Gift of Screws, Chapter Twelve, Part One

[lieueitak]

Title: Gift of Screws, Chapter Twelve
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating:  NC-17 for sex
Characters:  House, Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note:  This piece takes place in the future when Rachel is five; House and Cuddy are in an established relationship. This fic also contains sex. If any of those things bother you, please hit your back button.  This chapter is also split into multiple posts because of Livejournal's word limit.  
Summary:  For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations.
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 (Part 1), Chapter 9 (Part 2), Chapter 9 (Part 3), Chapter 9 (Part 4), Chapter 10 (Part 1), Chapter 10 (Part 2), Chapter 10 (Part 3), Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own it.



"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." - Emily Dickinson

When Cuddy entered the bedroom, a mug of hot tea in her hands, Rachel was fast asleep. Her thumb jammed into her mouth, her hair tangled all around her pale face, she looked completely relaxed. The nightmare that now kept the rest of the household awake was, ironically, the last thing on Rachel's mind, it seemed.

As Cuddy closed the bedroom door behind her, she recognized that this was a good thing. It certainly wasn't something to be resentful of. After all, Rachel shouldn't have been awake for this… emotional, familial… catastrophe.

There really was no other way to put it.

This was, in every way, shape, and form, a complete disaster, and Cuddy was relieved that Rachel remained ignorant of the situation. Granted, if House didn't calm down, that would obviously change. But for the moment, Cuddy was happy that her daughter was unaffected by what was going on.

That was the only thing she was happy about though.

It went without saying that the sex had been… not good. She would have described it as awful, but she knew it hadn't been in the strict definition of the word. She had had awful sex before; this might not have been the best they'd ever had, but it still beat out multiple encounters she'd had in the past.

Internally she could hear House say that, given her taste in men, that wasn't saying much about his abilities. And she knew that he - or that voice inside of her head anyway - wasn't wrong; the sex might have been bad for them, but it was still pretty damn good when it came down to it. Yet she was disappointed anyway.

Maybe that meant she was spoiled; that she could find fault in the sex that had almost made her come, after having a slew of orgasms today, probably meant she was being greedy, her standards too high. But how could she think highly of what had just taken place?

By anyone's standards, this had been bad. At least House would certainly think so. He, of course, no doubt felt that he'd failed by making her bleed. And honestly, Cuddy had had little chance to dissuade him of the idea.

When it had happened, she'd cried out in pain, so what else would he have concluded? What else should he have thought?

Given her immediate reaction, it made sense that he should believe something along those lines. She probably would have concluded the same things had the situation been reversed.

Truthfully though, the bite was the last thing on her mind.

Had it hurt? Sure. Maybe a little. But really… if the move hadn't taken her completely by surprise, she more than likely wouldn't have reacted. After all, she'd had it rougher. Between young lovers who'd had no clue what they were doing and House, whose knowledge of her included her appreciation for games and the power play that came with them, she'd had experiences plenty harsher.

But typically House gave her warning, built up her tolerance to his roughness by gradually getting to that point. Tonight he'd just randomly gone there, gotten straight to the point, and she'd been caught completely off guard.

So naturally he had assumed the worst and run.

Well, okay, he hadn't run so much as he'd shuffled out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. But the effect was the same no matter the language.

He'd left before she'd had a chance to console him at all.

He'd gotten dressed so quickly that for a moment she'd felt like she was sixteen and sneaking boyfriends out of her bedroom window all over again. She'd been lying on top of the bed she shared with House, with her daughter sleeping down the hallway, but for an instant, Cuddy had been transported.

The smell of her father's cigarettes and her mother's perfume had wafted suddenly through the air. That oppressive feeling of guilt and desire for perfection they'd installed in their daughters had become so palpable once more Cuddy practically had been able to taste it; it had clung to her in the same way her envisioned, then-teenaged boyfriend had filled the room all those years ago with the scent of sex.

