Fic: (How Could You Be So) Heartless (House/Cuddy)
Title: (How Could You Be So) Heartless
Character/Pairing: House/Cuddy angst, implied Lucas/Cuddy, plus added Wilson!
Word Count: 3250
Warning: PG 13 with a few curse words, courtesy of House, of course. Inspired by Ep 7 spoilers.
Disclaimer: Do Not Own.
Summary: This is something of a companion piece to my earlier House-POV ‘Too Late’; basically the morning after, as the Other Trio head back to Jersey, following the conference.
A/N: Cheers to Kanye, you crazy b*****d, and to HRH for the endless, eternal inspiration. Also, this fic contains mild-Lucas bashing, but I figure y’all are cool with that.
~
Lucas talks too much.
He’s a smart guy, and it’s his job to be observant, but sometimes he seems to just miss every cue; every hint of blocking in her body language, every nuance in the tone of her voice that she is sure would clearly signal, to anyone else, that talking is not an appropriate response. He’s bright, and he likes to watch her closely, so sometimes she wonders if perhaps she has completely misjudged him; that perhaps he is picking up on her signals, and deliberately ignoring them, for some reason known only to himself. She can’t explain it, and she doesn’t really bother to try, now. He likes to talk, about anything, about every little thing, and it’s only been two months, perhaps three, and already she is beginning to equate his company with headaches, aspirin, and a dull ringing in her ears.
It’s even worse over the phone.
By the time his last goodbye is cut short with the satisfying click of the line disconnecting, Wilson is standing at the drivers’ side door, and House is, apparently, already firmly entrenched in shotgun. Tucking the phone away and shoving the sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, she crosses the last few steps across the blacktop, and mutters an apology to Wilson, whose only response is to open the car door for her, and grant her a grim sort of smile.
She tucks herself into the corner of the back seat, and she is close enough to House for the irradiating waves of negativity to easily reach her, as his gaze remains steadfastly fixed upon the car stereo display. Station after station whizzes by in snippets of sound - music, talking, commercials - and it’s extraordinarily irritating, and probably would be even if she weren’t hung over and nursing a motherload of guilt over the previous night. He keeps whizzing, and ignores even Wilson’s pointed stare, and she resists the temptation to slip her headphones surreptitiously into her ears.
There is silence, except for the staccato flicker of passing radio stations, and the first ten miles passes quick enough, although she does not miss Wilson’s eyes, heavy on hers in the rear-view mirror, and it is not the first time today that she is thankful for the oversized, opaque sunglasses. House hums loudly, pointedly ignoring them both, and finally, inexplicably, settles upon a station playing back-to-back RnB songs. She can’t seem to help watching him, as he leans his head against the headrest and stares out the window, and she can see his cheek, and the occasional flash of bright blue eye, in the grimy pane of glass. She isn’t at all surprised when her brain automatically thinks of Aberforth Dumbledore, and if he didn’t hate her so terribly this morning, she could’ve shared the reference, and perhaps they all would’ve laughed.
Another wave of grief rolls heavily, drowningly over her.
An apology floats to the foggy surface of her hung-over mind, but his face is still turned away, the fingers of his left hand drumming raggedly on his denim-clad thigh, and he would most certainly be angry, the second she dared open her mouth. Wilson’s eyes move to hers again, and he is frowning so deeply she can see a sharp furrow beginning to form between his heavy brows. He responds to her slight shrug with only another grim, vaguely disappointed smile. Meanwhile, the music is getting louder, and more obnoxious.
“House. Do you think you could… turn that down?”
He barely even spares a glance at Wilson, before turning the stereo up even louder, loud enough to make the seat behind her back vibrate with the bass, and more than loud enough to start a new, dull throbbing somewhere near the base of her brain. House is still staring out at the passing nothingness, and she can see half of his glaring face, still reflected in the blurring glass. He is angry, really angry - justifiably so - and it was really only a few hours ago that his hands were twined in her hair and his tongue was laying claim to her mouth. A few hours, and a badly-timed phone call, and now he hates her, and if she is not very, very careful, she is going to burst into hysterical, exhausted tears.
