One-shot fic: Things you can tell just by Looking at Her (1/2)
Title: Things you can tell just by Looking at Her
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of sex... nothing too graphic!
Characters: House/Cuddy, some Rachel and Wilson
Summary: He has a collage of who Cuddy is tucked away in his brain. A series of vignettes exploring just a few of the things House has learned over the years.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for cuddy_fest . My prompt was #231- Cuddy/House. Privately, House thought she looked even better all bed-mussed and rumpled. This contains spoilers through season five. This fic has been split into multiple posts because of Livejournal's character limits.
Disclaimer: The show isn't mine, so please don't sue me.
He has a collage of who Cuddy is tucked away in his brain. A kaleidoscope of experience, all hues of her personality neatly examined and filed in the darker recesses of his mind, he has a very clear idea of who this woman, the woman sleeping contentedly next to him right now is.
House supposes, on some level, it’s not unique to collect memories of someone in your life. But he thinks that what he does is a little different, because he doubts that anyone out there is as… methodical - obsessed - as he is. They remember the smaller details out of love, out of affection and pleasure.
But he doesn’t.
It’s all scientific for him, no different than discovering symptoms and writing them on a white board. The process one he uses day in and day out, it’s something he doesn’t know how to shut off when it involves the rest of his life. And by now he’s not entirely sure that he cares to do so.
Over the years, he can’t deny that his internal encyclopedia of Cuddy has helped him every now and then. Like when he needs to do a dangerous procedure, and he can tell just by looking at her what argument will work best.
But he also can’t deny that sometimes he wields his knowledge as a weapon and hurts her with it. Eviscerating every last defense she possesses, sometimes he can’t help himself, can’t resist the urge to yell, to insult, to show her just how obvious she can be. Like when she was wavering over whose sperm to use or when she asked him for performance reviews and he took the opportunity to review her instead; in neither of those instances was he intentionally trying to hurt her, but House isn’t sure that he didn’t.
Of course, there are the times where he’s feeling suffocated, feeling oppressed by something he can’t name - moments where he’s too afraid to continue on with a relationship - and he hurts her on purpose.
He doesn’t like to think about that much.
And yet, in the back of his mind lies the notion that that part of his personality only feeds this inexplicable desire to know every little thing about her. Because there’s no doubt in his mind that one day she will say that she’s had enough, and when that time comes, he wants to be prepared. He wants to have all of her memorized, all of her unearthed, so that he can torture himself with the minutest of details about her. The way she smells, the way her lips feel against his - he feels this indescribable need to have all of that internalized, to have her inside of him in a way that she can’t take back.
Right now though, it seems almost foolish to think about the day she’ll leave him. Because at the moment, Cuddy seemed content to be exactly where she was.
She’s dead to the world, face, partially obscured by messy dark locks, pressed into her pillow. An arm is tucked under her head, her other parallel to her with one of her hands curled against her mouth. Which frankly he appreciates considering she has an irritating habit of breathing with her mouth open that never fails to annoy him when he has trouble sleeping (like now). The sound completely muffled by her knuckles, it is with relief and gratitude that he can say that Cuddy is sleeping quietly.
And naked.
Rolling over onto his side so he can look at her better, House decides to use the inkling of sunlight filtering through the curtains to his advantage. It’s late… or early depending on how you look at it, the clock on Cuddy’s side of the room reading in bright red letters five a.m. He hasn’t fallen asleep yet, and his window of opportunity for uninterrupted slumber is closing quickly. Thanks to Roach, who, with all the wisdom a six year old possesses, seems to think that bursting into the bedroom by six-thirty every morning without fail, peace and quiet are non-existent at that time of day.
Just as dismal a possibility is the likelihood that Cuddy will be naked for much longer. Over the years, he’s seen her without her clothes plenty of times, obviously, but it’s a rarity that she actually falls asleep that way. She is and has always been way too concerned about her appearance to allow for that.
Her vanity is not lost on him, not at all. He notices the way she never ever misses getting her hair cut, no matter how busy she is that day. He notices the way her nails are almost always neatly manicured in a way that’s impractical for work.
Well… maybe impractical isn’t the right word, because she always keeps her claws at regulation length, her lunulas the smallest of slivers, and she rarely opts for anything other than the standard French manicure. And he supposes that she doesn’t really have to be practical, considering she spends most of her days yanking on his leash and flirting with donors for money. But nevertheless, House knows that she likes to think of herself as a doctor, knows that she likes to occasionally treat patients in the clinic or the E.R. or wherever there’s a staff shortage. And when she does that, she comes home with chipped nails that leave raised red marks on his back and the infrequent complaint that she needs a manicure on her tongue.
Glancing at her open hand on the pillow, he notices the flesh-colored polish shining slightly as the sun’s rays hit it. And he immediately decides that it’s not really impractical as much as it is stupid that she wastes her time getting something done that she’s bound to ruin. Idiotic but appreciated he quickly amends, because overall, he really does enjoy the physical package Cuddy has to offer.
A good portion of her income spent on low-cut tops and short skirts (which he likes), matching panty sets (which he really likes), and delicate, sheer lacy things she liked to wear to bed (which he only likes when he’s ripping them off), she has always, without fail, paid attention to the way she looks. And because of that, so has he.
But whereas she seems to think she needs all of those things to look good, House has always believed that she doesn’t need it.
At all.
He’ll never say that to her, obviously, but privately he thinks that when she’s bed-mussed and lying in rumpled sheets twisted around her bare hips, like she is right now, she’s exponentially more attractive.
Part of that, he supposes, has to do with the series of events that have to occur in order for her to sleep naked like this, because the main factor involves the two of them having mind-blowing sex that’s so exhausting she doesn’t care about getting dressed afterwards.
But it’s not just that fact that makes him think she’s more attractive like this. Really, more than anything, it’s the idea that there are moments where she’ll let all of her defenses down and show him exactly who she is behind all the make up and clothes that’s most enticing. The knowledge that, for all of his digging, there are times where no digging is necessary is breathtakingly attractive.
And with it comes a fresh wave of guilt, a strong pang in his stomach that makes him feel ashamed for what will eventually happen in this relationship. Because he knows, when he’s pushed her too far, when he’s hurt her too much, she will regret having ever let him in so far. And that will be all she needs to never open herself up to anyone again… Which means he’s basically ruined her for anyone else, he realizes.
But then he also knows this: of all the information he’s collected during his lifetime how to avoid hurting her is something he still has yet to learn.
Resting his cheek along her bare back, he tries not to think about that fact. Attempting to imprint in his mind the way her soft skin feels against his face, he tries not to remember that the ending to this story has already been written.
******************
For Rachel’s fourth birthday, it had been agreed upon by whomever that the Cuddys would spend a week together in Florida. At the time the plans had been made, House had pretended not to care.
And he didn’t really care - still doesn’t, he tells himself as he slips into Cuddy’s home. He didn’t care at all until he realized that Cuddy had no intention of inviting him to come along.
Now, truth be told, House can’t deny that, if she had asked him to go, he would have said no. But it’s the principle of the thing that bothers him. She’s been sleeping with him for over a year now; he’s more involved in her life - in Rachel’s life - than anybody in her family, and he thinks that he probably should have been invited.
