Ignorance Is Bliss
She is alone in the bathroom .
She stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror not at all thankful for the harsh bright lights she has installed around it.
Her hands rub across her temples before she lowers them to clutch the edge of the counter as she waits for the headache medicine she has just taken to start working.
The holiday is over. All of their guests have gone home. Rachel has finally gone to sleep. Lucas is checking on his cases.
It has been a successful day all around.
Every part of it.
When House didn't show up at her doorstep at three o'clock she knew he had fallen for her deception. She was surprised it had worked, that he had fallen for such a transparent scheme.
It meant he trusted her, certainly more than she trusted him.
Or maybe it meant he had wanted to believe her - that he had wanted to be with her for whatever reason.
Her eyes squeeze shut, swallowing on the bile that threatened to rise from the back of her throat.
After the pranks and pain she had inflicted on him when she first got Rachel and he forced her to come back to the hospital, she promised herself she would never sink to this level again.
But here she was.
And it didn't feel good. At all.
She should have just told him no. He stayed away from the Simchat Bat at her request and she had believed that he would have stay away this time too but somehow, this time is different.
It's different because he wants to be with her now.
He's not deflecting or avoiding - he's courting her in his own strange way.
And she, for the first time in a long time, is with someone. Someone who is good for her and who isn't afraid of House.
She doesn't want to ruin that.
Not for him.
She knows that anything with House could not end well - she feels it in her entire being.
The knock on the bathroom door startles her and she focuses on Lucas' reflection. She is irritated that he didn't ask for or wait on permission before he came barreling in.
He has his cell phone in his hand and waves it at her. "That was my neighbor. He says a guy with a cane just broke into my apartment. It's gotta be House. I'm going to go over there and 'catch' him in my place, see what he says. You'd think he'd get the hint after today." He smiles at her as he muses aloud.
She stares at her reflection as he talks and hates herself for planning this.
Hates her boyfriend's obvious pleasure in this.
"Anyway, don't know if I'll be back tonight or not, but I'll call you tomorrow as soon as I can," he finishes. Coming up behind her, he wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her neck.
That's when it occurs to her that even if she hasn't accepted it, House is not the same person he was before Mayfield.
She can successfully hide things from him now.
What she's doing now isn't going to work; she can't keep acting like they are the same people they were before because now she knows he could break.
And she doesn't want to be the reason for that. Again.
She closes her eyes tightly against the thought, guilt washing over her..
"Lisa?"
She opens her eyes meeting Lucas' steady blue gaze in her mirror.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says smiling at her.
She nods, offering him a slight smile.
Lucas tightens his arms around her before he releases her and leaves the bathroom.
-
It wasn't hard to break into Lucas' apartment.
In fact, he took great pleasure in smashing the window in his kitchen and reaching through to unlock the door.
He didn't try to be quiet about it either - he saw movement in the neighbor's house and he's sure they'll just call the resident P.I. instead of the cops. And that's what he wants because there's no way that little shit is coming home tonight without a reason.
He sure as hell would never miss an opportunity to be in Cuddy's bed.
He steps over the pile of glass, closes the door behind him and heads directly towards the liquor cabinet.
As far as he can tell, not much has changed.
He's been here before, back when he was looking for a Wilson substitute
He pours a good sized glass of scotch and sets the bottle on the table, taking a gulp before he begins looking around.
His first stop is the bedroom.
He flicks on the light and stares at the bed wondering how many times Lucas has fucked Lisa Cuddy there.
He takes another drink.
His eyes shift to the bedside table and a framed photograph catches his attention. He walks across the room and picks it up, studying the two of them as a couple. It's taken at some sort of picnic.
They are sitting on a blanket and Lucas has his arm around her shoulder and is smiling at the camera, and she is holding his hand but her smile is directed at the little girl next to them. He can only assume it's Rachel because she is not looking at the camera, but is pulling her dress over her head.
He stares at it for several seconds before he replaces it face down on the nightstand.
He turns to the closet; opening the doors he reaches up for the light chord. He is surprised when he sees a couple of her tops and skirts hanging among the clothes. Further inspection reveals some casual attire as well.
