[house & pretender fic] and under the hand of god, r
And Under the Hand of God
- house, md, the pretender
- cuddy, lylecuddy, housecuddy, housecuddywilson
- holiday fics: antiqueskies's prompt, Lyle/Cuddy, there are things about him she doesn't question.
- housefic50: fear (008)
- words: 2932
- r
- spoilers for joy 506
- i have no idea what this is
There are things about him she doesn't question.
Like the way he only gives her half his name; first or last she doesn't know, doesn't care. He has a smile she knows is deceiving, recognizes it (she's seen it before - not that cold, not that empty, but still just as big of a lie) and ignores it.
She's becoming skilled that that - looking, seeing, ignoring, moving on, forgetting, wanting to forget; there are things she can't
- she wakes up in the middle of the night short of breath and full of tears and doesn't question the way he leans over her, four fingers too tight on her arm and his other hand splayed across her stomach. She has thin, red crescents all over her body from his nails, perfectly manicured and sharp -
House gives her a hard look, but he doesn't ask, can't ask, can't care.
Go to hell, she wants to say, doesn't have the strength.
She doesn't question his motives when he kisses her, sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always just short of the truth. She doesn't know why he's there, why her, why then, and she doesn't care. He's a charmer in the daytime; takes her to beautiful restaurants when she lets him, pulls out her chair and orders for them both and smiles at the waitress, leaves a big tip. He never goes to her work, never introduces her to any of his friends, if he has any.
It's just them. And she doesn't question, doesn't care when he grabs her roughly; the leather glove makes harsh red scabs, tears at the skin on her neck as he holds her in place, kisses her; it's a brand, not a caress, but it doesn't matter.
It's a contrast to the way he stays, curled behind her, running his fingers up and down her arm while she stares at the wall.
She can't sleep.
He watches her.
--
A woman approaches her at work. She's tall, slender, wears too much black and has seen too much, by the shadowed look in her eyes; she has no laugh lines.
'Can I help you?'
'Get rid of him,' she says. Her fingers twitch as if she needs a cigarette.
'Excuse me?'
'Lyle,' she says, then looks around once. 'Get rid of him. Before he gets rid of you.'
She half expects the woman to produce a folder, an envelope, a tape; a piece of paper with a rendezvous point. Instead she reaches out, touches her hand so briefly.
'Get out,' she says.
Then she's gone, somehow, in the short time it took to blink, and the sounds of the clinic return to normal, a calm hustle and conversation and she can faintly make out heels clicking against the floor.
She lets him in that night, lets him push her against the wall and bruise her wrist. She wears a long sleeved shirt the next day, and no one asks about the circles under her eyes.
--
He wants to take her on vacation. Someplace in Delaware, he says.
He says it's beautiful there.
She says she can't.
He shrugs.
'Later, then,' he says, and he's too sure, too confident. It makes her skin ache.
--
She doesn't tell him about Joy, or about House, or about all the dreams she put aside in a small wooden box that she threw away the key for; she doesn't tell him that she's worn out, now, that she needs time, space - she needs light, or some glimmer of it anyway.
He doesn't ask, but he seems to know. Seems to know everything. She never mentions her sister, but he brings it up one night, over dinner, says he saw the photograph in her living room. She has no photographs; they're all face down in a box under her bed, too many smiling children for her to bear.
'I don't have any siblings,' she says instead.
He pretends to look surprised. 'Oh,' he says. 'I could have sworn that you did.'
--
When she opens the door the next night she's almost surprised.
'House.'
'Expecting someone else?' His voice is angry, suspicious.
He knows.
She doesn't care.
'What do you want?'
He hesitates. There's a flash of something in his eyes, but she doesn't catch it. Her reactions are too slow. 'Can I come in?'
She raises her eyebrows. 'You're asking?'
He sighs. 'Let me in, Cuddy.'
But she shakes her head. 'I'm expecting someone.'
'I know.' His voice is too soft. 'Let me in.'
--
She's too small.