That he wasn’t and proceeded to feel nothing short of bitter about that fact made him feel like a sniveling fifteen year old girl crying into her pillow about how the hottest guy in school hadn’t invited her to the prom.
So naturally the only thing to do was to pick a fight with Cuddy. Annoyed by her and his own reaction to being excluded, House spent the week before she left goading her in every way imaginable.
Spilling cranberry juice on the white dress she was wearing? Check.
Dumping bleach on the couch and carpet in her office? Check.
Giving Rachel access to all the Halloween candy Cuddy had hidden from the little girl and then giving the soon-to-be-four-year-old free rein in Cuddy’s closet? Check.
Her clothes, couch, and carpet ruined, her daughter high on the dreaded refined sugar, by the time the week was over, Cuddy was practically snarling. The night before she left spent arguing with him, she demanded to know what the hell his problem was. And considering he had no intention of ever answering that question, the only thing that had resulted was an incredibly frustrating fight that had left them both desperate to be away from one another.
The end result was she left for Florida with Rachel on her own, and he left for the nearest strip club with Wilson. Perhaps not the most mature response on his end, he admits, but the one he thought at the time was the most satisfying and reasonable.
Now, when he’s about to tell her what he’s done, of course, he thinks he should have just spent the week sulking with alcohol like a normal human being would do. It would have been so much less messy.
Or he shouldn’t have invited Wilson, he thinks, cocking his head to the side as he closes the front door behind him. Because if he went to the strip club alone, House knows that he wouldn’t have to preemptively tell Cuddy what he had done while she was away on the off-chance that Wilson would tell her himself.
Sighing House decides that regret will get him nowhere. And considering the more he thinks about the situation, the more annoyed he becomes, he thinks it’s probably not a good idea to keep mulling over recent events. He doesn’t want to have come here in the hopes of putting them both back on solid ground only to accidentally make things even worse.
But he’s barely even made it five feet into the home before he’s attacked. The pitter-patter of tiny feet reaching his ears a millisecond too late, by the time House realizes Rachel’s running towards him, she’s already there. Arms thrown around his legs, her face momentarily pressed into him, she nearly screams in her shrill voice, “House!”
He sighs loudly.
As much as he’s come to accept that the kid is here to stay, as much as the kid loves him, he’s not exactly all that enthusiastic about her. Which Rachel, apparently, has yet to realize.
Unfortunately.
Looking down, House grimaces at the sight of the little girl covered in a thin layer of ketchup. Her cheeks and mouth are covered in it, a few strands of light brown hair plastered to the mess. And upon further inspection he realizes that his pants are now lightly stained with the condiment as well.
Rachel doesn’t seem to be concerned by any of this, of course, as she starts to babble on about things he doesn’t have the attention span to even pretend to focus on. “You’re red,” he mutters, interrupting whatever the hell it is she’s trying to tell him.
Perhaps knowing that he’s really not interested in her, she pipes up one more time and tells him, “I have bugs.”
There’s a moment of silence as he tries to decide what it is that she’s trying to say. His brow furrowing a little, he has to ask slowly, “On you?”
However, her response - an enthusiastic nod of the head - just leaves him more confused. As often as he’s argued to Cuddy that her child is feral, he’s never expected any sort of confirmation of that fact on Rachel’s part.
… Although maybe he’s not reading her right; the Roach likes to talk a lot and say even less, the art of conversation still being something she’s trying to learn. So really, it’s quite possible that she means something else entirely.
She could have gotten an ant farm for her birthday, he tells himself, smirking at the appalled look Cuddy would have surely given the giver of such a gift. Rachel could have received a movie about a bug; she might have seen a bug in the yard - the possibilities are endless.
And he could go through listing them all, but House really doesn’t give a crap what the answer is for once in his life. So, instead of wasting his time, he simply plucks the girl off his body.
Not noticing the disgusted look on his face as he touches her sticky clothes, she clearly waits for him to say something. “Go eat your breakfast,” he says dismissively.
Rachel smiles and nods her head before skipping away. Singing, “I have bugs” over and over again in alternatively flat and sharp notes, she doesn’t stop until she disappears into the kitchen and starts chatting with the nanny.
He stands where he is for a moment, almost wishing that he hadn’t sent the one perfectly good reason not to talk to Cuddy away. But since he has done that, he knows he has no other choice but to head into her bedroom.
When he opens the door, she’s wrapped in a gray bathrobe. Her back to him, she’s busy laying out what she’s going to wear to work. Which he is, to be honest, sort of grateful for - dividing her focus will make it less likely that she actually pays attention to what he says.
Closing the door behind him quietly, he decides the best way to announce his presence is to say, “Wilson and I spent the week with strippers, and your kid’s saying she has bugs.”
She stiffens a little in surprise, but he doubts it has much to do with what he just said; his presence alone is enough to make her do that.
Immediately she spins around to face him. Arms folded across her chest, Cuddy explains in an irritated voice, “My sister found a tick on Rachel yesterday. She doesn’t have bugs. She had a bug, and now she’s fine. I’m going to have Wilson write a scrip for some prophylactics just to be sure.”
“I can do it if you want,” he offers, trying to be nice.
She seems to contemplate the idea for a second, her eyes searching him for some sort of indication as to what his intentions are. But since his only motivation is something along the lines of “I’m trying not to be an asshole,” he doesn’t really know what to tell her. So he just stands there silently.
Her hands quickly unknotting the sash that keeps her bathrobe closed, she asks curiously, “Does this have something to do with the strippers?”
That’s a question nearly impossible for him to answer.
It’s got nothing to do with the question itself; in theory, it’s not hard to say “no.” But the fact of the matter is Cuddy’s pushing her robe off of her body, and he can see her navel and breasts and all the other things about her he likes. And somehow speaking no longer seems like a possibility.
His eyes are trained on her, his mouth opening and closing and then opening again as he tries hard to remember what the hell it is that they’re talking about.
Unfortunately she takes his silence to mean something else. Her gaze narrows on him momentarily before she turns away from him. “I see.” He’s busy staring at her ass when she asks, “Did you sleep with any of them?”
Her words are slow to penetrate his glazed over mind. When they finally do, her underwear is around her knees. Dimly, he says, “What? No.”
Reaching for her bra, Cuddy seems doubtful. “Really.”
He’s about to say something sarcastic in return when he sees something he’s never noticed before. Running parallel to the white bra band she’s trying to hook shut is a dark mark that he’s unfamiliar with.
All of this talk of bugs makes him immediately suspect a tick. “Stop,” he orders, stalking towards her quickly.
She doesn’t understand, so naturally she tries to turn around, stopped only by his hands gripping her shoulders tightly. “What are you -”
“Stop moving,” he barks while trying to assess the mark that lies along the upper curve of her side and is nestled between ribs. His thumb instinctively runs over it, and House realizes that it’s not a tick but a freckle.
Something about her body that he didn’t realize existed until this moment, a fact he will rectify immediately, he thinks.