Wilson must be hung over and irritated too, because he is brave enough to dart out a hand and turn the volume down to bare minimum. In the rear-view mirror his eyes are steeled and steady, and he is angry too, obviously; angry enough to risk a full-blown fight with his best friend, apparently.
House turns the music up again, and for some reason she is able to identify Jay-Z, as the bass slams against the interior of her skull. Wilson makes a noise quite similar to a growl, and turns it back down again, and she bites down, hard, on her lip.
“Fuck you.”
House’s tongue is quick, but he doesn’t go for the volume, surprisingly. The music remains at a tolerable level, and in the window he is utterly, frighteningly furious. She could say something, should say something, to save Wilson from having to deal with the problem she has created, but along with the miserable throbbing of her head a strong sense of fear has begun to thrum through her tired limbs. House is angry, and he has never been one to tone down his rage for the sake of others. The song thankfully ends, and over the mumbling hum of disc jockey noise Wilson gives a deep, agonised sigh. Four more hours to go, and she leans her temple against the glass in a posture to match House’s own, and closes her eyes against the constant pull of grief.
The chatter on the radio finally yields to another song, and to her absolute surprise, a low, gravel-toned murmur from the seat in front of her sings along, with the opening lines.
“In the night, I hear 'em talk, the coldest story ever told…”
Her eyes dart open, a thrill of shock running the length of her spine, and Wilson sighs again, but House keeps singing; a bruised, spiteful tone resonating in his dead-centre notes.
“…somewhere far along this road, he lost his soul…”
“House...”
Wilson warns, but House only gives him a sharp, raised-eyebrow look, and keeps on singing.
“…to a woman so heartless…”
The tires screech, the car lurches wildly, and she would’ve been sure they’d hit something, if not for the fierce twist of Wilson’s face, as his hands wrench the steering wheel.
“That’s it!”
Even House looks surprised, as Wilson slams on the brakes and the car judders to a halt on the teetering edge of the blacktop. His seatbelt whips, and the door slams, and in Wilson’s quick, furious absence they are alone, terrifyingly.
“What the hell’s his problem?” House mutters, but he doesn’t turn to meet her eyes, before he too unbuckles and clambers from the car. Through the windshield she can see Wilson’s straight, white-shirted back, already stalking off toward the nearest gas station, and, suddenly very reluctant to be left alone on the side of the road, she yanks open her door, only just remembering to hit the ‘lock doors’ button on the way out.
“Wilson! Hey, Wilson! Asshole!”
She ignores House’s shouts, and darts past him easily, skipping to a jog to fall into step at Wilson’s side. He does not turn to look at her, only continues to scowl off in the direction of the horizon, as they turn onto the overgrown path leading to the gas pumps.
“James, I’m sorry -” She begins, but before she can even form a sentence his head whips around, and there is something indefinable in his dark, usually warm eyes.
“You need to sort this out, Lisa. You need to figure out whatever the hell is going on between you and him, because I am not getting back in that car with the two of you like this. I’m not. I’ll stay out here forever, I don’t care anymore. I’ve had enough!”
A soaring, indignant stubborness rises within her, and she dares a glance behind them, to where House is following, and closing quickly in.
“I tried to talk to him, last night! He won’t talk to me, he won’t even listen -”
“Make him listen!”
“I can’t! James, I… I can’t.”
“You have to, Lisa. Just… just talk to him -”
“Oh, yeah, that’s such a helpful idea.” Anger flares, and sarcasm twists on her tongue, and Wilson’s face shifts into an expression of shocked hurt.
“You can’t keep going on like this, Lis. You can’t.”
And then he is gone, stalking off through the grubby glass doors of the gas station, leaving her standing on the dusty pavement, with House drawing ever nearer.
