Pictures at an Exhibition

Chapter 6

There was a reason why House never went to major league sporting events. Or hadn't for nine years running. But House had ignored his internal warning system in favor of spending the day in the sun watching the Phillies extinguish the feeble hopes of the Chicago Cubs. With Cuddy.

Things started out well: the weather was spectacular for May in New Jersey. Eighty degrees, low humidity—perfect. House arrived at Cuddy's 15 minutes early, surprising her as she was just stepping out of the shower. She greeted him wearing the same light green terrycloth robe she'd been wearing that night in March when he'd woken her to discuss removing half of a patient's brain. At this moment, however, the robe was wet and clung to every one of Cuddy's curves.

House eyed her, not quite successfully concealing his breathlessness—and his desire. But he was a "friend"—and a "safe" friend at that. Wasn't that what he had told her? Wasn't that what set him apart from Wilson? Still…

"Stop staring," she reprimanded, smiling at him. It was that same coquettish smile she had smiled at him several times in the past few weeks. He was so busted. And he knew it. And she knew he knew it. And he didn't really care all that much that she did. "Go. Sit. There's some bottled water in the fridge. I'll be ready in five minutes." Short bursts of sentences—commands delivered with a mirth and camaraderie.

Cuddy was surprised to return from her bedroom to find House sitting quietly on her sofa, fingering the chin strap of a motorcycle helmet. He extended it towards her before rising. Cuddy cocked her head? "It's a long ride, and I assumed you didn't have one, so…" The helmet was clearly female-sized and brand new. Cuddy was still not so sure about taking his bike to the game, but he had made it hard for her, by his gesture, to deny him.

Cuddy was dressed for the warm May day: shorts and a halter top. "You're going to get a sunburn. Our seats are not shaded," he chided. "Besides, do you want every drunk in the stands to hit on you? Maybe you do…maybe I've uncovered Cuddy's secret fantasy…" She stopped him by slapping his arm playfully, while producing from her bag a pair of sunglasses and a bottle of sunscreen.

"Ironically," she retorted, "I'm a doctor too."

"Yeah, that'll keep the drunks away…"

House mounted the bike and looked over at Cuddy as she expertly placed the helmet and settled herself close behind him on the seat. "You'll have to hold on to me, so…" he began, but she had already arranged her hands on his hips, bracing her forearms against him. House closed his eyes, taking in her nearness; sighing almost against his own will. He felt her breath against his back and absorbed into his senses the green tea fragrance of her shower gel.

Riding was the only time when House felt truly free of his disability. He could fly unfettered; feel the wind against his face and blowing through his clothes. Half the time, his urge was to forgo the helmet; but the doctor part of him had an even louder voice than his inner rebel, and he always acquiesced to that more insistent voice. As they traveled, Cuddy molded to his back, edging closer to him as they went, holding him tighter as they maneuvered curves and hills.

House's nearness, the vibration of the bike's engine, the scent of spring and House's soap allayed her concerns; made this feel completely right. She sighed into his back as they passed a grove of apple trees, their fragrance penetrating helmet mask. She could get used to this.

Eventually, they arrived at Citizens Bank Park, home of the Philadelphia Phillies. House immediately missed Cuddy's nearness as she dismounted, parking the bike in a handicapped space on the first base side.

Cuddy examined the distance between the parking space and the entry gate complex, the journey's momentary magic broken by reality. "You going to be OK with the distance? Do you want me to get a…"

"I'll be fine." What else could he say? He knew that her next inquiry to him would be about a wheelchair, and House needed to forestall that bad idea. Very bad idea. They made their way to their seats, which, as promised, were practically on the field.

House relaxed into the surroundings as the warmth, the beer, the food and the company the perpetual gnawing in his right thigh a distant cadence. He spent the first two, very boring, innings surreptitiously observing Cuddy out the corner of his eye. She had a bit of hot dog mustard clinging to the corner of her lower lip, and it was all he could manage to not lean over and sweep it away. Cuddy looked happy: she hadn't stopped smiling since they'd reached their seats. She had loved baseball since she was 13 years old, telling House excitedly that she had practically grown up in Tigers Stadium and hadn't been to a ballgame in years. Cuddy turned abruptly to look at House, catching him as he watched her. "That fascinating, am I?" she laughed.

"You have…" he gestured to his own mouth regarding the mustard.

"Where?" she teased, "Can you…? I'm terrible at that without a mirror?" He knew it as lie…a sweet, seductive lie. House rewarded the tease with a lascivious smile as he swept his thumb over the corner of her lower lip, skillfully removing the mustard. Cuddy caught his hand before he wiped it on the hot dog wrapper, licking the mustard from his thumb in a deft move of her own, leaving House speechless. Cuddy kept hold of his hand, turning her attention back to the game, as House twined his fingers in her grasp.

The game was uneventful—a pitcher's duel—through the first five innings. The bottom of the sixth brought the stadium to its feet, watching a long Phillies fly ball make its way to the outer reaches of center field and into the stands. Cuddy flew to her feet with the crowd, shouting with excitement.

"House! Did you see…" She glanced to her left, only to notice House still struggling to lift himself from the low, hard seat, losing the missing the moment. He observed her watching him as he gave up, slamming the arm rest with his fist.

Cuddy glanced over at him, her concern cutting through him like a knife as she caught his eye; before he turned away, humiliation and frustration pouring off of him in waves; his eyes looking everywhere but in her direction. He turned his back towards her as he popped two pills in his mouth, washing them down with a swig of a beer. She granted him the privacy he so clearly sought, her gaze focused away from him and onto the field.

