rp for l_cuddy_md
House waited until he was out of sight from the bar to stop and brace his hand against the wall. The way he’d landed on the floor when Dean tripped him up jarred his leg; it was throbbing sharply. The bruise on his chin where Dean had uppercut him was throbbing, too
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Because... because if he walked out on Cuddy, then who would he have? That thought was so conflicting to how he felt about her sleeping with Dean. He didn't want to hear her out because he was too hurt, if not felt betrayed. Yet he didn't want to leave... God, his thoughts were starting to get so muddled, he was confusing himself.
He sighed and pushed away from the door, and gave her room a helpless glance around. He never forgave easily when he was hurt, and he definitely never forgot. But he'd never been in a situation before where he had absolutely no one, except for one final person. Back home, Wilson was always there, and Cuddy. And his fellows. Even his poker buddies.
He couldn't hold back the sudden swell of frustration that erupted in him. He stabbed the end of his cane hard at the chest of drawers, causing it to slam against the wall with a bash, and then he thumped his cane back to the floor and leaned heavily against it. He sighed, that outburst doing little to help things.
"I don't know," he finally admitted in a defeated tone. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at Cuddy. He felt his chest suddenly tighten and he had to look away again. He swallowed and for the first time in a while, House felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. God, if he lost Cuddy...
"You're all I have left," he began, and he was horrified to his hear his voice waver. "And I..."
He stopped, not trusting himself to say any more. He shook his head and abruptly turned away from Cuddy to the door. "Forget it," he said, reaching for the doorknob.
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The way he shoved the chest didn't surprise her. She was only surprised he hadn't attacked something before now. But when House said she was all he had left, that was the punch he hadn't thrown physically. It felt like a physical blow and she jerked in reaction. He was only with her because he didn't have anyone else? Because she was better than nothing?
She should never have pushed him for a relationship. She should've realized that all the years of them not having a relationship was because he wasn't interested in having a relationship with her, never had been.
"You should go," she agreed, keeping her voice quiet when he reached for the door. God it hurt to say that but what else could she say. She'd ruined the chance that he'd ever believe that she cared for him even if he didn't care for her. "If I'm nothing more than a last resort.... You can find some woman who's just as meaningless, but a whole lot less trouble."
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"When did I say that you were a 'last resort'?" he then demanded angrily. This time his anger was at Cuddy twisting his words. "Yes, of course you're all I have left. I'm all you have left. Does that therefore make me as much a 'meaningless, last resort' to you as you think you are to me?"
He sharply faced away towards the door and snatched the door handle, but he was so angry at Cuddy all over again that he whipped back around to her again.
"I want you. You have no idea how much I want you. All that time I spent avoiding you was because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
His words came out in an angry rush, before he really had time to think about what he was saying. He drew in a deep breath and swallowed, then faced back to the door. He wanted to kick himself; he might as well have exposed his jugular vein to her for all it was worth. He was already hurt and angry enough about her sleeping with Dean, let alone revealing an admission like that.
"Screw you, Cuddy." He grabbed the door handle. "Better yet, screw your arrogant jackass toyboy. Screw his zombie dad while you're at it. See if I care."
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"Stop it. Just stop it." She could move pretty fast when she wanted to, and she caught House by the arm before he could open the door. She had enough adrenaline running through her to tug him around to face her. The fact that she'd caught him by surprise didn't hurt her effort. She fisted her hands in his shirt and, backed up against the door, there wasn't anywhere he could run without going through her first.
"You do care or you wouldn't be here punishing me for hurting you." It was all so pointless and stupid. It didn't have to be this way. If they'd just talked to each other, it wouldn't be this way.
"If I'd known you wanted me I would never have even considered sleeping with anyone else. Damn it, House, why couldn't you just tell me?"
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He glared down at her as she leaned against the door, gripping his shirt. He wanted to shove her aside so he could leave, not face any demands or onslaught of questions about why he never told her how he felt.