At that moment, on her lips and tongue had not been the salty tang of House's sweat but that of a boy whose name she could no longer remember. The semen warm and sticky between her legs had suddenly reminded her of those years where she'd been unable to find a boyfriend who'd wear a condom and the fear of getting caught (or pregnant) had punctuated every sexual encounter she'd had as a teenager. The proof of what she'd done and her guilt smeared messily across her labia, as though her own body had turned against her, all those years ago, she'd only been grateful to see her lover - what had his name been? - go.

And if Cuddy hadn't been able to tell the difference between then and now, it had been that feeling that had brought her back to reality. This time, she hadn't wanted her boyfriend to go. On the contrary, all she'd wanted was for House to stay.

But he'd left anyway.

All right, maybe that was a little dramatic. Gently sitting next to Rachel's sleeping form, Cuddy recognized that she might have been overstating it. This time listening to make sure he wouldn't leave the house, she heard him close the door to his study. So he hadn't really gone anywhere.

Still… the fact that he'd walked away at all made it impossible for her to think that the sex had been good. It certainly eliminated any belief she might have had that he was ready to talk to her.

Obviously he wasn't.

And the truly sick part about it all was that it didn't matter. How he felt, what he wanted - it didn't matter. Regardless of his feelings, they would have to talk. They would have to hash this out, no matter the consequences. She didn't particularly want to do it, but she knew they would have to.

The reason was right in front of her, fast asleep.

At the mere thought of Rachel, Cuddy smiled into the heated ceramic of her mug. She'd originally only come in here to give House some space; she'd known that they would have to talk, but she'd wanted to give him some time to calm down. But this visit in the middle of the night was providing Cuddy with much more than time and space to think.

It also reminded her why this was so important.

When she was just with House, it was almost easy to forget or abandon all sense of urgency. But now with Rachel in front of her, Cuddy knew why she needed to get through to him tonight.

Admittedly, she could have defended her thinking in a thousand different ways, couched her choices as a move made for their relationship or something along those lines. But what it came down to was Rachel.

It came down to wanting to protect her, to keep her from ever learning about any of this.

As it was, she knew too much. When Cuddy had put her to bed, Rachel had already begun to show her embarrassment over and understanding of the situation. She'd already started to regret admitting that she cared about House. And if she ever found out just how upset House was, she would be devastated.

She wouldn't understand that the problem was him. She wouldn't see the reasons why he was acting the way he was. She didn't know much about his childhood or his life before her, and she wouldn't comprehend that he was afraid, thanks to things that were far beyond her control.

What Rachel would do was assume that she was the problem. She would believe that she'd made a mistake.

And Cuddy supposed it was a life lesson everyone had to learn at some point: feelings weren't always reciprocated. But Rachel was five, and House wasn't some teenage boy with a cool car and fake I.D. He was a little bit more important than that, and his rejection would be far more devastating than that would ever be. Because honestly, House was the closet thing Rachel had to a father, and if he rejected her, the ramifications of that would be far more serious, far more lasting.

God, Cuddy didn't want to put it this way, but the truth was: this was the kind of thing that turned young girls into future strippers with daddy issues.

And that thought chilled her to her very core.

The tea in her hands might have been hot still; curls of steam plumed out of the top of the mug in the same way chimneys spewed smoke into the night sky. But it could no longer provide her with any sort of warmth. Its heat couldn't touch the places she needed it too.

And because of that, Cuddy was grateful that she no longer needed the tea to stay awake. That was why she'd made it, of course. It was an herbal tea, but the mint in it usually perked her up. Which she'd thought was necessary in order to make it through a conversation with House.

Now, however, she was so awake, thanks to her concern for her daughter, that she didn't even need the peppermint. The very idea that Rachel would get hurt was more than enough of a stimulant for Cuddy.

It was certainly more than enough to fill her with the need to talk to House now.

Casting one last glance at Rachel's sleeping form, Cuddy stood up. She was tempted to give her daughter a kiss, but at this point, Cuddy suspected that that simple act would wake her up. And given the way the day had gone, that wasn't exactly an insane thought. So Cuddy resisted the urge, instead taking the moment to silently pray to whatever or whomever might have been listening to keep her daughter from ever having a sex tape.

But she doubted anyone heard her.

So much for being the devout Jew that House seemed to fear she was, she thought wryly. If he only knew. Then again, it was probably better that he didn't.