In the normal course of a day, House never wasted an opportunity to flaunt the Vicodin in everyone's face: patients; colleagues; even cops. He defiantly dared anyone to say a word about it; had a ready retort for anyone who did. But not this time; not when he was feeling more humiliated than defiant.

They continued, sitting in this awkward silence for a full inning. Cuddy was grateful that crowd's excitement had waned as the game settled back into the uneventful pitcher's duel. There was nothing suggesting the game would again bring the crowd to its feet any time soon.

House stood suddenly, steadying himself with his cane. "Be right back. Can I get you anything?" He seemed calmer; but his voice was subdued. She missed his earlier mirthful playfulness. Cuddy shook her head, wanting to reach out to him, knowing that any attempt would be viewed as pity. She stood allowing him to pass, wondering how he was going to get by the five filled seats between hers and the aisle.

House glowered his way through the row of seats; most people rose enabling him to pass, with one fan simply moving his knees. Cuddy watched House shoot the big man a withering glare, raising his cane to enhance the threat. She couldn't hear what he said, but she assumed it was something adequately demeaning to urge the guy to stand up and let House pass into the aisle.

He had been gone for a full inning when Cuddy began to worry. The Cubs were now winning 3-1 and the game was beginning to wind down. House was nowhere to be seen. She didn't want to get up and look for him, only to have him return to find her gone. She sighed figuring that the men's room line was longer than she thought it was; or maybe he'd stopped to buy another beer or another hot dog. Her worry, she concluded, was unfounded and silly.

At the top of the ninth Cuddy's concern returned as she scanned the crowd behind her. She had thought they might want to get a jump on the crowd heading for the exits. She spotted him, finally; he was leaning against a wall near the concourse exit, still and peering out to towards the field, watching the game. She was piqued that he had abandoned her for what was now nearly two innings, preferring to enjoy the game standing, farther back, and without her company. Her intention was to stalk over to him and tell him he was being a jerk (so what else is new, she mused from inside her anger). Cuddy clambered over the seated patrons towards the aisle, nearly tripping over a stack of beer cups and the knees of a large and pissed off looking man. As she ran up the concrete steps, she slid on the remains of a spilt Coke, catching herself before she fell on the shoulder of an elderly woman. "Sorry," she apologized sheepishly to the woman, who glared at her in response.

It suddenly dawned on her as climbed the stairs to where House was perched: why he hadn't returned to his seat, preferring to hang back, even standing, despite the discomfort. She reached him as the last Phillies batter grounded softly to first base, thus ignobly ending the game, fans streaming silently and quickly towards the exits.

"Hey."

"Ready?" House's voice was quiet; he was avoiding her eyes, expecting her to yell at his disappearing act. He had been preparing for it: every wittily-rendered retort waiting at the ready on his tongue. Cuddy regarded him, seeing the defensiveness already in his eyes; knowing that even the most sympathetic question about his whereabouts would be deflected with resentment. She let him be, knowing he might say something later; not wanting his frustration to be directed at the most convenient target—her.

After he own adventure in reaching him, she now understood that he had not wanted to once again deal with climbing over fans, risk tripping or having his cane lose its grip on the slimy, beer covered cement---or try to maneuver the steps down to their seats through the throngs leaving early going in the opposite direction. That was a difficult proposition for anyone—a fish swimming upstream what the best way to describe it. For House, it would have been an exercise in futility. So he held his position nearby but out of the way, simply, and safely, waiting.

"Why don't we wait until it clears out a little," she offered. "It'll take an hour just to get out of the parking lot anyway. That way…"

"What…?" he wheeled on her , hanging on to the railing he had been leaning on as he did. "I'll have less a chance of getting trampled by some drunken Phillies fan? I'll…" he began, words voice dripping bitterness. He stopped suddenly, mid-rant, biting down on his lower lip before slamming the heel of his hand into the metal rail. His eyes were ice-cold and Cuddy could sense the rage in them; in him. She stood calmly silent, waiting; being there if he needed her to be.

Several minutes passed, as House's shoulders seemed to relax a bit; the fury in his eyes dissipated and the grip on his cane loosened. He glanced sheepishly at Cuddy and cast his gaze around to the quickly emptying ball park. He turned back towards her, capturing her eyes for a second before turning away again, wanting to run, but unable to move. He felt trapped: angry at having put himself in this position; having her witness it, and his humiliation about it.

It had been a ridiculously stupid idea, he realized, coming to the game. He had told himself that it would be OK; had worked out the angles and done the math. But he had evidently left out an important variable or two in the equation. "Sorry, I…I didn't mean to…"

"It's OK," she interrupted. It hurt her that the simple pleasure of going to a baseball game could be the source of such distress for him. Every trip to the bathroom; every seventh-inning stretch; joining in the excitement of standing up and cheering—even watching, when everyone else was standing—all of it: the "normal" pleasures of simply going to a sporting event. For him—none of it was "normal." Every part of it became a calculation for him—and he was very good at math. Everything she took for granted about just going out and having fun; living life, she realized with a single moment, he could never count on a simple or without risk. She understood that plenty of people managed just fine: walkers, canes, wheelchairs—they coped; they adjusted: but it was never easy—and never simple.

As a doctor—as his doctor—she knew this. Talked to patients about it all the time. She cringed inwardly at all the times she had told a patient: "it could be worse," or "you'll manage fine after therapy." She was, as House would surely point out, an idiot. She grieved his loss suddenly and keenly.