Author's Note: Yep, Monday, Monday, not so good to me, but I believe the opinion of some other might be different. Anyway, for reviewing the last chapter, I'd like to thank: Chromo26 (I know, I know, a dependent Cuddy equals a depressing chapter, but it also makes for an awesome review from you!), prinnie (I'm sorry I confused you; I'm not sure if there will be anymore happy endings), Little Lunar Wolf (What a great review, and I don't know what I'm going to do; House still needs to "think" more on it), derevkobristow-spawn (I depressed you. Well, it is an angst story, but I'm sorry to hear that your heart broke), lemonjelly (The Grade- A review on why my story was good; dear, you always know how to boost my ego), lijep (You shall wait no longer! It is here!), and Scrubs (I'm usual a high honor person, but, eh, I deserved the B+; I hope I did better this chapter).
Disclaimer: Now for a rhyme- Hello, hello! If I owned House I wouldn't be writing fan fiction! (Oh, no!) And pain is not what I want as an infliction… From the makers of House. Lame, yes, but I tried, right?
Spoilers: Probably not. But, if you find one, I'll give you a cookie.
Note: Okay, a warning for one of my best reviewers: I use a, ehem, synonym for "air". If you find it, please don't scream. If you mention it in the review, you'll get a cookie. :) And yeah, I got this bad boy—or girl—out by Monday, so yippee! I have no idea when the next chapter will be up. I'm not even going to guess guys. If you want to guess on that and you get it right, another cookie you shall have.
Chapter Nine: Tea
Groaning, House turned furiously in his bed linens, but, realizing the pointlessness of doing this, he irately tossed them to the floor.
Another day. Another week. Another month, and it was lucky number five to be exact.
Secretly, inside, his heart leaped with excitement, but, externally, he dramatically tried to radiate a sense of misery. The moans, the groans, the sighs, and, last of all, the morose expressions brought to life the play he was trying to perform.
But, in a play, a person was merely an actor, and the emotions released within the vicinity of the show were only meant to entrance the audience, to allow them to watch with shining eyes and open minds.
He didn't want a crowd, and he certainly did not want anybody watching him. He truly hated attention, and, to his misfortune, he had been getting more of it lately.
And he knew who the cause of it was.
Wilson believed in being the usual "good cop" and had let loose House's secret, allowing it to run free with the wind. But it wasn't necessarily his fault. He may have had too much to drink one night, and, in his state of certain inebriation, was forced to reveal the deepest and most vile secret of Gregory House by those who took advantage of his extreme vulnerability.
Most likely, though, he felt it was his obligation to report such a matter to his fellow colleagues just because he always had to be the man of the highest moral caliber.
Maybe it was penance for cheating on his wives. Wilson was not one to barricade his emotions. No, succumbing to his feelings always made him free, clean, pure, but he knew it would never be apology enough for what he did. Guilt was a powerful tool needed to be wielded by only those who could not be overcome by its unmatched power.
He would always feel guilty, and, no matter to how many times House told him to allow the situation resolve without emotions, he always let them enter the already-complicated mixture.
House, by this time, sat on the edge of his bed, lethargically rubbing his eyes. He had grown bored of reflecting on Wilson's troubles. Rather, he felt the need to contemplate his own.
But, to his misfortune, the phone began to ring. And, wearily, he lifted it to his ear and yawned.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?"
"At a strip bar in Las Vegas. Hold on, Stardust wants to say hi."
Not deterred by his sarcastic response, she calmly continued:
"You were supposed to be here an hour ago."
"You're point being…?"
"Get your butt down here."
"Oh, Cuddy, the restraint of your anger is really turning me on."
"Now. If you're not here in an hour…"
She paused, letting a slight gasp escape from her lips.
"Cuddy?"
"Like I was saying, if you're not here in an hour, you're fired."
"Oh, Cuddy, Donald Tru-…"
He heard a click come from the other end of the line, and, after placing the phone back into the cradle, he fell back onto the sheets.
What a day it was going to be.
Ending the pacing she had started minutes before, she walked over to her chair and eased into it, once again trying to let the green wave of material overcome her being.