As she walked towards the kitchen, she couldn't help but think that the last thing he needed was to know any of her thoughts. Aside from being heavily burdened by his own, if he knew what she was thinking…

Cuddy doubted he would believe anything she had to say to comfort him tonight.

Actually, in that case, he definitely wouldn't believe her. In that instance, he would know that she didn't want Rachel to get hurt and assume that that meant everything she said was a desperate lie. He would tell himself that she was only comforting him for Rachel's sake. And as Cuddy placed her mug of tea in the sink with a loud clank, she knew that that couldn't have been further from the truth. But if he found some reason to believe it… she would never get through to him.

Which was why Cuddy had no intention of emphasizing the effect all this would have on her daughter. Then again, she doubted she would need to.

Padding with bare feet towards his office, she told herself that a rational man like House would have seen the potential ramifications to his behavior all on his own. Especially since he'd had some time to consider the matter, he would have realized by now all the ways this could go, so he didn't need her to point any of that out.

At least, given his potent fatalism, he didn't need her to show him how things could go wrong.

What he did need, she suspected, was someone who could remind him that there was far - far - more to him than the negative qualities he would inevitably fixate on. And if she couldn't be that for him, then they really didn't belong together. If she couldn't convince him that, actually, he was ready and worthy of his shift in their relationship, no, she didn't deserve him.

To be sure, he had already decided tonight that they were incompatible. He was probably sitting in his office acting like they'd already broken up.

But that fact just made her even more resolved to get through to him.

In the very least, it would be fun to prove him wrong. She rarely got to do it, so she looked forward to being in the right this time.

And between that and the timeframe bearing down on her heavily, Cuddy was more than enthusiastic when she opened the door to his office. She realized she should have knocked, but she couldn't exactly be bothered by the rudeness of the move. Instead, she silently shut the door behind her ominously and refused to give him the option of leaving.

But at that moment, leaving had to be the last thing on his mind; he looked too distracted for that.

House was perched on the window seat along the back wall. The cushions that usually lined the wooden bench were stuffed under his bad leg and behind his back. Yet he looked anything but comfortable and relaxed.

In one hand, he held a glass of bourbon. She could tell, because the bottle was cradled in his lap, and she doubted very much that this was his first helping. In the other hand was a lit cigarette, which was proof enough that he was filled with nervous energy.

He rarely smoked. When he did, he was either desperate for the Vicodin or so consumed by his thinking that he didn't want the sounds of music or balls bouncing to distract him. And in this instance, she wasn't so sure that those two options were mutually exclusive.

He clutched the cigarette tightly, so tightly that she was surprised that he hadn't snapped it in two. And when the vice of his knuckles did let up every now and then, he took to rolling the cigarette between his fingers, his thumb occasionally stroking its length.

There was something incredibly frenetic about these small subtle movements, something that not only assured her that she would be kissing cigarette burns on hands for weeks but also made her suspect that the wounds she couldn't see would last much longer. It was something that said this problem would take more than a couple hours to get over.

Of course, she already knew that much. She knew that House's demons would never be slain in a time period that suited her. She knew that if those doubts had festered inside of him for this long, he wouldn't be easily reassured. But she supposed she wasn't looking for perfection.

She just needed a façade Rachel couldn't see through.

But maybe that was asking for too much. At this particular moment, it seemed like it was. He was distracted to the point that he hadn't even noticed her presence. His faraway gaze was trained on some invisible point in the backyard, the window next to him open to help clear the smell of smoke.

Fresh flakes of snow lazily cascading in through the opening, every now and then a piece would land on his dark pajama pants or on his arm. But he didn't move, didn't say anything. She found it hard to believe that he wasn't cold sitting there, but it was probably for the best that he stayed where he was; if he was going to smoke, she didn't want the smell to filter down to Rachel's room, where it could agitate her asthma. Then again, Cuddy supposed that was why he'd opened the window to begin with.

And if that were true, that was more than enough proof that he belonged here. But before she could even open her mouth to ask him, he suddenly turned his head to look at her.

