The hall was dark and silent as she padded silently down it toward the pool of light glowing faintly at the end. She had woken up again – not from a dream this time – but from a decided lack of warmth and weight in the bed. House hadn't been next to her – so she had gone to look for him, ignoring the small voice in the furthest corners of her mind chanting warnings about getting too attached.
He was sitting on the sofa – a glass of something alcoholic held loosely in his hands. If it wasn't wine, had to be that bottle of scotch she had gotten from a grateful patient two years ago. Scotch wasn't really her thing though, and she had simply placed it in the cupboard above her fridge – thinking she would use it on those rare occasions when she had company. It had remained unopened until now. "House?" Her voice was soft and thick and he didn't respond – so she moved into the room and sat on the table edge in front of him. "What are you doing up?"
He shrugged before lifting the glass and draining it in one drink, setting it on the table next to her and moving his hands to rest on her knees. "Just couldn't sleep." He tried to sound casual, but she knew from the tension in his shoulders that whatever was keeping him up was far from casual.
She sighed softly before reaching up and running a hand through his hair. He leaned forward, pressing his face into her shoulder, and she felt his weight against her and his breath hot on her skin. Her other hand smoothed comfortingly down his back as his breathing became more even. "House – is this about the sh—"
"No." His response was too quick, too short – but the warning in it was clear as a bell. He swallowed before continuing. "No – I just – it's the heat I think. Too hot to sleep." She listened to his voice, her hands still moving in repetitive circles as she debated pressing the issue. There were things she knew he would never tell her. Things that he had become so good at avoiding it was like they barely existed for him. Apparently the shooting was going to become one of those things. And if she pushed the issue – all it would get her was an argument which would more than likely lead to an empty bed. Then the next night when he couldn't sleep, she wouldn't even be there.
She felt a slow tug in her chest at that thought – like a zipper being pulled apart tooth by tooth – as aching tenderness spilled out from the opening. His skin was clammy, but she didn't comment on it, choosing instead to just nod in the semi-darkness of the room, even though he wasn't looking at her and couldn't see it. "Okay." She breathed out the word, and some of the tension drained from his frame, making him sink further into her as she braced for the added weight. She closed her eyes, pressing her face by his hair and not saying anything, because it was the most comforting thing she could do right now.
His hands slid up her thighs before moving around her hips to her lower back. It was an awkward, loose version of a hug, and he didn't speak, but she didn't mind. With House, words were sometimes absolutely everything, and others times they weren't needed at all. He reminded her of those annoying puzzles her father used to do every Saturday evening – sitting in his armchair after Shabbat had ended – the ones where every letter was actually another letter and you had to decipher the code to understand what you were reading. She still hated them to this day – had never been any good at figuring them out or even where to begin. But after her father had died, she had kept doing them every Saturday evening, long after she had left home and stopped observing Shabbat anyway – she still sat with the weekend paper, staring at the unintelligible words until her eyes hurt.
She released a breath quietly, her hands stilling as she looked down at the back of his head with affection. "Are you going back to bed?" Her eyes darted to the clock on the fireplace mantle as she spoke – it was inching near five, and she doubted she would be able to sleep now anyway.
"Aren't you?" His voice was muffled against her skin – his stubble scraping as he spoke.
"Probably not," she responded softly, and he lifted his head, removing his arms and leaving her suddenly chilled. He wiped a hand over his face and met her eyes for a moment. The silence stretched until she felt a need to fill it. "I have a meeting with the board to approve the fundraiser this morning and I can never go back to sleep once I'm awake."
"Sorry." His apology was terse and quiet – most of his apologies were, when he deigned to give them. It was something she was accustomed to – she was fairly sure she could count the amount of times she had heard the word pass his lips on one hand.
"It doesn't matter. I would have been up in a little while anyway." She shrugged as she spoke and he looked at her with a shadow of disbelief in his eyes, but didn't argue or point out the obvious truth that by 'a little while' she really meant two hours.
"I'll make coffee." His voice was rough, but not rough enough to cover the gratitude – so she simply nodded as he stood, not moving from her spot as he exited the room to cross the hall into the dining room. When the room was empty, she stood as well, moving over to open the windows and let in the faint light from the street as her eyes moved along the inky black of the night sky. The sun would come up soon enough – spilling light across the shadows and chasing them away.
