A/N: Lots of Stones allusions in the last three chapters. A dramatic arc is approaching. Sorry this took so long to update. No idea when the last chapters will be posted but I have no intention of incorporating s7 canon, so let's call it AU from this chapter on. Oh, and reviews keep me writing. Thanks for reading!
Half-Life
The garden in their new backyard is the first place House goes after the long drive back to Plainsboro. Cuddy rushes in to relieve Marina. The moon is still hanging in the pink and blue sky but she goes in to check on a sleeping Rachel anyway.
A part of House wants to walk in with her, make an effort to understand the parental solicitude. Another part of him feels like he doesn't and might never belong by her side.
So he's standing in the garden, dawn dew dripping on maple leaves, a circle of sunflowers behind some peonies. Don't look down, he thinks. He knows it's a balancing act for her, made more perilous by his presence.
Rachel will indubitably be the deciding factor of their future, a crucible of a kid, testing whether Cuddy is the one, if being loved is enough or if he just wanted her because someone else was trying to stake claim.
There is this festering hope as he trudges inside, an almost translucent picture in his mind of their wedding day. How her veil will be ruined in the rain, how it might never really happen.
He's still contemplating their steel guitar engagement when she comes into the bedroom, strips out of her jeans and crawls into bed beside him, too tired to even wash off her makeup. She reaches for his hand and he gives it to her. The carnage their souls have survived––bus crashes and blood clots, every ill fated affair with anyone else, too many tragedies in twenty years––it's all led to last night, and, this morning.
The thought dissipates as they both drowse off.
It's too brief a relief before the alarm clock sounds and it all starts over again. She's up and caffeinated and perpetuating her AM routine. House is watching her do yoga with a few snide remarks about sexual positions between stances when there's a knock at the door.
Through the peephole she sees it's Wilson.
"Have you seen House?" He asks her when she opens the door.
"It's been days. He's not at his apartment and I know he lost the patient…"
"How nice of you to pull yourself away from you ex-wife long enough to send out the search party," House starts to say as he enters Wilson's field of view.
"Is he…? Are you…" Wilson stammers.
"He's staying here," Cuddy explains. "After the crane accident––"
"Relapse could only be averted by my kidnapping," House interrupts. "And all the headboard banging is just collateral for the clinic hours I've missed."
Wilson looks at one and then the other, not sure who to believe.
"What happened to Lucas?"
House offers an exaggerated shrug and Cuddy shakes her head.
"House is fine, Wilson. Thanks for checking in."
The rest of the week passes unexpectedly ordinary. House announces "I'm seeing Cuddy," to his team. The casualty with which he adds "Generally without any clothes," surprises nobody. Still, he's bluffing. This isn't as easy as he's trying to make it look.
She surprises him by having his piano delivered the next morning after he's left for work. When he comes home to see it, the irrational impulse to elope almost overtakes him. "Thanks," is all he can manage before she's pulled away by a hungry kid.
That night is the first time Rachel hears her mother say "House is here," when the rev of his bike in the driveway approaches then echoes to a halt. The next day Rachel manages to repeat it, "House's here." Cuddy smiles when she says it, proud they're all three turning the page.
The regular week goes trouble free, both of them tentatively attempting to not flaunt their dubious arrangement once they set foot in the hospital. Before they get there, they manage to choreograph another routine, sometimes underscored by a toddler crying, or a sleeping in House squinting voyeuristically as his boss undresses to take a quick shower.
Too many times he wants to pull her down, thrust up, sate at least one unending ache. The time had passed to be romantic and they've revised these roles and it just isn't right. She's too rushed in the morning, too tired at night.
a means to an end
At the end of the week and an exhausting case for her, and, (the word makes her beam like a high school freshman) her boyfriend and his team, Cuddy comes home to find her sister's car parked in her driveway. Once inside, she's surprised to discover Rachel's being picked up for the weekend.
Cuddy's expecting to be whisked away again––someplace farther than the shore this time, so House can sustain the illusion that they never have to come back. But after she kisses Rachel goodbye, he still hasn't made an appearance, though she can smell what he's working on. It's Indian or Asian, curry or stir fry, some complicated dish with exotic ingredients that he spent all day making.
She tiptoes into the kitchen and watches him. He's concentrating and sweating, donning an apron behind her stove, their stove, and she can't help wonder how they got to this place.
"Come here," he says, without turning around. He raises the spoon to her lips and when she looks at him, tastebuds in awe, he nods, pronouncing dinner done.
"Have a seat, I'll plate it."
Something surfaces in his voice and as she goes to the dining room table, Cuddy thinks it might just be happiness.
A solitary candle stands at the center, leaving the room dim but not dark. He throws the apron into the corner of the counter and limps to lay the dish in front of her, a masterpiece. She knows her eyes are glowing as she looks at him. His are wide and shining and full of something as intangible as hope.
