The Sky Falls - chapter two
Title: The Sky Falls (2/?)
Author: snowflake912
Pairing: House/Cuddy/Stacy, Jake.
Rating: PG-13 (subject to change)
Warnings: None.
Summary: Jake Cuddy's world is a whimsical study of people, puzzles and music - until one Tuesday in February Gregory House stumbles into his mother's life. As Jake comes to find, birthmarks are hard to hide, and their revelation leaves him caught in a web of hope and denial, both estranged and coveted.
Disclaimer: It's sad, but I don't own any of these wonderful characters (pre-character slaughter).
Author's Note: For photos of the young actor who I imagine could play Jake Cuddy (though he would need to have House-blue eyes), click here and here. The actor's name is Easton Lee McCuiston.
<
Next Chapter>>
Chapter Two: Come Crash Into Me
And the strangest thing
Was waiting for that bell to ring
It was the strangest start
(Coldplay - The Hardest Part)
A cold night in late March found Stacy Warner tucked into the passenger seat of a black Saab, her fingers absently playing with the frayed edges of her seatbelt as she listened to the incessant rumbling of the exhausted engine. She imagined the hitched angry noise echoed the turmoil plaguing her companion whose long fingers were curled in a white-knuckled grip around the leather steering wheel. The music that usually poured out of the tattered speakers - old rock songs that made anywhere seem like home - was absent. Icy blue eyes stared straight ahead, not once flickering in her direction, as if the sight of her was too much to bear in the agonizing aftermath of a particularly frustrating session of physiotherapy.
She wished he would say something to interrupt the aching silence.
She wished she could think of something to say.
As if sympathizing with her desperation, the car choked, and he cursed, fingers drifting from the steering wheel to the ignition, violently twisting the rebellious key. The decade-old Saab, bought on a whim when he had perversely decided he wanted to stay in Princeton, sputtered in a last-ditch effort to survive, and he used the momentum of its forward motion to careen it to the side of the otherwise empty road. With a lengthy chain of creative expletives that incinerated the bemoaned silence, he parked the car haphazardly.
She sank further in her seat, her teeth nipping at the corners of her lips, feeling almost guilty that the universe had come to her rescue. “Something is wrong with it.” She felt ridiculous the moment the words left her mouth, quiet voice blistering the darkness of the car.
He was pulling the hand brake when he cast a sideways glance in her direction. His eyes were unreadable in the shifting shadows of the Princeton night, which in itself was a blessing. She didn’t think she could face his condemnation while mirroring his impenetrable façade of cool composure. “That’s very observant,” he muttered under his breath.
The sarcasm, which could usually make her smile, had no heart. He was afraid letting it go would set his teetering world spinning off its axis into an abyss of the unknown. She understood the urge. There were so many things she clung to for normalcy like the taste of his kisses after coffee in the morning and the smell of his aftershave on her pillow because he always went back for a five minute nap. Her index finger absently touched the cross around her neck, and her lips curled in a self-mocking smile. She had worn it to bear the brunt of his scrutiny as he analyzed her mental state - because she missed telling him off or kissing the questions away - but he hadn’t noticed. “Just call the mechanic, Greg,” she sighed as he tugged at the door handle, pushing the door open and letting in a gust of wind.
In his white t-shirt with its cackling skulls, which seemed to mock him these days, House was oblivious to the biting cold. His other pain far surpassed the sting of the fifty-five degree weather. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I can fix this,” he insisted, the heavy night chill dulling the sharp edges of his words.
Stacy pretended not to notice that his hand carried his right leg over the seat. She swallowed past the lump in her throat as he limped around the hood and rattled it open impatiently. She wondered if he felt like fixing the run-down vehicle would help him make sense of the insanity his world had tumbled into. She wondered if the inevitability of his failure would shatter him into thousands of jagged shards that would bite into her in recrimination. She’d been in enough car jams with him to know that he wasn’t handy with engines.
He disappeared behind the newly polished hood, clattering around the engine tirelessly. A few minutes later, his hand clasped the edge of the hood and pulled it down enough for him to peer over it, his annoyed gaze narrowed to slits of electric blue. “Can you try the ignition?” he called out.
Reaching for the chainless key, she gave it a firm twist. The Montblanc keychain she had given him for their anniversary two years ago was rattling around in his bedside drawer, unopened but acknowledged with a half-smile and a flick of his wrist that sent her nightgown to an undignified pool on their bedroom floor. The engine groaned and shuddered for three seconds before completely dying. It left an ominous silence in its wake. His lips moved in a slew of mute words, and he slammed the hood shut. He walked back to the car door, his limp more pronounced, the scowl on his face dark and stormy. He threw his bad leg into the car like an unwanted possession, the rest of his body following with surprising grace. Even at his meanest and surliest, he was a beautiful man.