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool pane of glass and hoping it would be enough for him. And for her.
It's three days later when he shows up at your door, his eyes on the ground as if he still can't quite meet your gaze. You decided, after lunch with Wilson, you decided that you wouldn't ask House about it. You wouldn't confront him, you would just wait. Wait to see how long it took. It was a perverse decision, but honestly, most of your decisions concerning him were. You don't speak, just stare expectantly, and finally he looks up, guilt all over his face.
'Wilson told me – I should have told you – '
'Why?' You are angry, possibly irrational and it's more than likely misdirected. You are pissed at him, because he had the nerve to move on. You are more pissed at yourself because you didn't have to run. Time ran out while you were still running.
'What?' He is looking at you with a frown and you shake your head shortly.
'Why should you have told me? You don't owe me anything House – '
'Is that what you think?' His voice is somewhat bitter and you sigh, resting your forehead against the doorframe. You don't invite him in, because that's not an option – there are too many dangerous memories in the room behind you. You are tired – exhausted by the energy it takes to be this angry at yourself. How long could you do this?
'No,' you sigh softly before looking up at him. 'I just don't think – I don't —' It's hard to explain, and you barely understand it yourself, so how could you possibly define it for him. He doesn't owe you anything. It's your fault – if you hadn't run, hadn't avoided, hadn't feared – but you had. And people who say it's never too late are sometimes wrong, and all you can do now is watch him be happy with someone else, while secretly – bitchily – praying it all blew up in his face so you could pick up the pieces.
'I know.' He has finally spoken in the silence you left with your faltering, and his hand reaches out, brushing against yours so lightly you think maybe you imagined it – you want it bad enough, it's possible. You look at him with regret, because even if you have to survive this – even if you have to accept that he is trying to escape you, it pains you to watch it. To think about watching them. He is stepping away now, nodding before turning to go – the conversation is oddly unfinished but then so are you and he. It fits.
"I think we need to solve this." Wilson's voice was a sigh, and she almost smiled at the sound of it. She didn't need to look up to know that he probably had one hand at his hip and the other running through his hair as he stood above her. Instead she just waved a hand at the park bench next to her and kept watching the sunlight play on the grass, lighting up the lawn in a multitude of greens. Where there was no shade at all it seemed to glow, almost translucent as each blade soaked up the sun.
"There's nothing to solve, Wilson." She finally spoke reluctantly as she heard the wood creak under his added weight. "I'm not upset with you—"
"I just need to know what's going on, Cuddy." He sounded sad, like a lost little boy, and she glanced up at him – hues of harlequin still dancing along the edges of her vision – tinting him in fluorescence. "I know you haven't told him what I said—"
"It doesn't have anything to do with him, Wilson – not really," she interrupted softly, and he looked at her reproachfully.
"Doesn't it? Doesn't everything, Cuddy?" He spoke with the slightest tinge of envy, and she stared at him without speaking – unable to say anything that wouldn't make things worse. "Of course it's about him – it always is. I know what you told me – but I think we both know you lied."
She bit her lip and looked away, unable to take the sympathy in his eyes as he watched her closely. Wilson was often misjudged by others – as being the quiet one, the calm one, the nice one. Most times people were right. But "most times" wasn't all the time – not even close. "I didn't lie."
"Cuddy – there is no way this is all just about the baby. Why can't you just say it? Admit how you feel?"
"If I admit it to you – well, I may as well admit it to him. It's practically the same thing," she voiced softly, avoiding his gaze as she watched the clouds move lazily across the sky.
"I would never tell him—"
"Yes, you would." She laughed the words out, turning toward him incredulously. "Wilson, he would talk to you about something – after I'm pregnant and everything is over – and you would feel a need to tell him. Make him happier, save him from himself."
"Is that so bad, Lisa? You love him – you're going to—" Wilson broke off suddenly as two nurses strolled by. He smiled and waved awkwardly, waiting until they had left the area before speaking again. "You're trying to have his child for God's sake. You don't think that says something? You're tying yourself to him—"
"No," she interrupted again sadly, "I'm not." She shifted, leaning until the wooden slats of the bench pressed against her back – so hot it felt like it was burning. "He doesn't want the things I want. A family – a commitment."
