Author's Notes: Thanks to jl1820, Huddyphoric, hughsoulingregsmind, harvesttime, solo1861, newsession, dmarchl, Jane Q. Doe, Josam, LapizSilkwood, red blood, Lana, grouchysnarky, Alex, HuddyGirl, Abby, Temo, EllieShelly, fantasiadvd, JessicaClackum, IHeartHouseCuddy, and ladyyuuki16 for taking the time to read and review. I'm so glad you still like my work and go out of your way to give me feedback. Thank you.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Gift of Screws
Chapter Twenty-Two: On the Outside
By Duckie Nicks
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson
She sensed a change in him immediately. Cool accusatory eyes met her gaze as Rachel stomped off, his way of saying, "You screwed that up." The words never left his mouth, but Cuddy could see the temptation in his features, knew that, if they were in any other situation, he would say something.
For the life of her, she couldn't understand why he was upset.
True, these events, when he attended, always bred animosity, a bit of resentment and frustration for having been made to go. She'd expected that; that was why she'd purchased the lingerie she was currently wearing: because he would need something to look forward to. As childish as it seemed to need to bribe him for good behavior, it was necessary, and she had done it without complaint. But feeling the heat of his discontent, she was no longer sure that the crotchless, cupless wonder she was wearing would be enough for him.
She wasn't sure anything would be enough.
He did not take her hand when she held it out for him. He did not speak to her, barely even looked at her when they headed to the dining room. When she asked him what was wrong, he merely shrugged and continued on to the table.
They were seated next to each other, at the end, as far from the host and hostess as they could possibly be. But that unlike House's behavior did not surprise her; when he was with her, when it was known he was coming anyway, he was always placed on an end, as far from human contact as possible. And if he looked dismayed then, she knew it was because he didn't want to sit with her and for no other reason.
As they took their seats, she leaned over to him. Her voice a whisper, she told him calmly, "Whatever your problem is –"
"I don't have a problem."
She rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair. Under no circumstances had she been convinced; the surly quality to his voice made it obvious if not understandable that there was absolutely something wrong. But in those few words, it had also become clear that he had no intention of telling her, that he planned to sit there silently – like a child would – for the rest of the evening.
Cuddy wouldn't lie; it bothered her. It did. Something had happened, something she would have to address sooner or later. And the fact that he didn't even want to talk about it made her all the more concerned. Because when he didn't talk, it meant that his problem was greater than a simple apology, bigger than thirty seconds of consolation could solve. He wasn't saying anything now, affording her that much dignity to keep their personal issues limited to their home. But in a way, that just made it even worse.
This wasn't about John Kelley or Sanford Wells. He'd had no problem discussing her love life earlier. Sometimes House liked to get offended by something after the fact, surprise her with newfound anger. But that wasn't the case here. She could tell. He would have said something if it were about John or Sanford; given that one of the men was twenty feet from him, he would have done something.
Instead House was quiet, eerily so. He sipped from his wine, placed his napkin on his lap all without a word, without even a glance in her direction. But the undercurrent of those actions was one of disapproval, one of disgust. She could feel it.
And that was truly saying something, considering it was hard to sense much of anything other than the glowing hatred radiating from Arianne Wells's direction. Her husband was currently offering a toast, the same toast he always gave about perseverance in the lifeblood of Jews, in the blood of those sitting at the table with him. But oblivious to her husband's words, Arianne was giving Cuddy a different message altogether with that glare of hers.
Then again, Cuddy guessed the word, blood, wasn't entirely absent from this unspoken conversation either.
She refused to let it bother her though. Arianne had assumed the worst in her for years, more than a decade even, and if Cuddy had let that get to her every time an accusation, said or otherwise, was made, she would have never been able to do anything else. Out of necessity, she'd developed a thick skin, distanced herself from her association with Wells – so much so that not even House had been able to predict a past between them. Required, Cuddy had forged ahead and would continue to do so.
But she'd just thought that when Sanford Wells's speech took an unexpected turn. He was at the part where he talked about his own ancestry, how they had been forced from Spain, left Morocco decades after, and settled in the United Kingdom without knowing anyone. It was, he said, as he always did, a testament to his family, living up to that legacy, that he should enter a profession that was not always welcoming to black men, especially black men in positions of power. And he was at that moment where he then turned the toast to the successes of his fellow diners when he changed course.
He started talking about his wife, something he never did. Darkly Cuddy thought he avoided mentioning his spouse, because every year, said spouse changed. Nevertheless she was intrigued by the shift in pattern, and so she was fully focused on his speech when he said it.
"This year," he explained in a thoughtful manner. "I think I am even more attuned to the legacy my family, the Jewish people, have created – died for – for me. As I contemplate the examples that were set for us, I can only hope that Arianne and I will be able to provide the same for our own child who will be born…."