“Well,” he began, slightly breathless. Physiotherapy had exhausted him, but he would never admit to any kind of weakness - save for a useless leg he could blame her for. “This is fucking perfect, isn’t it?”
The rhetorical question hung thickly in the air between them. This was far from perfect. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the surge of tears clawing at her throat. “You should probably call the mechanic. And someone to tow the car,” she suggested, and she sounded as calm as the ocean on a sunny August day. Pretense was an art he had taught her well.
Shifting to rearrange his large frame, he dug his phone out of the front pocket of his faded jeans. He flicked it open with his thumb, scrolled through his contacts and hit the dial button. “Hello, Wayne, this is Gregory House. The car died again at the intersection of,” he paused to look up at the street signs. “Chambers Street and Hulfish Street. Could you arrange for someone to tow it to your garage?” He was quiet for a few seconds, listening to Wayne’s insincere apologies on selling him the ramshackle Saab and then something that made him frown. “An hour?!” he sputtered incredulously. “Could you make it ten minutes?”
She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile at the whining childishness of his request.
“Fine. Send your guy. Make it quick.” He used his prickly chin to close the phone and leaned back into his seat with an angry sigh. Another day in the life of Gregory House. The universe had conspired against him. “At least an hour,” he said without looking at her.
She was getting used to this, being spoken to like a ghost or an invisible friend. It was better than the silence, she reflected. “At least we have chairs,” she said with soft humor, her pensive gaze trained on the quiet street. Except for a king-size bed, the two-bedroom apartment they had moved into a week ago was still stripped of furniture. She had spent the last two days in Manhattan, working out the legalities of giving up their lease and shipping their furniture. Their old queen-size bed had been sold to a greedy real estate agent, who was furnishing his daughter’s house. It was deemed too narrow for the baggage - both emotional and physical - that came in tandem with House’s newly damaged leg.
“Yes, little blessings,” he muttered dryly. Reaching for a lever under his chair, he slid his seat all the way back and stretched his legs. The sharp breath he drew in sliced through her like an admission of guilt.
“I got the job with Jefferson & Rose,” she told him. The ensuing stillness was suffocating, punctuated by the familiar rattle of his pill bottle and the faint pop of his thumb against the plastic cap. In her peripheral vision, he dry-swallowed a single white pill.
“Mazel tov,” he said finally, voice flat and unfeeling.
With a disappointed sigh, she followed his gaze to the mundane civility of a man and child crossing the street. Her little hand was clasped tightly in his, and when she tripped over her shoelaces twice, he scooped her into his arms with a mixture of impatience and amusement. The duo made it across the empty street and disappeared into one of the buildings like an illusion crafted by the night. “What do you want me to do, Greg?” she prodded. Her tone was a little harsher than she had intended for it to be, clawing at their precarious balance viciously. She was exhausted from her futile attempts at scaling the fortress he had carefully built around himself the moment he’d regained consciousness and touched a hand to his bandaged thigh. After the shouting and the swearing came the silence, and it lingered, looming like a mute companion, who was impervious to her frustration.
“Whatever you want to do,” he replied and rolled down his window. The sounds of early evening were apologetic and soothing, taking a backseat to their mute companion.
“Do you want me to work in the hospital?” she insisted, her voice catching on a light breeze that hovered between them.
He looked almost bored with the topic and propped his elbow on the space emptied by the open window. “It’s your call, Stacy,” he repeated with a hint of irritation.
“I want to work in the hospital.”
Something that resembled a smile curled his lips with derision. “You’re right, fielding malpractice suits is a much better career path than the best law firm this side of Jersey,” he mocked.
Stacy side-stepped the brewing argument and pursed her lips. “I want to be there for you,” she said quietly.
The unbending set of his jaw told her he was angry, but he paused long enough to curb an outburst, sparing another explosion in the minefield they had been frequenting since the infarction. “I don’t want you to take a pity job for me,” he stated.
She stiffened. “It’s not a… you know what, just forget it. I shouldn’t have asked,” she snapped.
He worked his jaw for several seconds that stretched into a full minute. When he spoke next, the words were tinged with something warm and familiar. “So, what’s the verdict? Lawyers versus doctors?”
Stacy clung to the warmth and resisted the overwhelming urge to reach for him. “I already turned down Jefferson & Rose,” came her simple reply.
He made a sound that was half-way between a laugh and a grunt, and relaxed the tense set of his shoulders, leaning his head fully against the headrest. He closed his eyes and plowed the fingers of his left hand into his hair. “I need a couch, a six-pack and The L Word in high definition,” he mused.
Her lips curved in a small smile. “Shipment gets in tomorrow,” she reported.
A vague motion of his head mimicked a nod. “Good.”