"Yeah, right," he shot back disbelievingly. The whole thing with her sleeping with Dean was still so fresh that House didn't believe her for a second when she said she wouldn't have slept with Dean, had she known House felt the way he did.
"Tell you what? That for some crazy, insane reason, I want you? What, I should've just woken up one morning and said, 'By the way, I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't stop thinking about you'." Yeah, as if. In fact, if he'd not let his mouth run away from him like he had just a moment ago, he probably never would've ever admitted such a thing voluntarily.
"It's a bit late for 'if only'," he said, reaching up to her wrists to make her let go of his shirt.
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"I didn't hurt you because you let yourself be vulnerable. I hurt you because I didn't know you were vulnerable."
When House grasped her wrists her instinct was to grab onto his shirt even harder, refuse to be displaced. She'd fight for him if that's what it took. If he wanted her to prove she cared, she'd do it. What was tearing her up was the thought that he didn't want her doing anything at all that involved him.
She released his shirt, holding her hands just in front of his chest. "But it's only too late if you want it to be too late."
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He kept a hold of her wrists even after she'd let him go and told him it was only too late if that was how he wanted it, and stared down at her. Did he want it to be too late? Well... hell. No. Of course he didn't. He wanted... he didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know what the right thing to do was. If there even was a right thing to do.
"God damn it," he cursed, letting his head fall back so he was looking at the ceiling, as if appealing to some invisible higher source to help him out here. He sighed and looked back down to Cuddy. He had another urge to shove her aside so he could leave... and then his mind raced through the same cycle of not knowing what the correct thing to do was.
Out of mere frustration, he dropped his head forward so his forehead was pressed against Cuddy's, and closed his eyes.
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God damn it, indeed. She felt like she was walking a tightrope. Blindfolded. She didn't know where to step. Worse, she wasn't sure there was any place that was safe to step. And the only person who could tell her what move to make...really wasn't in the mood to help her.
She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and murmured, "House...."
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He lifted his hand to her hip and lightly touched it when she said his name, then pulled back from her just enough to look at her face. He looked at her still damp cheeks and hesitantly lifted his hand from her hip to her head and brushed away a strand of unruly hair from her forehead. Then he used his thumb to wipe away a smudged tear on her cheek.
He was still hurt from the knowledge that she'd slept with Dean, and that was likely going to stick with him for a while. But his anger was quickly dissipating and he suddenly felt tired again. Leaving now was probably the smartest thing to do, given how hurt he felt, but leaving would also just prove to be more hurtful, too.
Still at a loss for what to really do but slowly resigning himself to the decision that he wasn't going to leave, at least not yet, he dropped a lingering kiss to her forehead. It wasn't really a gesture of forgiveness, more one of resignation. God, he was pathetic. As pathetic as Cuddy was.
He pulled back and looked down with a subdued expression on his face, not meeting Cuddy's eyes, and reluctantly returned his hand to her hip, caressing it.
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She closed her eyes when he pressed his lips against her forehead, wishing she could go back and not sleep with Dean. Damn Hotel twisted time six ways to Sunday so why couldn't she go back and undo it? Other than the fact that would be too easy. Other than the fact that she might go back and make it worse, although she didn't know how that would be possible.
She reached down and clasped his hand, the one that was resting on her hip, in her own and nodded at the foot of the bed. "Please, come sit with me. Just for a minute. After that, if you want to yell at me some more or leave or.... Have at it."
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He stepped back from Cuddy and dropped his hand away from hers before limping slowly towards the bed. His limp was a little more pronounced, too, because of the way his leg had been jarred when Dean tripped him over. And the stress of this whole situation, of them fighting - he was subconsciously deflecting his stress to the pain in his leg.
He sat with a weary sigh on the end of the bed and took to rubbing his thigh, watching Cuddy approach the bed to sit next to him. He dropped his gaze down to his lap once she was beside him. House had no idea if Cuddy wanted to actually say anything, or if she just wanted him to sit with her in silence.
