House Fic: desert stands
desert stands house/cuddy, pg.
at once, you begin to think of chess pieces, what you are and what you could be. every now and then you think about strategy but often, we forget what it means for the others. missing scene: both sides now, 1,170 words.
for cryptictac - a wonderful, wonderful friend, whom i adore to bits, and for her birthday. i’m late, lol.
-
“I’m not okay,” he tells her. Again, maybe.
They are standing in front of the elevator. Side by side, she studies the frame of their reflections. Their forms are blurred but they look the same, as they’ve always been, day in and out. The idea is almost wistful.
Cuddy is quiet, and calmer than she feels. She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. She tries not to think about what’s begun to unfold, or was already in the process of. There is expectation and she hates it. Her thoughts are almost sharper than she needs them to be.
This isn’t for her to think about prevention, or what she could have done or tried to do. It is about getting him upstairs and to Wilson, even though she would do this herself.
It shouldn’t matter what she thinks. Not yet, or here; she wants to be selfish, but won’t let herself.
Her arms cross over her chest. “You will be,” she replies.
“Don’t start.”
There is no feeling or force behind the words. His voice is low and unrecognizable, without punctuation or sharpness. She looks up and glances over him. She feels worry. She just doesn’t let herself touch it quite yet.
He straightens himself but his shoulders fall. He looks tired but it seems far from the right word. There is exhausting and further, there is always a line for House to cross and stand over.
“Okay,” she says, and she relents too.
Her gaze moves back to the elevator. She watches the list of floor numbers, the light still at the seventh floor. She tries to will it to move. It doesn’t. She feels silly. Then, she stops.
Behind them, the hospital continues to move. In the reflection of the elevator doors, she sees nurses and doctors, people moving to the clinic and then out. It is somewhere after four or five. She is due home in an hour, with Rachel and the nanny waiting for her. She remembers promising to be early today.
She does not smile at the thought of her daughter thought, if only to keep the idea of privacy. Or selfishness, she thinks. Her mind wanders back to her office and the moment; it’s strange, and more than frightening. There is safety in words like yes and now and no. She is protecting herself from feeling too many things at once.
There is an excuse too, but she won’t let herself touch it either, not with him.
“Foreman,” he begins then.
His voice cuts between them. She returns to studying him.
“I know,” she nods.
His nose wrinkles. The hand over his cane flexes, and his fingers tremble, only to curl around the handle again.
“Just -” and he sighs, right into her cutting him off.
“I know,” she repeats.
Arrangements are few and far. He nods back, still unwilling to look at her. He is giving her an excuse. She is protecting his vulnerability. It would be funny somewhere else, and maybe, it might be even later. It is selfish to think this way. This is what keeps her calm.
Her gaze returns to the elevator. Slowly, the light begins to drop from the seventh floor. She counts from seven to six, six but lingers at five. At four, she reaches for him. Her hand rests over his jacket and his arm. She feels him tense. There is laughter somewhere to the side. A baby starts to cry, the sound muffled as it disappears into the clinic.
She lets her hand drop then.
“They’ll survive.”
Work is the safety, and it is the crux. “Whatever,” he shrugs. His response is bland and absent. Her stomach slowly starts to unfold in knots.
“House -”
She starts and stops, deciding against it. The elevator doors ring, and slowly open, revealing the space to be empty. She breathes and he steps in first, as if they’ve been here before. It seems like a habit and it is, if only she could pull herself away with what’s happened.
She feels guilty again and ignores it. When she turns, the doors begin to shut. A nurse waves at her but Cuddy pretends not to see her. Her fingers curl at her side with a lame response. The doors lock and are loud, the only sound between them as she is greeted by the blur of their reflections again.
She exhales and then shakes her head. “I have something to say,” she begins. “And you don’t have to say anything back.”
It seems stupid, and almost insensitive, sullen and overeager. She is trying to distract him, and then distract herself. She doesn’t begin again but trains her gaze to stay at the double doors.
She waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. She has to fill the silence with something.
Cuddy sighs. She looks up at him.
“I never thanked you for my office - what you did, I mean.”
He scoffs, or exhales, and in her head, either or will do. At the memory, months ago she almost smiles. It could be odd or strange of him to remember, ridiculously like him or not. The feelings of impulsive jealous are faint and almost embarrassing, as she remembers going to thank him and how angry she was later. They’ve always gone back for like this, but somehow, she knows she’s always meant to thank him.
The moment itself is inopportune, and she watches as he glances over her. Her throat tightens and she ignores it.
She forces herself to continue, “And I know, here you’re thinking - well, whatever. I just - I never thanked you.”
“I’m not dead,” he mutters.
She cracks a smile, and even rolls her eyes a little. “For all I know, or care to know, it’s because you wanted to sleep with me or didn’t or really just wanted to mess with my head as usual.”
“So?”
You remembered, she doesn’t say, or wants to say, as it is a little bit of both. She is quiet and she tries to organize the process of her thoughts. This is how she works, or knows how to work. Maybe it’s the hospital, or maybe she is back to familiarity and habits.
“So -” she pauses, and then slowly. “Thank you,” she says.
He says nothing, and she expects nothing. She does not feel any better nor does she feel the need to. There is still an impression of weight and somewhat of an understanding. She tries to sigh.
His fingers brush against hers.
The sensation catches her completely off-guard. She freezes but doesn’t take her hand back. Her fingers flex but dangle, and she swallows feeling his thumb slide over the row of her fingers.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says seriously. His hand drops and she folds her arms back against her chest. Her eyes start to burn, and she swallows again, digging her fingers into her skin.
