Fic: House VS William of Ockam | House | Cuddy/Cameron | PG
Written for Challenge Eight, Prompt Two at even_angels_
They spoke of distance and space, the rounding of the earth before love hit with meteoric force, gouging the landscape, altering established orbits, seemingly injuring gravity itself.
House again tried to rise from his chair, again failed. He puzzled over how in the brief span of this informal meeting, called to privately and gently reveal the coalescing of a new relationship (two entire weeks already? how did I miss the signs?), his body density could increase tenfold. Jealousy, he surmised, is very, very heavy.
“Atomic mass of three-hundred plus, easy,” he muttered. “I should write a paper for the APS. Then again, Foreman might steal it…”
Though he kept talking, his voice ebbed away to a whisper. Cuddy paused in the packing of her briefcase. “Excuse me? Am I supposed to hear this, or are you entertaining yourself?”
He wanted to say something cutting and clever, but his facile pique had died on the table some fifteen minutes earlier - drowned in Jameson’s and disappointment. “I saw her first,” he said, petulant and rather lazy from all the consolation whiskey. “I had dibs.”
Were she a shade more heartless, sighing and eye rolling might have occurred. “Dibs have a notoriously brief half-life,” she reasoned. “Besides, she’s too good for you.”
“Then it goes without saying that she’s too good for you.”
“And yet, you said it anyway.”
“Because I’m a bastard. And you’re a - ”
“Careful.”
“- a salty lass who can stomach the truth,” he edited on the fly. “And the truth is that she deserves somebody better than the combined sum of our collective virtues. Cameron is… the kindest, most ethical, earnest-lee-sincere Pollyanna either of is ever likely to ever meet.”
She smiled at him, cocked a slim eyebrow. “Ever?”
He frowned, realized he’d lost ground, and tried to regain it all with one gallant verbal charge. “I realize it was done to deaden the blow, but by practically funneling Irish booze down the throat of a Vicodin user, you relinquished the right to mock my resultant deteriorated grammar.”
“Much better,” she appraised, nodding. “If you can manage to cough up that many big words without slurring, you’re sober enough to wander back to your own office and resent me from there.”
“Ah. So now that you’ve nullified the terror of eventual discovery by revealing your seamy subordinate sexing, and obtaining my vow of non-disclosure, you’re done with me. Completely unconcerned with the emotional Dresden of my devastated soul.”
“Dresden? Seamy subordinate se- phht. Now you’re just showing off. But, yes, you have the gist.”
“I have the gist. I am dismissed?”
“Best damn diagnostician in the biz. Leave now.”
“Why? Is your girlfriend coming?” he pressed. “Do you want to spare sweet Polly the embarrassment of an ugly scene?”
“Duh. Yes. Go,” she said airily, though her face pinched a bit in irritation.
“She’s going to have to face me tomorrow.”
“You’ll be clear-headed by then.”
“Don’t count on it.” House grabbed his cane and leaned onto it, shoved violently against the chair arm to boost himself up and free. He snared the bottle of Jameson’s from her desk and glared at her all the way to the office door. “You’re a bird dog, Lisa Cuddy.”
“You can…” she began, then swallowed her harsh words in favor of something they’d both be able to live with tomorrow. “You may be a genius, but you’re also a sulky, immature coward, Gregory House.”
He did not protest the characterization. After a moment, he restated his primary reservation. “She deserves better… than either of us.”
Unwilling to keep clamping that same bleeder again and again, she chose her words with a surgeon’s precision and cut through his argument like a ten blade.
“You know, aside from the obvious, that may be one of the biggest differences between you and me,” she said. “I’m willing to give Alison a clean look at me, warts and all, and then let her decide what she wants. Or deserves.”
He looked at the floor, the door, the bottle. Scratched his eyebrow, said finally: “May I ask - where are these warts located?”
She smirked a bit, but was not swayed from her path. “I mean it, House. The day you can do that - for a friend, a lover, anybody - is the day you stop being scared and alone. Don’t hate me because I figured it out first.”
With a slight nod, he said, “I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. I can wait it out,” he said. On Cuddy’s questioning look, he elaborated. “You can only sublimate your attraction to Wilson for so long, you know.”
“Look who’s talking,” she replied, grinning.
House opened the office door and grumbled - without irony - as he made his way down the hall, “Not everything is about sex.”
In the private dark of his office, he sat with the purloined bottle open on his lap, and stared at the glass door for a long, long while. In all that time, Cameron did not pass through the hall, but he saw her nonetheless. Saw her certain smile, saw her adroit hands twining in Cuddy’s dark hair, saw her glide in for a kiss, confident and sure… all because Cuddy said yes instead of no. All because she said yes.
“It can’t be that easy,” he reflected. “Though the simplest explanation is often the most correct.”
A sudden slice of pain in his thigh convinced him to put away the whiskey and crunch down two Vicodin. As he wondered if it were possible to metaphorically slit one’s wrists with Ockam’s Razor, he slumped in his chair and breathed out a final, stubborn, “Can’t be that easy,” before all sober thoughts grew drowsy.