Cuddy lifts a heavy forkful to her mouth. The sauce takes a second to soak in, spicy and warm, the layers of flavor a slow sensory revelation. She chews quick and swallows, reaching to wash it down with the Reisling he's just poured them both. The next bite brings less heat and she makes a mental note to thank Wilson for taking him to that cooking class, applying his genius to something more delectable than diagnoses.
She looks up to see he's staring at her, too serious.
"What do you think?"
"Mmm," she says, relieved her mouth is full.
He grins, self-satisfied as he dives into his own dish. For a long relaxed time they reminisce about everything from Ann Arbor through the infarction, filling in the blanks in each other's lives for the years between reunion.
Taking his eyes off of her only long enough to notice the candle has melted into a pool of wax, House blinks and blows it out. He clasps her hand, leading her to the piano. Before she can sit though, her blackberry chimes and House cringes at what could be an epic interruption. But she just turns it off and tosses it to the far corner of the couch, resting on the piano bench beside him.
He starts into some sad melody, resisting the urge to confess she inspired it years ago when he thought he'd never see her again. There's relief now as he presses the keys, her lips against his temple and jaw and cheek.
The music fades into the sound of them breathing, until they stop and he kisses her, soft and languid and knowing they have all night. He keeps his eyes closed and presses his lips to her throat, counting off her pulse, how many heartbeats were wasted thinking this life was impossible.
Then she's moving away from him but her hands are still holding his face. They undress there, standing slow and struggling with the way the fabric rucks between their bodies. They start backwards, one unsteady step at a time. She bites his bottom lip, tripping over the threshold to the bedroom and he tastes like wine and want and every tear shed, every risk taken seems so worth it.
His legs go weak when the mattress is within reach and they collapse clumsily. House pulls her down onto his lap, taking his time, giving her pause to change her mind because they aren't starting something, their beginning was half a lifetime ago.
Cuddy kisses him tentatively, diffident, some shadow of inexperience sheening her lips. House holds his breath. The innocent exploration of her tongue is a lure he can't deny. He answers it with curiosity, capturing her, balanced above him, and brings her down. The length of him throbs, caught between their bodies, smearing heat as she squirms. Sucking on his jugular she can taste the salt and sweetness of his sweat and it strikes her, an almost alarming awareness of how much she wants this, how long she's waited.
He must intuit her anticipation because slow uncertainty transitions into panic and immediacy so that he's kissing her with the premonition it could be their last and he has to mean it to make it last.
Then, with almost romantic conviction, he rolls them over and penetrates her, when she's lost and already letting go, when they've both forgotten it's a means to an end.
House above her, his chest heaving, is levitated the perfect weight. This isn't how she thought this would happen. When he'd plotted their escape and it passed carnally devoid she thought it was from years of opiates. Now he's showing her just how wrong she was, how healed and hung he is. Tonight like always, House is––
"Right," she cries out on a rising note. "Right…right..."
"Right there."
Cuddy's keening, thin and high and breathy, dies out in hiccups through the first series of thrusts. The night wanes, her whimpers underscoring the unhurried escalation. She writhes surreal beneath him until they're too tangled and there's no objective beyond closure. The intimacy's inadvertent, the release collateral. This is finally reality, she can never dream it down. He kisses her when he comes so that all she can feel is the rush of heat rising through her, completion as his mouth covers hers.
- Morning comes bright and blue with her head sinking into his shoulder instead of the pillow and her body swathed in the warmth of his arms.
Cuddy's out of bed before him but he beats her to breakfast, scarfing down a bowl of corn flakes while he makes her an egg-white omelet. He loves the way she looks after they make love, flushed with her hair all over the place and her eye makeup smudged and her lips swollen.
He kisses her and stays behind, deciding to drive his bike while the weather's still nice. The rest of the day he hardly says a word to her.
Sunday is her birthday. She's called into work over some payroll dispute and finds a dozen roses on her desk. "There's more waiting for you at home," he tells her later, and shows her that night.
On her coffee table, with a card, is a photo album. There are snapshots he clearly bribed from her sister and some from ceremonies and speeches, Rachel's simchat bat and candids from days in between, all comprising a tangible chronicle from childhood to motherhood.
Cuddy thanks him, fighting tears because he's smiling and it's like the book he gave her that her grandfather wrote, so much meaningful sentiment and she doesn't know how to handle it.
They fall asleep with the album at their feet and in the morning House pulls her into the shower, initiating the day against lavender tiles.
Knowing it's reality makes him want to get on the hospital PA and announce it all over again, but there's no need. Every night he comes home to her, to them, every time she calls him Greg, he knows they're a little farther from the finish line.
Weeks pass and nobody is as astonished as House that he hasn't screwed this up yet. He's stopped drinking but the pain in his side persists. In the middle of a dull day of clinic duty, he's about to give himself an anonymous number and tie a tourniquet when she walks in and hands him another case.
Still in the stage of believing that if he ignores it, it'll go away, he tries not to remind himself that he thought it was nothing when the pain first started in his leg that fateful day on the fairway.
half-life
For a while he was keeping track of the number of days they've been together, how long he's been happy without sabotage or interference. Now he's lost count.
