10/25
FanFic: Soon, Love Soon: HouseFic50 & cuddy_fest: (1/1)
Title: Soon, Love Soon
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, M.D
Character/Pairing: Cuddy, (bit of House/Cuddy)
Prompt: 001: Beginnings and 62. Cuddy's roof is leaking again.
Word Count: 2365
A/N: lyrics by Vienna Teng, from various songs. I really need to stop writing baby!fic.
A/N2: snapplesons made me do it.
i. love turns forty, the morning comes
third time's the charm then, huh? he says with a smile. she stares at the ceiling. the plastic is sticking to her skin where the gown parts in the back and her calves are tight; the metal under her feet is cold.
fourth, she wants to say, but doesn't bother.
on the wall to her left is some abstract painting with lots of blues and greens; if she stares hard enough she can see a guitar, or maybe a violin.
the doctor puts his hand on her leg briefly; okay. try to relax. his voice is warm and comforting but a poor substitute for an embrace. she exhales and brings her hands up; rests one just under her breasts and the other at her collar bone. she fingers the strand of pearls and wonders if maybe they'll bring her luck. this time.
she closes her eyes and doesn't open them until he says her name. his expression is soft. we're done, he says. you should rest for about two hours; a nurse will be in in a moment.
she says thank you and he says you're welcome and a few minutes later a nurse comes in with a large smile and a glass of water.
'would you like something to read?'
--
ii. let the water of calm trickle over my doubts
the later it gets, the quieter the halls become. the bustle smooths into a soft hush and she slows her pace, breathes in the calm.
she's always liked the hospital at night. the way the lights around her desk deepen the orange of the walls; the way the nurses whisper even though there's no one around to hear them; the way there's always at least one office on each floor that isn't dark.
when it gets past eight she walks the halls, checks in on sleeping patients, talks quietly with the ones who are awake. it's a luxury she allows herself on a daily basis, and it never gets old.
she wonders if she'll have time for it, when -- if, she says quietly.
numbers run through her head: 39 (years old). 4 (tries). 1 (miscarriage). 28 (percent)(success rate). 475 (poor excuse for a)(lover). (wait) 1 (year. now a) 13.5 (percent)(success rate). (down by) 14.5 (over half).
11 (days. waiting.)
she sighs and runs her hand through her hair. it's late. she should go home.
she wonders if maybe, 9 months from now --
she grabs her purse and turns out the light.
--
iii. spread your white sheets over my empty house
there are four tests sitting on her bathroom sink. there are three different brands (two of the same; the first two). they're all white. all lined up in a row. they all say the same thing.
she hears the doctor say 'high risk' and 'not a guarantee.' she hears the fake congratulations the board will give her, the whispers and rumors that will spread, the soft echo of a baby rattle.
she wonders how she'll tell her family, and when.
(if) she corrects herself, swallows hard. remembers the way her muscles clenched, the way the blood felt thick on her fingers.
she throws the tests away, changes her clothes, settles down with her laptop and a cup of tea. she works on performance reviews and her curriculum for the semester and realizes that the baby will be born in june, her mother's favorite month.
(might be) she whispers.
an hour later she shuts down the computer, rinses her cup, climbs into bed and can't stop the image of a small body curling up next to her. she squeezes her eyes closed, rolls over onto her back.
don't, she thinks, stares at the ceiling. just don't.
(her hand finds its way to her abdomen; rests there.)
she tries not to smile, and fails.
--
iv. lights hum in the gray like her breathing will, someday
the bell over the door rings out softly when she enters. the woman behind the counter, with graying hair and thick rimmed glasses, looks up.
good afternoon. can i help you find anything? she asks.
just looking, she answers, with the ghost of a smile.
the store is all soft blues and pinks and yellows and whites. there are unnecessary flowers in all corners of the room; books with bright colors and teddy bears and apparel with storks and embroidered little pillows.
there’s a crib with a mobile hanging above it and a soft, stuffed penguin sitting in the middle. she runs her fingers over its head, smiles.
baby monitors and designer maternity clothes and the nausea's hit her hard; people are starting to ask questions. she's not willing to jinx it.
but off to the side on a tall wicker shelf is a folded white blanket with gentle, pale blue spirals. and for some inexplicable reason, it gives her just a little bit of hope.
--
v. there will be a soaring voice for a silent plea
her stomach hurts. no. it's upset. she ate too much. her clothes are too tight.
she raises an eyebrow when brenda gives her a concerned look.