His gaze was sad, unsure, but his voice was snide. "I'm a little busy, so… off to bed you go."

"'Busy,'" she repeated doubtfully, folding her arms across her chest. "Doing what exactly?"

She was tempted to add, "Destroying your liver? Giving yourself emphysema? Pouting?" But she forced herself to resist the urge. He was in a bad place as it was, the words she had said more than likely accusatory to his ears anyway; she didn't want to further that impression.

After all, this wasn't supposed to be a confrontation. She was trying to help him. And he definitely wouldn't accept assistance if she forced a fight with him.

But he seemed to think that a fight was precisely what she wanted, because he immediately replied bitterly, "Brooding. Which means my disembowelment's going to have to wait. Sorry to disappoint you."

At that, House forced down the last bit of liquor in his glass. She anxiously anticipated him to reach for the bottle in his lap and refill his tumbler, but he never made a move to do that.

To be honest, that bolstered her confidence a little bit. Had his drinking been frenzied, she would have taken the act to mean that he was beyond listening. Had that been the case, at that point, he would have been so entrenched in his own wrong-headed thinking that alcohol would have been his only source of relief.

But since he wasn't drinking like that, Cuddy could only conclude that he still had enough self-control and enough of a desire to be in control to listen to her.

How long would that last though?

By her estimation, the answer to that was not that long, which meant she needed to make her point quick.

"Disembowelment?" she asked in surprise. Shaking her head a little, she was about to say, "Why would I want to do that?" But she didn't get past the third word, because out of the corner of her eye, she saw something lying on his desk. Her voice trailed off as she tried to place why the thing looked so familiar.

Admittedly, she had more important things to do at that moment. The way House was looking at her expectantly only reaffirmed that belief. And yet… she couldn't help but stare at the brightly colored shard of… what was it?

Curious, she took a few steps towards his desk. She was more than aware that he was watching her intently, but her interest in the object took priority. And when she was close enough to it to recognize the colorful pattern on the porcelain, she understood why she'd been drawn to the object to begin with.

It was her bowl - the one her father had given her, the one Rachel had broken.

Now it was apparently the bowl House was trying to fix.

Spinning around, Cuddy looked at him with a smile on her face. "You're gluing it back together?"

He nodded his head once but didn't say anything.

"You don't have to do that," she told him quietly.

Part of her, though a very small one, actually meant that. As much as she hadn't wanted to throw away a gift from her father, she'd accepted it; thinking that there was no way for it to be fixed, she'd been forcing herself to say goodbye to the object that shouldn't have held so much meaning.

Even if she hadn't done that though, one look at House's desk had told her that this was hardly a small project. There were pieces everywhere, scattered about on nearly every corner of his desk. As quickly as he worked, it would take him a long time to glue every tiny shard back together. And in those days he would spend, what guarantee was there that a tiny sliver wouldn't go missing or that the whole thing would look as brilliant as it had when Cuddy's father had first given it to her?

There wasn't one, she knew, and in that case… she hated to think it, but honestly, she just wished he wouldn't even try.

House, however, didn't seem to understand that, because he said rudely, "Kinda did have to. Cause if I didn't… well, you would have continued to pout like Lindsay Lohan in a courtroom."

She was tempted to point out that she wasn't the one using the word, brooding, to make his pouting seem manlier. But she didn't. She wanted to - God, she wanted to - but again, she didn't want a fight. And besides, Cuddy knew that he was only being obnoxious to divert her attention from what he had done for her.

Of course, in her opinion, he didn't need to do that. He was her boyfriend; he did nice things for her all the time. Over the years, he had gone from overtly romantic gestures (well, as romantic as stolen flowers with sexually explicit cards could be) to smaller, more subtle things, but the one common thread every year shared was that kindness towards her was hardly a rarity. It definitely wasn't something he needed to be ashamed of.

But with the way he looked, with the way he was acting… he definitely seemed embarrassed by his behavior.

And truthfully he was. He didn't want to be, because the whole idea was stupid; that he should be uncomfortable by the prospect of doing something that should have felt normal by now was stupid. But then again… it wasn't the display of kindness that bothered him. It was the fact that he had started to fix that bowl, had allowed himself to be open about how much he loved her, and…

She was going to dump him anyway.