It's the only thought that passes coherently through his mind as he studies her, curled into the corner of an oversized chair with an oversized blanket in her sad, lonely, oversized home.
'So who is he?' he says, instead of, are you okay?
'No one,' she answers. 'Did you just come here to interrogate me?'
'You're being an idiot,' he says, instead of, let me help you.
'I'm fine.'
'He's insane.'
'Thought you didn't know him.' Her voice is too flat. She isn't arguing, she's just responding.
He ignores her. 'He's dangerous.'
She laughs, coldly. 'No more dangerous than you are, House.'
And the words sting slightly, just barely, enough to make him narrow his eyes. He wants to say I would never hurt you but he knows it's a lie, knows he already has. But he's never had a problem being a hypocrit.
He reaches out, grabs her wrist and turns it over, looks at the dark thumbprint on the inside.
'House-'
She tries to pull her arm back, but his grip is firm (soft though, gentle, and she frowns, unaccustom).
'You're an idiot,' he says again, because he doesn't know how to say, you're scaring me.
The doorbell rings.
'You should go,' she says.
'That's what you are now?' he says bitterly. 'Some glorified booty call?' He's too mad, too upset; he's not just jealous, not just annoyed, not just honest.
'Would I be anything better with you?' she returns. She drops the blanket to the floor. 'You can go out the back.'
'No,' he says.
She can't believe she's surprised.
He sits down, long limbs awkward in her living room. 'I want to meet this guy.'
'House,' she says.
Knocking, then, almost urgent.
She swallows. Looks from House to the door and back. 'You should go.'
'You're afraid of him,' he realizes.
She shrugs. 'I'm too tired to be afraid.'
House narrows his eyes. 'Get over it.'
'Get out.'
She opens the door.
He can hear murmurs, stands, moves to the entrance way. The man looks up with a wide grin, his arm wrapped around her waist possessively.
She looks so small.
'Hi,' he says, 'I'm Lyle, nice to meet you.' He extends a hand, the one not gloved, not tight against her hip bone.
House glowers. 'We're in a meeting.'
'Meeting's over,' she says.
He glares at her. Why won't you let me help you?
Then, softer, 'Goodnight, House.'
He leaves; waits outside her home for hours, watches the lights in the neighborhood go out, listens to the crickets, listens for any signs, any movements. He waits, until morning when the door opens and the man exits, doesn't see him; he climbs into his expensive car and drives away.
Cuddy stands in the doorway, arms around her to ward off the cold. She sees him, he thinks, but isn't sure.
--
'We met at a bar,' she says suddenly. Wilson hides his surprise.
'Oh?'
'About a month ago. He goes in and out of town on business.'
Wilson tries to act casual, takes another sip of his coffee. 'What does he do?'
'I don't know.'
He frowns, sets the mug on the table. 'What's his name?'
'I don't know.'
'Cuddy...'
She drops her fork; it clatters too loudly against the plate. 'Spare me the lecture, Wilson.'
He holds up his hands. 'I wasn't going to lecture you. You're a grown woman. You can do what you want.' He pauses, then, watches her push her uneaten salad around on her plate. 'Just... please, be careful. And if you need anything...'
There's a long silence.
'Yeah.'
--
When she comes home he's standing in her living room, reading the spines of the books on her shelves.
'What are you doing here?' she asks, drops her bag. 'How did you get in?'
He turns, smiles, moves across the room and kisses her cheek. 'The door was unlocked.'
She frowns, pulls away. 'No it wasn't.'
His face falls, but only slightly. 'I thought you'd be glad to see me.'
'I'm tired. I had a long day.' She moves away from him. 'I just want to go to bed.'
He smiles again. 'Sounds good.'
'Alone.'
'Lisa...' he moves towards her, puts his hand on her shoulders. She shrugs him off.
'Not tonight.'
He reaches out again. 'Lisa.'
'I said not tonight.'
He kisses her suddenly, forcefully, her back pressed into the sharp edge of the doorway. She pulls her head away. 'You're hurting me.'
He steps back suddenly, feigns regret. 'I'm sorry.'
