You don't see him for weeks, and he can't look at you straight on anymore when you do see him. Wilson still talks to you – he is your go-between when you finally get promoted. The accomplishment should feel like something – you achieved it in record time – but when Wilson invites you out to celebrate, you know he means with him and his wife, and not him and House. You politely refuse, citing paperwork as your weak excuse.
You have been there, in your new office for almost two months when he appears in your doorway with his hands in his pockets. You want to break the silence – you feel guilty for it because it was you who started it by running, but he glances at you and shakes his head.
'Seems to me – ' His voice is gruff when he starts speaking, and although he still can't look you in the eye, he can look in your general direction and that's an improvement, right? ' – It's pretty stupid if you turned me down to save our friendship and it ends up screwing our friendship. I'm not really a fan of irony, so Wilson and I are having poker night at my place tonight. You should come.' He doesn't wait for a response, just slides his eyes off of your left cheek and exits just as suddenly as he came, but you are smiling widely as relief rushes over you.
You can privately admit to the fear that has been eating at you – even if you will never ever speak about it to him.
She couldn't breathe properly – the air was filled with heavy steam and she knew she should have opened her window before getting in the shower. The water was hot and inviting though, and she had just finished her morning run. Her hand reached for the water taps to turn them off, when the door opening made her pause.
House shuffled in slowly – clearly having just woken up. His hair, from what she could see, stuck out in all directions, and he stood in the doorway, leaning casually as he stared at her through the frosted glass of her shower door. "Open the window, please?" Her voice was low, and he grumbled but did as she asked. The cooler air rushed into the room and was a blessed relief as she leaned against the cool tiled wall of the shower.
The door slid open, and she heard him hiss and then felt the dry warmth of his skin against hers. "Jesus, are you trying to cook yourself?" His voice was a mumble as he pushed closer against her and she let him.
"Yes. Good morning," she added the last almost as an after-thought and his laughter vibrated through his chest until it reached her ears. Her arms tightened against him as she was hit by a sudden wave of longing. She missed this – missed touching him and being touched. It had been four weeks since the shooting now – and he was almost as good as new – maybe better. But he still had two weeks before he would be allowed back to work – if he didn't cage his way out of it – and though the PT had given him a healthy amount of energy again, and being pain and narcotic free had lifted years from his face alone – he wasn't physically up to anything remotely close to what she was craving.
He pressed his mouth against her shoulder, and as her thoughts wandered so did his lips. Across her clavicle, trailing up over her neck until his tongue connected with a spot just below and behind her ear that made her knees give way slightly, and she slid down the wall only to be held in place by his arms. "House..." Her voice was jagged and there was enough of a moan in there that he transferred his attentions to her ear and she gasped. "You're mean." She finally pouted as well as she could with his tongue circling her ear and he pulled back with a calculating gleam in his eye. "No," she said firmly, before he even opened his mouth.
"You don't even know what I was going to say," he pointed out huffily, and she rolled her eyes as his hands slid down her water- and sweat-slicked back until they rested at her hips, just inches above her ass.
"You had your face on."
"What face?" He was attempting to look innocent now as his hand moved down that last few inches and reached its destination.
"The 'I'm about to lie, cheat and/or extort Cuddy into getting what I want' face." His hand squeezed tightly and she rose up on her tiptoes in surprise, brushing against him as she did so and sighing. "We can't do this. You have two more weeks before you're fully healed–"
"I feel fine," he pointed out as he pulled her off the wall so that her weight was braced against him. "You feel fine."
"You'll feel fine until you pull your stitches. Stop." She just – barely – managed to push away from him, escaping his hands as she pulled open the shower door and stepped out into the cooler air. She wrapped a towel around herself as she shivered. She heard him mutter intelligibly as she towel-dried her hair and reached for her hair dryer.
He was stepping out when she turned it off and he stood behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Two weeks isn't that long." He spoke simply, and she shook her head in agreement. "You should start treatments again."
She took a breath, not answering him for a moment. It was what it was all about. What they were all about – or what she liked to pretend they were all about. The last month everything had felt disturbingly real – he had been with her almost every day – and bringing the fertility meds back into it, took away the faint glow. The room seemed to go bluer – the amber warmth seeping out of her vision until cooler hues were all that were left. "Are you – "
"Haven't we done this before?" He was smiling faintly and she nodded mutely.
"I'll call Robin."