His voice trailed off though only in Cuddy's head. She could see his lips still moving, could, in a vague way, hear his continued speaking buzzing in the back of her mind like a fluorescent light bulb in dire need of changing before it blew. The specifics of what he said escaped her; the specifics did not matter. Her gaze trained on Wells and his wife, it was easy to see then – why hadn't she seen it before? – Arianne was pregnant. She glowed; they both did, smiled knowingly at one another as though a secret lingered between them, something only the two of them knew.
There was no secret, of course. The truth had been revealed, and everyone now knew that they were having a baby. But looking at the happy couple, Cuddy felt a sense of exclusion in the moment nonetheless.
Rationally she knew that was how it should be. This pregnancy wasn't happening to her, wasn't occurring in her family. She was looking in on a private moment between Wells and Arianne, and it was only right for her to feel like an outsider at the dinner table.
But was that what was really happening? Cuddy thought the answer was no. Maybe in some small part, she was reacting to the subtle display of intimacy in front of her. The fact of the matter though was that that dynamic barely penetrated Cuddy's daze. She could recognize it in a reasoned way, but she didn't feel it. She didn't even really think it.
Really, there was only one thought flitting through her mind, one fact that seemed to plague her, weigh her down as Sanford finished his toast. Arianne was pregnant. This woman who had made so many awful assumptions about her, the person who lacked so much decency, who didn't have a maternal bone within her was pregnant.
And the silent refrain that came with that, though Cuddy tried her best not to think it, was: And she was not.
She had never been, not really, the voice thought, pushing through every defense she possessed. Pregnancy had been a state she'd briefly experienced, a small taste of something she would never fully enjoy. In spite of all her wishes, there was a longing that came with the thought. The desire for… not a different path; she couldn't imagine life without her daughter, without things being as they were. She couldn't picture herself with two children, with House being the biological father of him or her – or with someone else being the father.
As much as part of her longed to have had that experience, the events that would have had to take place were ones she wasn't interested in. She would have liked to have been pregnant, but... she didn't.
She didn't.
Thinking that and then settling into the salad course made her feel ridiculous. But what other choices did she have? Her mind traitorously took her there, forced her to consider the "what if" she generally refused to let herself ponder. Her job forced her stay where she was, to hold her glass high during the toast and act like she was both happy and unaffected by this announcement.
She was unaffected, she told herself. No matter how nice it would have been to be inducted into that part of motherhood, to know what it felt like to have your child grow and move within you... it wasn't something she needed to chase. It wasn't something she needed to be complete. There was the slight tinge of betrayal, that the world should give a viper like Arianne a child, but if Cuddy felt sick then, it was because she knew her own path to motherhood had been – was – just as meaningful. And if she felt awful, it was because these thoughts made it seem like she needed to be convinced of her love for Rachel and that just wasn't the case.
She loved Rachel, as fully and indescribably and terribly as she would have if she had ever successfully been pregnant. Of that Cuddy had no doubts.
But when Rachel slipped into the dining room, a sour expression on her face, Cuddy thought that maybe her daughter did have some doubts of her own. Because as Rachel carefully made her way to her, Cuddy could see the hatred, the dissatisfaction, in her daughter's eyes. It wasn't genuine in any way. To be sure, Rachel probably thought at that moment that she really did hate her mother, really did have a reason to be irate. Being sent to eat with her friends for some inexplicable reason was enough to make her feel as though her mother were against her. But it was the kind of momentary irritation that only a child could have… although Cuddy was tempted to reconsider that with every glance she made in House's direction.
And at least Rachel had enough love for her to head straight for her and bury her face in her mother's lap. She had enough forgiveness for some affection whereas House could barely look at her. Who was really being less mature in this scenario, she thought dryly.
Shifting away from the table, Cuddy ignored him. Instead she leaned down a little so that she could hear Rachel over the multiple conversations that had started to take place around them.
"What's wrong, baby?"
Rachel lifted her face off of Cuddy's thighs. "I wanna go home," she said practically on the verge of tears.
For the life of her, Cuddy couldn't understand why. This might have been a boring event for a child. Okay, it was an awful way for a five year old to spend her evening. But it wasn't worth crying over, and if Rachel were about to do so, the only reasonable cause for that was she thought throwing a fit would get her home sooner.
What Rachel didn't realize was that there was absolutely no chance of that plan succeeding.
Nevertheless, Cuddy tried to be sympathetic. These parties were never fun, and even if she thought differently, antagonism wasn't going to work here. Rachel needed sympathy.
"I know," Cuddy said gently. "Just a little while longer, all right?"
"No. I want to go home now." Rachel was firm, but she was still quiet, thankfully. The only attraction she seemed to attract at that point was House's.
"You need to eat your dinner," Cuddy told her.
"I did."
"Really?" she asked doubtfully. "So if I go check, your plate's going to be empty?"
Rachel nodded her head. It wasn't a lie. She hadn't wanted to sit with stinky Nevaeh and stupid, poopy pants George and Tyler to eat dinner. By the time she'd been forced to, one of the other kids, Dustin, had decided to play a prank on her and feed her dinner to one of the dogs. At least that was what they said – they'd fed her food to the dogs (although Rachel didn't think there were any dogs here), because she was so fat she didn't need to eat.