When the dreaded quiet descended upon them, she decided that she couldn’t bear it for the next hour in the confines of his beat-up car. “Lisa lives a couple of minutes away,” she stated, letting the suggestion settle before looking at his profile. She liked being around the dean of medicine. Her presence had a strangely calming effect on the raging volcano beside her. He was always so busy trying to criticize her job or ridicule her outfits that for however short a while, he seemed less miserable. Lisa took his insults with surprising grace and humor. She understood his barbs for what they were because no matter what he said, Stacy recognized the soft-spot he harbored for his soon-to-be boss. During the infarction fiasco, she’d gleaned that they had gone to med school together at some point.
“Cuddy?” he asked with a dubious frown.
“Yeah. We could wait at her place instead of staying here for another hour. It’s cold and dark,” she noted the obvious with little enthusiasm, but he didn’t seem to be listening. “It looks like it’s about to rain, and I really need to pee,” she added for good measure.
He sighed then as if she’d left him no choice. “Fine, let’s go.” Twisting in his seat, he reached for his crutches which were neatly stacked on the backseat. The move in the cramped car brought his face dangerously close to hers, and Stacy gazed up at his studious features, cast into sharp relief by their proximity. He hadn’t touched her in weeks. When she leaned closer to him, breathing softly against his chin, his eyes locked on her for the first time that day. She met the tortured depths of his gaze with hooded eyes. She ignored the rage and turned a blind eye to the resentment coloring his eyes a shade she didn’t recognize. Lifting her hand to his face, she cupped his scruffy cheek in her palm and drew closer. Her lips barely touched his, feathering hesitantly before she leaned further into him and kissed him in earnest. He kissed her back, his hand fisting in her hair as his mouth ravaged hers. The pressure of his lips against hers was bruising, his stubble unapologetically rough.
Short breaths slithered past her lips to ghost over his bottom lip. “I miss you,” she whispered, words muffled as she rubbed her wet lips against his. She slid her right hand down his chest, fingers toying with the button of his jeans. “And I want you,” she breathed, moving to press a line of kisses along his jaw.
His hand was firm but gentle when it clasped hers, prying it away from his crotch before letting it go. “Stacy, don’t,” he beseeched her and pulled away, completely dislodging her. Unaffected, he used his free arm to carry his crutches from the backseat. She pushed her door open, feeling bereft and mortified, trying to hide her swollen lips with the back of her hand. The taste of his angry kiss lingered on the tip of her tongue, sharp and unforgiving. She watched him because he wouldn’t look at her. He hid a grimace as he propped the crutches under his arms and took two slow steps, pausing to readjust the arrangement. Stacy imagined he had sore spots from using them for the past six weeks - not that he would tell her. She fell into step beside him, slowing her pace to match his uneven gait.
They walked in silence for three minutes, then he frowned.
“How do you know where she lives?” he asked curiously as if her humiliation was easier to hide than her well-kissed lips.
Stacy pulled the cool night air into her chest deeply. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t a fifteen-year-old love struck adolescent, but God she wished the pain wasn’t so merciless. “I had to drop off the legal forms for the lawsuit against Phillip Brown last Sunday. Lisa wanted to discuss them,” she replied, her voice even, her throat aching with suppressed regret, anticipating the inevitable outburst.
He sliced a sharp glance at her out of the corners of his eyes. “I told you we’re not suing him,” he declared steadfastly. “He’s an idiot who can’t tell his ass from his elbow.”
“Let’s discuss this, Greg,” she suggested calmly. “Later,” as an afterthought, because she wasn’t in the mood to argue with him before they walked into their future boss’s house.
“No! Don’t do that. Don’t dismiss me like some - some child. We’re not going to discuss this. It’s my leg,” he stressed, giving her a laden glare as if to remind her that at the apex of their lives, she had forgotten the crucial pronoun to the leg in question. His leg and her decision. “And I don’t want to sue him,” he said with finality.
She released a long-suffering sigh and tucked her hands into the pockets of her beige coat. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoed as a single fat raindrop hit him square on the nose. He cursed under his breath and wiped it on the shoulder of his white shirt.
“You’re going to catch your death cold dressed the way you are.” At his silence, she turned right and started up a five-rung flight of stairs, questioning the wisdom of bringing their darkness into Lisa Cuddy’s home.
“This is Cuddy’s place?” From the foot of the stairs, he was studying the two-story condo with reluctant approval, his expression as mysterious as his stance.
She bit back the sarcastic retort he had bred into her. “Yes.”
“They sure pay deans of medicine well,” he muttered, and whatever profundity had made him pause was gone as he laboriously made it up the stairs.
“Try not to insult her in her own home,” she told him frostily and reached for the doorbell. Her finger lingered long enough for a short buzz that prompted the quick pitter-patter of footsteps on the other end of the door. At her side, House shifted with something akin to nervousness, but he was never nervous. Stacy dismissed the thought as quickly as it had formed and pasted an amiable smile on her face.
TBC
<
Next Chapter>>