(she's heard the heartbeat. at her last appointment. the doctor pressed the wand to her stomach and turned up the volume and there it was. she stilled, tried not to breathe, not to let any sound interfere with the soft thump, thump, thump.
we're not out of the woods, her doctor said. she nodded, understood, couldn't help it.
she's heard babies' heartbeats before, but not like that. not that beautiful.)
but she's been spotting the past few days. it's nothing to worry about, her doctor said, not yet. pause, then: but to be safe, take it easy.
the sudden ache in her abdomen makes her gasp, drop her files.
i'm going home, she says, and nobody tries to stop her.
you knew this could (would?) happen, she tells herself. maybe it's just not meant to--
but on the foot of her bed is the thick, soft blanket with the pale blue spirals and she just doesn't understand how something she wants so badly doesn't want her.
she takes a warm shower and puts on warm clothes and lays down on the couch with both hands over her belly button. the sound of the (her) baby's heartbeat echos in the silence.
'please stay,' she whispers.
--
vi. for much of the distance i’m holding your hand
12 weeks. 14 weeks. 17 weeks.
the twins are growing, he smirks. so's the rest of you, but it's the girls i'm most fond of.
i've noticed.
he shrugs, drops into the chair on the other side of her desk.
he found out first. then wilson (by proxy). then the board. then the nurses. then everyone.
so, we talkin' inny or outy? he raises his eyebrows.
she rolls her eyes, shakes her head. it's a boy, she says. and how did you even know i had an appointment-never mind. i don't want to know.
painted the nursery yet? he asks. picked out all his favorite hobbies and movies -- you are gonna let him watch television, right? i'd hate to see you turn out to be one of those psycho mothers--
this is what you're concerned about? if i let him watch television?
i'm not concerned at all, he says, but looks away just a little too quickly, clears his throat. she buries her smile.
so, he taps his cane on the ground. who's your replacement gonna be? i need to know so i can find things to blackmail him with.
she glares. doctor stern will be temporarily taking over my position.
touchy, he mutters, thinks. then nods. stern. good.
she frowns. you...approve?
he's older, on his way out of the business; he's not quite as good at this job as you are, so there's no risk that the board will try to instate him while you're gone, but he's not stupid enough that he'll screw everything up. and he's enough of a pushover that he'll let me do my job instead of trying to obey the law. it's smart. and cunning...
he pauses, she starts to reply--
most pregnant women experience an increase in sex drive--how are you going to handle that?
without your help.
he looks disappointed but only for a moment before he smirks, hauls himself out of the chair. he makes it halfway to the door.
well if you change your mind, he starts to say, all suggestion. she laughs, shakes her head.
go do your clinic duty.
there's a pause, then:
cuddy, he says. she looks up. he's not quite smiling.
she smiles back. thank you.
--
vii. knowing this will i reach for you, the way you want me to
there is absolutely no way she can do this.
she doesn’t have time to raise a child. she doesn’t have time for a dog. or a plant.
she stares at the sonogram. at her protruding stomach. at the stack of parenting books on her nightstand. she stares at the high heels she hasn’t been able to wear and the clothes she hopes she’ll fit back into. she wonders if the house is too big or too small. is the nursery too far from her room? is there a draft under the door? and what about the roof; it was fixed but quickly, and if there was all that fungus under her sink who knows where else it could be. if she can't even keep her house clean then how hell is she going to be able to-
she stops, breathes.
she stares at the sonogram.
--
viii. breathe in, breathe out, exhale and inhale
she hasn’t had a chance to pick up baby books, so she’s reading him things off her shelves. edith wharton and tennessee williams and endocrinology journals. at one point she picks up one of the parenting guidebooks and murmurs,
see? these are all the things i’m not supposed to do. you’re gonna have to help me with that, okay? keep me in line.
he squirms inside her and she laughs softly, puts the book down, picks up her headphones instead and presses one of the ears against her abdomen.
this is chopin, she says. i like him better than the others. i don’t know why.
she rubs her hand absently over the curve of her stomach. she does it at work, too; reads him interoffice memos and scheduling bulletins and budget proposals.
i wish i had something more interesting for you, she sighs.
a few weeks later she finds her college copy of the little prince and whispers to him, ‘bonjour. bonsoir.’ he kicks at her hand and she smiles, finishes the story of l’allumeur.