They was wrong. She did need to eat cause of her blood sugar. But they were so dumb they would never get that, and if she asked for more food, they would just tease her even more. And then Mommy would make her clean her plate, and they would oink like they was pigs, because she was fat, or they would moo cause she was a cow, and asking for a new dinner just wasn't worth it.
As soon as they went home, she would say something, so she wouldn't get sick. But she wouldn't say a peep until then. Nobody was gonna make fun of her anymore. Not tonight anyway. And it was easy to convince Mommy, because the plate was technically empty, so it wasn't a lie to say that it was.
"All right," Cuddy said after a moment. "Can you be quiet while…."
The question went unfinished. The second House leaned down and picked Rachel up, there was no point in saying anything else. He'd made the decision for all of them, leaving Cuddy nowhere to go with her words. Whether Rachel planned on being quiet or not, she was in House's lap, snuggled into the lapels of his suit; there was no incentive to behave now, because she'd already gotten what she wanted.
Frustrated Cuddy chose to ignore them both. This was just what he liked to do, she told herself. He had no idea how to reach out to Rachel on his own, no clue how to bond with her, so he spoiled her. He gave her whatever she wanted without complaint or hesitation, pitted himself against Cuddy so that he looked good by comparison. He couldn't help himself.
No matter how many times she tried to tell him he didn't need to do that, that Rachel would eventually like him whether he spoiled her or not, he refused to believe that. Granted, listening had never been his strong suit. Neither had change. And for that very reason, Cuddy tried to be as patient as she could be.
She was losing patience.
But she had already said something once today. Reiterate the point too often, and he would stop even trying to pay attention. Her insistence would lead to accusations of nagging, and then he would purposely do whatever he wanted to annoy her further. He couldn't help himself there either. So Cuddy chose once more to bite her tongue, to ignore the problem that she saw staring at her in the face.
In some ways, that was almost easy. Rachel had gotten what she'd wanted, and she was quiet as a result. House spent the rest of the evening watching her, which meant that Cuddy didn't have to worry about either of them getting into trouble. And that allowed her to focus on the job she had to do – wooing donors with an ease she didn't feel in her marrow.
On the surface, everything was going fine. They laughed at her jokes, lapped up the little tidbits of administrative life that she shared with them. She returned the behavior in kind – pretended to be amused at the stories they told, faked enjoying their senses of humor. But as the party progressed, the hours ticked by ever so slowly, Cuddy found herself devoid of any real amusement.
The fact that there was always a long stretch between dinner and dessert and then the end of the party only made it worse; the feeling that she would have to keep the façade up for the rest of the night made her that more desperate for the evening to end.
Impatience was not something she meant to dabble in. She'd set herself up for a long evening. Before the party, she had told herself that she would have to overcome a lot, meet several people's high expectations for her before she could even think about leaving. Though this was the last thing she'd wanted to do, it was necessary at this point. Once the D.E.A. started to investigate the hospital thoroughly, she needed it to already be perfectly clear that no one could do the job she did on a daily basis.
Perhaps sensing she had reached that point – or gotten as close to it as she ever would – she felt herself itching to leave. Again, she'd wanted to go longer, but thanks to John and Arianne and House and everything else, Cuddy knew she had reached her limit. And now all she wanted to do was go home, so that she could strip herself of the veneer that suggested to the world that everything was okay.
Nothing was okay.
It hadn't been all day, of course. But the more she tried to pretend like she had everything under control, the more obvious it was becoming that she didn't. John had kissed her, and even if House forgave her for that, she still had to deal with the memory of it. And then there was Arianne and her pregnancy and the hospital's current troubles and the fact that Rachel and House both seemed at times angry with her for reasons Cuddy didn't understand and… their problems seemed to be never ending.
But instead of being home with her family, protecting them, she was here. At first relying on work had been instinctual. Now it just felt like she was avoiding her own life and the problems teeming within it. Each conversation more forced than the last, she made it another hour, a full seventy-five minutes after dinner concluded to be precise, before she begged off.
Wells was understanding thankfully. She could see his desire to point out that, if there were ever a time to stick the party out, that time was now. Although he said he understood, that he was sad she had to go, what he really wanted to say was, "Are you sure that's the right choice to make?"
It was an unspoken question created from a need to protect. Over the years, their relationship had cooled to the point where they appeared to be mere acquaintances. But every now and then, a lingering feeling or two would bubble to the surface. If right now was one of those times, she thought it was because she had succeeded in her plan to appear competent. Because if he'd believed she weren't an asset to the hospital, he would have let her go without hesitation. At the moment though, he was subtly trying to keep her there. And if he let her leave at all, it wasn't because he thought she was a hindrance, but because she told him Rachel had school in the morning.