'I think you should go.'
'Okay.' He says, offer a smile. He kisses her forehead. 'Goodnight.'
'Goodnight.'
--
House slams the folder against the nurses' counter, watches her reaction.
'You're jumpy,' he says.
She glares - 'I'm not jumpy.' - and walks away.
He follows behind her, waits until she stops to pull a folder from the files next to her office and leans in close.
'Boo.'
She starts, whirls around. Her eyes are wide.
He smirks. 'You're jumpy.'
She tries to look angry but it doesn't last.
'I didn't sleep well,' she says quickly, ducks into her office. He follows her.
'Too busy substituting for a blow-up doll?' His voice is so bitter.
There's along silence. She moves around to the safety of her desk, sits down, stares at her computer screen.
'He was in my house,' she says abruptly. 'When I came home. I don't know how he-'
'I told you-'
'No you didn't.' She looks up at him, finally. 'Don't make this about you.'
'It is about me, though. Isn't it. A little bit.'
'Your ego,' she murmurs, but it's unconvincing.
House hesitates, rubs his thumb across his forehead. 'He's dangerous.'
'Maybe.'
'Cuddy.'
She gives him a look. 'It's not your call.'
'Maybe not,' he concedes. 'But I'm pretty sure you want it to be your call. Don't you?'
She doesn't answer.
--
She stares at the wall. He's behind her, fingers tracing patterns over her hip. She can feel the leather of the glove brushing against her skin.
'Lisa?'
She doesn't answer him. He puts his hand on her shoulder, turns her towards him. 'Lisa, is everything alright?'
His voice is soft, but there's a blankness in his eyes, coldness. She shivers.
'What's your name?' she asks after a pause.
He laughs, too pleasantly. 'You know my name.'
'Your full name,' she corrects. She holds his gaze. He hesitates, falters, then grins.
'Robert. Robert Lyle. My friends call me Bobby.'
'Why didn't you tell me that?'
He shrugs. 'You didn't ask.' Pause. 'What's going on?' He touches her shoulder. 'Lisa.'
She turns away from him, stares at the wall.
'Nothing.'
--
One of her patients gives birth to a healthy seven pound, six ounce boy. 'Jacob,' the mother smiles down at him, kisses his forehead, rocks him gently. 'He's so beautiful,' she says, smiles up at Cuddy.
'Do you want to hold him?' the mother asks, but all she hears is static. Staring at the boy, at his warm skin, tiny fingers. Her smile falters.
'Dr. Cuddy?'
The father puts a hand on her arm.
'Dr. Cuddy, are you alright?'
She opens her mouth to reassure them, but her throat catches. She stares at them helplessly for a moment, then sighs, inhales sharply, smiles.
'Congratulations,' she says brightly, makes an excuse to leave.
She makes it halfway down the hallway before her legs give out; she grabs the wall, leans against it heavily.
She won't cry here.
--
House shows up late that night.
'What do you want?' she demands, pulls her robe tighter around her frame.
He holds up a file.
She lets him in.
They argue about the patient.
Then about her.
Then about him.
Then about nothing.
She isn't sure who reaches for who first, but it doesn't matter. Fingers tangled in hair, lips on lips, his cane pressed into her back. They hold each other like lifelines; too tight, too frantic, too desperate to feel something, anything.
He pulls away, gasps.
'This is not what you want,' he murmurs. She hasn't loosened her grip.
'Since when do you care?' she whispers, seeking his lips again. He steps away.
There's an honesty in his eyes that makes her heart break.
'I can't,' he says.
When he shows up an hour after House leaves, there's no hesitation in his grip, no warmth. He doesn't stop, and she doesn't know if he sees her tears or not.
--
'We're playing poker,' he says suddenly. They're in the middle of a meeting. He's been staring at her hands the whole time.
She looks up, confused. 'What?'
'Tonight. At House's. We're playing poker. You should come.'
She smiles. 'That's sweet of you to offer, but-'
'Oh, come on,' he grins, too broad. 'It'll be fun. Beer and chips and House pretending he's better than us.'