But accomplishing that task is not without its difficulties; he quickly becomes aware of that much. Because Cuddy is confused and concerned by his ambiguous actions, by the way one arm is hooked around her waist, his free hand gingerly touching her back; she’s used to bizarre behavior from him but not when it’s practically tender.
“What are you doing?” She’s impatient and irritated and tries to glance over her shoulder to see what he’s doing. But she can’t, that area of her body impossible for her to see without a mirror.
Realizing that, he begins to wonder if she’s ever noticed the little mark on her body before or if this is something just for him, something she doesn’t even know she has.
He doesn’t ask her about it, because asking would make her aware of its existence.
And he’s not sure he’s ready to share with her.
“House?” Her voice, interrupting his thoughts, is tentative, unsure… worried. It’s the way she gets when he does something that seems to have no explanation behind it. The product of having spent time in a mental institution, she seems to be constantly afraid that he will sink back to that low point in his life.
And he is too.
But she seems willing to believe he’s lost it at the drop of a hat.
Maybe he has.
She clears her throat, but it does no good to keep the emotion out of her next question. “Are you okay?”
The thumb running along the freckle stops moving, and he sighs. Burying his face in her dark locks, he tells her in a quiet voice, “Fine.”
“Then let me get dressed.”
He nods his head once and steps away from her.
Starting toward the door, House is ready to leave. But something inside of him forces him to stop, his hand hesitating to grab the doorknob. Some whisper being murmured in the back of his mind makes him speak up, makes him say, “I didn’t cheat on you.”
“Oh.”
Once more Cuddy spins around. The confused look on her face says she still doesn’t know what any of this is about. And he can’t deny, not even to himself, that that fact hurts.
Yanking the door open, House leaves before she has a chance to realize that something’s wrong.
*************
As someone who loves rational and reason, he believes that there is a pattern to Cuddy and her tea drinking habit. She likes drinking it out of big, fat ceramic mugs she can wrap her cold fingers around. She likes to sip on peppermint tea throughout the day at work and when she’s at home looking over paperwork; the tea leaves’ inherent ability to help a person concentrate clearly make her a fan.
But sometimes she’ll diverge from that pattern. When she’s menstruating or when she’s nauseous, Cuddy prefers ginger tea. Of course when she’s nauseous and they’ve been having sex, his beverage of choice is scotch, the possibility of a Rosemary’s Baby-style pregnancy scaring the hell out of him. But whatever works for her, he supposes.
Only once has he seen her drink black tea with whiskey. At the time she was nursing a mug of plain tea and filling out an elementary school admittance application for Rachel. That the kid was barely three years old and clearly not suited for any grade school at that point in her life hadn’t phased Cuddy at all. Not even when he mentioned it to her did she care, her only response being, “There are waiting lists, House. I have to apply now if I want to get her into a good school, and if you could just shut up and let me fill out these out without you being you, I would really appreciate that.”
The words uttered all in one breath, by the time she was finished, there was no doubt in his mind that she was seconds from having her head explode all over her precious application. Which he didn’t quite understand. But then… Cuddy, in her infinite need to subdue the insecurities that lurked within her, liked to overachieve and be as perfect as she could possibly be.
So he simply nodded his head and returned his attention to the episode of The L Word he was currently watching on mute. Only when she got up to go to the bathroom did he decide that the glass of Whiskey he was sipping could go to much better use.
Glancing toward the hallway, House listened carefully for a second to make sure that Cuddy wasn’t going to walk in on him dosing her tea. But when he didn’t hear her footsteps, he stood up and sneakily moved towards the yellow mug she’d left on the table. Silently he dumped the contents of his glass into her coffee cup before plopping back down on the couch as though nothing had happened.
A whole twenty minutes passed before she took another sip of the tea. And when she did, House tried to focus on anything but her and her imminent reaction. After all, being too interested would make it seem like he knew something was up, which would make the whole situation less entertaining.
So he simply watched her out of the corner of his eye. Just barely catching the motion of her throat muscles as she swallowed, he purposely kept his attention on the muted television.
Patiently he waited for her reaction.
But none came.
There was no sputtering, no spitting out the whiskey-laced tea. There was no admonishing him, no high-pitched yelling that would make his ears ring.
There was nothing - not even a glare meant for him.
She just put the mug down and kept filling out the paperwork as though nothing had happened. Every now and then she would drink some more, but at no point did she say anything to him.
He told himself to be patient about it. But an hour after the fact, she still hadn’t said anything, and he had to face the likelihood that she wasn’t going to.
Bitter had he gone to bed that night, the one thing he’d hoped would provide him some entertainment leaving him with nothing.
In fact, it wasn’t until two days later that he found the application lying on the coffee table. That alone was enough to make him suspicious; Cuddy was big on cleanliness, obsessed about everything in its place and all that. And considering the paperwork had been put away, hidden well enough that it had taken him two days to find it, House understood that she had set it out for him to see.
Carefully picking up the papers, almost as though they would bite him, he immediately realized what her reaction was.
There, by the place you were supposed to list the child’s father, in her loopy cursive, the letters slightly smeared from her left wrist rubbing against the paper, were the words, “Greg House.”
He was going to kill her.
Angrily he snatched up the papers, his fist clenching them into a tight roll. Fury roiling through him, he stalked towards the garage, towards the place he knew Cuddy was.
It was where she always was at this time in the morning on a weekday. And just as he expected, she was in the process of stuffing a squirming Rachel into her car seat when he approached them. Cuddy, bent over, was too busy to notice that he’d come into the room. So House decided to announce his presence by taking the rolled up papers and smacking her ass with them, much like his father used to hit the dog when it had peed in the House.
The dull thwap the papers made against Cuddy’s backside was barely audible above Rachel’s whining, but he knew instantly that Cuddy had felt it. Naturally she didn’t react as his childhood dog had. She didn’t cower in fear. She didn’t whimper.
But her fingers stopped trying to latch the buckle on the car seat, and dryly she admonished him, “What did I tell you about sex games in the garage?”
He was not amused.
Waving the papers angrily before she even had a chance to secure Rachel in the car seat and turn around to look at them, House snapped, “What the hell are you thinking - putting my name on these?”
Cuddy seemed not to know what he was talking about at first, her brow wrinkling in confusion. In a falsely sweet voice, she replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Rachel’s application. You put me as the father.”
Calmly she took the paperwork from his shaking hands and unraveled them. Her eyes skimming the first couple of lines, she could clearly see what he had seen, and they were finally on the same page. “Oh. I guess I did,” she said, handing the papers back to him.
But that wasn’t good enough for him. “You guess you did?”
She nodded her head emphatically. “Yeah… you know it’s hard to remember that night. I think someone dosed my tea while I was in the bathroom.” Closing the car door behind her, she continued, “I asked Rachel about it, but she wasn’t exactly forth coming about breaking into the liquor cabinet…”
“You know I did it,” he told her impatiently with a scowl on his face. “Which is why you did this.” He jabbed the paper in his hands angrily.
And that made her smile pleasantly. “Then I guess from now on, you’ll remember that, when I’m trying to take care of important paperwork, I like to be left alone and sober.”