Apparently newfound fatherhood made him more sympathetic to her responsibilities as a mother. For that reason alone, Cuddy thought Arianne becoming pregnant was a good development. But she kept that to herself, not interested in speaking to the other women, much less give her an opportunity to insult her.
Finding House instead, Cuddy was surprised to see Rachel asleep on his lap. The pair were sitting on the same chaise they had been lounging on earlier, but this time, Rachel was curled into him.
For a brief second, Cuddy paused at the sight. She wanted them to be close; she had fought for that. And it was nice to see them like this.
But there was also a slight pang that came with seeing them together as they were. The closer they became, the less reliant Rachel became on Cuddy herself. And maybe it was ugly to want her baby to stay her baby, but sometimes Cuddy felt sick at the idea of sharing her daughter, letting her become closer to and dependent on someone else.
She didn't think she did a good job of hiding it then.
Certainly it would explain why, when she asked if he'd given Rachel her insulin, he was quick to snap.
"No. I didn't," he said in a way that made it obviously a lie. "I thought it'd just be fun to see what happened if I let her –"
"We're leaving," she told him, hoping that that news would ease some of his agitation.
It did, but then it also seemed to leave him confused. An eyebrow cocked, he asked, "Because of what I said?"
"Because it's late and I want to go home." Leaning down, she began to slowly pull Rachel into her arms. Cuddy tried to be as gentle as she could be, so that Rachel wouldn't wake up. But the shifting caused by Cuddy picking her up roused Rachel enough so that she whined a little. "It's okay," Cuddy told her, holding her close. Her daughter's face burying in her shoulder, she said in a soothing voice, "Mama's got you."
House watched the scene impassively, but he didn't stand up to leave. Wanting to go and being allowed to go were two different things in Cuddy's mind. He wasn't going to get up until he knew he was free and clear to escape.
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Don't worry. I already said goodbye for you."
"Okay." He tried to act like that wasn't a concern of his. Having her acknowledge it and so readily made him feel like a child being consoled, made him feel shamefully predictable. He reached for his cane but tried not to seem too impressed by her words.
The act wasn't particularly convincing, he thought, because Cuddy seemed to be even more irritated than she had been.
"I'm going to get our coats. When you're finished playing games, you can join us." She turned away and started to walk off.
Then he didn't hesitate to join her. She'd correctly deduced his motives, what he was doing. There was no point in pretending otherwise. Even though he didn't like being exposed, fighting that fact would just make it all the more obvious. Having been caught, he could really only admit defeat and move on; denying it would merely prolong his presence at this party.
Sighing he stood up. His thigh ached as he took long strides to work the tension out of his muscles. Rachel had fallen asleep at least a half hour ago, and he'd been trapped on the small sofa by her body and the knowledge that he'd have to deal with the other guests if he tried to get up. Now he was stiff, his gait reflective of that.
It didn't help that he knew he was poised for a fight. His entire body tense with anticipation, he found it impossible to ease the soreness in his leg. He tried, but every moment seemed to remind him of the argument they were going to have.
It didn't matter that they worked together to get Rachel into her coat or that he then helped Cuddy down the icy driveway so she wouldn't fall with the kid in her arms. None of that made a difference.
Not for him.
Maybe Cuddy, under the delusion that he was agitated from the party, thought this brief reprieve from fighting meant something. But he knew better, because he knew that all of this was precisely the problem. Every day they managed to have moments like this, instances where they came together to care for Rachel. And every day those times went ignored or unappreciated by Cuddy.
If she weren't going to place any meaning in those moments, why should he do any different?
Well, he wasn't going to. If nothing they did together made her more trusting, then he wasn't going to let those same events quell his anger. Cuddy was oblivious, of course. He knew she wasn't so dense as to be completely unaware of his mood. But every time their eyes met, it was impossible to miss the hope in her gaze; it was easy to see that, in spite of everything, she thought nothing bad would come of it. They would go home and put Rachel to bed and make love and call it a night as though everything were just fine. He didn't bother suggesting she was wrong about that.
She would know the truth soon enough.
When they got home, Cuddy lifted Rachel out of her car seat. House held the garage door open for them silently. And when Cuddy gave him a soft smile and told him, "I'll just get her changed and in bed," he didn't fight her on it. He let her do precisely that.
It took her a good ten minutes before she reappeared. There was toothpaste smeared along part of her dress, and she looked disheveled, like a sleepy Rachel hadn't been cooperative in getting ready for bed. In all honesty House had no trouble believing the kid had been difficult. She'd been that way since dinner had ended, cranky and upset. She'd fought him hard when he'd gone to give her her insulin, though that probably had more to do with the fact that he wanted to inject it into her stomach than anything else; of all the locations they could use for insulin dosage, her belly was the site Rachel hated the most. She was afraid the needle would make a hole in her stomach or something along those lines (House never really listened). But her arms at the moment weren't a suitable location, so it had been the best choice at the time. And since then, she'd been agitated. If Cuddy had had trouble, House wasn't surprised. He remained unsympathetic nonetheless.