But she was too tense, and all she could do was float.
Sighing with frustration, she brought the cup of hot water that had rested on the edge of her desk closer to her. And she laid the teabag on top of water, watching as it surely but slowly overcame the tea bag.
Becoming increasingly fascinated by this spectacle, she lowered her head to be level with the mug. For some reason, it reminded Cuddy of herself. She was usually slender, light, ethereal, like a nymph, and, when she was free of her self-hate, she felt as though she could walk on top of water, rest on top of water, float on top of water.
But her train of reflection was broken as she lightly gasped at the minute pain she felt from her abdomen. Ever since that night, the movements had become more regular and stronger, and sometimes she could not help but gasp at the strength of this person within her.
Letting the matter slip away silently, she continued to ruminate on the matter of the comparison.
Although she was usually like a tea bag floating atop the water, sometimes she felt as though she was one that had been submerged.
Those were the times when she felt inelegant, heavy, overpowering, like a storm, and, when she was held within these bonds of her self-loathing, she was submerged in the water and weighted down with her hate and melancholy, weighted down with pain and regret, weighted down with flaws and indecencies.
But a little indecency never hurt anyone, right? Except her, and it did much more than hurt. It killed her, murdered her, slaughtered her. Killed, murdered, and slaughtered her by drowning.
She submerged the tea bag completely, and for a moment she swore she heard something gasp for breath.
"Hello."
But it was not the tea bag. It was her.
He had done it again. He had scared her, shocked her, and, as always, aroused her.
He had crept in silently as she paid all her mind to the tea bag, and, he maneuvered in such a way that he had inconspicuously stood by the chair as she watched in awe at her discovery.
Turning, she glared at him as custom. By now, it was a ritual practice that she should do this whenever she felt it was needed.
She looked at the clock on her desk. He had gotten here in exactly an hour.
"Um, Dr. House, I'm glad you could join us."
"Us?"
"Yes, my fellow colleagues and I. Who else did you think I meant?"
"You like the baby, don't you?"
"Excuse me, but where did that come from? We were discussing professional matters."
"The word 'were' indicates that we had been discussing professional matters in the past. Now we're onto the personal stuff. It's so much cooler."
Standing, she walked to the center of the room and looked him square in the eye, a sense of dominance overcoming her being. She had to tell him this and tell him it now.
"You would like that, wouldn't you? You would want to discuss my personal affairs because you're just fascinated by me. You want to analyze me… You want to find my vulnerable spot, my Achilles' heel. Talk about sacrifice and you hit to close to home and tears flow, and you want to see me cry, don't you? Just let those tears fall and let Dr. House feed off your sorrow. Right? Am I right?"
By now she was standing over him, a burning rage boiling the blue waters of her eyes.
"She's not strong; she's weak. She has her secrets, and she knows almost all of mine. So why not even the score? Why not torture her, taunt her? It's her own fault for getting pregnant, not mine. I came along for the ride and jumped off when it was over. But, no, she's in it for the long haul. And I'm just going to sit here and watch her as she tries to do it all… Like she always has."
Falling to her knees, she cried, the tears spilling down her face and onto the carpet. She had finally sunken, hit the bottom, drowned, drowned in everything.
She didn't want to cry; she needed to cry. She had become the storm, the heavy, over-powering storm.
But even storms were graceful at times.
She looked at him imploringly, and he reflected on what she had said.
"You're not weak."
And, with that, he stood, ambling over to the door with a morose expression on his face.
"That's it? I pour my heart out to you, and all you tell me is that I'm not weak?"
"What else is there to say?"
"Nothing. Just… Nothing. Go ahead and leave."
And, with that, he left as she requested. In his heart, an aura of melancholy had spawned, and it made him shiver with the cold it sent surging through his body.
But maybe some tea would help with that.
Author's Note: Not my favorite chapter and it might not be yours either. I did work rather hard on it, and reviews would be appreciated. I think at the end of the story I'm going to do "Land of the Lost Reviewers" for all the people who reviewed at the beginning but stopped. Anyway, read and review as you wish. Thank you!
