Something That We Do, 1/4
Title: Something That We Do, 1/4
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Warnings: possible spoilers for 8.14 “Love is Blind”; angst; references to/implications of gun violence, child abuse, adultery, substance abuse; dysfunctional family dynamics.
Summary: Other than the above, it’s actually kind of fluffy. ;) This is a sharkverse story that introduces House to his biological father. Set in season 8-ish time frame.
Comments welcome.
The boy, all of seven years old - or eight?; Thomas is terrible at gauging such things - emerges, soggy and mussed, from the weeds at the edge of the yard. There is something in his left hand.
“What is this?” he asks loudly, and holds it up.
Thomas mumbles, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
“It’s a snake,” someone ventures from the edge of some conversational cluster.
So incongruous, that ferocious scowl, on such a tiny face. “I know that,” the child says disdainfully. “What kind of snake?”
“A pissed -off one,” someone else says and chuckles, and then John House all but explodes, “GREG. You FOOL, what are you doing, picking up a snake you don’t know? Sometimes, Boy, you don’t have the sense God gave a goose.”
This expression, Thomas mulls over. Geese have the sensible instinct to fly for warmer weather, don’t they? You’d never catch a goose freezing its nuts off all winter in bloody Rhode Island, would you? Why isn't the saying, 'you don't have the sense God gave the United States Navy'?
Perhaps God isn't responsible for the Navy's sense, or lack of it. Perhaps God does not have anything to do with the Navy.
“I know it’s not a copperhead, or a water moccasin,” Greg reports coolly, and lies it down on the pavement of the patio, crouching, his knees bent so deeply that his little bum near touches the ground. “Besides, it can’t bite me; its mouth is full. See?” He jabs one of the writhing legs protruding from the creature’s mouth with his bare finger, and Thomas works at not gagging.
“Got ya there,” one of the men says in a Southern American accent. “That thang’s mouth is clean full of toad.”
“It’s a frog.” Greg scoots forward and bends so that he is eye to eye with the snake. “Its skin is smooth and the feet are webbed.”
“GREG,” John barks. “Stop showing off.”
“I can’t tell,” the little boy’s voice is troubled, “whether it’s a girl frog or a boy frog, but it’s a frog.”
“Oh, for …” John starts to curse, catches sight of Thomas, and shrugs at him, before returning to whatever inane conversation he’d been in the process of dominating.
Greg is still staring intently at the snake -- he is trying to memorize every detail, Thomas realizes, so that he can later consult a field guide or encyclopedia, some resource more useful than these stupid, blithering adults -- when Blythe appears.
“Okay troops,” she announces brightly. “Dinner is served.” That’s all it takes to herd them toward the buffet tables at the rear of the patio.
She walks up to Greg, and looks down.
“I know just how you feel,” she says. It’s not clear whether she’s talking to the snake, or the frog.
Thomas can’t look away. He doesn’t know how it is that the snake hasn’t moved at all, yet more of the frog has disappeared. Taking it in, slowly, imperceptibly. Horrifying, the way the body takes in pain, the way the world takes in innocence.
“Greg, Dear, it’s time to put the snake back where you got it and let the poor thing finish its … dinner,” Blythe orders smoothly. “Then wash your hands. Thoroughly. Thomas, we’ll wait for you to say grace.”
She stands with a gentle smile on her face as they plod off in opposite directions: Greg with his mystery, and Thomas with his blessing.
It always took House several sleep cycles to recover from a crisis. He went through life in a constant state of intellectual arousal and nervous energy, and extended infusions of adrenaline only exacerbated his tendencies to mania and insomnia. In the weeks following Shaeffer’s shooting, he took on extra cases, wrote two papers, and cleared his paperwork, working every day until he collapsed into a few hours of restless sleep at the hospital, going home just long enough to shower and perform a few chores or other perfunctory tasks of daily living, then returning to the hospital to work until he almost dropped where he stood again.
“He even got his clinic hours almost current,” Cuddy complained to Wilson. “The one thing he hasn’t done, is look in on Shaeffer’s recovery. His team is doing that, so House is doing complicated diagnoses alone - and that never ends well.”