At that point though Cuddy must have sensed something wasn't right with him. Within seconds of shutting their bedroom door, she looked at him as though something were wrong.
"Why are you in your pajamas?" she asked confusion mingling with disbelief in the sound.
His response was flat. "I'm getting ready for bed."
He didn't look at her as he headed to the bathroom. Chances were, when they were finished fighting, she'd kick him out. He wanted to be prepared to go when it was necessary.
As he brushed his teeth, she crept into the bathroom. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, she asked as if to entice him, "Did you forget?"
He spit into the sink. "That you're wearing something underneath your dress? No. I didn't forget."
"Good." The self-satisfied smirk practically gleamed in the mirror. Her warm hand on his back, pressed into his shoulder blades, she said, "You have no idea how hard it was to find –"
"I don't care."
All bravado disappeared the instant he said it. She'd been feeling good, just the right amount of wine and victory in her to make her loose and interested. She'd been annoyed with House earlier, but now they were home, and that made feel a million times better. Getting out of the party and Rachel to bed had tamped that emotion down, but once free of those constraints, Cuddy had been eager for House to rip off her dress and see what she had been, rather uncomfortably, saving for him all evening long. For a while there, it had seemed he was just as keen as she was.
Now… he said he didn't care?
She was put off by the change in demeanor. Or perhaps that was the wrong way to put it, because he'd been sending signals for hours now that he wasn't happy. He'd made that much plenty clear. But she guessed she'd thought that the second they were home, the mere mention of lingerie would turn his mind to sex and all would be forgiven. Looking back on it, she decided that maybe she had been oversimplifying, thinking it would be that easy. Still, she wasn't about to give up. If he wanted to play hard to get, she was game.
Calmly she got closer. Leaning back against the sink, she stood next to him. He was hunched over the Formica, hand cupped underneath the stream of running water so he could rinse his mouth. But she knew that, despite that he was aware of what she was doing, he was closely paying attention to her.
"I know you said you didn't care what I wore, because you planned on –"
"I changed my mind," he said with a shrug.
She wasn't sure how to take that comment. "You mean you've –"
"I mean," he told her in a slow, patronizing voice that made her burn with irritation. Slapping the faucet off, he looked at her. She was surprised to see the potent anger still in his gaze, as he finished, "I don't want to have sex with you."
There was a conviction to the words that surprised her. Although she'd expected reluctance from him, she hadn't anticipated such vehemence from him as well.
The shock must have shown, because he was quick to needle her further.
"You don't even know why I'm pissed, do you?"
The cruelty contained in the snide question immediately put her on the defense. Whatever patience she might have had was gone now. She was no longer interested in kindness or understanding; she'd set herself up for some poor behavior on his part, but this was beyond what she felt like handling today.
"Well go ahead," she snapped back, gesturing as though she were giving him the floor. "Please feel free to tell me what's wrong."
"The fact that you don't already know –"
"Yes, how dare I be unaware of every mental –"
"If you want to make this about how crazy I am, by all means, do that," he said with a shrug. "If you think doing that is going to help the situation, I don't know what to tell you. It's just not."
She was at a crossroads. Did she fight him for being ridiculous or did she employ sympathy to resolve the problem? Right now it was hard to see the appeal of the latter; they were both undeniably poised for an argument that seemed to have come from nowhere. Chalking it up to the stress of the weekend, Cuddy supposed that it made sense and that, therefore, it was pointless to address his anger as though it were anything more than a momentary annoyance.
But… she hesitated to follow through on that knowledge. Maybe it was just a temporary fit he was having. If she treated it that way though, what were the chances that his irritation would stay fleeting then? If she did that, what was there to stop him from becoming even more agitated?
No, she thought after a small amount of contemplation. She couldn't act as though this were a trivial matter; she believed it was, but she couldn't let on that that was how she felt. Doing that could easily set off a chain reaction that left them both angry for days. That was not what she wanted.
"You're right," she admitted, though it killed her to have to say the words. "I just don't understand what this is about." She paused for a second in the hopes that saying those things would be enough for him. Clearly it wasn't going to be. "If this is about John or –"
"It's not," he said with a shrug. "I don't care who you slept with. I care that I have to hear about it decades after the fact, but I don't even really care about that."
She wanted to demand what the problem was then but thought better of it. If he hadn't come out with it already, that meant he was either faking it or purposely withholding the truth. The former seemed more likely, but again, she knew she couldn't react from that point of view without risking making things worse. So assuming he was choosing to keep the reason to himself, she had to think that demands wouldn't work. She would need to work it out for herself.
Obviously it was safe to assume the problem had originated at the party. They'd left the house on reasonably good terms, so the issue (if there was one) had to have begun in the Wells's mansion. John would have been a rational choice for root of the problem. But in all honesty, House had barely even registered that John had been in the same home. Arianne's tales of elicit affairs that only really existed in her mind had kept House distracted. Then again, House hadn't been all that upset about that either. He hadn't been pleased, but he'd backed off when she'd needed him to. If he were really that pissed off about it, he wouldn't have stopped then. He would have stepped back, changed tactics, but he wouldn't have let the matter go without the resolution he wanted. If that wasn't the problem though… then what was it?