"You don't want those things, Cuddy. If you did – you would have taken them when I—" He broke off, taking a deep breath and releasing it through his teeth. "You want him. That family – that commitment in your head – it's only with him."
"It would never work."
"So what? You'll take what you can get? God, Lisa – what happened to you? Where is the girl I knew who didn't stop until she became the youngest female Dean in the country? Giving up isn't like you." He was almost pleading with her now, and she smiled slightly as she leaned forward again, watching a bird fly by, up into the shade of a tree where it perched by its nest. The bird poked at it, rearranging small bits as it darted in and out of the myrtle foliage – attempting to obtain the perfect level of comfort. When it finally settled down – alone – she wondered if it had achieved it.
"Is it really giving up, Wilson? I waited twenty years – I looked for a replacement and there wasn't any. So what if I'm taking what I can get now? Maybe I need something – something to just hold on to. To prove that it was real." His hand was on her shoulder then – soft with comfort, and she fought the urge to shrug it off as she blinked back tears.
"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe if you tell him the truth it will turn out alright?" His words were meant as a comfort, she knew – a small gift of hope for her. And it was a big gesture from him. It was his way of saying he was fine with it now, despite what had happened between them all those weeks ago.
"Has it ever occurred to you that I did try that – and it ended badly?" She smiled over her shoulder at him and he frowned at her. "I appreciate it, Wilson – this olive branch or whatever it is you're trying to do here. But it isn't necessary. I know what I'm doing."
"Okay. Just – I'm here if you need me. Either of you." He stood, and looked down at her doubtfully. "For the record, though – I don't think it would end badly. And I don't think you do either – and that's why it terrifies you."
She watched him walk away silently – not taking her eyes off his retreating form until it had disappeared through the side entrance of the hospital. Wilson was sweet – but he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. He only had half the facts – and those were brief at best. She wasn't scared of admitting her feelings for House.
She was scared of the silence she was sure to get in return.
'I can't do this anymore.' You have been practising the words for days – weeks really, but only days since you consciously decided.
'Do what, Cuddy?' He is smiling across at you and you realize you could have picked a better time to do this. A more fully-dressed time, and not first thing in the morning on one of the nights he risked lying about working on a case just so he could wake up with you. You sit up slightly and stare down at him with regret and guilt clawing at your insides, ripping you apart from the inside out.
'This,' you whisper, and he is silent for a moment as he stares at you gravely.
'What brought this on?' His tone is biting – on the attack, but you had expected it – and you aren't surprised. 'Because you seemed fine with 'this' last night when you were – '
'Don't.' You stand up, wrapping the sheet around you because you can't sit that close to him and do this. It isn't possible. 'She came to see me a month ago – she keeps coming to see me, House, do you know why?' Your voce is rising and you are pacing back and forth as his eyes follow you.
'Cuddy – we haven't exactly been getting along lately – ' He is referring to himself and Stacy with the faintest tone of accusation – as if this is your fault.
'She is convinced you're cheating on her. And she's telling me this – me. And I can handle a lot of things, House, but listening to a woman whose boyfriend I'm sleeping with cry about how pathetic she is for staying isn't one of them. She's convinced she's the pathetic one, and what does that make me?' You are yelling now, standing at the foot of your bed and staring at him with expectations in your eyes. Expectations he will never ever live up to.
'Cuddy – '
'No,' you snap with a quick jerk of your hand as you struggle to breathe properly. 'I love you. I think that you know that – you have to know that and – ' You aren't breathing right and the words are coming out as sharp gasps and whispers. His eyes are burning into yours and the air seems to have left the room, and you can't do anything except stand before him exposed and hurting.
'Cuddy...' He is whispering your name that way again – like it's a caress, like it's a declaration. He is moving across the room now and his hands are on your shoulders, pulling you against him as his mouth presses against yours softly. You kiss him back for a moment, but all you can taste is the salt of your tears and you think that this is what failure feels like.