She was going to break his heart, over something that had been there all along: Rachel. And the thing was, he had known this was how it was going to end. From day one, House had understood that this was how their relationship would go. He'd known there'd be a honeymoon period, though he had been amazed at how long that had lasted. He'd known there'd be a period where things would start to go south, but she'd tell herself that they could work through all of that. And then there'd be an amount of time where she would realize that they couldn't work it out, that he couldn't change, but she'd be in denial about… until denial didn't work and the inevitable happened.

Yes, he had seen the trajectory this was all going to take. And yet…

This had still taken him off guard, and he couldn't help but feel like a fool for not seeing it.

He hadn't seen it coming at all.

Only hours ago he'd been gluing that damn bowl back together. He'd been completely unaware of what was to come, despite knowing that it would happen at some point. And maybe it was a waste of energy to feel like a complete moron given what was about to happen, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling hot self-loathing burning the flesh of his cheeks. He wished he could, but that just wasn't happening.

Then again, was there any point? She was going to dump his ass anyways, so who really gave a damn that he'd been duped or pathetic right before it happened?

House was tempted to say that he wouldn't care, but he knew that was a lie.

He would remember every second of the day Cuddy broke up with him.

And he would torture himself with every minute detail for the rest of his life.

He didn't want to do that, but he knew that that was how it would go. That was how it had been with Stacy, and now would be no different. Which was why he thought he would never forget the way Cuddy said gently at that moment, "Thank you."

It was quite possibly the last thing he expected her to say. Given the circumstances, he hadn't even begun to anticipate how to react to such a line. She was thanking him? That… wasn't supposed to occur, not right now, not ever by his calculations, and the fact that it was occurring confused him to no end.

It left him speechless actually.

She just smiled at that, at him, and he thought she was lucky that he felt so lost; if he'd been able to find his voice, she wouldn't have liked his reaction. But unable to articulate (and perhaps unwilling to as well) the fear and rejection he keenly felt, he had no choice but to sit there and watch her.

In doing so he was clearly making her uncomfortable. She was shifting on her feet at odd intervals, although, given the way her hardened nipples poked at the thin white cotton of her top, she might have just been cold. But if she was going to end their relationship, House certainly wasn't going to make her feel at ease about the whole thing.

He sure as hell wasn't going to provide her with a segue.

She might have wanted one, but he couldn't do that. He wouldn't.

Inevitably though this meant he had to watch her squirm in the uncomfortable silence descending over them. The air both heated with awkwardness and chilled by it, she obviously was unsure how to proceed.

The proof of that was in every movement she was making; she had one hand pressed against the apple of her cheek, which she only did when she was embarrassed or unsure about something. But he refused to be moved by the action.

And yet, doing that wasn't so easy when, out of habit, she slid her hand down to her neck. Her palm grazing the place he had hurt her, she flinched in pain.

She quickly tried to hide it. She hadn't meant to remind him of what had happened earlier. But out of habit, Cuddy had touched her neck, and out of surprise, she'd flinched again. And though she hurriedly tried to make it seem like she'd just been letting her hands fall to her sides, an innocent gesture really, it was too late. She could see the flash of guilt in House's eyes already, and there was no pretending like the bite wasn't there.

That possibility gone, she knew that she could only try to comfort him. She'd put it off long enough, made shy by the awkwardness of the conversation. And there was no avoiding it any longer.

Calmly moving towards him, she said in soft tones, "House…." She stopped when she was standing next to him, but he refused to look at her then. His gaze was cast downward onto the lit cigarette in his hand. "I love you," she said with as much honesty as she could infuse into those three words.

"But?" Without saying anything else, he flicked the cigarette out the window. By design, he wasn't exactly a smoker; he certainly wasn't a regular one, and perhaps irritated by the smell - or sensing that she was - he tossed the lit butt out the window.

And for a fraction of an instance, Cuddy waited with baited breath. He hadn't bothered to stub the cigarette out. Granted, it had been snowing all day, all week actually. But the fact remained that there were bushes right outside the window, and was it truly crazy, given all that had occurred this weekend, to worry that the damn bushes would catch on fire?