What else had happened?
He patiently stood there, watched her intently as she tried to answer that question. It was obvious that he wanted her to figure it out on her own, as though this were a lesson she needed to learn without his aid. His arrogance palpable, it took all of her effort to focus on the matter at hand.
And yet try as she might, she still couldn't think of anything. He'd definitely been pissed after dinner. But what had occurred between their conversation in Wells's office and dinner? Rachel had found him, but she'd been a good girl all night long. There'd been strained moments here and there, yes. However, Cuddy didn't think she could ask for perfection from her five year old, and even if she could, surely, House wouldn't have a problem sympathizing with wanting to be at home instead of at a party.
So then…
What was it?
She was about to go over the minute details of the evening, because nothing was sticking out to her and she felt that was the only way she might come up with something. But House had become fed up with the waiting she required. She could see it, and so she wasn't surprised when he couldn't stand it any longer.
"All right, let me ask you this: what did you think about Wells's announcement?" If the question sounded conversational, it was intentional. For that reason, Cuddy didn't let her guard down.
"What did I think?" Her head shook a little as she tried to understand why he was asking about that. "I don't – why does it matter what I thought?"
"Because I'm asking."
She didn't know how to answer. Even if she knew what words to say (and she didn't), did she really want to tell him the truth? Under these circumstances? So he could use it against her in whatever manner he felt was appropriate? And he would use her words as a weapon. She was beginning to see that his anger, while unjustified, was very much real, and he wasn't bringing up Arianne's pregnancy for the sake of conversation.
So Cuddy lied. "I was happy for her."
"No, you weren't," he said knowingly.
"Then why ask?" Frustration infused in every syllable, it was clear, she hoped, that she was tired of the game he was playing. Truly, if he wanted to be pissed off at her, at this point, he owed it to her to just be mad.
"I was curious to see if you would admit it."
"Admit what?"
"That you were jealous," he offered simply. "That seeing someone else, someone you don't like, with child made you think about –"
"And what if it did?" she interrupted. "What does it matter that I thought about what it might have been like to be pregnant? To have another child? What's wrong with considering that?"
He was not sure that was the admittance he'd been looking for. Reexamining his game plan, he could see that he had given her a wide birth to take the conversation wherever she'd wanted. And thinking about it now, he guessed he should have chosen a way to bring up the kid topic that didn't confuse her little mind.
Then again, she was standing there in front of him saying that she'd been considering what it would be like to be pregnant; she'd been thinking about another baby. She'd said as much yesterday, that she'd thought about it before. But she'd managed to convince him then that she hadn't wanted to act on those ideas. Now… he wasn't as willing to believe that. And though he definitely hadn't brought up Arianne Wells's pregnancy to get this particular reaction from Cuddy, he couldn't ignore what she'd said either.
This was not a distraction he wanted to deal with at the moment, he thought. But it had to be addressed. And he knew just how.
Looking at her, he could tell that she wouldn't admit to wanting another baby. She was too defensive, overtly and rightfully suspicious of his words and the intentions behind them. Talking about it would get them nowhere. When she sensed where he was trying to go, she would urgently fight to push them in another direction. Words were meaningless, any conversation futile, which meant that all he had left were actions.
His choice of behavior was decided on a split second, the thought barely even hitting his mind before he followed through.
Reaching up, he opened the medicine cabinet. Just as Rachel had done so earlier, he grabbed the birth control pills – the last package Cuddy had in the house. His body blocking what he was doing, there was no way for Cuddy to know what was going on. But the second he turned around and she saw what he was doing, the dread she felt began to show.
"What are you doing?" she demanded to know.
"What you want."
Her eyes saw, but she didn't see, didn't understand. No explanation would be given for her before, he decided. The sooner he got this over with, the better it would be for all of them.
Holding the birth control over the toilet, he opened his fist. Just as Cuddy made a sound of disapproval, the pills fell into the bowl with a watery plop. For good measure, he reached over and flushed, though the plastic and foil dial was too large to go anywhere. Nevertheless, he was satisfied with his work.
Looking back to her, he wasn't surprised that she looked absolutely in shock. He also didn't care.
"There. Problem solved."
Her mouth fell open though it was impossible to tell if words or vomit would follow after the fact. For a fraction of time, it seemed like neither would occur. She was so stunned that she was almost catatonic with disbelief, and there was a moment where he wasn't sure if she would surface or protect herself in surprise for the rest of the evening.
It went without saying that that hadn't been his intention. This was not the fight he wanted to have, not the way he wanted this conversation to go. He was handling it, because the problem had presented itself and there was no way around it. But this was not his endgame, not at all. And the longer it took Cuddy to recover, the more it seemed like their actual issues would never be resolved.