'I can't do this anymore. It hurts. She's hurting me, and I'm hurting her, and you're killing the both of us.' You need to step back, move away from him because it hurts even more to say these things when he's so close and his taste is still on your tongue. His hands tighten, gripping you to him as you struggle to get some space.
'Cuddy – no – ' You aren't listening to him and you fight harder because if you stop struggling – if you stop fighting for even a second – you'll give in.
'Lisa!' His voice is loud, and you finally still, tears hot on your face as he presses it to his chest, one hand tangled in your hair painfully and the other with a bruising grip on your waist. 'I'll tell her. Okay? God, I'll tell her everything and I'll – we'll – '
'Really?' Your voice is disbelieving – he has never promised you anything before for a good reason.
'I will. I swear.' He sounds a bit relieved now and his grip loosens slightly until you can take a breath again. 'We're going mini-golfing tomorrow. I'll tell her then. Not the best place but at least she can't kill me in public, right?'
You think for a moment of how much this will hurt her, but as his hands begin stroking along your skin soothingly and his lips are pressing to your temple, you can't seem to care. One of you had to be hurt. And you couldn't be anything but happy that it wasn't going to be you.
The house was silent when she entered it that evening – unusually quiet as she moved through the front hall into her dining room. It felt empty for the first time in months and she knew before she read his note that he wasn't there.
It was on the table – scrawled hastily so she had to squint and re-read it three times before finally deciphering his handwriting. He was at his place – and hadn't really given a clear reason. She felt a slight sting – like a child slapped by a parent, blinking and not entirely believing where it had come from.
She sighed and put water on to boil as she stared out her window into the early evening lighting – blues and oranges mixing together with aubergine shades that left a sense of disquiet in its wake. There was something eerie and not right about the sky as it grew darker and darker like a slow motion fade to black. It was a feeling that ricocheted into her well-lit kitchen and straight into her chest as she struggled to not care that he wasn't there.
The kettle whistled, startling her out of her thoughts, and she turned it off – staring down at it and wondering why exactly she had boiled the water in the first place. Her hand was still wrapped around her car keys – brass and stainless steel biting into her palm. Her subconscious was poking at the back of her mind – like a small child who came across an animal lying in the road – poking to make sure it's really dead – then jumping back and running like hell when it twitched. She turned around, keys still making permanent impressions in her skin as she flicked the kitchen light off – silencing the hum of the fluorescent lights and leaving only her thoughts echoing in the absolute quiet.
Her keys jangled slightly as her hand reached out for the doorknob, twisting it easily under her hand as she stepped back out into the strange twilight and walked back to her car. It wasn't that she needed him – or even thought he needed her. She repeated the thought as she slid the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over.
She didn't need him, but the light was odd and her day had been strange and she just had to be sure he was okay. She slid the car into reverse and pressed her foot onto the gas pedal, ignoring the silence that trailed her into the car. She moved into drive, flicking the headlights on to illuminate the too-dark evening. She didn't need him. She just wanted him.
You watch him through the window, screaming in pain while you clutch his results, wondering if it's possible to die of guilt. Stacy is at his side, and for the first time since she appeared, you think maybe she deserves to be there more than you. You didn't get the report from the clinic for two days – and even then, your anger colors your judgement.
You thought he was avoiding you – unable to tell you that he had changed his mind and he was staying with her after all – he had faked being sick to avoid you. When you finally read the report, even then, you had yourself convinced he was doing this to get away from you.
When he was admitted again, and sent for an MRI by the emerg doctors who had admitted him, you were sent the results and felt the guilt churning so deeply you thought maybe you would throw up, right there in the middle of the hall. This could have been avoided. You could have checked on him instead of assuming he had changed his mind.
Instead, you are standing outside his room, staring as he grips Stacy's hand in pain – wondering how exactly you tell the man you love that he has to lose his leg.
It would have been better if he had looked surprised to find her on his doorstep for a change, but he didn't. He didn't even answer the door – simply telling her it was open and not looking up from where he sat at the piano bench when she walked in, shutting and locking the door behind her.
When she slid next to him, the wood of the bench blessedly cool as she sidled up next to him like a small child, his hands paused on the keys and his head turned toward her.