She really didn't think so. But it must have been, because seconds later, nothing had gone wrong. There were no flames, no smell of smoke (save for the lingering scent in the room) - nothing to worry about.

Well… nothing except for House, she corrected.

In the small amount of time since he'd spoken, he'd become even more unhinged looking. She hadn't thought that possible, but here he was, looking like he would lose it at any moment. His entire body appeared tense, every vein and muscle in his body seemingly prominent.

Honestly she didn't understand it. She'd said, "I love you," but he was acting like he was bracing himself for a blow he didn't realize would never come.

So she would just have to make herself clearer, she told herself.

"'But'?" she repeated in confusion. "But… what? But nothing," she said, accentuating the word as much as she could. "That was the end of the sentence. I love you. Period."

Cuddy waited for him to return the sentiment. She wasn't so insecure these days that she needed him to say the words every time she said them, but if there had ever been a time where saying, "I love you too," was needed….

Maybe she didn't need to hear it, she immediately told herself. But it would have been nice.

And yet he said nothing.

Nothing.

He didn't even look at her.

In fact, he didn't react at all.

Oh, Cuddy didn't doubt that he had heard her. She could tell that he was paying attention to every move she was making; he was listening. Yet the message wasn't getting through.

Not one to back down, she decided she simply needed to make herself clearer; if the message wasn't seeping into his stubborn brain, then she would repeat it until he had no choice but to actually hear what she was saying.

"House," she said firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Unsurprisingly the worn material of his t-shirt was cold, and she couldn't help but run her fingertips along his shoulder blade to infuse some warmth into him.

As she did so, she repeated, "I love you."

Still, he said nothing.

"So…." She spoke slowly in an attempt to keep her burgeoning irritation to a minimum. "You're not going to say it back? You're just going to -"

"Why would I?" he asked abruptly, his gaze snapping to meet hers.

She was taken aback by the ferocity in his tone. "Because it's true?" she said carefully. "Because I said it to you, so -"

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "And I know you like to play with your prey before you go in for the kill, but I'm not in the mood to play that game. So if we could just hurry this along a little bit, that'd be swell."

House knew he sounded bitter, knew that he was baiting her. But truly, he couldn't handle this anymore; the tentative conversation had worn away what little patience he had, and all he wanted now was for it to be over. Because as much as he didn't want their relationship to end, he didn't think he could bear another moment of not knowing when she would strike.

She clearly couldn't appreciate that though. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion, she said, "I…." That was all she said before her voice trailed off.

He knew why. It was impossible not to see the way her face lit up in recognition, though he would have preferred not to; there was something about being able to see the wheels turning inside of her head that made him feel irrationally resentful. Whether it was the fact that it made her seem stupid or him simple, he didn't know, but the move made him roil apart with anger.

But she didn't know that. In fact, she seemed completely unaware of it as she slowly worked out what was going on. "You think… I'm what? Toying with you?" She said the words as though the notion was ridiculous. "Why would I do that?" However, she must have figured out the answer to that question, because before he could speak, she said knowingly, "You think I'm breaking up with you."

Cocking his head to the side, he told her with a sneer, "Deductive reasoning in a dean of medicine. Shocking. I didn't realize you were capable of that."

Her molars clicked against one another as she clenched her jaw tightly. A well of insults collected on the tip of her tongue, and he was making it so hard to resist the temptation to hurl each and every one at him. And if she kept her mouth shut at all, it was because she knew her anger was precisely what he wanted.

Or if not what he wanted, then it was what he thought he deserved, she corrected. If he really thought that she wanted to break up with him, then he clearly believed he'd done something wrong. And if he'd come to that conclusion, then it wasn't so hard to see that he was trying to get a rise out of her to make it easier on himself.

That was what she was gleaning from his behavior anyway, though at this point, she was more than willing to concede that she could have been completely wrong. But it made sense in the twisted way everything House did always made sense.

Of course, he was completely off the mark about her intentions. There might have been an internal logic about his thinking, but not for an instant did it actually reflect what was really going on here. And although he was being insulting enough, she knew that it would be wrong to let him think he was right for even a second by yelling at him.