“This is House, caring. Make the most of it while it lasts,” Wilson advised. “When his body gives out he’ll sink into a state of profound unconsciousness for two days and wake up his normal, misanthropic, lazy self.”
She knew Wilson was probably right, but she was nevertheless relieved when she walked into the living room late Saturday afternoon and found House at the piano, playing the same few notes over and looking dissatisfied. He was dressed in light cotton sweats and there was bourbon in his glass.
“You’re awake,” she said, so pleased that she didn’t mind risking the dry, “Obviously,” he gave her.
He granted her a relaxed smile. “How was Rachel’s fencing bout?”
“He kicked her butt. How was your boxing … match, game, whatever it was?”
“Workout. And I kicked his.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said, indicating the piano. They were still in the process of learning to share physical space. “I love to hear you play.”
“You love to hear me frustrated,” he corrected with some affection, and his hands came down hard on a sour chord.
“You’re disgustingly cute when you’re out of your depth,” she admitted. “But you’re tackling that piece again now, why?”
“No idea.” House took a sip of bourbon. “It’s ridiculously sentimental, much too sharp in places, and needlessly complex.”
She looked into his eyes, and understanding sparked between them, allowing the comparisons to stay unspoken.
“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling. “Can’t imagine what you’d see in something like that.”
His fingers caressed the keys, producing a soft, melodic sound. They measured each other, and his eyes lingered on her. The thread of contact between them unfurled a strand of desire, tinged with warm appreciation.
“Must be my need for challenge,” he asserted, a teasing sparkle in his eyes. “But I intend to master it. Completely.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Good luck with that.“ She took a seat at the edge of the bench and feathered her fingers over the purplish-black bruise under his left eye. “I hate that stupid sport.”
“It’s physical therapy. You like what it does for my upper body.”
Instead of admitting he was right, she bristled. “It’s you and Vince pounding the crap out of each other.”
“Like fencing is just Rachel stabbing some other kid,” he argued lightly. “Next week I’ll take her, and you can sleep in.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather be there, too.” Cuddy had few pleasures in life more discomforting than watching House, watching Rachel. He paced the sidelines, and when Rachel lunged - often, directly and enthusiastically into her opponent’s sword -- he tensed and unconsciously tightened his muscles in sympathy; the move was a perfectly Greg House combination of sad and funny and sexy and annoying.
He put his hand at the base of her spine and made small tight circles with his thumb. Instead of his usual bemusement and grudging trust, he mirrored her expression of wonder - that he was really here and she was really here and they were really alright - blended in with a mixture of pride and guilty relief. Seeing him concentrate on something, hearing him laugh, had always provoked a sudden and intense wave of want; these days, it also brought on an irrational, intoxicating stamp of mine.
She leaned in to touch her lips to his, and he let out a long, sweet sigh.
“You’re kissing,” Rachel accused.
House dropped his hand from Cuddy’s butt. “Hey, Fang. How’s the childhood going?”
“Terrible. I have to make a poster and while I was at enrichment everybody else took all the good cultures. And, I got no chapters all week.”
House pulled away with a puzzled glare. “Cuddy?”
“She’s been unbearable.”
“Our policy was, no matter how much trouble she’s in, she always gets books,” he scolded.
“She didn’t want them. I don’t pronounce the names correctly, I can’t get the accents right - why does a centaur have a Brooklyn accent?”
“He’s a faun, and he just does.” House rolled his eyes.
Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. “Things have not been very good around here. And you’re just sitting there kissing.”
“I still say, we should have called,” Thomas grumbled.
“That would be a terrible idea,” Blythe sniffed. “You don’t know what Greg is like.”
“I think maybe I do, that’s what I’m worried about.” Thomas sought courage, summoning the words of Mark 16:16-18:
And this is how you will know they are mine: they will pick up serpents with their hands, and they will drink poison, and yet live; they will put their hands on the sick and heal them.
It did not comfort or buttress him a bit. Indeed, as he rang the doorbell, he harbored the distinct, insane, fear that he was about to be turned into a pillar of flame.
Part 2: Not something that we have.