His scowl deepened into a frown at her words. Until now he hadn’t considered that she might be mad. After all, it wasn’t like that had been his intent, and in fact, because she couldn’t see that all he’d been trying to do was get her to calm down, his anger only grew. With a vengeance, House ripped the application she’d worked so hard to finish up. “Oops,” he told her mockingly.
But once again, she didn’t react to the tiny pieces of what-was-now confetti fluttering to the ground. Or to be more specific, Cuddy didn’t react negatively. If anything, her smile grew. “You can rip that all you want. I already faxed over the finished application.”
And that made his heart sink even as she grinned wolfishly at him, because it meant that his name was on the application. It meant that, legally binding or not, there was something out there that said Rachel was his, said that she was his responsibility.
In some ways he supposed that maybe she was; he was sleeping with the kid’s mother, and although that didn’t automatically add up to father… he couldn’t deny, as much as he might like to, that, in this case, it kind of did. That Cuddy knew that as well as he did terrified him, left him speechless.
Which meant that he had no response when she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his frown. One of her hands patting his chest gently, she ordered him, “Don’t be late for work.”
As she sauntered around to the driver’s side of the car, victory visible in the sway of her hips, House couldn’t help but wish he’d never climbed down the rabbit hole.
He hasn’t messed with her tea since.
****************
Gift giving makes her nervous.
She’ll spend hours shopping for the perfect item to give the recipient, sometimes becoming so obsessed with it that she actually agonizes over her choice. But that’s practically sane behavior compared to what she does when the person’s opening the gift.
House knows this, because he’s seen it. Her normally pale cheeks turn pink, take on a glow that she doesn’t normally have. Her infinitely expressive eyes become flecked with nervous and expectant energy, her dark lashes batting slower than usual in an attempt to hide the embarrassment she clearly feels for being so desperate to impress the person getting the gift.
If she’s wearing a necklace - especially the single strand of white pearls - she’ll fiddle with the jewelry. If she’s not, she’ll be quick to explain the meaning behind the present, why she thought the person would like it and what not.
And to be honest, for the most part, House has always found that part of her personality annoying - the part of her that seems intent on impressing people by showing them just how well she knows them.
Granted, when he puts it like that, he realizes that that part of him exists too. Only in his case a demonstration of his ability to understand other people usually involves irritating the hell out of them. It sure as hell never involves any presents. Because his motivation is all about pointing out the little hypocrisies and lies people think nobody else notices where as Cuddy really is trying to make people like her.
And up until today, his fifty-second birthday, House has had no respect for that part of her.
He hasn’t been expecting anything from her for the occasion. As much as she accuses him of being a five-year-old, he really isn’t and doesn’t feel like she owes him anything. He doesn’t think anyone owes him anything, he corrects, choosing to spend the day at work where he can act like nothing’s going on.
Half the time he doesn’t even think about his birthday, his mind focused on keeping his patient alive and the clinic patients at bay. He makes Wilson pay for his lunch, fights with Cuddy over performing a brain biopsy, and yells at the neurosurgeon for leaving his patient blind. So… nothing out of the ordinary really, he thinks wryly as he drives to Cuddy’s home.
But all of that changes the second he pushes open the front door and goes into the house. Barely making it five feet into the hallway, he sees her. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, waiting for him. Which is odd in and of itself as she rarely - very rarely - makes it home before he does.
Yet this is definitely more bizarre, enough to make him think he’s lost his mind (again) in fact, because she’s standing in the living room dressed as a schoolgirl.
A very slutty schoolgirl, he concedes, but a schoolgirl nonetheless.
Light pink tartan pleats around her thighs, the skirt short enough for him to see the light cotton of her panties. A white shirt and black, long-sleeved cardigan are knotted between her breasts, leaving her flat stomach exposed. Stark white tights with bows right above the knees, a matching pink tartan tie, pigtails, and black Mary Janes (the kind strippers wear) complete the look, and he is in awe of her.
He can’t say anything; he’s that surprised and impressed. English is something he’s totally forgotten, thanks to the pretty picture right in front of him, and even if he could remember how to say, “Damn, you’re hot,” his lips and tongue are too interested in doing other things to remember how to work in order for him to speak.
Standing there, dumb and dumbfounded, he notices the way Cuddy’s nervous energy is beginning to overtake her. She starts fiddling with the tie around her neck and laughing - laughing in a way that’s half-chuckle, half-childish-giggle - nervously. She clearly wants him to say something encouraging, obviously needs to know that she hasn’t completely misread his sexual proclivities.
But he’s still busy staring at her to even begin to do that for her. Which makes her frown, upset. “You hate it,” she says in a soft, dejected voice.
He blinks. Something about her change in demeanor pulls him out of his lull, but he has yet to put two and two together. His “what” is barely above a whisper.
Scratching her head absentmindedly, Cuddy mutters, “I’m sorry. I thought - nevermind. You hate it.”
And it’s then that he finally begins to understand what’s going on. His head clear enough for him to scoff loudly, it’s enough to get Cuddy’s attention. Her gaze snapping towards him, she waits anticipatorily for him to speak.
“If you actually believe that I hate this,” he tells her slowly. “You’re an idiot.”
She gives him a wide grin, and he decides that just this once, he won’t point out how ridiculous it is for a woman her age to still be so concerned about impressing others.
**********************
Sometimes he finds her standing outside of the maternity ward, looking through the wall of windows into the nursery at the rows upon rows of freshly crapped-out babies. Her arms are always folded across her chest, wrapped around her sides as though all the warmth in her blood has been stolen away.
In these times, he never gets a really good look at her face, but he doesn’t need to. From her profile, he can see her frown; he can see the sadness in her eyes and reflected in the glass she’s looking through. And it never takes him more than a few seconds to understand what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling.
Her expression filled with grief and longing, visible even from the safe distance he always maintains, it’s easy to tell what’s going on with her. Especially for someone who knows her as well as he does, it’s a rather simple puzzle to solve placed at his feet.
Cuddy’s thinking of Joy, of the implantations that never took or failed.
House has no doubt that Rachel makes her happy. But so too does he have no doubt that Cuddy, ever filled with guilt and regret, fixates over what might have been, what could have been if things had been just a little different. As happy as she is to be on the route her life has taken, he knows that she can’t help but occasionally steal glances behind her, afraid that the demons that put her on this path have followed.
Most of the time, when he sees her like this, he knows that there’s nothing he can say or do to make it better; it’s not a disease he can cure, no treatment in his repertoire for her illness. And knowing that, he usually walks away from her, pretending that he never saw her looking at the babies.
But sometimes…
Sometimes he feels compelled to do something, say something; he thinks Wilson’s compulsion to take care of others is beginning to rub off on him, because there are times where House cannot walk away, and he has to approach her. Pressing a warm hand into the small of her back, he doesn’t even have a chance to ask her if she’s okay. Immediately moving away from his touch, she snaps, “I’m fine,” before storming away.
Cocking his head to the side, he wonders just how long it will take for her to remember that he has eyes and realize that she hasn’t convinced him of anything.
He wonders just how long it will be before he, knowing that he can’t help her, protects himself from that fact by pretending nothing’s happened at all.