That she has a change of clothes here is hard to swallow.
It is easy to imagine her coming over here and falling into bed with him in a misguided attempt to shelter Rachel from sex; a series of illicit trysts in his bachelor pad. But work clothes and casual clothes means that she spends time here - that she is sharing his life in his space - and the domesticity of it is unnerving.
And if she is comfortable enough to share this much of herself in his space, how much of him is in her space?
He closes the closet door and exits the bedroom.
Detouring to the living room, he refills his glass before inspecting the kitchen.
He finds a lot of the health food crap she likes, some kid drawings affixed to the refrigerator along with a couple more photos of the two of them and another one of the three of them in a familiar room.
He leans in closer to examine it and realizes it's the room from the conference hotel.
He downs the rest of the drink.
But it's too much and it's been awhile since he really drank and his stomach rebels.
He rushes as fast as he can limp to the bathroom, not quite making it the toilet and releasing a stream of liquid along the side of the commode and on the floor.
This is fucked up. This is so fucked up.
He wants to leave. Now.
But he can't. He has a plan and he's going to see it through.
He leans over the the sink, turns on the tap and splashes his face with cold water. He uses his hand as a cup and gargles his mouth, spitting into the sink.
He braces his hands on the side of the vanity and watches the water drip off of his face as he stares at his reflection, the water still running from the tap.
Why would she give this up? She has no reason to.
Not for him.
He rubs his hand across his face and as he turns off the tap he spots a tube of lipstick sitting on the back of the sink.
He freezes.
His hand shakes as he reaches for it, picking it up he uncaps it and twists it out of the tube.
He has done this before - in a different time, a different space altogether.
The colour isn't the one he remembers, but this time he knows it's hers.
He twists it back down, replacing the lid and turning it in his hand before he puts it in his pocket alongside his bottle of ibuprofen.
He walks out of the bathroom, turning off the light and blindly making his way back to the living room.
He has lost his cane somewhere in the house, but he's found the bottle of alcohol so at least he has something to be thankful for today.
He grabs it off the table and slumps down into the chair.
He's only been sitting there for a couple of minutes, barely enough time for a few drinks, when he hears noise in the hallway.
He sets the bottle beside him on the floor and leans back into the chair.
His eyes close and he can see the silver key that he hears turning the lock.
-.
She looks up from the paperwork she is doing when he walks into her office.
She watches warily as he comes across the room, bends to place a package wrapped in white paper on her coffee table and then sits in the chair opposite her.
She studies his face as she waits on him to reveal the purpose of his visit; it's been a few weeks since the incident with Chase and he's completely healed.
"Truce," he finally declares, shifting to stretch his legs and resting his cane on the side of the chair.
"Excuse me?" she asks, looking at him slightly dumbfounded.
"Thanksgiving, the staged break up, all of it. A brilliantly executed offensive," he informs her. "You did learn from the best though as I can only assume you were the mastermind behind it all."
"House-", she tries to interject a momentary wave of guilt flooding her.
"Don't," he dismisses. "You've always been a worthy adversary. I wouldn't expect less of you."
"So this is it - you're just quitting this whole thing, no more trying to break us up? You're going to leave us alone just like that?" She asks her head tilted and her brow furrowing slightly. "You're just done?"
"Yep. Just like that," he says.
She holds his gaze, studying him and discerning the truth of his statement.
He's done.
She's done too, so it shouldn't matter to her as much as it does.
She looks away.
"Okay," she responds quietly, her eyes finding his again. "Truce."
"Great," he says, voice devoid of any emotion. He shifts in the seat and uses his cane to get up. "Well I've got a bunch of work not to do," he jokes blandly, nodding at her before taking a step towards the door to leave.
She watches him go, a sad smile on her face. Her eyes falling to the coffee table and to the package he left there.
"Wait," she calls.
He stops, half turning to look back at her and leaning into his cane.
"What's this?" she asks motioning at the package.
An odd little smile flits across his face, "A tofurkey sandwich," he tells her before turning back around and exiting her office.
She stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror not at all thankful for the harsh bright lights she has installed around it.
Her hands rub across her temples before she lowers them to clutch the edge of the counter as she waits for the headache medicine she has just taken to start working.
The holiday is over. All of their guests have gone home. Rachel has finally gone to sleep. Lucas is checking on his cases.
It has been a successful day all around.
Every part of it.
When House didn't show up at her doorstep at three o'clock she knew he had fallen for her deception. She was surprised it had worked, that he had fallen for such a transparent scheme.
It meant he trusted her, certainly more than she trusted him.
Or maybe it meant he had wanted to believe her - that he had wanted to be with her for whatever reason.
Her eyes squeeze shut, swallowing on the bile that threatened to rise from the back of her throat.
After the pranks and pain she had inflicted on him when she first got Rachel and he forced her to come back to the hospital, she promised herself she would never sink to this level again.
But here she was.
And it didn't feel good. At all.
She should have just told him no. He stayed away from the Simchat Bat at her request and she had believed that he would have stay away this time too but somehow, this time is different.
It's different because he wants to be with her now.
He's not deflecting or avoiding - he's courting her in his own strange way.
And she, for the first time in a long time, is with someone. Someone who is good for her and who isn't afraid of House.
She doesn't want to ruin that.
Not for him.
She knows that anything with House could not end well - she feels it in her entire being.
The knock on the bathroom door startles her and she focuses on Lucas' reflection. She is irritated that he didn't ask for or wait on permission before he came barreling in.
He has his cell phone in his hand and waves it at her. "That was my neighbor. He says a guy with a cane just broke into my apartment. It's gotta be House. I'm going to go over there and 'catch' him in my place, see what he says. You'd think he'd get the hint after today." He smiles at her as he muses aloud.
She stares at her reflection as he talks and hates herself for planning this.
Hates her boyfriend's obvious pleasure in this.
"Anyway, don't know if I'll be back tonight or not, but I'll call you tomorrow as soon as I can," he finishes. Coming up behind her, he wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her neck.
That's when it occurs to her that even if she hasn't accepted it, House is not the same person he was before Mayfield.
She can successfully hide things from him now.
What she's doing now isn't going to work; she can't keep acting like they are the same people they were before because now she knows he could break.
And she doesn't want to be the reason for that. Again.
She closes her eyes tightly against the thought, guilt washing over her..
"Lisa?"
She opens her eyes meeting Lucas' steady blue gaze in her mirror.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says smiling at her.
She nods, offering him a slight smile.
Lucas tightens his arms around her before he releases her and leaves the bathroom.
-
It wasn't hard to break into Lucas' apartment.
In fact, he took great pleasure in smashing the window in his kitchen and reaching through to unlock the door.
He didn't try to be quiet about it either - he saw movement in the neighbor's house and he's sure they'll just call the resident P.I. instead of the cops. And that's what he wants because there's no way that little shit is coming home tonight without a reason.
He sure as hell would never miss an opportunity to be in Cuddy's bed.
He steps over the pile of glass, closes the door behind him and heads directly towards the liquor cabinet.
As far as he can tell, not much has changed.
He's been here before, back when he was looking for a Wilson substitute
He pours a good sized glass of scotch and sets the bottle on the table, taking a gulp before he begins looking around.
His first stop is the bedroom.
He flicks on the light and stares at the bed wondering how many times Lucas has fucked Lisa Cuddy there.
He takes another drink.
His eyes shift to the bedside table and a framed photograph catches his attention. He walks across the room and picks it up, studying the two of them as a couple. It's taken at some sort of picnic.
They are sitting on a blanket and Lucas has his arm around her shoulder and is smiling at the camera, and she is holding his hand but her smile is directed at the little girl next to them. He can only assume it's Rachel because she is not looking at the camera, but is pulling her dress over her head.
He stares at it for several seconds before he replaces it face down on the nightstand.
He turns to the closet; opening the doors he reaches up for the light chord. He is surprised when he sees a couple of her tops and skirts hanging among the clothes. Further inspection reveals some casual attire as well.