Eventually though she calmed herself down enough to demand slowly, "Why did you do that?"
"You said you thought about having another kid."
"Thought," she emphasized, her hands clenching into fists. "I didn't say I wanted a baby. In fact, I said I didn't want that yesterday."
She was so angry with him.
He was completely unfazed by it.
"And yet this issue keeps coming back up," he pointed out snidely. "Which means you're either an ineffective speaker or one who's lying."
"I don't want another child, House."
He looked at her carefully, examined for some truth to the words. But all he saw was rage tunneling through the surprise.
"I don't believe you," he said simply, honestly. His voice cheery and biting, he explained, "So gimme a couple days to replenish the baby batter and then you can make yourself a sperm and egg omelet."
Cuddy looked like she was ready to hit him. Her cheeks were red with rage, her eyes wild with murderous intent. But nowhere was her anger more obvious than in her voice. "You need to listen to me. Now. I do not want to –"
"It's fine," he told her hastily, not listening to her at all. "You don't even have to say that's what you want."
"Actually, I –"
"No, you can have all the babies you want. It's okay. You are free to repopulate the planet and I'll just be the sperm donor."
She snapped quickly. "And now I know you're insane. Because there is no way in hell that you are going to be a sperm donor to any child I have."
Cuddy was close to screaming. Her voice boomed in the bathroom, but he could tell that she was trying her best to maintain some control. Unfortunately for them both, the louder she was becoming, the noisier he wanted to be.
"Well that's what you want, isn't it?" he asked, sneering. "Someone who's convenient when you want something but won't get in the way when –"
"You think that's what I want?" She swallowed back the thousands of insults percolating in her mind and on the tip of her tongue. "All I've been doing this weekend is reassure you, make sure that Rachel's relationship with you is in tact."
"Yeah, as fun as it is watching you campaign for sainthood, I'm pretty sure you've had way too much dick in your mouth this weekend in order for that to stick."
"At least I'm trying," she accused. "You want to mock me for that, but one of us has to do that. And what do you do?" It was not a question she would allow him to answer; she already knew what he would say, knew all the lies he would tell to make it seem like she was the problem. "You spend all your time running away and hiding and clinging to every excuse you can come up with why you're not good for her or –"
"Really? That's all I do? Because it seems to me that out of the two of us, I've spent more time with her this weekend than you have," he pointed out, his voice sharp, tongue like a knife capable of making her bleed.
She refused to back down. Arms folded across her chest, she didn't ask herself whether or not he was right. That didn't matter. "Yes. I'm sure you've counted the minutes you've had to spend time with her. How painful it must be for you, to have to be with –"
"In case you hadn't noticed," he snarled. By now his voice echoed in the bathroom; that was how loud it was. Any attempt to keep things quiet was gone, as was the last shred of patience he possessed. He had tried. He really had. But if she was going to make light of all he had done for her, for Rachel, this weekend, he could not bear to be polite about it any longer. "I did what you asked every single time. I watched her. I fed her. I played with her. I did what I was supposed to do. But of course you wouldn't notice that, because if you did, then you'd have to give me some credit and control over –"
"I shouldn't have to pat you on the head every time you do something nice."
"No, you're right about that. I don't need to be rewarded like a dog. But you purposely ignore everything I do. You pretend like –"
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you –"
"No, House," she interrupted loudly. "I don't ignore, and I don't pretend to not notice when you're good with her. I see it. On the rare occasion that you decide to pay attention to her, I see what –"
"Rare? That's the word you're going to use there – rare?" He could taste the bitterness of the adrenaline kicking in. His heart raced as their fight escalated. "You might want to reevaluate that, because I've definitely done more than my fair share. Maybe if you'd actually paid attention to your kid recently, you'd notice that. Or were you too busy to even notice what the hell was going on right under your nose?"
He spoke with a viciousness that gave extra oomph to the words he was saying. On their own, the sentences might have been forgivable. It would have taken a while, he knew, but she would have forgiven him for it if he'd been a lot kinder with the delivery. That hadn't happened though. He had been intentionally as cruel and biting as he could be. The implication in every syllable and pause, every dark look and the ever-present sneer he'd adopted, was lacquered onto the words in a way so obvious that it no longer mattered what he'd actually said. The whisper was of all importance, the whisper that said:
You've missed things involving your child.
You're not a good mother.
It was many steps too far, the line so distant he could no longer see it. But he didn't care. If she was going to imply that he hadn't done his part, she deserved it. If she was going to ignore and demean everything he did and refuse to see the problem, she had more than earned every insult he could sling her way.
Even if she hadn't, he had kept this to himself for too long. Silence had bred urgency and fury. The more he'd tried to bury his thoughts this evening, the more conviction he felt. And now with a chance to actually say something to Cuddy, he was unleashing all of that pent-up energy, dumping all of it onto her without any regard for her.