'It sounds great, really, but I have to-'
'What?' he presses. 'Budget reports can wait til morning.'
'I can't,' she says firmly, begins to gather her things.
'Cuddy.' His voice cracks slightly. She turns, surprised. He looks up at her pleadingly. 'Please come.'
She narrows her eyes. 'You don't want me to go home.'
'I don't care if you go home.' He hesitates, sighs. 'I don't want you to be with him.'
'Wilson,' she warns.
'I'm worried about you.'
'I'm fine.'
And then he snaps: 'Of course you're fine. You're always fine. Everything's perfect.'
'Wilson-'
The chair almost falls backward when he stands, slams one of the files down on the coffee table. She jumps. 'You're miserable, Cuddy! You have been since Joy and you're too afraid to admit it!'
'Of course I'm miserable! I lost a baby, Wilson! My baby!'
'She wasn't yours! She was never yours!'
Silence. She looks stunned, slapped. Wilson sighs heavily, looks away.
'Cuddy, I'm- I'm sorry. I didn't mean-'
Her voice quivers slightly. 'Yeah, you did.'
He doesn't know what to say. Looks at the table, at the door, finally at her. She's standing so straight, staring at him, through him. He swallows tightly, says slowly,
'When I lost Amber-'
'It's not the same thing,' she says sharply.
He shakes his head. 'No, it isn't but-'
'Joy's alive,' she says.
He blinks. 'What?'
Her voice is quiet, filled with tears. 'At least Joy's alive.'
'Yeah,' he says softly. He wants to reach out and touch her. 'Cuddy,' he says instead, almost pleading. 'We're playing poker.'
She looks away.
--
She sits in her car.
The key rests in the ignition, waits patiently. There's a message on her cell phone. 'Meet me at Lahieres at eight.'
It isn't a request.
She stares at the entrance to the hospital. A mother holding a baby walks alongside a father, another child running ahead of them, running back, demanding attention.
Her phone rings.
It's him.
She stares at it, at the family, at the key.
--
Wilson opens the door, and the expression on his face goes swiftly from surprise to relieved joy.
She swallows tightly.
'Hi,' she says, awkwardly.
He smiles. 'Hi.'
She stares past him, then at the floor, then shrugs, meets his gaze. 'Got room for one more?'
He opens the door wider, offers to take her coat. 'Yeah.'
She nods, steps through. House looks up from the table. He's dealing cards. Wilson closes the door behind her.
'You were going to play poker with two people?' she asks.
'Go Fish, probably,' Wilson says with a smile, then, 'We're glad it didn't come to that.'
She nods. House kicks the chair next to him so it slides out from under the table.
Cuddy doesn't move. Wilson puts his hand on her back gently.
'You okay?' he asks.
She hesitates.
'No.'
'Good.'
Cuddy looks up, meets his gaze.
'House,' Wilson admonishes, starts to apologize for him.
She shakes her head, doesn't take her eyes off House. 'I know what he means,' she says. 'It's okay.'
--
When she comes back from bathroom House is clearing the table, putting empty beer bottles in the sink and the cards back in their case.
'Did Wilson leave?' she asks, her voice quieter than she expected.
He looks up, pauses. 'Yeah,' he says, shrugs. 'He can't sleep without his blankie.'
She moves toward the door. 'It's late. I should go.'
'Stay.'
She drops her hand from her coat, turns slightly.
'What?'
He looks so awkward, limping towards her. He stops halfway across the room.
'I made up the couch.'
There's a blanket and a pillow and a glass of water on the coffee table. 'You didn't have to do that.'
He nods. 'I know.'
She doesn't move. He covers the space between them, stands in front of her, wants to touch her but can't.
'Cuddy,' he murmurs.
She chokes, looks at him desperately. 'What the hell is wrong with me?'
He rolls his eyes. 'Where do you want me to start?' he mutters, and she laughs softly. He almost smiles.
--
She falls asleep on the couch, blanket draped over her frame; her head on his good leg, and fingers curled around his knee.