But she's saying they can't have the burden of hospital hierarchy hanging over their relationship. She can't be his boss and his better half.
He started humoring her, searching for a job in places he knew would never hire him. But now he's truly willing to give up the security and freedom of PPTH if it means staying with her. Happiness isn't some unattainable mirage anymore, it's compromise, a concession. And she can read it in his eyes, the way he's really trying, where this might be going that she never thought it could.
It's the middle of the night when the sound of Rachel crying wakes Cuddy from a strange but consoling dream. She stumbles into the nursery to find House is already there, crooning 'Fool to Cry' like a lullaby.
At first she can't decide if he's trying to impress her or if he just couldn't sleep. So she watches a while, unconsciously altering her decision about the alternative to being a single parent. He may not be the typical diaper bag toting stay-at-home dad, but House has changed.
For better or worse, she wonders as she walks back to bed.
House doesn't mind babysitting and Cuddy is certain it's only to keep the peace, be the man she wants him to be. Ironically, he proves her wrong. Rachel is a kind of kindred spirit, a stranger to her biological parents, and he can relate. His childishness lets him bond just as much.
House's here, she thinks, the uncertainly of how long he'll stay setting in. He's on the floor, having a tug of war over one of Rachel's loud and blinking, albeit educational toys.
"House," Cuddy drawls. "Let her have it."
He lets go and Rachel pouts, abandoned.
"See, now she's bored," he says.
"Get used to it, kiddo," he hunches to whisper with the reassurance of a too often world-weary and lonely only child.
House steps back reluctantly. Cuddy puts on an educational DVD which scarcely distracts Rachel from the loss of her playmate.
"Do you want any more of those?" He asks, watching the overworked Dean slide out of her shoes.
Cuddy sighs deep and freezes, the question hitting her like a sucker punch.
"What? Where's this coming from?"
House shrugs.
"I'm just saying, you tried getting pregnant before. If you wanted to try again, I think I'd be okay with that."
"Okay."
A long silent stretch.
"Have you thought about it?" He pries, unrelenting.
Cuddy swallows, knowing her answer but not knowing what he wants her to say. Everybody lies. She's always known what she wanted in life, but not with House. And now, not without him.
"Not really. I've been busy enough with this one. But…"
"What?"
"When I was…"
How long has she denied it, even to herself.
"When I was still trying the IVF, I wanted to ask you."
"I know."
Of course he did.
"I don't know why you didn't," he admits.
Cuddy tries to say it was complicated but "Neither do I," slips out before she can censor her regret.
She never saw House inheriting the role of stepfather. Or maybe she did, but never imagined he'd volunteer. She never thought he hoped for anything, let alone for the same thing as her.
There's effort in the commitment and the days go by fast. He makes her laugh. She's been off the pill since her third month with Lucas and House knows it, and she knows he knows it but both have no expectations. They can only plunge head first into the unknown abyss that is this relationship. They've made no promises, have hurdled over the pretense and are finally getting comfortable in their unconventional coupling.
The third time they make love this week he's wearing a necktie. Another interview. He unknots it and fastens it around her wrists, leading her to the bedroom because Rachel's asleep and he's started to like the challenge of staying silent through this scene.
After, she's laying on her back with her head pressing into the pillow, her chin slightly lifted and her eyes fixed on the ceiling. House studies her. The characteristic tension of her body reminds him of a taut string. He wants to strum it loose. She closes her eyes and he glimpses something. It comes like clairvoyant pathos, this woman who had loved him when he was still nobody, who was ready to sacrifice everything for his sake, a contender who could read his mind, adore his imperfections, who is closer to him than anybody else before or since.
The surge of boundless love is fleeting. His mind's filled with the fear of inevitably losing this, the pain rebounding unbearable. He knows how long he's wanted her, how easy it could all fall apart.
As he strokes her face, he can feel it slipping away.
Late the next day, he sneaks into her office. The roses he got her for her birthday are a pile of pedals on the sill, the lights dimmed. The windows are open, patiently exchanging the tainted inner atmosphere of dying flowers with the fresh drowsiness of the humid-hot dusk.
Summer is stagnant and drifting and gone by the time he turns on her desk lamp. The reason for the search suddenly escapes him as he opens the top drawer. She still has the ring. Lucas' engagement ring.
House has no idea what it means. He can only see it as a cycle; the way they slide from top to bottom and start to climb again.
Leaving the diamond where he found it, he goes to his office, staying late, restless and resenting how his life has changed from the progress of a straight line with no end in sight to a circular succession of unrelated events: expulsion, infarction, decades spent defying this fate and now the sudden absurd instinct for paternity facing the obstacle of a jewel.
Still, he knows she loves him. It doesn't matter that she wishes she doesn't. He's never loved her more. Too torn over what might mean nothing, House reaches for his magic 8 ball, sighing slouched in the chair. He wants to ask what the half-life of love is, when this feeling will start to wear off, if he'll throw it all away or if it won't ever be enough.