Continue on to the rest of the fic
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of sex... nothing too graphic!
Characters: House/Cuddy, some Rachel and Wilson
Summary: He has a collage of who Cuddy is tucked away in his brain. A series of vignettes exploring just a few of the things House has learned over the years.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for cuddy_fest . My prompt was #231- Cuddy/House. Privately, House thought she looked even better all bed-mussed and rumpled. This contains spoilers through season five. This fic has been split into multiple posts because of Livejournal's character limits.
Disclaimer: The show isn't mine, so please don't sue me.
He has a collage of who Cuddy is tucked away in his brain. A kaleidoscope of experience, all hues of her personality neatly examined and filed in the darker recesses of his mind, he has a very clear idea of who this woman, the woman sleeping contentedly next to him right now is.
House supposes, on some level, it’s not unique to collect memories of someone in your life. But he thinks that what he does is a little different, because he doubts that anyone out there is as… methodical - obsessed - as he is. They remember the smaller details out of love, out of affection and pleasure.
But he doesn’t.
It’s all scientific for him, no different than discovering symptoms and writing them on a white board. The process one he uses day in and day out, it’s something he doesn’t know how to shut off when it involves the rest of his life. And by now he’s not entirely sure that he cares to do so.
Over the years, he can’t deny that his internal encyclopedia of Cuddy has helped him every now and then. Like when he needs to do a dangerous procedure, and he can tell just by looking at her what argument will work best.
But he also can’t deny that sometimes he wields his knowledge as a weapon and hurts her with it. Eviscerating every last defense she possesses, sometimes he can’t help himself, can’t resist the urge to yell, to insult, to show her just how obvious she can be. Like when she was wavering over whose sperm to use or when she asked him for performance reviews and he took the opportunity to review her instead; in neither of those instances was he intentionally trying to hurt her, but House isn’t sure that he didn’t.
Of course, there are the times where he’s feeling suffocated, feeling oppressed by something he can’t name - moments where he’s too afraid to continue on with a relationship - and he hurts her on purpose.
He doesn’t like to think about that much.
And yet, in the back of his mind lies the notion that that part of his personality only feeds this inexplicable desire to know every little thing about her. Because there’s no doubt in his mind that one day she will say that she’s had enough, and when that time comes, he wants to be prepared. He wants to have all of her memorized, all of her unearthed, so that he can torture himself with the minutest of details about her. The way she smells, the way her lips feel against his - he feels this indescribable need to have all of that internalized, to have her inside of him in a way that she can’t take back.
Right now though, it seems almost foolish to think about the day she’ll leave him. Because at the moment, Cuddy seemed content to be exactly where she was.
She’s dead to the world, face, partially obscured by messy dark locks, pressed into her pillow. An arm is tucked under her head, her other parallel to her with one of her hands curled against her mouth. Which frankly he appreciates considering she has an irritating habit of breathing with her mouth open that never fails to annoy him when he has trouble sleeping (like now). The sound completely muffled by her knuckles, it is with relief and gratitude that he can say that Cuddy is sleeping quietly.
And naked.
Rolling over onto his side so he can look at her better, House decides to use the inkling of sunlight filtering through the curtains to his advantage. It’s late… or early depending on how you look at it, the clock on Cuddy’s side of the room reading in bright red letters five a.m. He hasn’t fallen asleep yet, and his window of opportunity for uninterrupted slumber is closing quickly. Thanks to Roach, who, with all the wisdom a six year old possesses, seems to think that bursting into the bedroom by six-thirty every morning without fail, peace and quiet are non-existent at that time of day.
Just as dismal a possibility is the likelihood that Cuddy will be naked for much longer. Over the years, he’s seen her without her clothes plenty of times, obviously, but it’s a rarity that she actually falls asleep that way. She is and has always been way too concerned about her appearance to allow for that.
Her vanity is not lost on him, not at all. He notices the way she never ever misses getting her hair cut, no matter how busy she is that day. He notices the way her nails are almost always neatly manicured in a way that’s impractical for work.
Well… maybe impractical isn’t the right word, because she always keeps her claws at regulation length, her lunulas the smallest of slivers, and she rarely opts for anything other than the standard French manicure. And he supposes that she doesn’t really have to be practical, considering she spends most of her days yanking on his leash and flirting with donors for money. But nevertheless, House knows that she likes to think of herself as a doctor, knows that she likes to occasionally treat patients in the clinic or the E.R. or wherever there’s a staff shortage. And when she does that, she comes home with chipped nails that leave raised red marks on his back and the infrequent complaint that she needs a manicure on her tongue.
Glancing at her open hand on the pillow, he notices the flesh-colored polish shining slightly as the sun’s rays hit it. And he immediately decides that it’s not really impractical as much as it is stupid that she wastes her time getting something done that she’s bound to ruin. Idiotic but appreciated he quickly amends, because overall, he really does enjoy the physical package Cuddy has to offer.
A good portion of her income spent on low-cut tops and short skirts (which he likes), matching panty sets (which he really likes), and delicate, sheer lacy things she liked to wear to bed (which he only likes when he’s ripping them off), she has always, without fail, paid attention to the way she looks. And because of that, so has he.
But whereas she seems to think she needs all of those things to look good, House has always believed that she doesn’t need it.
At all.
He’ll never say that to her, obviously, but privately he thinks that when she’s bed-mussed and lying in rumpled sheets twisted around her bare hips, like she is right now, she’s exponentially more attractive.
Part of that, he supposes, has to do with the series of events that have to occur in order for her to sleep naked like this, because the main factor involves the two of them having mind-blowing sex that’s so exhausting she doesn’t care about getting dressed afterwards.
But it’s not just that fact that makes him think she’s more attractive like this. Really, more than anything, it’s the idea that there are moments where she’ll let all of her defenses down and show him exactly who she is behind all the make up and clothes that’s most enticing. The knowledge that, for all of his digging, there are times where no digging is necessary is breathtakingly attractive.
And with it comes a fresh wave of guilt, a strong pang in his stomach that makes him feel ashamed for what will eventually happen in this relationship. Because he knows, when he’s pushed her too far, when he’s hurt her too much, she will regret having ever let him in so far. And that will be all she needs to never open herself up to anyone again… Which means he’s basically ruined her for anyone else, he realizes.
But then he also knows this: of all the information he’s collected during his lifetime how to avoid hurting her is something he still has yet to learn.
Resting his cheek along her bare back, he tries not to think about that fact. Attempting to imprint in his mind the way her soft skin feels against his face, he tries not to remember that the ending to this story has already been written.
******************
For Rachel’s fourth birthday, it had been agreed upon by whomever that the Cuddys would spend a week together in Florida. At the time the plans had been made, House had pretended not to care.
And he didn’t really care - still doesn’t, he tells himself as he slips into Cuddy’s home. He didn’t care at all until he realized that Cuddy had no intention of inviting him to come along.
Now, truth be told, House can’t deny that, if she had asked him to go, he would have said no. But it’s the principle of the thing that bothers him. She’s been sleeping with him for over a year now; he’s more involved in her life - in Rachel’s life - than anybody in her family, and he thinks that he probably should have been invited.