That she has a change of clothes here is hard to swallow.
It is easy to imagine her coming over here and falling into bed with him in a misguided attempt to shelter Rachel from sex; a series of illicit trysts in his bachelor pad. But work clothes and casual clothes means that she spends time here - that she is sharing his life in his space - and the domesticity of it is unnerving.
And if she is comfortable enough to share this much of herself in his space, how much of him is in her space?
He closes the closet door and exits the bedroom.
Detouring to the living room, he refills his glass before inspecting the kitchen.
He finds a lot of the health food crap she likes, some kid drawings affixed to the refrigerator along with a couple more photos of the two of them and another one of the three of them in a familiar room.
He leans in closer to examine it and realizes it's the room from the conference hotel.
He downs the rest of the drink.
But it's too much and it's been awhile since he really drank and his stomach rebels.
He rushes as fast as he can limp to the bathroom, not quite making it the toilet and releasing a stream of liquid along the side of the commode and on the floor.
This is fucked up. This is so fucked up.
He wants to leave. Now.
But he can't. He has a plan and he's going to see it through.
He leans over the the sink, turns on the tap and splashes his face with cold water. He uses his hand as a cup and gargles his mouth, spitting into the sink.
He braces his hands on the side of the vanity and watches the water drip off of his face as he stares at his reflection, the water still running from the tap.
Why would she give this up? She has no reason to.
Not for him.
He rubs his hand across his face and as he turns off the tap he spots a tube of lipstick sitting on the back of the sink.
He freezes.
His hand shakes as he reaches for it, picking it up he uncaps it and twists it out of the tube.
He has done this before - in a different time, a different space altogether.
The colour isn't the one he remembers, but this time he knows it's hers.
He twists it back down, replacing the lid and turning it in his hand before he puts it in his pocket alongside his bottle of ibuprofen.
He walks out of the bathroom, turning off the light and blindly making his way back to the living room.
He has lost his cane somewhere in the house, but he's found the bottle of alcohol so at least he has something to be thankful for today.
He grabs it off the table and slumps down into the chair.
He's only been sitting there for a couple of minutes, barely enough time for a few drinks, when he hears noise in the hallway.
He sets the bottle beside him on the floor and leans back into the chair.
His eyes close and he can see the silver key that he hears turning the lock.
-.
She looks up from the paperwork she is doing when he walks into her office.
She watches warily as he comes across the room, bends to place a package wrapped in white paper on her coffee table and then sits in the chair opposite her.
She studies his face as she waits on him to reveal the purpose of his visit; it's been a few weeks since the incident with Chase and he's completely healed.
"Truce," he finally declares, shifting to stretch his legs and resting his cane on the side of the chair.
"Excuse me?" she asks, looking at him slightly dumbfounded.
"Thanksgiving, the staged break up, all of it. A brilliantly executed offensive," he informs her. "You did learn from the best though as I can only assume you were the mastermind behind it all."
"House-", she tries to interject a momentary wave of guilt flooding her.
"Don't," he dismisses. "You've always been a worthy adversary. I wouldn't expect less of you."
"So this is it - you're just quitting this whole thing, no more trying to break us up? You're going to leave us alone just like that?" She asks her head tilted and her brow furrowing slightly. "You're just done?"
"Yep. Just like that," he says.
She holds his gaze, studying him and discerning the truth of his statement.
He's done.
She's done too, so it shouldn't matter to her as much as it does.
She looks away.
"Okay," she responds quietly, her eyes finding his again. "Truce."
"Great," he says, voice devoid of any emotion. He shifts in the seat and uses his cane to get up. "Well I've got a bunch of work not to do," he jokes blandly, nodding at her before taking a step towards the door to leave.
She watches him go, a sad smile on her face. Her eyes falling to the coffee table and to the package he left there.
"Wait," she calls.
He stops, half turning to look back at her and leaning into his cane.
"What's this?" she asks motioning at the package.
An odd little smile flits across his face, "A tofurkey sandwich," he tells her before turning back around and exiting her office.