Her gaze drops to the floor. They stay quiet then.
at once, you begin to think of chess pieces, what you are and what you could be. every now and then you think about strategy but often, we forget what it means for the others. missing scene: both sides now, 1,170 words.
for cryptictac - a wonderful, wonderful friend, whom i adore to bits, and for her birthday. i’m late, lol.
-
“I’m not okay,” he tells her. Again, maybe.
They are standing in front of the elevator. Side by side, she studies the frame of their reflections. Their forms are blurred but they look the same, as they’ve always been, day in and out. The idea is almost wistful.
Cuddy is quiet, and calmer than she feels. She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. She tries not to think about what’s begun to unfold, or was already in the process of. There is expectation and she hates it. Her thoughts are almost sharper than she needs them to be.
This isn’t for her to think about prevention, or what she could have done or tried to do. It is about getting him upstairs and to Wilson, even though she would do this herself.
It shouldn’t matter what she thinks. Not yet, or here; she wants to be selfish, but won’t let herself.
Her arms cross over her chest. “You will be,” she replies.
“Don’t start.”
There is no feeling or force behind the words. His voice is low and unrecognizable, without punctuation or sharpness. She looks up and glances over him. She feels worry. She just doesn’t let herself touch it quite yet.
He straightens himself but his shoulders fall. He looks tired but it seems far from the right word. There is exhausting and further, there is always a line for House to cross and stand over.
“Okay,” she says, and she relents too.
Her gaze moves back to the elevator. She watches the list of floor numbers, the light still at the seventh floor. She tries to will it to move. It doesn’t. She feels silly. Then, she stops.
Behind them, the hospital continues to move. In the reflection of the elevator doors, she sees nurses and doctors, people moving to the clinic and then out. It is somewhere after four or five. She is due home in an hour, with Rachel and the nanny waiting for her. She remembers promising to be early today.
She does not smile at the thought of her daughter thought, if only to keep the idea of privacy. Or selfishness, she thinks. Her mind wanders back to her office and the moment; it’s strange, and more than frightening. There is safety in words like yes and now and no. She is protecting herself from feeling too many things at once.
There is an excuse too, but she won’t let herself touch it either, not with him.
“Foreman,” he begins then.
His voice cuts between them. She returns to studying him.
“I know,” she nods.
His nose wrinkles. The hand over his cane flexes, and his fingers tremble, only to curl around the handle again.
“Just -” and he sighs, right into her cutting him off.
“I know,” she repeats.
Arrangements are few and far. He nods back, still unwilling to look at her. He is giving her an excuse. She is protecting his vulnerability. It would be funny somewhere else, and maybe, it might be even later. It is selfish to think this way. This is what keeps her calm.
Her gaze returns to the elevator. Slowly, the light begins to drop from the seventh floor. She counts from seven to six, six but lingers at five. At four, she reaches for him. Her hand rests over his jacket and his arm. She feels him tense. There is laughter somewhere to the side. A baby starts to cry, the sound muffled as it disappears into the clinic.
She lets her hand drop then.
“They’ll survive.”
Work is the safety, and it is the crux. “Whatever,” he shrugs. His response is bland and absent. Her stomach slowly starts to unfold in knots.
“House -”
She starts and stops, deciding against it. The elevator doors ring, and slowly open, revealing the space to be empty. She breathes and he steps in first, as if they’ve been here before. It seems like a habit and it is, if only she could pull herself away with what’s happened.
She feels guilty again and ignores it. When she turns, the doors begin to shut. A nurse waves at her but Cuddy pretends not to see her. Her fingers curl at her side with a lame response. The doors lock and are loud, the only sound between them as she is greeted by the blur of their reflections again.
She exhales and then shakes her head. “I have something to say,” she begins. “And you don’t have to say anything back.”
It seems stupid, and almost insensitive, sullen and overeager. She is trying to distract him, and then distract herself. She doesn’t begin again but trains her gaze to stay at the double doors.
She waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. She has to fill the silence with something.
Cuddy sighs. She looks up at him.
“I never thanked you for my office - what you did, I mean.”
He scoffs, or exhales, and in her head, either or will do. At the memory, months ago she almost smiles. It could be odd or strange of him to remember, ridiculously like him or not. The feelings of impulsive jealous are faint and almost embarrassing, as she remembers going to thank him and how angry she was later. They’ve always gone back for like this, but somehow, she knows she’s always meant to thank him.
The moment itself is inopportune, and she watches as he glances over her. Her throat tightens and she ignores it.
She forces herself to continue, “And I know, here you’re thinking - well, whatever. I just - I never thanked you.”
“I’m not dead,” he mutters.
She cracks a smile, and even rolls her eyes a little. “For all I know, or care to know, it’s because you wanted to sleep with me or didn’t or really just wanted to mess with my head as usual.”
“So?”
You remembered, she doesn’t say, or wants to say, as it is a little bit of both. She is quiet and she tries to organize the process of her thoughts. This is how she works, or knows how to work. Maybe it’s the hospital, or maybe she is back to familiarity and habits.
“So -” she pauses, and then slowly. “Thank you,” she says.
He says nothing, and she expects nothing. She does not feel any better nor does she feel the need to. There is still an impression of weight and somewhat of an understanding. She tries to sigh.
His fingers brush against hers.
The sensation catches her completely off-guard. She freezes but doesn’t take her hand back. Her fingers flex but dangle, and she swallows feeling his thumb slide over the row of her fingers.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says seriously. His hand drops and she folds her arms back against her chest. Her eyes start to burn, and she swallows again, digging her fingers into her skin.
Her gaze drops to the floor. They stay quiet then.