Instantaneous guilt rumbled within him – proof perhaps that he had lived with Cuddy for far too long if remorse could hit him that quickly. Then again, burying the feeling in anger, he guessed he hadn't been exposed to her nearly enough. Because as bad as it made part of him feel, the rest of him easily ignored that piece, easily gave into the ire he'd been unknowingly feeding all evening long.
But it didn't matter in the end. Perhaps he might have listened to that tiny voice inside of him. He could have heard the guilt in himself and responded to that. With Cuddy standing in front of him though, her eyes narrowed with hatred and mind closed off to everything he was trying to say, "could haves" became irrelevant. She still wasn't hearing him, and that shut off any sympathy he might have had.
Did he get why she wasn't listening? Sure, but he didn't care. He thought she should have heard him anyway, no matter how painful it was.
That wasn't going to happen though.
"I'm a good mother," she asserted without argumentativeness in her tone. She was speaking with the understanding that it was a fact, that nothing he said would make her doubt that. Normally he would have been impressed by her steadfastness; right now he was disappointed, knowing that his words would never reach her in the way he needed them to.
"I –"
"Get out."
The conversation was over. Intuitively he knew that, but part of him remained determined to make her see reason. As impossible as that was, it was what he wanted to do more than anything. So he hesitated, opened his mouth to speak.
She didn't give him a chance. "If you think I'm going to stand here and listen to you, House, you are out of your mind. Get out."
This time he listened, and she slammed the bedroom door behind it when he was outside of it. As he headed towards the couch in the living room, he thought heavily that that had… not gone as planned. He'd let his frustration get the better of him, giving her all the reason she needed to ignore every uncomfortable thing he wanted to tell her. He'd screwed up.
But he hadn't been the only one, he told himself. No, he might have been too abrasive with his delivery, but if she hadn't created a problem, there would have been nothing for him to say. This really was all her fault, he thought miserably.
Settling onto the uncomfortable couch, he just wished the person who'd created the problem was the one out here – and not him. What were the chances of him convincing Cuddy of that now though?
He had half a mind to go back into the bedroom and shove her out the door. But rationally he knew that would never work. Even if he could do that, it would be a regretted act the second he went to the hospital tomorrow.
As it was, she was going to be such a bitch for the next couple days. If he'd accused her of inattentiveness tonight, she'd be on his sack (and not in a way he liked either) until he was so annoyed that he took the words back. It would be ten times worse if she'd slept on the couch.
She would be all over him, second-guessing him and making him run all sorts of tests without any diagnostic value out of revenge. She'd be so oppressively annoying that she would either instigate him further or bully him into an apology, and right now "I'm sorry" wasn't exactly something he planned on saying to her ever about this. Which meant this week was going to suck, he thought with a sigh.
Knowing that, he closed his eyes. The chances of him sleeping on the couch all week were high. Tomorrow night maybe he would go to his apartment. But it was late now, too late for him to sleep there tonight. All he could do for himself at the moment was to try to maximize the amount of rest he could get before Cuddy went on a rampage in the morning.
God, she was going to be unbearable, he thought. Picturing all the ways she would make him suffer, he stayed awake for a long time.
He didn't even know he'd fallen asleep until he sat up with a jolt. His eyes were bleary with sweat, and his first, instinctual thought was that he needed to turn the heat down. The thermostat so far away, he tiredly pushed the afghan he'd curled up under off of his body. Cooler all of a sudden, he felt that that was good enough for him, and he closed his eyes in the darkness once more.
But he couldn't go back to sleep. Something – some indescribable feeling – kept him awake, pushed him closer and closer to full consciousness. At first he tried to ignore it, fought it by squeezing his eyes shut and refusing to open them no matter how tempting it might have been. As the moments wore on though, he knew he was losing the battle. He was awake.
Opening his eyes again, he jumped immediately. Standing not three feet from him was Rachel, hair mussed and pajamas rumpled, her stuffed monkey in a fluffy pile at her feet. She was staring at him, her gaze heavily hooded by eyelids and glazed over with sleep. Across from her he doubted he looked much differently.
Running his hand over his sour-tasting mouth, he waited for her to say or do something.
But she just stood there.
He decided to help her along. "Mommy's in bed," he told her firmly though not unkindly. "Go wake her up."
Rachel didn't move.
For a brief moment, he didn't think anything of it. Even when she was at her best, listening wasn't exactly her go-to behavior – which, if he hadn't known any better, he would have believed to be genetic. If she wasn't paying attention now, it didn't automatically mean something.
But as the seconds passed, a feeling inside of him awakened… something that said this was not right. His eyes focused on her in the dark. Her hair wasn't just messy; strands clung to her face with sweat. Her muscles shook lightly, and her mouth moved like she was trying to say something but couldn't. One of her teeth accidentally clamped down on her lower lip, the flesh snagging in her bite. And then no matter how hard she tried, it seemed like she couldn't open her mouth again to say much of anything.
She didn't need to though. No matter what she would have said, House would have already known:
Something was very wrong.
To be continued