"Missed me that much huh?" His voice was thick – and it clashed with his words – meant to be light and coming across as way too serious.
"The house was quiet," she pointed out simply, and he nodded before turning his attention back to the keys.
"Thought you liked quiet."
"Less than I used to." Her voice was so low, she didn't even think he would hear her – but he stilled again and nodded.
"I had PT today – drove the bike over and I saw – I just felt like coming home." His words were rough and halting – at odds with the smooth notes that flowed out of the instrument in front of them. She felt a slight pinch across her sternum (it only hurt for a second) as she listened to him, nodding.
"That's fine. I can – do you want me to go?" She felt like she was dragging the conversation out of them – he was holding onto his words too tightly and hers were lodged in the back of her throat – screaming and unwilling to come out. She wanted to know what the hell was causing it – identify the problem and deal with it – but that was her M.O., not his.
He sighed heavily, staring down at his hands on the keys and remaining silent for a minute. She sat forward – the edge of the bench digging into the backs of her thighs as she perched next to him – waiting to see if she could relax or not.
"No." He finally spoke softly and she nodded, almost sagging in relief against him. Then she did lean against him – leaning to the left that slight half inch so that her shoulder brushed his and she could reassure her over-reactive mind that he was there – and she was fine. She didn't speak – her mind going over the last few days – searching for anything that would have brought on this mood in him. Other than her latest implantation three days ago – she was coming up empty.
"Is this about my appointment at Robin's last week? I mean I thought – "
"No." He shook his head as he spoke, his hands never stilling as they danced across the keys evasively. "Just needed clothes."
"Oh." Her voice echoed his, uninspired, as her eyes followed his hands and avoided his face. She knew he was lying. And for all her experience with House – she had yet to figure out a way to make him say something he didn't want to. It was why she had a lifetime of mistakes made with him, and twenty years worth of longing lodged somewhere in her chest cavity every time she looked in his eyes.
"I saw you and Wilson – before I left," he volunteered, breaking the muted silence around them. She looked up in shock – that he was volunteering information at all. "You looked busy – I didn't interrupt."
She turned toward him in slow motion, like a clock spring unwinding – about to fly apart. "Who are you and where did you put the real House? You didn't want to interrupt? You live to interrupt – it's one of your favourite hobbies."
"It looked – " He paused and she cocked her head, waiting for him to continue. "It just looked... personal." His tone changed slightly on the last word, curling up like not quite ready to bloom buds. Closed-off in an attempt to protect itself from the elements.
"We were talking about – " She halted, her heart racing. Like running toward the horizon full tilt, only to realize it was actually a precipice. He turned toward her, his eyes pinning hers down as he studied her – and she knew it was too late anyway. She was falling off despite her desperate attempts to grab a finger-hold. "You actually."
"Me?"
"Wilson thinks I should – disclose certain things." She paused, as her heart beat so hard against her chest she was sure if she looked down she was see green blooming into eggplant as it bruised her from the inside out.
"And?" He paused as she stared at him, mute with terror. "Are you going to disclose whatever it is?"
She couldn't open her mouth to speak – like she had been robbed of every single word she had ever possessed. She attempted to say something – but her voice was a pitiful squeak so she shook her head instead.
"I could ask him," House pointed out, and she nodded, accepting the truth of his statement. Wilson would probably tell him, too.
"I can't. Yet," she qualified, and he turned his eyes away from her, back to the piano in front of him. She sighed, feeling like an escapee who had just avoided the searchlight by mere inches.
When he began to play again, the melody was soft and soothing and he leaned into her more fully, his shoulder nudging hers as his hands moved up and down the keys. She sat attentively until his hands slowed and fell silent. When they stilled, he reached across his lap, taking her hand in his and holding it silently for a moment.
"Soon though?"
She nodded in response to his question and he fell silent again – accepting her answer wordlessly. She laid her forehead against his shoulder – silently thankful for the reprieve and suddenly frantic with the need for a plan.
She needed a planned route to take – so she knew where she was going.
A roadmap or some plotted line to take her from point A to point B without losing any passengers along the way. Her free hand crept across her hip, pressing lightly on her stomach as she did so. Without losing anything.