She wanted to disappear into the hall behind her, walk backward as quickly as possible and escape before anyone saw her. And by anyone, she of course meant House – the one person who seemed to have radar built in specifically for her and her alone. He was waving her over before her imaginary footsteps scurried off for freedom. So she smiled, sort of, and joined him and Wilson at their lunch table.
"Not enough food at ho– your place for you?" She meant it to flow out – arch, confident. Instead she was tripping over her own words as her throat constricted around them until they burned, raw and bittersweet.
"I never turn down a free lunch, Cuddy. You know that." House was grabbing one of Wilson's fries and kicking the chair next to him, and across from Wilson. She sat awkwardly, her back tense and her seat uncomfortable. "It's why you never ask me to lunch," he pointed out around a mouthful of fries, and she rolled her eyes, relaxing slightly.
"So House, how are you doing at home? I always call your place to check on you and you never answer." Wilson's voice was the strangest mixture of huffiness, sarcasm and innuendo.
"Because I know it's you, calling to check up on me." House sounded completely bored as he ate another fry.
"Yeah. That's likely," Wilson scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched House pick up his plate of fries and transfer it to his tray. "You don't seem to avoid Cuddy's calls." He was pointed as he looked from her back to House.
"Well yeah, have you ever heard her phone sex skills? It's how she paid for college– "
"Oh for God's sake, would the two of you stop it!" She finally let the words burst past her throat and spill out in a hiss. Both men looked at her with varying degrees of a frown in place. She saw the anger in Wilson's eyes before she glanced away from him and into House's. An odd sense of calm came over her as her eyes focused on the garish orange lettering on his faded tee shirt. "He knows. Wilson's known since the coma – the Ketamine, the fertility treatments... all of it. He didn't want me to – "
"Shut up, Cuddy!" Wilson's words garbled out at her, like music filtering through white noise on a crappy radio station. She closed her mouth abruptly and stared at him for a moment in shock. "I'm sorry." He apologized instantly – he always did. She felt the blood rush back into her face and nodded slowly.
"He didn't want you to what?" House's voice cut through the sound of her blood rushing through her skin, staining it vermillion.
"Tell you he knew." She dragged the words out of her chest somewhere, ignoring their flat delivery. "He wanted to see when you would tell him," she finished with a shrug, and House watched her for a moment before nodding while slowly chewing a fry thoughtfully.
"I would have told you, but she owns my soul." House shrugged as if this were the norm, and picked up the last fry.
Wilson sighed in disgust, apparently deciding to go with it and giving House a look of mocking reproach. "What'd you get for it?"
"The best blow job I'd ever – "
She slammed her hands down against the table and tuned the two men's voices out. Because of course he and Wilson would be fine five seconds later. Never mind that House stayed irritated with her for huge gaping periods of their history, never mind that he held every grudge against her like it was offspring – their laughter flowed around her and she felt her frustration grow.
There were some things she could never be, never be allowed –
But thoughts like those just reminded her of exactly how unforgiving their past had been. It was easy to repeat mistakes, even despite efforts to the contrary. Sighing, she pressed her palms flat on the table as she stood, unnoticed by either man while they argued over a TV show.
She just turned and walked away from the table, shaking her head as her hips swayed in sync.
Nobody walked after her.
Your anger fuels you for almost five months. It forces you to get through your day, forces you to crawl out of bed in the morning and back into it alone at night. It eats away at you at odd points during the day, but it's almost comforting now. It helps you live through meetings with legal – it helps you stare at him and refuse the latest test he wants – refuse him and mean it. He can tell the difference, you are sure, but you are beyond caring anymore. You are beyond anger, beyond emotion, beyond feeling anything for him anymore. It's a mantra you repeat to yourself daily and forget every single night.
'You can't keep doing this, Cuddy.' Wilson's sigh is close to your ear and you stare ahead, not meeting his eyes. Wilson thought he knew what was wrong – he was partly right, but there were things he didn't know – things he would never know.
'Doing what Wilson?' You repeat in a monotone, and he sighs before placing his tray next to yours on the table and sitting beside you.
'Pretending they don't exist. I know you're hurting – '
'I really don't think you do.' Your voice breaks slightly and you want to curse, but instead you bite your lip hard and keep repeating your mantra. Beyond emotion. House and Stacy are at a table three down and one over from yours. You sat with your back to them on purpose, because leaving would be admitting defeat – but you weren't interested in watching them either.
'Lisa, why didn't you just tell him when you had the chance?' He asks the one question you've been asking yourself in the dark for almost three years now. The answer is simple – you were stupid. Too stupid to see the chance in front of you. Wilson clearly feels terrible about this – he is calling you Lisa again, has been doing it more and more recently. You can feel House's glare even if you can't see it, and you are sure it is directed at Wilson as much as you.
