A/N: I know I know - it's late, you can beat me later and review now. technically, only half a chapter - but I had to get it out there, ya know? So I can move on. Sigh. Just so you guys know - when I'm blocked I usually write one shots - but I don't always post them here. I do at my LJ - the link is in my profile if you wnat to check it out!
Her palms were sweaty and she was sure that at any given moment she would be forced to skid across her cold tile, sliding into her bathroom to heave the non existent contents of her stomach up. Best to stick close by it – just in case, she thought. Depending on the day time had been either marching along slowly – resolute – or speeding by so fast her hair whipped around in her face and she felt dirty just from the movement.
Nights were the worst – because during the nights she would lay awake, constantly analyzing every spare inch of her life and where it was now until she fell into an exhausted fitful sleep. Then the dreams would come, and she wouldn't get any kind of restful sleep. His hands would be on her skin, hot and dry, brushing lightly, pressing deeply, fingers biting into soft flesh until she cried out. His taste would be on her tongue, and she would writhe restlessly against her four hundred count cotton sheets, leaving her with nothing but a keen sense of frustration and weariness and a bed that needed to be seriously remade the next morning.
If she compared it to anything it was like a war. Her waking mind versus her sleeping body. She thought both were losing at this point – because she was pretty sure her heart couldn't take much more of this. She fought to maintain a normal appearance at work. She was capable, she was strong. She did her job well, and somehow managed to interact with him without it becoming more than it should be. It seemed like a small triumph, but she knew how often their small moments could grow out of proportion and instantly become something bigger and more meaningful.
It was only a slight comfort that he seemed to be skirting those moments as much as she was. Since she had agreed to the dinner, he had seemed almost reluctant to push her the rest of the week. House was many things, but never reluctant. She pressed her hands down to the cold cream tile, looking down at the mauve veins running through it blindly. She couldn't blame him for it – she had been either convincing herself that this would be the time to finally talk to him, or berating herself for even suggesting it in the first place. Idly, she wondered if her skirt would wrinkle from sitting on the bathroom floor, and wondering if perhaps she should have worn jeans. But he liked her legs.
She could see purple even when she closed her eyes, and she tried to calm her rapid breathing as she sat down and tried to remember all of the points she wanted to discuss with him. She wasn't sure what she needed from him exactly – reassurance, maybe. Proof that this time would not be like last time. That this would be more than just one night of heart stopping skin on skin contact – that he would be there the next morning. That there was no Stacy this time, waiting to be wounded with the knowledge.
Her nails scraped along her scalp as she pushed her hands into her hair and attempted to remember how to breathe properly. What she really wanted to know – needed from him, really – was the knowledge that he was serious this time. She remembered the times before this one – when something – or someone – would grab his attention and he would fully focus on them until his interest waned or something else more interesting came along. House loved puzzles – but unfortunately once they were solved, he took no pleasure in observing the complete picture – he simply moved on to the next hard to piece together picture. She couldn't go all in if he only moved on the moment she ceased to be a challenge.
In the beginning, she had thought he was someone to look up to. Aspired to be better than he was – she had wanted to hold it over him triumphantly. Then he had left Michigan, and she had thought he was just a might have been from her past. When he first appeared at PPTH she had thought he was someone to learn from, but had rapidly learned he was someone to avoid if she wanted to go anywhere. When she had accepted her job, she had been sure he was someone to conquer. Pin down and control – and do what no Dean before her could do. Then the infarction happened, and she had thought at the time that perhaps he was her test. The reminder that she was fallible, at all times. She wasn't sure if she would ever call him a friend – but at some point he had become a constant in her life.
Her mother had told her years ago – in her infinite wisdom – that love was not supposed to be easy. Like anything in life – relationships required hard work, and that was how they were successful. She would hear reports of divorce, and shake her head muttering under her breath about youth today – and if they just worked harder, perhaps the divorce rate wouldn't be quite so high. She had listened to her, biting her lip and refraining from pointing out that sometimes you just couldn't work enough. If something was irreparable, all the work in the world wouldn't put it back together.
She and House had never seemed to be something that solidly worked in the first place. Over the years, their various cracks had spread out between them, a spider's web of memories and she could trace every line. She thought that they were too far gone – the veneer cracked and peeled so badly that any more pressure would shatter them into a million small fragments, unable to be put together again – only cutting them sharply if they made the attempt. Now she was staring at the ceramic around her, wondering if perhaps – just maybe – they were made of stronger stuff than she had originally thought.