That he wasn’t and proceeded to feel nothing short of bitter about that fact made him feel like a sniveling fifteen year old girl crying into her pillow about how the hottest guy in school hadn’t invited her to the prom.
So naturally the only thing to do was to pick a fight with Cuddy. Annoyed by her and his own reaction to being excluded, House spent the week before she left goading her in every way imaginable.
Spilling cranberry juice on the white dress she was wearing? Check.
Dumping bleach on the couch and carpet in her office? Check.
Giving Rachel access to all the Halloween candy Cuddy had hidden from the little girl and then giving the soon-to-be-four-year-old free rein in Cuddy’s closet? Check.
Her clothes, couch, and carpet ruined, her daughter high on the dreaded refined sugar, by the time the week was over, Cuddy was practically snarling. The night before she left spent arguing with him, she demanded to know what the hell his problem was. And considering he had no intention of ever answering that question, the only thing that had resulted was an incredibly frustrating fight that had left them both desperate to be away from one another.
The end result was she left for Florida with Rachel on her own, and he left for the nearest strip club with Wilson. Perhaps not the most mature response on his end, he admits, but the one he thought at the time was the most satisfying and reasonable.
Now, when he’s about to tell her what he’s done, of course, he thinks he should have just spent the week sulking with alcohol like a normal human being would do. It would have been so much less messy.
Or he shouldn’t have invited Wilson, he thinks, cocking his head to the side as he closes the front door behind him. Because if he went to the strip club alone, House knows that he wouldn’t have to preemptively tell Cuddy what he had done while she was away on the off-chance that Wilson would tell her himself.
Sighing House decides that regret will get him nowhere. And considering the more he thinks about the situation, the more annoyed he becomes, he thinks it’s probably not a good idea to keep mulling over recent events. He doesn’t want to have come here in the hopes of putting them both back on solid ground only to accidentally make things even worse.
But he’s barely even made it five feet into the home before he’s attacked. The pitter-patter of tiny feet reaching his ears a millisecond too late, by the time House realizes Rachel’s running towards him, she’s already there. Arms thrown around his legs, her face momentarily pressed into him, she nearly screams in her shrill voice, “House!”
He sighs loudly.
As much as he’s come to accept that the kid is here to stay, as much as the kid loves him, he’s not exactly all that enthusiastic about her. Which Rachel, apparently, has yet to realize.
Unfortunately.
Looking down, House grimaces at the sight of the little girl covered in a thin layer of ketchup. Her cheeks and mouth are covered in it, a few strands of light brown hair plastered to the mess. And upon further inspection he realizes that his pants are now lightly stained with the condiment as well.
Rachel doesn’t seem to be concerned by any of this, of course, as she starts to babble on about things he doesn’t have the attention span to even pretend to focus on. “You’re red,” he mutters, interrupting whatever the hell it is she’s trying to tell him.
Perhaps knowing that he’s really not interested in her, she pipes up one more time and tells him, “I have bugs.”
There’s a moment of silence as he tries to decide what it is that she’s trying to say. His brow furrowing a little, he has to ask slowly, “On you?”
However, her response - an enthusiastic nod of the head - just leaves him more confused. As often as he’s argued to Cuddy that her child is feral, he’s never expected any sort of confirmation of that fact on Rachel’s part.
… Although maybe he’s not reading her right; the Roach likes to talk a lot and say even less, the art of conversation still being something she’s trying to learn. So really, it’s quite possible that she means something else entirely.
She could have gotten an ant farm for her birthday, he tells himself, smirking at the appalled look Cuddy would have surely given the giver of such a gift. Rachel could have received a movie about a bug; she might have seen a bug in the yard - the possibilities are endless.
And he could go through listing them all, but House really doesn’t give a crap what the answer is for once in his life. So, instead of wasting his time, he simply plucks the girl off his body.
Not noticing the disgusted look on his face as he touches her sticky clothes, she clearly waits for him to say something. “Go eat your breakfast,” he says dismissively.
Rachel smiles and nods her head before skipping away. Singing, “I have bugs” over and over again in alternatively flat and sharp notes, she doesn’t stop until she disappears into the kitchen and starts chatting with the nanny.
He stands where he is for a moment, almost wishing that he hadn’t sent the one perfectly good reason not to talk to Cuddy away. But since he has done that, he knows he has no other choice but to head into her bedroom.
When he opens the door, she’s wrapped in a gray bathrobe. Her back to him, she’s busy laying out what she’s going to wear to work. Which he is, to be honest, sort of grateful for - dividing her focus will make it less likely that she actually pays attention to what he says.
Closing the door behind him quietly, he decides the best way to announce his presence is to say, “Wilson and I spent the week with strippers, and your kid’s saying she has bugs.”
She stiffens a little in surprise, but he doubts it has much to do with what he just said; his presence alone is enough to make her do that.
Immediately she spins around to face him. Arms folded across her chest, Cuddy explains in an irritated voice, “My sister found a tick on Rachel yesterday. She doesn’t have bugs. She had a bug, and now she’s fine. I’m going to have Wilson write a scrip for some prophylactics just to be sure.”
“I can do it if you want,” he offers, trying to be nice.
She seems to contemplate the idea for a second, her eyes searching him for some sort of indication as to what his intentions are. But since his only motivation is something along the lines of “I’m trying not to be an asshole,” he doesn’t really know what to tell her. So he just stands there silently.
Her hands quickly unknotting the sash that keeps her bathrobe closed, she asks curiously, “Does this have something to do with the strippers?”
That’s a question nearly impossible for him to answer.
It’s got nothing to do with the question itself; in theory, it’s not hard to say “no.” But the fact of the matter is Cuddy’s pushing her robe off of her body, and he can see her navel and breasts and all the other things about her he likes. And somehow speaking no longer seems like a possibility.
His eyes are trained on her, his mouth opening and closing and then opening again as he tries hard to remember what the hell it is that they’re talking about.
Unfortunately she takes his silence to mean something else. Her gaze narrows on him momentarily before she turns away from him. “I see.” He’s busy staring at her ass when she asks, “Did you sleep with any of them?”
Her words are slow to penetrate his glazed over mind. When they finally do, her underwear is around her knees. Dimly, he says, “What? No.”
Reaching for her bra, Cuddy seems doubtful. “Really.”
He’s about to say something sarcastic in return when he sees something he’s never noticed before. Running parallel to the white bra band she’s trying to hook shut is a dark mark that he’s unfamiliar with.
All of this talk of bugs makes him immediately suspect a tick. “Stop,” he orders, stalking towards her quickly.
She doesn’t understand, so naturally she tries to turn around, stopped only by his hands gripping her shoulders tightly. “What are you -”
“Stop moving,” he barks while trying to assess the mark that lies along the upper curve of her side and is nestled between ribs. His thumb instinctively runs over it, and House realizes that it’s not a tick but a freckle.
Something about her body that he didn’t realize existed until this moment, a fact he will rectify immediately, he thinks.