--
ix. for you i’d burn the length and breadth of sky
six weeks too soon she doubles over in pain.
good thing you work in a hospital then, huh? he says, almost gleefully. he sobers when he sees her face.
it’s too soon, she whispers. he’s too early.
he helps her onto the bed, stands aside as a flurry of doctors and nurses come and go.
we’ll monitor you very closely, the doctor says. house mocks him as he leaves, and she almost smiles, until another contraction hits and she bites her lip.
he rolls his eyes. can’t be that bad.
wanna trade places? she gasps. he screws up his face, turns and moves across the room. a few moments later he comes back, hands her a cool, damp washcloth. she tries not to look surprised.
thanks.
he nods, stands awkwardly next to her bed. the blinds are closed and there’s only a whisper of the activity going on outside. she fingers the edges of the washcloth absently.
he’s too small, she whispers. i don’t-
he interrupts her. you’ve got the best nicu in the state. i think it says so on a plaque somewhere.
she closes her eyes briefly, looks away, presses her hands protectively against her stomach.
these are your people, he says. if you don’t trust them, why’d you pick them?
i do trust them, she murmurs. i just…
(she wants to tell him that she couldn’t do it. that if something goes wrong now, if something happens…)
well, lucky for you, ritual sacrifice of administrators' sons is now a total faux-pas. i think it went out with disco. or possibly spandex. he pauses, looks away. it’ll be fine.
yeah.
he shrugs, pulls up a chair and props his leg up on the bed next to her knee. she looks over at him in surprise.
you’re staying?
a free show to a hot, sweaty and screaming boss lady? you bet i’m staying. he puts on an innocent face. i’ll even let you hold my hand.
i’m gonna break every bone- she grits her teeth as another contraction hits.
well, he says. maybe not.
--
x. it’s so beautiful here, she says, this moment now
cuddy’s roof is leaking again.
it’s the same little drip drip-drip drip that seems to love the silence of her home, but now it’s broken by fitful murmurs and soft cries, by her careful steps as she paces back and forth, back and forth.
it’s late and dark outside but light from her living room is warm and the shadows are gentle, not menacing. she stops pacing for a moment to check the height of the water in the bowl and he lifts his head from her chest, wails.
shhh, shhh, she whispers, keeps walking, rubs his back and presses her lips to his head, smiles against the little wisps of hair. she hums the lullaby her mother used to sing; the dripping water echoes up the steel sides of the bowl and she thinks about her father, constantly tinkering with the out-of-tune piano in the living room.
she should get a piano. even if he never plays, there should be opportunity for music in the house, she thinks. their house.
he nuzzles his face into her neck. she can feel his soft breaths, his eyelashes, the curl of his fist against her shoulder.
she can feel his heartbeat, just out of sync with hers.
Title: Soon, Love Soon
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, M.D
Character/Pairing: Cuddy, (bit of House/Cuddy)
Prompt: 001: Beginnings and 62. Cuddy's roof is leaking again.
Word Count: 2365
A/N: lyrics by Vienna Teng, from various songs. I really need to stop writing baby!fic.
A/N2: snapplesons made me do it.
i. love turns forty, the morning comes
third time's the charm then, huh? he says with a smile. she stares at the ceiling. the plastic is sticking to her skin where the gown parts in the back and her calves are tight; the metal under her feet is cold.
fourth, she wants to say, but doesn't bother.
on the wall to her left is some abstract painting with lots of blues and greens; if she stares hard enough she can see a guitar, or maybe a violin.
the doctor puts his hand on her leg briefly; okay. try to relax. his voice is warm and comforting but a poor substitute for an embrace. she exhales and brings her hands up; rests one just under her breasts and the other at her collar bone. she fingers the strand of pearls and wonders if maybe they'll bring her luck. this time.
she closes her eyes and doesn't open them until he says her name. his expression is soft. we're done, he says. you should rest for about two hours; a nurse will be in in a moment.
she says thank you and he says you're welcome and a few minutes later a nurse comes in with a large smile and a glass of water.
'would you like something to read?'
--
ii. let the water of calm trickle over my doubts
the later it gets, the quieter the halls become. the bustle smooths into a soft hush and she slows her pace, breathes in the calm.
she's always liked the hospital at night. the way the lights around her desk deepen the orange of the walls; the way the nurses whisper even though there's no one around to hear them; the way there's always at least one office on each floor that isn't dark.
when it gets past eight she walks the halls, checks in on sleeping patients, talks quietly with the ones who are awake. it's a luxury she allows herself on a daily basis, and it never gets old.
she wonders if she'll have time for it, when -- if, she says quietly.
numbers run through her head: 39 (years old). 4 (tries). 1 (miscarriage). 28 (percent)(success rate). 475 (poor excuse for a)(lover). (wait) 1 (year. now a) 13.5 (percent)(success rate). (down by) 14.5 (over half).
11 (days. waiting.)
she sighs and runs her hand through her hair. it's late. she should go home.
she wonders if maybe, 9 months from now --
she grabs her purse and turns out the light.