- house, md, the pretender
- cuddy, lylecuddy, housecuddy, housecuddywilson
- holiday fics: antiqueskies's prompt, Lyle/Cuddy, there are things about him she doesn't question.
- housefic50: fear (008)
- words: 2932
- r
- spoilers for joy 506
- i have no idea what this is
There are things about him she doesn't question.
Like the way he only gives her half his name; first or last she doesn't know, doesn't care. He has a smile she knows is deceiving, recognizes it (she's seen it before - not that cold, not that empty, but still just as big of a lie) and ignores it.
She's becoming skilled that that - looking, seeing, ignoring, moving on, forgetting, wanting to forget; there are things she can't
- she wakes up in the middle of the night short of breath and full of tears and doesn't question the way he leans over her, four fingers too tight on her arm and his other hand splayed across her stomach. She has thin, red crescents all over her body from his nails, perfectly manicured and sharp -
House gives her a hard look, but he doesn't ask, can't ask, can't care.
Go to hell, she wants to say, doesn't have the strength.
She doesn't question his motives when he kisses her, sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always just short of the truth. She doesn't know why he's there, why her, why then, and she doesn't care. He's a charmer in the daytime; takes her to beautiful restaurants when she lets him, pulls out her chair and orders for them both and smiles at the waitress, leaves a big tip. He never goes to her work, never introduces her to any of his friends, if he has any.
It's just them. And she doesn't question, doesn't care when he grabs her roughly; the leather glove makes harsh red scabs, tears at the skin on her neck as he holds her in place, kisses her; it's a brand, not a caress, but it doesn't matter.
It's a contrast to the way he stays, curled behind her, running his fingers up and down her arm while she stares at the wall.
She can't sleep.
He watches her.
--
A woman approaches her at work. She's tall, slender, wears too much black and has seen too much, by the shadowed look in her eyes; she has no laugh lines.
'Can I help you?'
'Get rid of him,' she says. Her fingers twitch as if she needs a cigarette.
'Excuse me?'
'Lyle,' she says, then looks around once. 'Get rid of him. Before he gets rid of you.'
She half expects the woman to produce a folder, an envelope, a tape; a piece of paper with a rendezvous point. Instead she reaches out, touches her hand so briefly.
'Get out,' she says.
Then she's gone, somehow, in the short time it took to blink, and the sounds of the clinic return to normal, a calm hustle and conversation and she can faintly make out heels clicking against the floor.
She lets him in that night, lets him push her against the wall and bruise her wrist. She wears a long sleeved shirt the next day, and no one asks about the circles under her eyes.
--
He wants to take her on vacation. Someplace in Delaware, he says.
He says it's beautiful there.
She says she can't.
He shrugs.
'Later, then,' he says, and he's too sure, too confident. It makes her skin ache.
--
She doesn't tell him about Joy, or about House, or about all the dreams she put aside in a small wooden box that she threw away the key for; she doesn't tell him that she's worn out, now, that she needs time, space - she needs light, or some glimmer of it anyway.
He doesn't ask, but he seems to know. Seems to know everything. She never mentions her sister, but he brings it up one night, over dinner, says he saw the photograph in her living room. She has no photographs; they're all face down in a box under her bed, too many smiling children for her to bear.
'I don't have any siblings,' she says instead.
He pretends to look surprised. 'Oh,' he says. 'I could have sworn that you did.'
--
When she opens the door the next night she's almost surprised.
'House.'
'Expecting someone else?' His voice is angry, suspicious.
He knows.
She doesn't care.
'What do you want?'
He hesitates. There's a flash of something in his eyes, but she doesn't catch it. Her reactions are too slow. 'Can I come in?'
She raises her eyebrows. 'You're asking?'
He sighs. 'Let me in, Cuddy.'
But she shakes her head. 'I'm expecting someone.'
'I know.' His voice is too soft. 'Let me in.'
--
She's too small.
It's the only thought that passes coherently through his mind as he studies her, curled into the corner of an oversized chair with an oversized blanket in her sad, lonely, oversized home.
