two months?" he challenged, raising his eyebrows dubiously.
"Because it's fun," he rationalized, and it sounded like a perfectly sound reason to him. He didn't give the habit much thought, instead falling into it almost subconsciously. He hadn't meant to make watching her into an activity he'd indulge in every morning. "What are you doing here so early?" he asked, successfully putting an end to the conversation about Lisa.
"Crazy week," he replied miserably. "I'm meeting the TA for my anatomy class at the library in fifteen minutes."
Greg was well-versed in anatomy, but he didn't offer to help, having decided he was done with assisting and teaching since his departure from Johns Hopkins last spring. "I'm meeting Nicole at her dorm in," he paused, consulting his wristwatch. "Damn, three minutes," he swore, and stood up quickly, backpack in hand. Bill followed suit, trailing behind him as he mock-saluted Al and winked a goodbye at Amanda before striding out of Ann's Café.
"I can foresee a bitch fit," Bill predicted, laughing as he hurried to keep up with Greg's long strides.
"Hilarious," Greg retorted, his voice devoid of amusement.
"What did she take this time?" he asked, finally falling into step beside him.
Greg eyed the shorter man thoughtfully. Nicole was becoming mundanely predictable. "My Pink Floyd t-shirt," he answered. She'd known it was his favorite black t-shirt when she'd worn it to bed at his apartment on Saturday night. She'd left the next morning in it, pulling her own jacket over the large shirt and promising to give it back to him on Monday. He'd been too sleepy and hung-over to argue, settling for a dismissive wave before pulling a pillow over his head and going back to sleep.
"This only encourages her," Bill observed, his manner unconcerned, but Greg knew him well enough to discern the underlying advice. "You know she tells everyone she's your girlfriend," he continued, driving his point home.
"I don't think anyone believes her," Greg uttered, nonchalant as ever.
"You make-out with her at practically every party," Bill argued.
Annoyed, Greg glared at him sideways. "She's hot," he reasoned and pulled the forgotten headphones off his neck, repositioning them over his ears. Fishing the Walkman out of his bag, he hit play and returned it to the designated pocket. The opening tunes to Sympathy for the Devil began to play loudly, blocking out the city noise.
He saw Bill say something that sounded like, "that's really rude, House."
Unrepentant in the least, he slapped his friend's back amiably. "Later, Billy," he said loudly and veered to the right where Helen Newberry's House was tucked into its cheerful little garden.
----
"What do you mean the midterm's today?" he snapped impatiently, the anger in his voice making her flinch.
She clutched the strap of her hot pink purse tensely, her posture defensive. "That's what Jody told me this morning. She's in your endocrinology class," Nicole repeated, taking bigger steps to walk ahead of him in an effort to hide the hurt look on her face. Jody, apparently, lived down the hall at her dormitory, and she'd been studying for the exam in question for weeks.
In a misguided act of mutiny, he'd skipped most of his lectures over the past two months, only attending the ones he thought would be interesting and the ones where attendance was mandatory. The endocrinology lecture was in a large hall where taking attendance was too cumbersome to attempt. "Did she mention what time it is?" he asked in a controlled voice.
"It's at noon in the lecture hall," she muttered petulantly.
"In one hour," he clarified more to himself than to her stiff back. There was no salvaging the immense fuck up. "That's fucking great," he swore.
They were both quiet as they walked to Central Campus. When they reached the building where her next class was, she turned around and looked up at him – both figuratively and literally – with pale green eyes. "You're Gregory House," she began, her quiet tone meant to appease him. "You'll ace it anyway." Her smile said she believed that wholeheartedly.
He fought the urge to snap at her again and forced a faint smile. "We'll see," he replied, clearly unconvinced, but she barely noticed, already preoccupied with better-defining their relationship.
Closing the distance between them, she placed her hands on the insides of his elbows. "Good luck kiss," she said as an excuse for one of her hands moving to the back of his neck and tugging his head towards her. He went with the movement, albeit reluctantly, and kissed her lightly, not quite drunk enough to ignore the limitations of physical attraction.
Stepping back to measure the thwarted look on her face, he chucked her chin lightly. "Thanks, babe. I have to go," he announced, but before he could leave, she caught his wrist, her hand warm against his skin.
"Are you coming to Julia's house party tonight?" The hopeful light in her eyes eclipsed whatever disappointment she felt at his unenthusiastic response to her kiss. With the soft breeze tousling her golden hair endearingly, she looked like the subject of an artist's portrait – classically beautiful, faultless.
He took his hand out of hers and tucked it into his pocket. "Yeah, a little late though."
She laughed coquettishly. "You're always late, Greg."