She never heard him enter, but when he stepped into her bathroom, she instantly felt his eyes on her, running down over her like too hot water in the shower. Quick and stinging but pleasurable all at once. He didn't say anything when he reached the door frame, simply studied her silently. She kept staring at the tile below her, mentally cursing the fact that he never seemed to knock, he simply let himself in. She swallowed, breathing deeply and noticing for the first time the smell of food – possibly Indian – creeping through the air. How long had he been there? How long had she been here?
She shifted slightly, feeling the movement all the way to her toes as she looked up and finally met his eyes. She wanted to open her mouth – say something witty, something acerbic – something so very them but she couldn't seem to concentrate on anything other than his eyes and the huge knot currently writhing around in her stomach. She hated being nervous – hated anticipation and the unknown. It was what had stopped her from trying again with the invitro – what had kept her withdrawn from any type of social life.
He held a hand out, his other hand gripping his cane tightly in preparation of the balance needed. She took it warily, hoping that he would remain silent and they could ignore the fact that she was currently hiding in her ensuite. She didn't hide. She was the seeker – under normal circumstances. His hand was warm, and almost silently understanding as she used it and the edge of her tub to pull herself to standing. If it was painful for him, he didn't show it – he simply stood aside as she passed him and walked down her hall to her kitchen.
The food smelled delicious, but her stomach rolled and she knew she wouldn't be eating right away. Instead she turned to face him abruptly – causing him to stumble back in surprise. "I don't think I can do this." Her voice was surprisingly low – even to her own ears, like a wind whispering through dry leaves – and his hand reached out, taking her elbow firmly as if he wanted to steady himself, or her.
"Do this what? Eat? Make pleasant conversation – I beg to differ Cuddy but I have seen you do both, remarkably well I might add." He was striving for his usual sharp tone but it fell slightly short, rubbing against her ears like a dulled knife. She wanted to shake him violently, push him until he hit the wall anything to just make him shut up and realize she was serious and he needed to be too.
"This is why I can't do this House! Can you never ever take anything seriously?" She jerked her arm, but his grip held firm despite her effort to shake him off. She sighed in anger and frustration and stopped moving, looking up at him with heated eyes. "I have been thinking, rethinking and over thinking this – and you are just standing there making-"
"You're thinking too much Cuddy!" He finally interrupted his eyes lit with anger and frustration as well. "Why do you need to think about this? Either you're trying to force yourself into wanting this, or you're trying to force yourself into not wanting it. I can't help you either way." His shrug was remarkably casual, despite his desperate hold on her arm that kept her pinned in place next to him. Too close. Her breathing increased as she stared at him incredulously.
"You think that's what it is? Don't you even get this House? I need you to-" Her voice was rising, heated with her unfulfilled needs and he shook his head sharply.
"You need me to make promises no man could keep. I can't give you a guarantee Cuddy – there is no extended warranty plan on our lives – sorry." His words were rough and she blinked in surprise as she listened. Anger was pounding through her veins, intermingled with her very blood. "Cuddy-"His own anger suddenly deflated as he sounded defeated slightly. "I don't know what I can do. I want you – but I don't want to have to drag you along behind me, kicking and screaming. I want you where you've always been – beside me. I know I told you I'd be patient – and I suppose I suck at it - but I see your doubts every time you look at me. And it hurts." His hand finally released her, but she didn't sag back in relief or step away from him. She had seen him angry, happy, in pain, dying – but never defeated.
"I don't want to have them House – I don't want to steel myself every time I see you – waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I do – because it's what you've taught me to do. You can't expect to undo twenty years of self preservation with two dinners and late night visits. I hate this feeling – and God I want to just-" She stopped herself from continuing, because it would just give him something to feed on – and he nodded silently. She was still so close to him she could smell the mixture of leather, exhaust and outdoors on him. It should have been a bad combination – but he made it work.
"So... there's this great food I paid a lot of money for some Indian guy to make.." She appreciated his effort to ease the awkward tension that seemed to creep in between them, choking the very air around them until they seemed stuck in a small vacuum.
"Dinner looks great." She smiled nervously and he stepped away slowly – as if an invisible hand forced it's way between them, pushing them apart. She looked at the sudden distance and felt an intense longing to have him right back next to her, so she could feel him in the atmosphere around her. Instead she turned and sat down, determined to take things one step at a time. One awkward stumble after the next – a difficult movement that seemed shaky and impossible at times. She was used to longing for things that never seemed to happen – used to the constant ache that an unsatisfied life brought with it. One step at a time was all she could manage right now – it was hard to step around all the pain. But they'd manage.