- a/n: written for fanfic100 on livejournal; this chapter includes prompts sight, touch and sound.Well It Goes Like This
(parts one though three of six)
i. too many secret chords
There are things in her house he recognizes, things he wants to linger on – minutiae; only he sees they're out of place.
They look for clues, dust and grime – the literal kind too, while he slips from room to room, noticing.
There's a brand of coffee in the cupboard he knows she doesn't drink; two different bottles of toothpaste in her bathroom; a watch far too big to fit her slender wrist. The back of the watch has a name, and he all but throws it down.
One of his shirts lies crumpled on the floor of her closet, buried under immaculate lines of shoes, pressed suits and folded running gear – but he knows he didn't put it there.
He wants to take it with him. To throw it in her face – his face – and plant himself insidiously between them – because happiness is a right of passage, and if he can't have it why should they?
But more so (he admits only when it's dark in his house and quiet because the ice clinking the side of his glass has long since melted and the keys of the piano are weary) he wants to force their hand because if he doesn't do it they will, and lovers quarrels are worse than office politics.
When he meets her in the hallway he knows she knows he's done something. She waits, patiently, and he throws it out there like a left-handed compliment – watches and waits and sees if it sticks.
She's right, of course. No professional reason really (he could have asked her), certainly no moral one. But the definition of morality escapes him, as it did when he fingered the pink cloth and knew for a fact he'd seen her in only that.
Her face stiffens and her eyes narrow but he's pretty sure he's the only one who notices the fear.
She doesn't call him on it, but the dynamic changes, and he notices the other things too.
Stacy applies herself to the case like thick foundation, scrubbed at until the skin is raw but never going away. They spend a lot of time in her office – too much time, and as he watches her through the blinds, he knows she knows he knows it's so he won't ask. Not while she's there.
But it's his friend, the sole source of his small but throbbing humanity that's the best at hiding what he's hiding. He stays clear, but not far away – equidistant from the accident as from his observant gaze. Like walking the perimeter.
He forgets, momentarily, when he's in her office and her eyes stay wide to keep dry and her fingers trail over the pearls. In the back of his head, he knows she didn't buy them for herself. But what he says is different, almost appeasing, and her smile thanks him for it.
It's a silent conversation that rages, but a calm exterior that allows him to throw in a joke, and too much pressure on his cane that permits him to collapse into his chair once he's reached his office.
Wilson comes in later with his arms folded, his smile soft but his eyes tight around the edges. He's been playing it safe and it's been driving him crazy.
There's no way she could have known. No. No way she could have.
There're too many undercurrents, too many issues cast aside for another day – they're building a small wall, steadily but efficiently, that will either erect itself as a formidable space between them, or will build on weakly legs until its own magnitude tips it over, and laughs at those who get crushed beneath.
They can run – he can't.
'House—'
'You could have just told me.'
Wilson sighs and drops his arms but says nothing. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to explain or defend himself the way he knows he'll eventually have to.
House stares out the window, focusing not on his friend's reflection, nor on his own, but on the small lights he can see, smudged by the thick lines of water.
'It's raining,' he says, and Wilson looks up. They catch eyes in the dark window and House gives a small, inclined nod. 'Go.'
He hesitates, but House has turned back to the window.
The door opens and closes without a sound.
ii. nothing on my tongue
'Hi.'
She sighs, and pulls the robe tighter about her frame.
'Hi.'
Wilson looks at her feet. 'Are you…' he fumbles the pause and meets her eyes. 'Okay?'
'I'm fine, Wilson.'
Her tone is meant to be reassuring, but barely above a whisper it's nothing less than weighted.
Wilson cracks a smile. 'Last name,' he points out. 'Trying to distance yourself?'
Cuddy's eyes shift over his shoulder briefly as she struggles to return the gesture. 'Can't slip anything past you, can I?'
The corners of his mouth go down and he shakes his head, bangs falling into his line of sight. For a moment he can't see her, and it terrifies him more than it should.
'You did your best, Lisa,' he murmurs, like holding her hand.
'Not…now.' Her voice is angular and harsh, but he knows it isn't meant to be.
'Let me in.'
'I don't think that would be a very good idea.'
'Why?'
She stares at him. 'You know why.'
He nods his head again. 'It wasn't a good idea the first time, but it didn't stop you then.'
'It should have.'
Wilson flinches and Cuddy sighs, wrapping her arms around her stomach. Though the breeze from behind him is brushing past and crawling up her legs, she knows it isn't her only source of cold.
'We keep making the same mistake.'
Wilson raises his head and regards her carefully, and in the dark light of the outside and the dull glow behind her, he notices the shadows that cross her face and accentuate the bones; the flutter of her eyelids as she wrestles with herself, whether or not to meet his gaze; the small width of her wrist attached to long, thin fingers and peach-painted nails.
He knows what those nails feel like, scraping across his back, and the desire to grab her hand and hold is almost overwhelming. But her words ring true in his ears, and he finds himself backing away (his feet stay firmly planted on her welcome mat).
'Is this about House?'
The pause is too long.
'No.'
Cuddy licks her lips and tries not to take it back. Wilson tries not to beg.
'You should… talk to him.' He doesn't look at her while he says it.
Cuddy shrugs and shakes her head. 'It wouldn't make a difference. We are what we are.'
His eyes start from the ground to her face and hold her gaze by sheer intensity. 'And us? What are we?'
She doesn't answer, and Wilson nods – 'Okay' – and backs slowly down the steps.
'James—'
Her nails brush lightly against his wrist as she pulls him into the house, and her warm hands curl around the back of his chilled neck. He doesn't object to her lips against his, tired and trembling but demanding no less of him than she's willing to give.
'Nothing's changed,' he whispers against her forehead, arms too tight but not tight enough around her back. 'It's still...'