Giving her a parting grin, he made a gesture towards the entrance of the building they were standing outside. "I'll see you later," he promised, watching as she nodded, blew him a kiss and fell into the crowd of students filtering into the building.
----
"Of course he'll show up for the midterm," Angie Wheeler decided leaning against Lisa's desk pensively as she read the time off the large black clock on the wall. "He can't afford to fail this class," she insisted, using her fingers to count six minutes.
Lisa Cuddy released a pent up frustrated breath. "I can't afford to fail my other classes because I decided to audit this class for some guy," she paused to rifle through her notes for an elusive definition she couldn't seem to memorize. Reading it one last time, she tucked the notebook beneath her chair and shifted her gaze to Angie's amused features. "A guy, by the way, who never bothered to show up to class," she continued and dug three identical pens out of her purse, splaying them on the table before her. Over the summer of his transfer from Johns Hopkins to the University of Michigan, she had been regaled with stories of the legendary Gregory House who was often described as a skeptical genius with an endless trail of broken hearts to his name. Having an admitted weakness for bad reputations and rumored genius, she'd managed to find out which classes he was registered for and then unthinkingly signed herself up to audit his endocrinology class. The messy feat hadn't proven to be fruitful. She was yet to meet the notorious Greg House, whose name she heard repeatedly in conjunction with the names of some of the most popular girls or the most insane parties.
"He'll show up eventually," Angie repeated, her eyes scanning the crowd of tense students milling about the lecture hall and mulling over their notes. Evidently, he was nowhere in sight because she shook her head and shrugged.
"Everyone please take your seats," Professor Adams called out loudly, spurring everyone into immediate frenzied action.
"Good luck!" Angie whispered before taking the seat right in front of hers.
The exam booklets were distributed in a flurry of snappy movements. Receiving hers, Lisa methodically counted the pages and confirmed their number with the one written on the front page. She was carefully reading the first question when a tall figure loomed over her desk, the long graceful fingers of a masculine hand touching one of her pens. Looking up in question, she was surprised to find the guy from the café, who had the most unnervingly intense blue gaze, staring down at her.
"Can I borrow one of your pens or are you going to use them all?" he mock whispered, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of several surrounding students. They made displeased noises at being distracted and went back to reading their booklets. "Also, I haven't studied so if you could slide your paper to the right…" he trailed off on a whisper that was barely loud enough for her ears. A cheeky grin lit his eyes to an impossibly bright shade of cobalt blue.
Too stunned to voice her objects, she marveled at the amount of gall he had.
She was still gaping at him when Professor Adams came to stand beside her desk. "Can I help you, sir?" he asked with a wary frown, prompting Blue Eyes to straighten to his full height. He was arrestingly tall, and he stood his ground as he gazed back into the professor's suspicious dark eyes.
She suppressed a groan of aggravation, looking between the two men for the verdict of their little standoff.
Blue Eyes lifted her pen – without her approval – and held it up at face level. "Borrowing a pen," he murmured, this time his voice really quiet, but the smile he flashed at the elder man was heavy with false cheer.
Professor Adams looked at her for confirmation, and she nodded dutifully, eager to have the entire ordeal over with. "Good, please have a seat now," he ordered, thrusting his aging chin in the direction of the seat behind hers. Blue Eyes nodded and obediently slipped between the chair and the little table attached to it, his long legs jutting awkwardly in the cramped space.
Turning back in her seat, she read the first question again, frustrated when she couldn't seem to make sense of the words, far too distracted by his untimely presence. She took in a deep calming breath and read it one more time. Much to her relief, the answer popped into her mind almost instantly. Writing it down neatly, she moved to the next question.
For thirty minutes it went smoothly enough, and then she felt a sneakered foot connect with the back of her plastic chair. Rudely reminded of his presence, she discreetly slid her paper to the right edge of her desk and scooted to the far left, wondering what possessed her to let Blue Eyes cheat off her midterm. Forcing the thought away, she began reading the snippet of an article after which there was another set of questions.
Time flew by without any interruptions after that, except for another kick that prompted her to inch further to the left and write in bigger letters. When the assistants began collecting the booklets, she had already reviewed her exam twice, and she handed it in confident that she had aced it. Searching for Angie, she found her engrossed in a heated discussion with one of the assistants. She was barely out of her seat when she found Blue Eyes standing before her, rubbing a hand over the one day's worth of dark stubble on the strong slant of his jaw.
"Thanks for the pen," he said, giving her an easy smile that had the most enticing character – stuck somewhere between grateful and devious. He handed her the blue pen and his hand lingered against hers before he released it to her possession. The touch was electrifying, but his casual countenance told her he was either oblivious or adept at pretense. "You got number three wrong by the way," he mentioned, slinging his backpack to his chest in order to rifle through it. He took out a modern set of headphones and hooked them around his neck.