'So who is he?' he says, instead of, are you okay?
'No one,' she answers. 'Did you just come here to interrogate me?'
'You're being an idiot,' he says, instead of, let me help you.
'I'm fine.'
'He's insane.'
'Thought you didn't know him.' Her voice is too flat. She isn't arguing, she's just responding.
He ignores her. 'He's dangerous.'
She laughs, coldly. 'No more dangerous than you are, House.'
And the words sting slightly, just barely, enough to make him narrow his eyes. He wants to say I would never hurt you but he knows it's a lie, knows he already has. But he's never had a problem being a hypocrit.
He reaches out, grabs her wrist and turns it over, looks at the dark thumbprint on the inside.
'House-'
She tries to pull her arm back, but his grip is firm (soft though, gentle, and she frowns, unaccustom).
'You're an idiot,' he says again, because he doesn't know how to say, you're scaring me.
The doorbell rings.
'You should go,' she says.
'That's what you are now?' he says bitterly. 'Some glorified booty call?' He's too mad, too upset; he's not just jealous, not just annoyed, not just honest.
'Would I be anything better with you?' she returns. She drops the blanket to the floor. 'You can go out the back.'
'No,' he says.
She can't believe she's surprised.
He sits down, long limbs awkward in her living room. 'I want to meet this guy.'
'House,' she says.
Knocking, then, almost urgent.
She swallows. Looks from House to the door and back. 'You should go.'
'You're afraid of him,' he realizes.
She shrugs. 'I'm too tired to be afraid.'
House narrows his eyes. 'Get over it.'
'Get out.'
She opens the door.
He can hear murmurs, stands, moves to the entrance way. The man looks up with a wide grin, his arm wrapped around her waist possessively.
She looks so small.
'Hi,' he says, 'I'm Lyle, nice to meet you.' He extends a hand, the one not gloved, not tight against her hip bone.
House glowers. 'We're in a meeting.'
'Meeting's over,' she says.
He glares at her. Why won't you let me help you?
Then, softer, 'Goodnight, House.'
He leaves; waits outside her home for hours, watches the lights in the neighborhood go out, listens to the crickets, listens for any signs, any movements. He waits, until morning when the door opens and the man exits, doesn't see him; he climbs into his expensive car and drives away.
Cuddy stands in the doorway, arms around her to ward off the cold. She sees him, he thinks, but isn't sure.
--
'We met at a bar,' she says suddenly. Wilson hides his surprise.
'Oh?'
'About a month ago. He goes in and out of town on business.'
Wilson tries to act casual, takes another sip of his coffee. 'What does he do?'
'I don't know.'
He frowns, sets the mug on the table. 'What's his name?'
'I don't know.'
'Cuddy...'
She drops her fork; it clatters too loudly against the plate. 'Spare me the lecture, Wilson.'
He holds up his hands. 'I wasn't going to lecture you. You're a grown woman. You can do what you want.' He pauses, then, watches her push her uneaten salad around on her plate. 'Just... please, be careful. And if you need anything...'
There's a long silence.
'Yeah.'
--
When she comes home he's standing in her living room, reading the spines of the books on her shelves.
'What are you doing here?' she asks, drops her bag. 'How did you get in?'
He turns, smiles, moves across the room and kisses her cheek. 'The door was unlocked.'
She frowns, pulls away. 'No it wasn't.'
His face falls, but only slightly. 'I thought you'd be glad to see me.'
'I'm tired. I had a long day.' She moves away from him. 'I just want to go to bed.'
He smiles again. 'Sounds good.'
'Alone.'
'Lisa...' he moves towards her, puts his hand on her shoulders. She shrugs him off.
'Not tonight.'
He reaches out again. 'Lisa.'
'I said not tonight.'
He kisses her suddenly, forcefully, her back pressed into the sharp edge of the doorway. She pulls her head away. 'You're hurting me.'
He steps back suddenly, feigns regret. 'I'm sorry.'
'I think you should go.'