'There's no answer that will make any kind of sense, Wilson. Just... let it go.' Your voice is a whisper, and he leans closer to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. You lean into it, because you can't help yourself, and his hand squeezes gently.
'I'm not the one holding on,' he responds, and you finally tear your eyes off the wall in front of you and turn to him. The concern in his eyes is almost your undoing, but you manage to steel yourself and close your eyes.
'How am I supposed to...? It's there. Every day.' Maybe you need a vacation – or a whole new job, but you have sacrificed everything for this damn hospital and you cannot give it up. It's the only thing left returning your embrace. 'I'll be fine.' Your words are weak and he doesn't believe you, but you smile and press on anyway. 'Go. You know he'll be pissed you're here.'
He pulls back reluctantly and pushes away from the table, standing awkwardly as his sympathetic eyes remain locked on you. You can feel the pity and you hate it. You just shake your head and move your eyes back to the spot you had been staring at before he arrived.
You finish your lunch alone before standing and quickly exiting the cafeteria. You'll pack a lunch tomorrow, you decide.
She was never prepared for the sting, she thought as she hissed, her hands gripping the fabric of her couch. The sting left as quickly as it came, though, and her hands relaxed a few seconds later as he handed her a cotton ball with a smile.
"Have I ever told you how much I like your ass?" She smiled at his question as she circled past him and padded down the hall to her room. His steps followed hers, slow and faltering – but unaided by a cane. It was something he'd been doing over the last few days. He used the cane when he went out, but at home he would walk without it.
"Oh, only about three times a day for the last twenty years or so. Give or take a few." She shrugged as he arrived at the doorway, leaning against the frame there.
"Well, it is awe-inspiring in its size alone." He blinked innocently before moving into the room and sitting on the edge of the unmade bed as she stood in front of her closet.
"Only going to inspire more awe soon," she pointed out as she pulled off her skirt and blouse.
"True. If the sex weren't so fantastic, I'd pull out on principle."
She laughed and glanced over her shoulder at him with a smile. She walked over by the bed and didn't protest when his palms slid across her hips, pulling her closer. "You can still remember?"
"Absolutely." She was unprepared for his sharp tug down to the bed and his hands moving over her body like a crescendo.
"House…."
He grinned down at her for a moment before he pressed his face into her shoulder and breathed her in. "Doctor cleared me today. It's why I was at the hospital." She froze at his words, suddenly afraid to move as his lips dragged along her throat and someone moaned.
"I'm your doctor," she pointed out in a breathy voice as his mouth moved under her jaw and behind her ear.
"PT cleared me. You, of course, can feel free to do your own thorough examination." She smiled as his lips met hers, and she relaxed into it for the first time in weeks. She pushed her hands through his hair, pushing him down next to her and moving him below her as she did so. Her mouth didn't leave his as she straddled him and moved against him with a groan.
She broke away as she sat up, catching her breath before moving lower down his body with a smile. "It's what a safe doctor would do."
'Are you out of your mind?' He is waiting for you in your office, and you are almost disappointed that he chose here to confront you, but don't allow it to show as you sail through the door. You ignore his question for the most part as you set your briefcase on your desk, unbuttoning your suit coat and hanging it on the coat tree by the door. He is standing behind you, and you turn with a confused smile.
'Depends on who you ask.' You speak lightly and he snorts, his eyes dropping to the neckline of your shirt for a moment, but you notice and your smile widens.
'Why on earth would you hire Stacy?'
'Because there was an opening in legal and she was the best applicant,' you answer calmly, moving over to your desk and leaning across it to open your case, pulling out files before lifting the case off the desk and resting it on the floor.
'You hate her,' he points out in a grating tone, and you turn around in surprise.
'No, I don't.' Your voice is a mixture of offended and bewildered and it throws him off as he frowns at you. You keep your face somewhat shocked and his eyes narrow at you. 'Why would I hate her?' It's almost laughable – because of course you hate her, could count the ways. However, House had no concrete proof of that. In fact – the only reason he would think you hate her is if he thought you wanted him. Which you do – but that wasn't the point. The point was that he'd been putting some sort of thought into it, which was good.
'Of course you hate her. You met her once and almost ran out of there at breakneck speed and then didn't speak to me for a year.' You listen to him, leaning against your desk as you do so and your hand tucks your hair behind your ear. His eyes follow and a small sense of triumph rises in you. You are so going to win this.
