Pictures at an Exhibition

Chapter 4

"Do you actually have any coffee?" Cuddy was rooting around in the cupboard as House had instructed while he filled the clear acrylic water tank.

"I actually have espresso. And coffee. No decaf, though."

"And where, exactly, does this alleged coffee live?" House sighed dramatically, turning off the water faucet.

"It's right in front of you. Never mind. Move." House moved Cuddy out of the way and grabbed a small box. "Coffee or espresso? Or…" He moved a few packages aside. "Or…latte?" Cuddy arched an eyebrow, amused.

"Fine. Latte." House removed a flat disc from each of two packages. Cuddy observed as House placed the first disk in the machine and pushed a button. He repeated the action with the second, larger disk. He handed the latte to Cuddy, smiling smugly.

"No muss. No fuss. No coffee grounds. No moldy carafe to clean." Cuddy was impressed, regardless of his explanation. She leaned against the butcher block island watching him as he prepared a cup of coffee for himself. Leave it to House to find just the right technology to avoid cleaning up a kitchen mess. At least his mood seemed better now.

They moved to the living room, sitting at opposite ends of House's overstuffed leather sofa, quietly sipping. "You asked me once, last winter," House began randomly. "You asked me what the hell I was doing hanging out in the jogging park." He laughed humorlessly. "I had told Wilson that it was the last place you'd ever think of looking for me. A jogging park. You'd never have found me at all, had you not run into Cameron. But that wasn't the only reason."

Cuddy shifted, facing him, her interest piqued. "I'd watch people being free. I'd remember what it had been like for those two fucking months. I don't know why I wanted to, but I wanted it burned into my memory before it completely faded; before it would stop invading my dreams forever.

"At that gallery…" This was difficult for him, but House felt he owed her some sort of explanation for his behavior other than that he was simply insane. "The landscapes…I lived in England for awhile while my dad was posted there. We were in London, but we had some distant relatives in the north. I'd go up to them on weekends sometimes and run. Just run. And, in case you're wondering, yes, I can handle seeing paintings of the Yorkshire hills without losing it. But that complex of canvases…the Grand Canyon...I don't know what happened…Stacy and I had planned…before…" He wasn't sure why he was telling her. Explaining himself. House felt exposed and his defenses were failing him, it seemed.

"House. You don't need…" She caught his gaze as he tried to look away and couldn't. He was tired. Tired of hurting; tired of fighting the hurt; tired of explaining his motives and his actions. Simply tired. He'd felt his edge dull and fade away like a scalpel past its usefulness. He'd felt distracted and didn't understand why, any more than the emotions, long buried, crept too close to the surface for his comfort or use. It more than worried him. It scared him to death. It would be so easy to fall into Cuddy's large grey eyes and lose himself there; to drown in the comfort of her embrace.

House broke away from her eyes first, rising from the sofa and sitting at the piano. Tension poured off his shoulders as he sat facing the keys, eyes closed and focusing on the music. Better he should lose himself in it than in the warmth of her nearness. Mussorgsky was surely fitting. He could pound the keys, ham-handedly, if he desired, and get away with Mussorgsky. "Pictures at an Exhibition." He could pour out the hurt, punish the keys…until the lyrical movements begged a lighter touch. He couldn't resist the breathtaking sadness—that inimitable Russian melancholy that seemed to beckon seductively. The pounding chords lightened suddenly to a gracefulness that Cuddy, as she listened, found heartbreaking and incredibly romantic. She had heard House play, but not like this. She felt the voyeur, but couldn't resist sitting beside him, absorbing this, unknown, House, basking in the sounds that emerged from beneath his delicate touch.

House felt her presence, smiling slightly, as her hip carelessly nudged his thigh. He glanced down at her, fighting the urge to stop playing and simply touch her. He knew that stopping would be his undoing; the piano was his last bastion. But the Mussorgsky had played itself out and House sat staring at the keys, immobile; his hand stilled and settled silently on the yellowed ivory.

"It's late," he suggested after a long silence.

"I should get going." Cuddy peered at her wristwatch. It was past midnight. "It was lovely, House. What you were playing. Angry, then gentle; straightforward and complex at the same time. Russian?" She was guessing at the piece's origin, but she could have as well been describing the pianist. Except for the Russian part.

"Mussorgsky. 'Pictures at an Exhibition.' What else? So that poster. What's that about? Is that like my own personal scarlet letter or something? Am I supposed to hang it above my whiteboard as a warning to the pedestrian hoofbeats that venture onto my service? 'Enter at your own peril—oh 'ye equine non-anomalies?'"

"Take it for what it is. A gift. What you do with it is up to you."

"Thank you. I owe you an evening out. I sort of ruined this one, didn't I? Bet Wilson…" Cuddy rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.

"I told you. Wilson's not…"

"And you were wrong about him. He's not safe. I don't care what you say about him not being your type. He'll get you to marry him anyway. He doesn't need another 'ex'. I, on the other hand, am completely safe." House's tone had an air of feigned conceit.

"Oh yeah. Real safe," she mocked back at him. His eyes became serious as he placed his hands gently on her upper arms, holding her, making certain that she understood what he was saying.

"You are safe with me, Cuddy. I would never manipulate you…" She arched a skeptical eyebrow. It took everything she had to not laugh aloud at him. "I would never manipulate you…" he repeated, "…about this; about anything personal. Ever."

"What are you saying, House? Exactly."

"Exactly what I said. I'm here. You need to go out with a friend—a male friend… I may tease you unmercifully, and I do reserve that right, but I won't bring it up in public or even tell Wilson. Any teasing will be done in private. I mean…That didn't come out…" He was flustered. Out of practice and pretty useless at overt niceness, but he was trying. And Cuddy appreciated it; and was enjoying it immensely.

"Look. Some idiot patient gave me two tickets to Sunday's Phillies-Cubs game. It's the least I can do for ruining your evening. The tickets are yours. Take whoever you want. Wilson loves the Cubs. Feeds his passion for the hopeless…"

"Where are the seats?"

"Fifth row, first base side. Infield." Cuddy was impressed.

"If the weather's nice you can pick me up on your bike. If not, I'll pick you up at 11:00. Game's at three, right?"

"What about Wilson? I thought…I'm giving the tickets to you. No strings."

"What? You suddenly don't like baseball?" She knew he loved the game; had a complete set of 1972 baseball cards somewhere in the rats next of his front closet, he had told her once. "Good night, House." She got up and let herself out, leaving him sitting at the piano, stunned."

"Goodnight, Cuddy." House smiled, feeling better than he had all evening, if slightly off-kilter. He sighed, rising unsteadily from the bench. His leg protested the strain. He reached for his Vicodin bottle and made his way back to the couch, no longer sleepy.