But accomplishing that task is not without its difficulties; he quickly becomes aware of that much. Because Cuddy is confused and concerned by his ambiguous actions, by the way one arm is hooked around her waist, his free hand gingerly touching her back; she’s used to bizarre behavior from him but not when it’s practically tender.
“What are you doing?” She’s impatient and irritated and tries to glance over her shoulder to see what he’s doing. But she can’t, that area of her body impossible for her to see without a mirror.
Realizing that, he begins to wonder if she’s ever noticed the little mark on her body before or if this is something just for him, something she doesn’t even know she has.
He doesn’t ask her about it, because asking would make her aware of its existence.
And he’s not sure he’s ready to share with her.
“House?” Her voice, interrupting his thoughts, is tentative, unsure… worried. It’s the way she gets when he does something that seems to have no explanation behind it. The product of having spent time in a mental institution, she seems to be constantly afraid that he will sink back to that low point in his life.
And he is too.
But she seems willing to believe he’s lost it at the drop of a hat.
Maybe he has.
She clears her throat, but it does no good to keep the emotion out of her next question. “Are you okay?”
The thumb running along the freckle stops moving, and he sighs. Burying his face in her dark locks, he tells her in a quiet voice, “Fine.”
“Then let me get dressed.”
He nods his head once and steps away from her.
Starting toward the door, House is ready to leave. But something inside of him forces him to stop, his hand hesitating to grab the doorknob. Some whisper being murmured in the back of his mind makes him speak up, makes him say, “I didn’t cheat on you.”
“Oh.”
Once more Cuddy spins around. The confused look on her face says she still doesn’t know what any of this is about. And he can’t deny, not even to himself, that that fact hurts.
Yanking the door open, House leaves before she has a chance to realize that something’s wrong.
*************
As someone who loves rational and reason, he believes that there is a pattern to Cuddy and her tea drinking habit. She likes drinking it out of big, fat ceramic mugs she can wrap her cold fingers around. She likes to sip on peppermint tea throughout the day at work and when she’s at home looking over paperwork; the tea leaves’ inherent ability to help a person concentrate clearly make her a fan.
But sometimes she’ll diverge from that pattern. When she’s menstruating or when she’s nauseous, Cuddy prefers ginger tea. Of course when she’s nauseous and they’ve been having sex, his beverage of choice is scotch, the possibility of a Rosemary’s Baby-style pregnancy scaring the hell out of him. But whatever works for her, he supposes.
Only once has he seen her drink black tea with whiskey. At the time she was nursing a mug of plain tea and filling out an elementary school admittance application for Rachel. That the kid was barely three years old and clearly not suited for any grade school at that point in her life hadn’t phased Cuddy at all. Not even when he mentioned it to her did she care, her only response being, “There are waiting lists, House. I have to apply now if I want to get her into a good school, and if you could just shut up and let me fill out these out without you being you, I would really appreciate that.”
The words uttered all in one breath, by the time she was finished, there was no doubt in his mind that she was seconds from having her head explode all over her precious application. Which he didn’t quite understand. But then… Cuddy, in her infinite need to subdue the insecurities that lurked within her, liked to overachieve and be as perfect as she could possibly be.
So he simply nodded his head and returned his attention to the episode of The L Word he was currently watching on mute. Only when she got up to go to the bathroom did he decide that the glass of Whiskey he was sipping could go to much better use.
Glancing toward the hallway, House listened carefully for a second to make sure that Cuddy wasn’t going to walk in on him dosing her tea. But when he didn’t hear her footsteps, he stood up and sneakily moved towards the yellow mug she’d left on the table. Silently he dumped the contents of his glass into her coffee cup before plopping back down on the couch as though nothing had happened.
A whole twenty minutes passed before she took another sip of the tea. And when she did, House tried to focus on anything but her and her imminent reaction. After all, being too interested would make it seem like he knew something was up, which would make the whole situation less entertaining.
So he simply watched her out of the corner of his eye. Just barely catching the motion of her throat muscles as she swallowed, he purposely kept his attention on the muted television.
Patiently he waited for her reaction.
But none came.
There was no sputtering, no spitting out the whiskey-laced tea. There was no admonishing him, no high-pitched yelling that would make his ears ring.
There was nothing - not even a glare meant for him.
She just put the mug down and kept filling out the paperwork as though nothing had happened. Every now and then she would drink some more, but at no point did she say anything to him.
He told himself to be patient about it. But an hour after the fact, she still hadn’t said anything, and he had to face the likelihood that she wasn’t going to.
Bitter had he gone to bed that night, the one thing he’d hoped would provide him some entertainment leaving him with nothing.
In fact, it wasn’t until two days later that he found the application lying on the coffee table. That alone was enough to make him suspicious; Cuddy was big on cleanliness, obsessed about everything in its place and all that. And considering the paperwork had been put away, hidden well enough that it had taken him two days to find it, House understood that she had set it out for him to see.
Carefully picking up the papers, almost as though they would bite him, he immediately realized what her reaction was.
There, by the place you were supposed to list the child’s father, in her loopy cursive, the letters slightly smeared from her left wrist rubbing against the paper, were the words, “Greg House.”
He was going to kill her.
Angrily he snatched up the papers, his fist clenching them into a tight roll. Fury roiling through him, he stalked towards the garage, towards the place he knew Cuddy was.
It was where she always was at this time in the morning on a weekday. And just as he expected, she was in the process of stuffing a squirming Rachel into her car seat when he approached them. Cuddy, bent over, was too busy to notice that he’d come into the room. So House decided to announce his presence by taking the rolled up papers and smacking her ass with them, much like his father used to hit the dog when it had peed in the House.
The dull thwap the papers made against Cuddy’s backside was barely audible above Rachel’s whining, but he knew instantly that Cuddy had felt it. Naturally she didn’t react as his childhood dog had. She didn’t cower in fear. She didn’t whimper.
But her fingers stopped trying to latch the buckle on the car seat, and dryly she admonished him, “What did I tell you about sex games in the garage?”
He was not amused.
Waving the papers angrily before she even had a chance to secure Rachel in the car seat and turn around to look at them, House snapped, “What the hell are you thinking - putting my name on these?”
Cuddy seemed not to know what he was talking about at first, her brow wrinkling in confusion. In a falsely sweet voice, she replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Rachel’s application. You put me as the father.”
Calmly she took the paperwork from his shaking hands and unraveled them. Her eyes skimming the first couple of lines, she could clearly see what he had seen, and they were finally on the same page. “Oh. I guess I did,” she said, handing the papers back to him.
But that wasn’t good enough for him. “You guess you did?”
She nodded her head emphatically. “Yeah… you know it’s hard to remember that night. I think someone dosed my tea while I was in the bathroom.” Closing the car door behind her, she continued, “I asked Rachel about it, but she wasn’t exactly forth coming about breaking into the liquor cabinet…”
“You know I did it,” he told her impatiently with a scowl on his face. “Which is why you did this.” He jabbed the paper in his hands angrily.
And that made her smile pleasantly. “Then I guess from now on, you’ll remember that, when I’m trying to take care of important paperwork, I like to be left alone and sober.”