“What the hell is going on? Why the -”
“He’s pissed! He’s pissed with you, and me, and the both of us, and, frankly, House, I’m pretty damn pissed, too! What the hell has gotten into you? Why -”
“Me!? What’s gotten into me?! You’re the one who’s screwing around -”
“What!? How am I… House, I’m not -”
“You kissed me, you spent the whole damn night flirting with me, you were all over me, and then I find out you’re fucking that moronic -”
“How dare you!? What business is it of yours who I might or might not be sleeping with? I -”
“What!? How is it not my business?!”
“House, there is nothing going on, there is nothing between you and me, you made sure of that when you -”
“What?! When I felt you up, after you cornered me? What the hell did you expect, Cuddy? How the hell am I supposed to respond when -”
“It’s not just about that, House! I… You… this, this is why this will never, ever work, between you and me! You have no capacity for… for…”
“For what?! For bullshit games, for screwing around? Why the hell should I have time for that?! I spent my friggin’ summer in a mental institution, why in the hell should I deal with your -”
“You know what? You’re right. You’re absolutely right, House. There is no point, to any of this. I can’t deal with this anymore. I cannot deal with you, anymore.”
“Whatever.”
It’s a childish response, but entirely fitting to the immaturity of their argument, and for a moment silence hangs between them like a veil, and she finds herself suddenly struggling, brutally, against the most bizarre, terribly inappropriate urge to seize him, and kiss him, hard. She bites down on the corner of her lip, he blinks, and she is, as usual, the first to look away.
“I need coffee.”
It is nothing more than a muttered whisper, but even before she is able to take a step toward the gas station he turns, throwing a dark glance over his shoulder.
“I’ll get it.”
And she is alone, again, as he walks away.
There is an ancient, scarred picnic table a few feet away in what could be termed a small park, and she sets down her bag, sheds her jacket and scowls up into the bright, wide sky, the same brilliant blue as his eyes. Exhaustion and the memory of numbing alcohol makes her limbs feel heavy and her skin feel dry and tender, and even the looming, iridescent sun cannot warm her through. Wilson has emerged from the station, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and he is still glaring, still obviously furious, even from fifteen feet away.
Barely five minutes passes, with the chirping of birds and the whir of passing cars, and House does not say one word as he sets the takeout cup down on the table, before stalking off again to stand next to Wilson, in the shade of the brick wall of the self-service carwash. Another tremor of grief works its sickening way through her body, and at least the cup is warm beneath her fingers.
One sip is all it takes.
Lucas is sweet, and attentive, and he is always faultlessly generous, but never, not once in almost three months, has he ever brought her a cup of coffee without first asking how she likes it.
It’s so stupid, such a small, unimportant thing, but she can clearly - too clearly - remember the first and only time House has asked her how she drinks her coffee, and it was more than twenty years ago, now.
He has remembered, all this time he has not forgotten that she likes her coffee scalding hot, strong and liberally dosed with non-dairy creamer, and even now, even when he hates her, he doesn’t get it wrong. He doesn’t have to ask, because he remembers, and it is a stupid, tiny, worthless thing, but it undoes her, under the wide blue sky and the burning, condemning sun.
She hasn’t cried for a month, maybe more, and the grief feels like a seizure or a fever, gripping her from within, and the coffee cup falls swiftly and silently from her fingers, to spill and splatter over the patchy grass. She must be exhausted, surely, because something as simple and straightforward as shedding tears should not buckle her knees and cause her to implode and crumble like a ruin. Some distant, detached part of her brain registers rushing footsteps, a voice, and then Wilson’s careful, wonderfully warm hands holding her up, and together.
“Lisa… Lisa, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
And he is murmuring soothingly, pinning her against his chest and moving his hands softly over her hair, and not even pride can stop her from clutching blindly at him, holding on for dear life.
“Lis, it'll be okay…” A kiss, warm and so terribly heartfelt, pressed to the crown of her head, and through a gulping, choking breath, she manages to form words.
“What have I done? What… what am I doing, James?”
And her own muffled voice sounds so hopeless, so utterly pathetic, a deep, bone-weary sigh moving through Wilson’s body to reverberate through her limbs, and he speaks, a note of exhausted, saddened fondness in his voice, his lips still pressed against her hair.