No longer enticed, she frowned at him darkly. "No, I didn't," she countered.
He looked back at her in surprise, as if he hadn't expected the vehement negation, and his smile became tickled as he fiddled with a black Walkman. "The woman who isn't pregnant and has milk production from her breasts wouldn't show a lack of growth hormone suppression because she doesn't have acromegaly," he stated with a clever twinkle to his disarming gaze.
She lifted a challenging eyebrow at his confident claim. "Why not?" she posed.
"Acromegaly in adults is usually accompanied by soft tissue and joint problems," he explained, and he was fairly alight with interest as he spoke.
Lisa parted her lips to speak, and then pursed them thoughtfully. He was right. Damn him. She sliced an accusing look at his devilishly handsome smug face. "I thought you hadn't studied for this exam," she remarked wryly.
He shifted so that the backpack slid over his right shoulder to rest against his back and lifted his arms above his head in faux surrender. "I didn't study," he pledged, looking over her head with narrowed eyes.
She wondered what had captured his attention when Angie appeared at her side, fairly bouncing with enthusiasm. To Lisa's surprise, she stuck her right hand out towards Blue Eyes, who took it in what looked like a firm handshake. He had fascinating hands. "Hi, I'm Angie," she introduced herself with a bright smile.
The grin he flashed at her was honed over years of practice, designed to melt hearts on the spot. "Greg," he replied slowly, letting her hand go.
It dawned on her much too late. She stared at him slack-jawed for a few seconds and then remembered to look away. Blue Eyes, who was a regular at Ann's Café and chatted up Amanda on a daily basis, was the renowned rebel. Blue Eyes who had the most graceful, captivating hands, piercing eyes and disarming humor was her sought-after bad boy in the flesh. When she tuned in to their conversation, they were talking about one of the exam's questions.
"I copied that one," he confessed, flashing a bashful smile at her. Somehow it was anything but shy.
She took in his white t-shirt with the grayscale lips and tongue Rolling Stones logo, his faded Levi's and worn black Chuck Taylors. Even though he was well-dressed, everything about his manners suggested defiance, and she felt drawn to him like a moth to a flame that would inevitably burn it alive. "Apparently, you didn't really need to cheat," she reminded him.
He looked at her with a sly grin. "Ah, your voice is back," he noted tauntingly. "Interesting choice of pens by the way; I love the variety."
She looked at the identical pens still clutched in her fist and rolled her eyes. "Back up pens," she clarified, hating how the way the t-shirt defined his chest utterly distracted her. Her traitorous eyes kept drifting back to his torso.
"How likely is it that two of them will run out on the same day?" he wondered rhetorically.
"Almost as likely as someone walking into an exam without a pen," she retorted, meeting his sardonic gaze evenly.
"Ouch," he grumbled and held a hand to his heart. "That was really hurtful," he pouted.
Angie giggled at his theatrics, clearly awed by his effusive personality. Ignoring them both, Lisa collected her purse and notebook, slipping the latter into the former. Her pens clattered against each other as she dropped them into her Chanel purse. "I should go," she declared, stopping suddenly to glower up at his towering frame. "You could have told me about number three," she told him with an irritated frown.
He frowned back at her, his expression much darker than her own, but it was – like everything else he did – laced with sarcasm. "What? And risk you getting a higher grade?" he whispered, his appalled expression oddly comical. "I have a reputation to uphold," he said seriously, but then one corner of his lips rose slightly and she was almost sure it was a joke.
"Seriously?" she muttered incredulously.
"No, of course not. I tried to tell you, but you thought I couldn't see your paper well enough and started writing in alarmingly large letters. Your paper should be a great optic test for Professor Adams. Lots of variation in text size," he teased.
She cracked a smile at the truth in that and shook her head at him. With a heavy sigh, she made a move to step past him, but he blocked her path immediately, a frown denting his brow.
"You never told me your name," Greg said, the quick words urgent, as if he believed she would sidestep him and walk away.
As it was, he was standing uncomfortably close, his scent – a combination of soap and softener – wrapping around her. Every inch of her was acutely aware of him. "Lisa," she replied, her voice embarrassingly husky.
His eyes darkened with some unidentified emotion that was swept away under the force of his roguish grin. "It was nice meeting you, Lisa," he declared, his voice so inappropriately suggestive that she fought the urge to blush.
"You, too," she responded hastily, mumbling a goodbye to both him and Angie before making her escape.
A/N: Reviews are happy things. :-)