--
iii. spread your white sheets over my empty house
there are four tests sitting on her bathroom sink. there are three different brands (two of the same; the first two). they're all white. all lined up in a row. they all say the same thing.
she hears the doctor say 'high risk' and 'not a guarantee.' she hears the fake congratulations the board will give her, the whispers and rumors that will spread, the soft echo of a baby rattle.
she wonders how she'll tell her family, and when.
(if) she corrects herself, swallows hard. remembers the way her muscles clenched, the way the blood felt thick on her fingers.
she throws the tests away, changes her clothes, settles down with her laptop and a cup of tea. she works on performance reviews and her curriculum for the semester and realizes that the baby will be born in june, her mother's favorite month.
(might be) she whispers.
an hour later she shuts down the computer, rinses her cup, climbs into bed and can't stop the image of a small body curling up next to her. she squeezes her eyes closed, rolls over onto her back.
don't, she thinks, stares at the ceiling. just don't.
(her hand finds its way to her abdomen; rests there.)
she tries not to smile, and fails.
--
iv. lights hum in the gray like her breathing will, someday
the bell over the door rings out softly when she enters. the woman behind the counter, with graying hair and thick rimmed glasses, looks up.
good afternoon. can i help you find anything? she asks.
just looking, she answers, with the ghost of a smile.
the store is all soft blues and pinks and yellows and whites. there are unnecessary flowers in all corners of the room; books with bright colors and teddy bears and apparel with storks and embroidered little pillows.
there’s a crib with a mobile hanging above it and a soft, stuffed penguin sitting in the middle. she runs her fingers over its head, smiles.
baby monitors and designer maternity clothes and the nausea's hit her hard; people are starting to ask questions. she's not willing to jinx it.
but off to the side on a tall wicker shelf is a folded white blanket with gentle, pale blue spirals. and for some inexplicable reason, it gives her just a little bit of hope.
--
v. there will be a soaring voice for a silent plea
her stomach hurts. no. it's upset. she ate too much. her clothes are too tight.
she raises an eyebrow when brenda gives her a concerned look.
(she's heard the heartbeat. at her last appointment. the doctor pressed the wand to her stomach and turned up the volume and there it was. she stilled, tried not to breathe, not to let any sound interfere with the soft thump, thump, thump.
we're not out of the woods, her doctor said. she nodded, understood, couldn't help it.
she's heard babies' heartbeats before, but not like that. not that beautiful.)
but she's been spotting the past few days. it's nothing to worry about, her doctor said, not yet. pause, then: but to be safe, take it easy.
the sudden ache in her abdomen makes her gasp, drop her files.
i'm going home, she says, and nobody tries to stop her.
you knew this could (would?) happen, she tells herself. maybe it's just not meant to--
but on the foot of her bed is the thick, soft blanket with the pale blue spirals and she just doesn't understand how something she wants so badly doesn't want her.
she takes a warm shower and puts on warm clothes and lays down on the couch with both hands over her belly button. the sound of the (her) baby's heartbeat echos in the silence.
'please stay,' she whispers.
--
vi. for much of the distance i’m holding your hand
12 weeks. 14 weeks. 17 weeks.
the twins are growing, he smirks. so's the rest of you, but it's the girls i'm most fond of.
i've noticed.
he shrugs, drops into the chair on the other side of her desk.
he found out first. then wilson (by proxy). then the board. then the nurses. then everyone.
so, we talkin' inny or outy? he raises his eyebrows.
she rolls her eyes, shakes her head. it's a boy, she says. and how did you even know i had an appointment-never mind. i don't want to know.
painted the nursery yet? he asks. picked out all his favorite hobbies and movies -- you are gonna let him watch television, right? i'd hate to see you turn out to be one of those psycho mothers--
this is what you're concerned about? if i let him watch television?
i'm not concerned at all, he says, but looks away just a little too quickly, clears his throat. she buries her smile.
so, he taps his cane on the ground. who's your replacement gonna be? i need to know so i can find things to blackmail him with.
she glares. doctor stern will be temporarily taking over my position.
touchy, he mutters, thinks. then nods. stern. good.
she frowns. you...approve?
he's older, on his way out of the business; he's not quite as good at this job as you are, so there's no risk that the board will try to instate him while you're gone, but he's not stupid enough that he'll screw everything up. and he's enough of a pushover that he'll let me do my job instead of trying to obey the law. it's smart. and cunning...
he pauses, she starts to reply--
most pregnant women experience an increase in sex drive--how are you going to handle that?
without your help.
he looks disappointed but only for a moment before he smirks, hauls himself out of the chair. he makes it halfway to the door.
well if you change your mind, he starts to say, all suggestion. she laughs, shakes her head.
go do your clinic duty.
there's a pause, then:
cuddy, he says. she looks up. he's not quite smiling.
she smiles back. thank you.