“Just… just talk to him. Just talk -”
“He won’t. He won’t talk to me, he won’t even look at me! He hates me…”
She sounds like nothing more than a petulant, spoiled child, and another hot wave of burning, shameful misery sears through her, as Wilson’s surprisingly strong hands hold her steady at arm’s length, eyes searching her face.
“He doesn’t hate you. He loves you. He’s just… hurt, and scared, and… why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone? You should’ve told me, and I could’ve told him, and none of this would’ve happened -”
“I know. I know, I was stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” he murmurs, voice turning kind again, and his fingers cup her cheek in a touch so gentle it only makes her feel worse.
A quiet minute passes, and even with her blurred, hazy eyes she can see House, staring frowningly in their direction over Wilson’s shoulder, and in that instant she would easily give anything, sacrifice anything to be able to walk right up to him, to step right into his open arms. But his arms are folded tight across his chest, and he is still glaring. Wilson tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with alarming, crushing tenderness.
“Is it serious? With this Lucas guy?”
The answer leaps onto her lips, before her mind can even think to protest.
“Of course it isn’t.”
But Lucas would say different, she is sure, and yet another gripping fist of guilt takes hold of her insides and twists, maliciously. Wilson nods, as if he can read the emotion clear as words on her face, and he leans gently in to press another kiss to her forehead.
“You have to talk to him. You two have to figure this out. Wait here.”
And before she can protest, before the panic even has time to infect her racing heart, he is gone and back again, returning with an unimpressed and horribly, horribly handsome House, still frowning indecipherably down upon her.
“Okay. You two, talk.”
Wilson shoves his hands in his pockets, and walks away, leaving her alone beneath his impossibly mercurial, copper-sulfate blue eyes, and she is acutely, frighteningly reminded of the night before, of the words spoken, and of the heavy, shimmering pause, before his mouth crashed inexorably into hers. She draws a breath, and lifts her chin like her mother always encouraged her to do.
“House. I’m sorry. I… I should’ve told you about Lucas. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to find out like that, and I'm sorry.”
He is quiet, eyes still completely unreadable, and as the sun beats down upon her shoulders he takes a step, one shuffling step closer, and it is all she can do not to crumble against the solid, familiar wall of his chest.
“Me too. I’ve been acting like a dick.”
She nods; a strong, giddy surge of relief bringing fresh tears to her eyes, and he smiles, a little, and almost laughs, and Wilson is still squinting at them, looking beyond perplexed.
“Are you… this thing, with Lucas… do you -”
“I’m going to break up with him. The second we get back. I’d.. I’d do it right now, but, I… I can’t dump him over the phone, can I?”
He looks momentarily both skeptical and enthusiastic at once, and as the tears spill over to roll unheeded down her cheeks, she feels herself smiling.
“I didn’t… I don’t… I don’t even really like him, House. He’s… I mean, he’s nice, and he’s sweet, but -”
“But you hate nice, and you hate sweet.”
His smile is beginning to grow, now, and it’s amazing, just how much better she feels when he smiles down at her, and how deeply it hurts when he is glaring at her with hate in his heart-stopping eyes. No-one else in the world could possibly have such an effect on her, surely.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. House… I don’t know if I can promise anything -”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m not… Jesus, Lis, I just got out of a mental hospital. I’m… I’m screwed up. I’m not asking you to… open up a joint checking account with me, just…”
“Just what?”
A tremulous, quivering hope has already caught hold of her pulse, and she could be being dragged into the sky like a kite for all she knows; gravity deserting her quicker and quicker with every passing second.
“Just… give me a chance to… make up for all the shitty stuff I’ve done to you. Just give me a chance to not be an asshole to you. I can do it, I promise!”
And he sounds suddenly so very young, like barely more than a teenager, and his eyes are so bright, so searing where they alight over her face, and she finds herself nodding, and smiling, even before her answer leaves her lips.
“Okay.”