'Okay.' He says, offer a smile. He kisses her forehead. 'Goodnight.'
'Goodnight.'
--
House slams the folder against the nurses' counter, watches her reaction.
'You're jumpy,' he says.
She glares - 'I'm not jumpy.' - and walks away.
He follows behind her, waits until she stops to pull a folder from the files next to her office and leans in close.
'Boo.'
She starts, whirls around. Her eyes are wide.
He smirks. 'You're jumpy.'
She tries to look angry but it doesn't last.
'I didn't sleep well,' she says quickly, ducks into her office. He follows her.
'Too busy substituting for a blow-up doll?' His voice is so bitter.
There's along silence. She moves around to the safety of her desk, sits down, stares at her computer screen.
'He was in my house,' she says abruptly. 'When I came home. I don't know how he-'
'I told you-'
'No you didn't.' She looks up at him, finally. 'Don't make this about you.'
'It is about me, though. Isn't it. A little bit.'
'Your ego,' she murmurs, but it's unconvincing.
House hesitates, rubs his thumb across his forehead. 'He's dangerous.'
'Maybe.'
'Cuddy.'
She gives him a look. 'It's not your call.'
'Maybe not,' he concedes. 'But I'm pretty sure you want it to be your call. Don't you?'
She doesn't answer.
--
She stares at the wall. He's behind her, fingers tracing patterns over her hip. She can feel the leather of the glove brushing against her skin.
'Lisa?'
She doesn't answer him. He puts his hand on her shoulder, turns her towards him. 'Lisa, is everything alright?'
His voice is soft, but there's a blankness in his eyes, coldness. She shivers.
'What's your name?' she asks after a pause.
He laughs, too pleasantly. 'You know my name.'
'Your full name,' she corrects. She holds his gaze. He hesitates, falters, then grins.
'Robert. Robert Lyle. My friends call me Bobby.'
'Why didn't you tell me that?'
He shrugs. 'You didn't ask.' Pause. 'What's going on?' He touches her shoulder. 'Lisa.'
She turns away from him, stares at the wall.
'Nothing.'
--
One of her patients gives birth to a healthy seven pound, six ounce boy. 'Jacob,' the mother smiles down at him, kisses his forehead, rocks him gently. 'He's so beautiful,' she says, smiles up at Cuddy.
'Do you want to hold him?' the mother asks, but all she hears is static. Staring at the boy, at his warm skin, tiny fingers. Her smile falters.
'Dr. Cuddy?'
The father puts a hand on her arm.
'Dr. Cuddy, are you alright?'
She opens her mouth to reassure them, but her throat catches. She stares at them helplessly for a moment, then sighs, inhales sharply, smiles.
'Congratulations,' she says brightly, makes an excuse to leave.
She makes it halfway down the hallway before her legs give out; she grabs the wall, leans against it heavily.
She won't cry here.
--
House shows up late that night.
'What do you want?' she demands, pulls her robe tighter around her frame.
He holds up a file.
She lets him in.
They argue about the patient.
Then about her.
Then about him.
Then about nothing.
She isn't sure who reaches for who first, but it doesn't matter. Fingers tangled in hair, lips on lips, his cane pressed into her back. They hold each other like lifelines; too tight, too frantic, too desperate to feel something, anything.
He pulls away, gasps.
'This is not what you want,' he murmurs. She hasn't loosened her grip.
'Since when do you care?' she whispers, seeking his lips again. He steps away.
There's an honesty in his eyes that makes her heart break.
'I can't,' he says.
When he shows up an hour after House leaves, there's no hesitation in his grip, no warmth. He doesn't stop, and she doesn't know if he sees her tears or not.
--
'We're playing poker,' he says suddenly. They're in the middle of a meeting. He's been staring at her hands the whole time.
She looks up, confused. 'What?'
'Tonight. At House's. We're playing poker. You should come.'
She smiles. 'That's sweet of you to offer, but-'
'Oh, come on,' he grins, too broad. 'It'll be fun. Beer and chips and House pretending he's better than us.'