'I didn't really like her at first, no – truth be told, I still don't think we'll end up best friends, but she is a good lawyer and more than able to handle the job.' You are almost amazed at how calm you sound, and clearly from his expression he can't tell if you are lying or not – perfect. You would never be stupid enough to assume you could somehow make House think you were being perfectly honest – he knows you too well for that. All you need is for him to not be sure. 'And I didn't speak to you for a year because you got your dumb ass fired, and I never saw you outside of work.'
'You could have called,' he shot back rapidly, and your feel your heart rate speed up – you are skating dangerously close to the topic of that night.
'I was mad.' You shrug, as if it were that simple and you can see the retort on the tip of his tongue, but he can't speak it, because he knows as well as you where that conversation would go. He is watching you closely and suddenly he smiles, stepping closer to you until he is on the border of your personal space, poised to invade.
'You don't like her. Why did you hire her?'
'Why do you care?' You speak lightly, crossing your arms in front of you as if it would ward him off. 'Shouldn't you be happy? You're working with her again.'
'I didn't – I liked it separate. Work and home,' he finally answers, and you watch carefully as he glances down over you with the word 'work' – you feel victory so close you can smell it. Your eyes narrow suspiciously, because it is never this easy with him – and your arms drop to your side.
'Then don't talk to her. It's not my problem, House.' He is moving closer, minimal amounts but you notice anyway – your skin is always hyper-aware of its proximity to his.
'What are you doing?' He sounds sure of himself now, and you curse inwardly as his eyes search your face – probably for anything that would answer his question, since you clearly won't. 'Don't do it.' His voice is so soft, you have to lean closer to hear him, and he draws in a surprised breath after he speaks.
Guilt is a heavy weight around your neck, but you are strong enough to stand underneath it. He just doesn't know any better than to ask you for this. You consider playing stupid, but it's beneath both of you, and you both know it. 'She already signed her contract.'
'You know that's not what I mean. Don't make this worse – or harder than it has to be.' You would say he is almost pleading, if you didn't know any better. Still, his voice makes you suddenly uncomfortable with your own thoughts and feelings. Harder than it has to be – but for whom?Him or you?
'House – ' Your voice is weak and he is staring down at you, an expression of pity on his face, and bile rises in your throat as you begin to understand. He meant for you. This was his way of warning you – he was moving on, and not with you. You can feel the pulse jumping in your throat and the room seems a bit too small, a bit too suffocating as the realization crashes down over you.
He doesn't want you anymore.
Your eyes are sparkling – anger and pain lighting you up from the inside out like a blazing inferno. 'Unless you have something work-related to discuss – get the hell out.'
'Just leave Stacy – ' His warning is quick and you feel a burst of anger as you shove him back until he hits the chair behind him. How dare he – how dare he assume that you couldn't do your job in a professional manner. The plans you had been making are shattered around you, irrefutable proof that you hadn't planned on being professional at all. But those were your shards of glass to cut yourself on – not his weapons.
'Go.' It's all you can manage and you are shaking with anger. He is either stubborn or stupid, because he doesn't listen as he stands up and watches you desperately trying not to come undone. He looks at you like he doesn't even realize it. Like he isn't aware of exactly how much you are bleeding on the inside right now.
He doesn't want you anymore.
'Cuddy – '
'Dr. Cuddy,' you snap, and he steps back in shock. You don't want him here, in your face, and you don't want him in your head either. You don't want him – and he doesn't want you, and that's just perfect really.
His hand reaches out and brushes your shoulder gently; almost with regret, but you don't want his regret so you smack it away, the sound sharp and echoing in the otherwise silent room. You straighten up, pulling everything inward until you are tightly strung with your self control alone. You will not let him see it – you are stronger than that. Stronger than him.
'Is there anything else, Dr. House?' You sound like fresh steel, still sizzling, and he blinks at you oddly.
'Cuddy, come on...' He sounds like he is laughing slightly but you ignore him, walking over and pulling your lab coat on. It is amazing even you how well he has trained you over the years. To lie, to hide everything. You've gotten almost too good at it.
'I have patients to see this morning.' Your voice is short and you don't wait to see if he accepts the excuse or not. You simply walk out of your office, increasing in speed until you find yourself five flights up in the emergency stairwell. You are surrounded by cold grey as you sink to the floor and forget how to breathe.
She was obscenely happy the next day – happier than she should have been, happier than was safe – but she didn't care as she finished this month's budget (ten days early) and decided to spend some free time up in the children's cancer ward.