He rubbed his thigh a little firmer and, just to break the awkward silence, muttered, "Asshole tripped me." Saying that reminded him of the bruise on his jaw, which then reminded him of what else had happened in the bar. "Pulled a knife on me, too."
House had no idea if Dean had actually intended to use that knife or if it was just to intimidate him. Regardless, he'd certainly hadn't wanted to stick around to find out.
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"He what?" She turned to look at House, a shocked look on her face. A punch was one thing--a stupid macho thing-- but tripping? Dean was half House's age and able-bodied. There was no excuse for that kind of cheap trick. And a knife? She didn't really know Dean, but she was disgusted to find she'd so completely misread him.
"I really am going to kill the son of a bitch," she muttered. She took in the way House was rubbing his thigh and looked up at his face. "How bad did he mess up your leg? Do you need...?"
She hesitated because she really hated to feed into his drug use, but if he had a legitmate reason for needing pain relief she didn't want to deny it.
"Do you need something extra for the pain?"
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"Fell flat on my face," he replied sullenly. And really, Dean was lucky he didn't do anything to cause serious harm to his leg. He probably wouldn't have thought twice about snapping Dean's neck just out of excruciating pain alone.
He nodded; he didn't realise how much he was craving Vicodin out of both pain and stress, until Cuddy offered him something for his pain. "Yeah. I'm in a lot of pain."
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She dragged her medical bag out of the closet and rummaged through the contents. "I've got Percocet," she said, tossing a bottle of the narcotic pills at him. A second later she tossed another bottle at him. "And take some ibuprofen, try to keep any inflammation down."
She pushed the bag back in the closet with her foot and went to the bathroom to get him a glass of water. She happened to catch sight of herself in the mirror and stopped, taken aback by just how bad she looked. She took a moment to splash her face with cold water, then filled the glass for House.
"Here," she said, handing the glass to him as she sat down again.
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He didn't need water to chug down pills. But Cuddy leaving the room, out of his sight... He darted his eyes back down to the pills in his hand, checked to make sure Cuddy couldn't see him and before he could second guess himself or before he got caught, he quickly slipped a pill into his pocket. One for later, when he needed one, not when Cuddy said he could have one.
He then tipped the contents back into the bottle, all except for one pill, which he kept in his hand. He'd take it with water in front of Cuddy so that she wouldn't think that he'd taken any. He then tipped out some ibuprofen just as Cuddy reemerged from the bathroom with the glass.
"Thanks," he murmured, swapping her the pill bottles for the glass. Not without giving the Percocet bottle a longing glance, though. He tossed the pills back and swallowed a large gulp of water. The knowledge that he'd just taken oxycodone made him feel instantly a little calmer. He downed the rest of the glass, feeling thirsty, and handed the glass back to Cuddy. As he held it out to her, he took the opportunity to study her face. She looked like an absolute mess. He had an impulse to fix it somehow, to do something so he wasn't so bothered by her drained appearance.
He glanced quickly around the room for a box of tissues, which he saw were way over the other side of the room on the dresser. Well, he wasn't getting up to get those. He had nothing on him, either. No tissues or handkerchiefs. He either had the choice of just sitting there and trying to ignore how she looked, or do something. After a moment of awkward deliberation, he stretched his hand out to her and tentatively brushed her hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Then, in an impulsive act of affection, he cradled her chin against the crook of his finger and tilted her face up to look at him.
"That look doesn't suit you," he joked weakly.
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She relaxed a little when he took the pills and handed the bottles back to her without argument. She set them and the water glass on the floor. She'd just turned back to him when he brushed her hair away from her face. She looked away as he caught her chin, too self-conscious about her appearance to meet his eyes.
"I know," she murmured. "Just one of many reasons I don't let anyone see me cry." She reached up and grasped his hand, pressing her cheek against his knuckles before moving it away from her face. "Don't have anyone to blame for it but myself this time."
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