--
vii. knowing this will i reach for you, the way you want me to
there is absolutely no way she can do this.
she doesn’t have time to raise a child. she doesn’t have time for a dog. or a plant.
she stares at the sonogram. at her protruding stomach. at the stack of parenting books on her nightstand. she stares at the high heels she hasn’t been able to wear and the clothes she hopes she’ll fit back into. she wonders if the house is too big or too small. is the nursery too far from her room? is there a draft under the door? and what about the roof; it was fixed but quickly, and if there was all that fungus under her sink who knows where else it could be. if she can't even keep her house clean then how hell is she going to be able to-
she stops, breathes.
she stares at the sonogram.
--
viii. breathe in, breathe out, exhale and inhale
she hasn’t had a chance to pick up baby books, so she’s reading him things off her shelves. edith wharton and tennessee williams and endocrinology journals. at one point she picks up one of the parenting guidebooks and murmurs,
see? these are all the things i’m not supposed to do. you’re gonna have to help me with that, okay? keep me in line.
he squirms inside her and she laughs softly, puts the book down, picks up her headphones instead and presses one of the ears against her abdomen.
this is chopin, she says. i like him better than the others. i don’t know why.
she rubs her hand absently over the curve of her stomach. she does it at work, too; reads him interoffice memos and scheduling bulletins and budget proposals.
i wish i had something more interesting for you, she sighs.
a few weeks later she finds her college copy of the little prince and whispers to him, ‘bonjour. bonsoir.’ he kicks at her hand and she smiles, finishes the story of l’allumeur.
--
ix. for you i’d burn the length and breadth of sky
six weeks too soon she doubles over in pain.
good thing you work in a hospital then, huh? he says, almost gleefully. he sobers when he sees her face.
it’s too soon, she whispers. he’s too early.
he helps her onto the bed, stands aside as a flurry of doctors and nurses come and go.
we’ll monitor you very closely, the doctor says. house mocks him as he leaves, and she almost smiles, until another contraction hits and she bites her lip.
he rolls his eyes. can’t be that bad.
wanna trade places? she gasps. he screws up his face, turns and moves across the room. a few moments later he comes back, hands her a cool, damp washcloth. she tries not to look surprised.
thanks.
he nods, stands awkwardly next to her bed. the blinds are closed and there’s only a whisper of the activity going on outside. she fingers the edges of the washcloth absently.
he’s too small, she whispers. i don’t-
he interrupts her. you’ve got the best nicu in the state. i think it says so on a plaque somewhere.
she closes her eyes briefly, looks away, presses her hands protectively against her stomach.
these are your people, he says. if you don’t trust them, why’d you pick them?
i do trust them, she murmurs. i just…
(she wants to tell him that she couldn’t do it. that if something goes wrong now, if something happens…)
well, lucky for you, ritual sacrifice of administrators' sons is now a total faux-pas. i think it went out with disco. or possibly spandex. he pauses, looks away. it’ll be fine.
yeah.
he shrugs, pulls up a chair and props his leg up on the bed next to her knee. she looks over at him in surprise.
you’re staying?
a free show to a hot, sweaty and screaming boss lady? you bet i’m staying. he puts on an innocent face. i’ll even let you hold my hand.
i’m gonna break every bone- she grits her teeth as another contraction hits.
well, he says. maybe not.
--
x. it’s so beautiful here, she says, this moment now
cuddy’s roof is leaking again.
it’s the same little drip drip-drip drip that seems to love the silence of her home, but now it’s broken by fitful murmurs and soft cries, by her careful steps as she paces back and forth, back and forth.
it’s late and dark outside but light from her living room is warm and the shadows are gentle, not menacing. she stops pacing for a moment to check the height of the water in the bowl and he lifts his head from her chest, wails.
shhh, shhh, she whispers, keeps walking, rubs his back and presses her lips to his head, smiles against the little wisps of hair. she hums the lullaby her mother used to sing; the dripping water echoes up the steel sides of the bowl and she thinks about her father, constantly tinkering with the out-of-tune piano in the living room.
she should get a piano. even if he never plays, there should be opportunity for music in the house, she thinks. their house.
he nuzzles his face into her neck. she can feel his soft breaths, his eyelashes, the curl of his fist against her shoulder.
she can feel his heartbeat, just out of sync with hers.