The walls were blindingly white, with blue, purple and orange train tracks winding across them. She sat next to a small girl – with big hazel eyes and a hot pink scarf tied around her head – and took turns drawing pictures for each other while she perched precariously on a small chair made for a toddler.
"Draw a dog." The girl had started demanding random pictures while she huddled over her own drawing, not letting anyone take a peek. Fourteen small pictures later, Cuddy was presented with a painstakingly drawn picture of the two of them. Color-coded down to the dark brown for her hair, and the bright magenta of the girl's scarf, both smiling and surrounded by a sea of orange.
"It's beautiful." She smiled at the small girl, carefully folding the picture and placing it on her lap.
"Macaroni and cheese. It's my favourite crayon," the girl whispered, and Cuddy nodded with a smile before pressing the three crayons in her hand onto the tabletop by the girl's wrist and carefully gathering up every single drawing on the table. "I'll hang them." The girl smiled up at Cuddy, who had to turn away and pretend to get paged, so she wouldn't have to explain inexplicable tears to a seven-year-old child.
She walked quickly, her head falling forward as she hurried her steps down the hall. When she ran into someone, she shot her head up with apologetic swiftness. "I'm so sorr– Wilson." She nodded, and he removed his hands from her elbows and nodded awkwardly as well. The silence stretched between them, high-strung and waiting to break.
She held her breath, but after a minute of him alternating the placement of his hands from his hips to his hair, she simply nodded again and stepped around him gracelessly. His hand grabbed her elbow at the last minute and she paused, looking over her shoulder at him.
"Thank you. For not telling him – what I said." Wilson could have been talking to the third tile from the left of the linoleum floor, but she sighed softly and turned to face him.
"I wouldn't do that. You're his best friend, Wilson."
"And we know how you feel about it – "
"No." She dropped her voice to a whisper and his eyes met hers for a half a second, dark pools of too many emotions that she didn't want to see. When his eyes moved on, up to the ceiling, back to the floor, and finally settling on her left shoulder, which they both found they could handle. "You don't know – Wilson you over reacted – "
"Really?" He was meeting her eyes again, and now it was her turn to look away before she couldn't any longer, sucked in by the swirling vortex of guilt, anger and judgement there.
"I won't tell him. Any of it."
Wilson nodded, and his hands returned to his hips. She didn't look back as she continued to walk down the hall, not slowing her pace until she had turned four corners and heard the heavy thud of the stairwell door echoing around her.
You chose a mixture of warm wood and florals. There is more furniture in this office now and it seems warmer, more welcoming – which is what you'd been aiming for. Wilson is wringing his hands while sitting on the sofa kitty-corner to your chair and looking at you with desperate eyes.
'Please, Cuddy.' It hurts, the pleading tone in his voice as he stares at you. He is trying to guilt you into it, and sadly, it's very nearly working. 'I have never seen him like this. He got fired again – he's always fighting with Stacy – '
'Why can't she fix him?' you finally sigh and Wilson just gives you a look. 'Wilson, he does not want to hear from me. It's been over a year – '
'He misses you.' Wilson interrupts softly, and you feel that familiar guilt creeping under your heart again. Wilson's voice is soft, but the accusation is still there – has been for a year. He never pretended to understand why you cut yourself off from House. And you didn't feel close enough to him to unburden yourself. It was safer. He was happy – you were... well you weren't in as much pain. It was the only way.
'Wilson….' Your voice is slightly tense now and he sighs, leaning back and backing off.
'You could hire him now.' Wilson offers hopefully and you laugh shortly. The same thought occurred to you five days ago when you'd heard he was fired. Two days, no sleep and enough coffee to kill someone later, you had drafted the letter. You hated him just enough for being happy – you convinced yourself that it was enough to protect yourself. No one else could handle him. You wanted the excuse anyway – like someone addicted, you kept pushing him away with one hand and dragging him back with the other.
'I already mailed out an offer.' You speak finally into the heavy silence and Wilson sags with relief. 'Don't be too relieved, Wilson – you know him. He probably won't accept. Me as his boss? That's got to be hard.'
'Hard for him but not for me?' Wilson is teasing and you smile – and almost mean it. 'It's a start. Maybe...' He exhales softly and looks across at you. 'Maybe he'll accept.'
'Oh sure.' Your voice is dry – you don't believe it for a second, but only time will tell. And if by some miracle he does accept, you need to figure out how in the hell to deal with him. Because every way you've tried so far has failed miserably.
