housefic: the dock asway beneath our weight, house/cuddy, pg
Title: the dock asway beneath our weight
Fandom: House, House/Cuddy
Rating: PG
Notes: Title from Ashley Warlick's "Seek the Living," as well as most of the style and phrasing. hihoplastic asked for a House/Cuddy drabble post- "Last Resort," but she's getting this instead. Spoilers through 5x10 "Let Them Eat Cake."
Summary: She presses her palm against the wood and it warms beneath her hand, like it remembers who she is and who she was and what she did here. She thinks if House came down here, he would know the grain of the wood beneath his fingers, and the hard slide of the drawers in their tracks.
----
Every light in her office is on and she turns them off one by one until only the lamp by the door is still lit. She gathers her things into her bag, the paperwork she will pretend to do tonight and the charting that needs to be completed. She twines her scarf around her neck, the soft knot just below her chin, and she stretches herself out long, tips her head back and sighs. She feels a fool all over again, a strong, heavy weight inside her that reminds her of the things she's overlooked for him and the favors he's never thought to return. She knows least of all that they are friends, as well as she knows that she'll forgive him this, if he asks it of her.
She walks steadily around the desk, seats herself in the chair she special-ordered, now too tall for the 20-year-old frame it sits behind. Her knees bump the edges, scrape soft against the wood, well-worn in the old and familiar places. She leans in close, props an elbow on the desk and runs her fingernails across its surface, scratched and misused in its time. She thinks of the work that was done here, the ways she shifted and changed inside to accommodate such knowledge, and such dreams. She memorized muscle systems and nerve networks, catalogued the body's responses and the movement of a person's heart. She presses her palm against the wood and it warms beneath her hand, like it remembers who she is and who she was and what she did here. She has never been one attached to things like this, things made of wood or metal. She favors the soft press of skin and the sturdy frame of bones, but this is where those two worlds meet in her mind and she cannot help but feel sentimental.
She thinks if House came down here, he would know the grain of the wood beneath his fingers, and the hard slide of the drawers in their tracks. She can almost hear the clatter of his overnight bag as it lands hard atop the wood, hear him complaining that the drive from Michigan gets longer each and every time and that Chicago is a wasteland, a vast abyss that will swallow her whole. She remembers plying him with deep dish pizza and cold bottles of beer, his feet up and body relaxed as he quizzed her on the sympathetic nervous system and the chemical enzymes of the liver between bites and swallows. She remembers too the feel of his fingers along her chin, along her collarbone, as he tipped her face toward his and drew her closer. Her hands gripped the edges of this very same desk, like it was the first time, every time, like she was surprised and caught unaware. She thinks of words spoken over this desk, and of breaths breathed heavily and sighs let out long. She knows that House knows this too, knows he remembers well and often, and it hurts her all the more that he can know and still not care.
When she met him he was young and whole and beautiful in that way that all self-assured, brazenly bold men are, with their confidence wrapped tight around themselves and their words meant to slide right over your head. It's this picture of him she sees most often when his words turn especially bitter and the bite in his smile leaves her cold. She knows the things he had before, the things he was forced to give up by his body and his past and her hands, and she knows the longing to have those things back that pulls at him with every step. When she thinks of him in the quiet, in the dark, this is the image she sees, his smile bright and laugh heaving, the set of his shoulders and the swagger of his hips as he walks. She thinks of him beside her and above her and then all she feels is sad, her own hands too small against herself. She knows that this is why she pushes him to be better, a better man, a better doctor, because she knows who he was and could've been and will never be, and cannot help hoping to finally change him for the better.
She slides her hands along the grain of the desk and thinks it as strong and unforgiving as he is now, as he's become and as she's made him. She feels a fool to still expect to look up and see him as he was all those years ago, happy and whole without effort or strain. This is the mistake she keeps on making, to look at him and see him the way he was and hasn't been for too long a time, and to still be surprised. She knows what it's like to be tethered, and to wait. She's held his life in her hands and it's a thought she still carries with her, in the feel of her hand against his cheek and the press of her body to his. He means to draw her back with this desk, with this gesture, show her that he's the same man he was then, with his easy smiles and soft caresses. But she's seen him at his worst, been made to feel guilty and responsible, been made to cry when it suits him. She knows better now.
She pushes back finally, feels the chair give and roll away, and she drags her hands along the desk one last time. She'll call her mother in the morning, hire a van to take it back home, and if House is surprised not to see it when he visits, she knows he won't comment or complain. She gathers her things to leave, her bag heavy on her shoulder and her steps weary as she walks away. She leaves the light in her office on all night.