She wishes it were right or wrong, not this tedious balance in between where when her eyes are closed and his breath is warm on her face, there's a comfort in his touch that she can't give herself; but when he's standing on her doorstep and the sky is dark behind him, it's too much like a secret waiting patiently for a slip of the tongue. Too much like waiting for the cards to fall.
In the back of her head she knows that's part of the allure—that if it didn't feel so wrong under fluorescent lights and white-washed walls, it wouldn't feel so right tucked softly between sheets, where there's no one else to see it, touch it, stain it.
What they have is real, dangerous, and treasured.
'I know,' she says, and kisses him again.
Her back hits the wall and his fingers pull at the tie of the robe, and she should be thinking about ethics and hospital politics and how they're going to feel when they both wake up (again). But none have a place in her mind as his lips slide down her neck, as his hands creep along her thighs; she shudders.
'How long will you stay?' she murmurs against his cheek. The robe slides to the floor followed by his dress shirt and the thin nightgown. He steps quickly out of his shoes and slacks, but even the brief break in contact leaves her cold.
'How long will you let me stay?' Cuddy doesn't answer, instead, grabbing his lips with hers, she pushes him gently backward until his legs hit the end of the sofa and he twists her around, dropping her onto the cushions and quickly stretching out over her. 'How long will you let me stay?' His face is buried in her neck and the pads of her fingers trail up and down his spine.
'My alarm goes off at seven thirty.' She gasps as he slides into her and weaves her fingers through his hair, trying too desperately to hold on to what she knows is real, rather than his fingers along the curve of her hips and his mouth on every part of her skin; part of her insists the more she lets go, the lonelier she'll wake up. Another part of insists that if she isn't lonely now, why fight it?
'You're not going to be able to hear it from here,' he says against her lips. Her arms tighten around his back and she shifts her face, brushing her mouth against his ear; he can feel and hear her smile.
'Exactly.'
iii. how to shoot straight
Julie hears the car door close at eight in the morning Saturday, hears the ringing of the dog's collar as the metal bounces against itself, hears the soft whispering of her husband as he strokes the dog's head and closes the door behind him, hears his surprised gasp when he finds her sitting at the table in her pajamas, waiting.
He clears his throat but says nothing.
Julie looks at the floor, then up at him. Her eyes are red from crying too much; she knows it isn't all his fault.
'I've seen every episode of Jeopardy,' she says, and Wilson drops his head. 'You come home when I go out… I go out whenever you're home.' She pauses and her silence forces him to level his gaze.
'I'm sorry,' is all he can think to offer.
She nods once. 'You smell like lavender.'
'The nurses—' He stops when her soft gaze goes hard. His shoulders sag. 'I'm sorry.'
'Me too,' she murmurs, and pats the empty chair across from her. Wilson sighs and drops into it, trying to smile but unable. Julie reaches forward and straightens his tie. 'You're very bad at hiding it.'
'I guess I wasn't really trying to.' The words could have been harsh, could have been angry, but they're both too tired and too much at fault to accuse.
'I'm sorry for that too.'
'Julie—'
'No, James. You don't get to take all the blame yourself.'
'I could have tried a little harder.'
'Yes, you could have. And I could have been a little more lenient to your schedule. You could have come home sooner and I could have been a little more welcoming.' She sighs and leans back in her chair. 'I guess I'm not cut out to be a doctor's wife.'
She cracks a smile and a silence grows, interrupted only by the beeping of the coffee maker. Julie starts to rise but Wilson stops her. 'I'll get it.'
He pours a cup and sets it in front of her. 'You don't want any?'
His mouth twitches. 'You make terrible coffee.'
Julie's eyes widen and she stares into the cup. 'I do not make terrible,' she starts indignantly, then makes a face after a sip. 'Oh, God. That's awful.' She pushes the mug away from her and Wilson allows himself to smile.
'Don't look so smug. You can't even reheat macaroni and cheese without burning the top layer.'
'Touché.'
There's a silence, and Julie reaches for the mug again but doesn't drink.
'You can have the house if you want,' he murmurs, and looks away as he says it. Julie's gaze flickers around the room as she shakes her head.
'No. Too many memories. I'd like to keep the dog though.'
'Jackson?'
The retriever trots up at the sound of his name and nuzzles Julie's knee.
'He always liked you better anyway.'
'Dogs have good common sense.' Julie shoots him a teasing look and his heart skips a beat, remembering that glance in times when it wasn't so sad.
Julie runs her fingers through Jackson's fur, her smile slowly fading.
'Who was it?'
Wilson swallows. 'Someone from the hospital.'
'Is she pretty?'
'Julie—'
'I'm just asking, James,' she says quietly.
He sighs. 'Yeah. She's pretty.'
She hesitates. 'Do you love her?'
'No,' he says, the word thick on his throat.
'But you could.' She brushes the tears off her face. 'Good for you.'
'Don't,' he says, angry enough to make her lift her eyes. 'Don't be so understanding.'
She raises her head. 'Why not?'
'Because you were always too understanding. You always understood why I came late so often, and how much my job means to me and how many dinners I had to skip to spend the night at Greg's to make sure he didn't mix booze and pills. You always understood.' He sighs. 'You're the perfect doctor's wife.'
'I'm just not perfect for you.'
'I don't think anyone's perfect for me. I've been married three times, Julie. It can't always be my wives that screw up.'
She doesn't contradict him, just touches his knee and stands.
'James,' she says from the doorway. 'I'm going to find out who it is.'
His eyes widen slightly. 'Julie—'
'I'm sorry.' She shakes her head and disappears into the hallway; Jackson follows after her, and Wilson remains at the dining room table, and stares soundlessly into the half-drunk cup of coffee.