END
They spoke of distance and space, the rounding of the earth before love hit with meteoric force, gouging the landscape, altering established orbits, seemingly injuring gravity itself.
House again tried to rise from his chair, again failed. He puzzled over how in the brief span of this informal meeting, called to privately and gently reveal the coalescing of a new relationship (two entire weeks already? how did I miss the signs?), his body density could increase tenfold. Jealousy, he surmised, is very, very heavy.
“Atomic mass of three-hundred plus, easy,” he muttered. “I should write a paper for the APS. Then again, Foreman might steal it…”
Though he kept talking, his voice ebbed away to a whisper. Cuddy paused in the packing of her briefcase. “Excuse me? Am I supposed to hear this, or are you entertaining yourself?”
He wanted to say something cutting and clever, but his facile pique had died on the table some fifteen minutes earlier - drowned in Jameson’s and disappointment. “I saw her first,” he said, petulant and rather lazy from all the consolation whiskey. “I had dibs.”
Were she a shade more heartless, sighing and eye rolling might have occurred. “Dibs have a notoriously brief half-life,” she reasoned. “Besides, she’s too good for you.”
“Then it goes without saying that she’s too good for you.”
“And yet, you said it anyway.”
“Because I’m a bastard. And you’re a - ”
“Careful.”
“- a salty lass who can stomach the truth,” he edited on the fly. “And the truth is that she deserves somebody better than the combined sum of our collective virtues. Cameron is… the kindest, most ethical, earnest-lee-sincere Pollyanna either of is ever likely to ever meet.”
She smiled at him, cocked a slim eyebrow. “Ever?”
He frowned, realized he’d lost ground, and tried to regain it all with one gallant verbal charge. “I realize it was done to deaden the blow, but by practically funneling Irish booze down the throat of a Vicodin user, you relinquished the right to mock my resultant deteriorated grammar.”
“Much better,” she appraised, nodding. “If you can manage to cough up that many big words without slurring, you’re sober enough to wander back to your own office and resent me from there.”
“Ah. So now that you’ve nullified the terror of eventual discovery by revealing your seamy subordinate sexing, and obtaining my vow of non-disclosure, you’re done with me. Completely unconcerned with the emotional Dresden of my devastated soul.”
“Dresden? Seamy subordinate se- phht. Now you’re just showing off. But, yes, you have the gist.”
“I have the gist. I am dismissed?”
“Best damn diagnostician in the biz. Leave now.”
“Why? Is your girlfriend coming?” he pressed. “Do you want to spare sweet Polly the embarrassment of an ugly scene?”
“Duh. Yes. Go,” she said airily, though her face pinched a bit in irritation.
“She’s going to have to face me tomorrow.”
“You’ll be clear-headed by then.”
“Don’t count on it.” House grabbed his cane and leaned onto it, shoved violently against the chair arm to boost himself up and free. He snared the bottle of Jameson’s from her desk and glared at her all the way to the office door. “You’re a bird dog, Lisa Cuddy.”
“You can…” she began, then swallowed her harsh words in favor of something they’d both be able to live with tomorrow. “You may be a genius, but you’re also a sulky, immature coward, Gregory House.”
He did not protest the characterization. After a moment, he restated his primary reservation. “She deserves better… than either of us.”
Unwilling to keep clamping that same bleeder again and again, she chose her words with a surgeon’s precision and cut through his argument like a ten blade.
“You know, aside from the obvious, that may be one of the biggest differences between you and me,” she said. “I’m willing to give Alison a clean look at me, warts and all, and then let her decide what she wants. Or deserves.”
He looked at the floor, the door, the bottle. Scratched his eyebrow, said finally: “May I ask - where are these warts located?”
She smirked a bit, but was not swayed from her path. “I mean it, House. The day you can do that - for a friend, a lover, anybody - is the day you stop being scared and alone. Don’t hate me because I figured it out first.”
With a slight nod, he said, “I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. I can wait it out,” he said. On Cuddy’s questioning look, he elaborated. “You can only sublimate your attraction to Wilson for so long, you know.”
“Look who’s talking,” she replied, grinning.
House opened the office door and grumbled - without irony - as he made his way down the hall, “Not everything is about sex.”
In the private dark of his office, he sat with the purloined bottle open on his lap, and stared at the glass door for a long, long while. In all that time, Cameron did not pass through the hall, but he saw her nonetheless. Saw her certain smile, saw her adroit hands twining in Cuddy’s dark hair, saw her glide in for a kiss, confident and sure… all because Cuddy said yes instead of no. All because she said yes.
“It can’t be that easy,” he reflected. “Though the simplest explanation is often the most correct.”
A sudden slice of pain in his thigh convinced him to put away the whiskey and crunch down two Vicodin. As he wondered if it were possible to metaphorically slit one’s wrists with Ockam’s Razor, he slumped in his chair and breathed out a final, stubborn, “Can’t be that easy,” before all sober thoughts grew drowsy.
END