Fandom: House, House/Cuddy
Rating: PG
Notes: Title from Ashley Warlick's "Seek the Living," as well as most of the style and phrasing. hihoplastic asked for a House/Cuddy drabble post- "Last Resort," but she's getting this instead. Spoilers through 5x10 "Let Them Eat Cake."
Summary: She presses her palm against the wood and it warms beneath her hand, like it remembers who she is and who she was and what she did here. She thinks if House came down here, he would know the grain of the wood beneath his fingers, and the hard slide of the drawers in their tracks.
----
Every light in her office is on and she turns them off one by one until only the lamp by the door is still lit. She gathers her things into her bag, the paperwork she will pretend to do tonight and the charting that needs to be completed. She twines her scarf around her neck, the soft knot just below her chin, and she stretches herself out long, tips her head back and sighs. She feels a fool all over again, a strong, heavy weight inside her that reminds her of the things she's overlooked for him and the favors he's never thought to return. She knows least of all that they are friends, as well as she knows that she'll forgive him this, if he asks it of her.
She walks steadily around the desk, seats herself in the chair she special-ordered, now too tall for the 20-year-old frame it sits behind. Her knees bump the edges, scrape soft against the wood, well-worn in the old and familiar places. She leans in close, props an elbow on the desk and runs her fingernails across its surface, scratched and misused in its time. She thinks of the work that was done here, the ways she shifted and changed inside to accommodate such knowledge, and such dreams. She memorized muscle systems and nerve networks, catalogued the body's responses and the movement of a person's heart. She presses her palm against the wood and it warms beneath her hand, like it remembers who she is and who she was and what she did here. She has never been one attached to things like this, things made of wood or metal. She favors the soft press of skin and the sturdy frame of bones, but this is where those two worlds meet in her mind and she cannot help but feel sentimental.
She thinks if House came down here, he would know the grain of the wood beneath his fingers, and the hard slide of the drawers in their tracks. She can almost hear the clatter of his overnight bag as it lands hard atop the wood, hear him complaining that the drive from Michigan gets longer each and every time and that Chicago is a wasteland, a vast abyss that will swallow her whole. She remembers plying him with deep dish pizza and cold bottles of beer, his feet up and body relaxed as he quizzed her on the sympathetic nervous system and the chemical enzymes of the liver between bites and swallows. She remembers too the feel of his fingers along her chin, along her collarbone, as he tipped her face toward his and drew her closer. Her hands gripped the edges of this very same desk, like it was the first time, every time, like she was surprised and caught unaware. She thinks of words spoken over this desk, and of breaths breathed heavily and sighs let out long. She knows that House knows this too, knows he remembers well and often, and it hurts her all the more that he can know and still not care.
When she met him he was young and whole and beautiful in that way that all self-assured, brazenly bold men are, with their confidence wrapped tight around themselves and their words meant to slide right over your head. It's this picture of him she sees most often when his words turn especially bitter and the bite in his smile leaves her cold. She knows the things he had before, the things he was forced to give up by his body and his past and her hands, and she knows the longing to have those things back that pulls at him with every step. When she thinks of him in the quiet, in the dark, this is the image she sees, his smile bright and laugh heaving, the set of his shoulders and the swagger of his hips as he walks. She thinks of him beside her and above her and then all she feels is sad, her own hands too small against herself. She knows that this is why she pushes him to be better, a better man, a better doctor, because she knows who he was and could've been and will never be, and cannot help hoping to finally change him for the better.
She slides her hands along the grain of the desk and thinks it as strong and unforgiving as he is now, as he's become and as she's made him. She feels a fool to still expect to look up and see him as he was all those years ago, happy and whole without effort or strain. This is the mistake she keeps on making, to look at him and see him the way he was and hasn't been for too long a time, and to still be surprised. She knows what it's like to be tethered, and to wait. She's held his life in her hands and it's a thought she still carries with her, in the feel of her hand against his cheek and the press of her body to his. He means to draw her back with this desk, with this gesture, show her that he's the same man he was then, with his easy smiles and soft caresses. But she's seen him at his worst, been made to feel guilty and responsible, been made to cry when it suits him. She knows better now.
She pushes back finally, feels the chair give and roll away, and she drags her hands along the desk one last time. She'll call her mother in the morning, hire a van to take it back home, and if House is surprised not to see it when he visits, she knows he won't comment or complain. She gathers her things to leave, her bag heavy on her shoulder and her steps weary as she walks away. She leaves the light in her office on all night.