His scowl deepened into a frown at her words. Until now he hadn’t considered that she might be mad. After all, it wasn’t like that had been his intent, and in fact, because she couldn’t see that all he’d been trying to do was get her to calm down, his anger only grew. With a vengeance, House ripped the application she’d worked so hard to finish up. “Oops,” he told her mockingly.
But once again, she didn’t react to the tiny pieces of what-was-now confetti fluttering to the ground. Or to be more specific, Cuddy didn’t react negatively. If anything, her smile grew. “You can rip that all you want. I already faxed over the finished application.”
And that made his heart sink even as she grinned wolfishly at him, because it meant that his name was on the application. It meant that, legally binding or not, there was something out there that said Rachel was his, said that she was his responsibility.
In some ways he supposed that maybe she was; he was sleeping with the kid’s mother, and although that didn’t automatically add up to father… he couldn’t deny, as much as he might like to, that, in this case, it kind of did. That Cuddy knew that as well as he did terrified him, left him speechless.
Which meant that he had no response when she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his frown. One of her hands patting his chest gently, she ordered him, “Don’t be late for work.”
As she sauntered around to the driver’s side of the car, victory visible in the sway of her hips, House couldn’t help but wish he’d never climbed down the rabbit hole.
He hasn’t messed with her tea since.
****************
Gift giving makes her nervous.
She’ll spend hours shopping for the perfect item to give the recipient, sometimes becoming so obsessed with it that she actually agonizes over her choice. But that’s practically sane behavior compared to what she does when the person’s opening the gift.
House knows this, because he’s seen it. Her normally pale cheeks turn pink, take on a glow that she doesn’t normally have. Her infinitely expressive eyes become flecked with nervous and expectant energy, her dark lashes batting slower than usual in an attempt to hide the embarrassment she clearly feels for being so desperate to impress the person getting the gift.
If she’s wearing a necklace - especially the single strand of white pearls - she’ll fiddle with the jewelry. If she’s not, she’ll be quick to explain the meaning behind the present, why she thought the person would like it and what not.
And to be honest, for the most part, House has always found that part of her personality annoying - the part of her that seems intent on impressing people by showing them just how well she knows them.
Granted, when he puts it like that, he realizes that that part of him exists too. Only in his case a demonstration of his ability to understand other people usually involves irritating the hell out of them. It sure as hell never involves any presents. Because his motivation is all about pointing out the little hypocrisies and lies people think nobody else notices where as Cuddy really is trying to make people like her.
And up until today, his fifty-second birthday, House has had no respect for that part of her.
He hasn’t been expecting anything from her for the occasion. As much as she accuses him of being a five-year-old, he really isn’t and doesn’t feel like she owes him anything. He doesn’t think anyone owes him anything, he corrects, choosing to spend the day at work where he can act like nothing’s going on.
Half the time he doesn’t even think about his birthday, his mind focused on keeping his patient alive and the clinic patients at bay. He makes Wilson pay for his lunch, fights with Cuddy over performing a brain biopsy, and yells at the neurosurgeon for leaving his patient blind. So… nothing out of the ordinary really, he thinks wryly as he drives to Cuddy’s home.
But all of that changes the second he pushes open the front door and goes into the house. Barely making it five feet into the hallway, he sees her. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, waiting for him. Which is odd in and of itself as she rarely - very rarely - makes it home before he does.
Yet this is definitely more bizarre, enough to make him think he’s lost his mind (again) in fact, because she’s standing in the living room dressed as a schoolgirl.
A very slutty schoolgirl, he concedes, but a schoolgirl nonetheless.
Light pink tartan pleats around her thighs, the skirt short enough for him to see the light cotton of her panties. A white shirt and black, long-sleeved cardigan are knotted between her breasts, leaving her flat stomach exposed. Stark white tights with bows right above the knees, a matching pink tartan tie, pigtails, and black Mary Janes (the kind strippers wear) complete the look, and he is in awe of her.
He can’t say anything; he’s that surprised and impressed. English is something he’s totally forgotten, thanks to the pretty picture right in front of him, and even if he could remember how to say, “Damn, you’re hot,” his lips and tongue are too interested in doing other things to remember how to work in order for him to speak.
Standing there, dumb and dumbfounded, he notices the way Cuddy’s nervous energy is beginning to overtake her. She starts fiddling with the tie around her neck and laughing - laughing in a way that’s half-chuckle, half-childish-giggle - nervously. She clearly wants him to say something encouraging, obviously needs to know that she hasn’t completely misread his sexual proclivities.
But he’s still busy staring at her to even begin to do that for her. Which makes her frown, upset. “You hate it,” she says in a soft, dejected voice.
He blinks. Something about her change in demeanor pulls him out of his lull, but he has yet to put two and two together. His “what” is barely above a whisper.
Scratching her head absentmindedly, Cuddy mutters, “I’m sorry. I thought - nevermind. You hate it.”
And it’s then that he finally begins to understand what’s going on. His head clear enough for him to scoff loudly, it’s enough to get Cuddy’s attention. Her gaze snapping towards him, she waits anticipatorily for him to speak.
“If you actually believe that I hate this,” he tells her slowly. “You’re an idiot.”
She gives him a wide grin, and he decides that just this once, he won’t point out how ridiculous it is for a woman her age to still be so concerned about impressing others.
**********************
Sometimes he finds her standing outside of the maternity ward, looking through the wall of windows into the nursery at the rows upon rows of freshly crapped-out babies. Her arms are always folded across her chest, wrapped around her sides as though all the warmth in her blood has been stolen away.
In these times, he never gets a really good look at her face, but he doesn’t need to. From her profile, he can see her frown; he can see the sadness in her eyes and reflected in the glass she’s looking through. And it never takes him more than a few seconds to understand what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling.
Her expression filled with grief and longing, visible even from the safe distance he always maintains, it’s easy to tell what’s going on with her. Especially for someone who knows her as well as he does, it’s a rather simple puzzle to solve placed at his feet.
Cuddy’s thinking of Joy, of the implantations that never took or failed.
House has no doubt that Rachel makes her happy. But so too does he have no doubt that Cuddy, ever filled with guilt and regret, fixates over what might have been, what could have been if things had been just a little different. As happy as she is to be on the route her life has taken, he knows that she can’t help but occasionally steal glances behind her, afraid that the demons that put her on this path have followed.
Most of the time, when he sees her like this, he knows that there’s nothing he can say or do to make it better; it’s not a disease he can cure, no treatment in his repertoire for her illness. And knowing that, he usually walks away from her, pretending that he never saw her looking at the babies.
But sometimes…
Sometimes he feels compelled to do something, say something; he thinks Wilson’s compulsion to take care of others is beginning to rub off on him, because there are times where House cannot walk away, and he has to approach her. Pressing a warm hand into the small of her back, he doesn’t even have a chance to ask her if she’s okay. Immediately moving away from his touch, she snaps, “I’m fine,” before storming away.
Cocking his head to the side, he wonders just how long it will take for her to remember that he has eyes and realize that she hasn’t convinced him of anything.
He wonders just how long it will be before he, knowing that he can’t help her, protects himself from that fact by pretending nothing’s happened at all.
Continue on to the rest of the fic