'It sounds great, really, but I have to-'
'What?' he presses. 'Budget reports can wait til morning.'
'I can't,' she says firmly, begins to gather her things.
'Cuddy.' His voice cracks slightly. She turns, surprised. He looks up at her pleadingly. 'Please come.'
She narrows her eyes. 'You don't want me to go home.'
'I don't care if you go home.' He hesitates, sighs. 'I don't want you to be with him.'
'Wilson,' she warns.
'I'm worried about you.'
'I'm fine.'
And then he snaps: 'Of course you're fine. You're always fine. Everything's perfect.'
'Wilson-'
The chair almost falls backward when he stands, slams one of the files down on the coffee table. She jumps. 'You're miserable, Cuddy! You have been since Joy and you're too afraid to admit it!'
'Of course I'm miserable! I lost a baby, Wilson! My baby!'
'She wasn't yours! She was never yours!'
Silence. She looks stunned, slapped. Wilson sighs heavily, looks away.
'Cuddy, I'm- I'm sorry. I didn't mean-'
Her voice quivers slightly. 'Yeah, you did.'
He doesn't know what to say. Looks at the table, at the door, finally at her. She's standing so straight, staring at him, through him. He swallows tightly, says slowly,
'When I lost Amber-'
'It's not the same thing,' she says sharply.
He shakes his head. 'No, it isn't but-'
'Joy's alive,' she says.
He blinks. 'What?'
Her voice is quiet, filled with tears. 'At least Joy's alive.'
'Yeah,' he says softly. He wants to reach out and touch her. 'Cuddy,' he says instead, almost pleading. 'We're playing poker.'
She looks away.
--
She sits in her car.
The key rests in the ignition, waits patiently. There's a message on her cell phone. 'Meet me at Lahieres at eight.'
It isn't a request.
She stares at the entrance to the hospital. A mother holding a baby walks alongside a father, another child running ahead of them, running back, demanding attention.
Her phone rings.
It's him.
She stares at it, at the family, at the key.
--
Wilson opens the door, and the expression on his face goes swiftly from surprise to relieved joy.
She swallows tightly.
'Hi,' she says, awkwardly.
He smiles. 'Hi.'
She stares past him, then at the floor, then shrugs, meets his gaze. 'Got room for one more?'
He opens the door wider, offers to take her coat. 'Yeah.'
She nods, steps through. House looks up from the table. He's dealing cards. Wilson closes the door behind her.
'You were going to play poker with two people?' she asks.
'Go Fish, probably,' Wilson says with a smile, then, 'We're glad it didn't come to that.'
She nods. House kicks the chair next to him so it slides out from under the table.
Cuddy doesn't move. Wilson puts his hand on her back gently.
'You okay?' he asks.
She hesitates.
'No.'
'Good.'
Cuddy looks up, meets his gaze.
'House,' Wilson admonishes, starts to apologize for him.
She shakes her head, doesn't take her eyes off House. 'I know what he means,' she says. 'It's okay.'
--
When she comes back from bathroom House is clearing the table, putting empty beer bottles in the sink and the cards back in their case.
'Did Wilson leave?' she asks, her voice quieter than she expected.
He looks up, pauses. 'Yeah,' he says, shrugs. 'He can't sleep without his blankie.'
She moves toward the door. 'It's late. I should go.'
'Stay.'
She drops her hand from her coat, turns slightly.
'What?'
He looks so awkward, limping towards her. He stops halfway across the room.
'I made up the couch.'
There's a blanket and a pillow and a glass of water on the coffee table. 'You didn't have to do that.'
He nods. 'I know.'
She doesn't move. He covers the space between them, stands in front of her, wants to touch her but can't.
'Cuddy,' he murmurs.
She chokes, looks at him desperately. 'What the hell is wrong with me?'
He rolls his eyes. 'Where do you want me to start?' he mutters, and she laughs softly. He almost smiles.
--
She falls asleep on the couch, blanket draped over her frame; her head on his good leg, and fingers curled around his knee.