Yes, House was being a complete jackass, but he didn't deserve that kind of treatment.

And so, though it pained part of her to ignore his insults, she forced herself to. She knew escalating a fight would do them no good.

What would help though? Truth be told, Cuddy didn't know. Yelling at him was obviously out, but that left a world of possibilities, all too vague to truly stand out. She thought about talking to him some more, but since that had yielded dismal results so far, she supposed she needed to try something else. But what?

A solution immediately popped into her head: a kiss Admittedly it was a clichéd one; she would never deny that. But if it would work, she was more than willing to cop to being uncreative.

Her hand on his shoulder, she leaned down. Loose curls spilled down in front of her face, and she had to quickly push them out of the way so she could look House in the eye; she wanted it to be absolutely clear how much she loved him.

She didn't say anything. She just met his purposefully hardened gaze. Nearly imperceptibly, he shifted at the sight of her eyes filled with warmth and concern meeting his own. Obviously she was making him a little uncomfortable, but she didn't mind that. She just wanted him to get the point.

She wasn't sure that had happened, but when he ceased flinching and didn't push her away, she allowed her line of sight to flicker downwards towards his mouth.

The ends of his lips were lightly turned into a frown (though had she expected differently?), and his jaw, covered by the stubble he rarely shaved off completely, was clenched tightly together. He seemed so sad, so unsure of himself that when she pressed her mouth to his, she was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he didn't jump.

Immediately he responded. Cuddy would have smiled at that, except he would have felt it. And she didn't want him to assume she was gloating; that would just give him more of an excuse to act like an asshole. So instead, she only inwardly allowed herself to feel the slightest bit of comfort at knowing that she'd made a good choice in kissing him.

Then again, how could showing affection to the man she loved so entirely ever be the wrong decision?

She didn't bother answering that question. Doing that was hardly important when compared to the fact that he was opening his mouth to her, responding to her lips with his own.

Her hands moved to his neck, her thumbs gently stroking his jaw line. The stubble was rough underneath her fingertips, but it was the only thing rough about this moment between them. His hands had somehow found her. His palms were pressed into her belly, the thin cotton of her tank top protecting her from the coolness of his flesh. He wasn't pulling her toward him, as he typically did when he wanted her. He wasn't pushing her away either, despite the fact that she knew part of him must have been thinking he should.

Actually, House seemed to be content to simply touch her, his fingers splayed so that he could feel as much of her as the span of his hands would allow. He wanted her - she knew he did - but he was behaving differently. He was calmer, not relaxed or restrained really; she could feel the frenetic energy beneath her fingertips desperate to escape. But at the moment, he seemed... appreciative of the reprieve she was giving him.

To be sure, in his mind, he probably thought they were going to continue to fight after this, but it was equally apparent that he was willing to let go of all of that for this.

Her lips softly brushed against his, her tongue tentatively meeting his, stroking him. The acridness of the bourbon he'd been drinking coated her taste buds, but she wasn't resentful. It helped mask the lingering taste of the cigarette he'd been smoking, which she was grateful for. And even if his unhealthy, repulsive version of a midnight snack had seriously bothered her, she wouldn't have complained, wouldn't have let herself even think of complaining.

Right now, as much as he needed this kiss, Cuddy did as well.

In moments like this, where he seemed so damaged - too damaged - she wanted the reminder. She'd never actually forgotten why she'd entered this relationship, why she loved House, but it was nice to have the proof right in front of her. It was nice to have new reasons to fight as hard as she did for them.

Bolstered, she pulled away from him. For a brief instant, his head leaned forward a little bit, his body instinctively not ready for the kiss to end. Again, she would have smiled, but she didn't want to upset him.

Still leaning over, Cuddy kept her gaze trained on his. And speaking as slowly as she could, with as much conviction as she could muster, she told him, "I love you. I have no intention of breaking up with you. I love you, House."

She was sure he believed her when he quickly looked away. Doing that meant he didn't want her to see how deeply her words had affected him. But that didn't matter, because when he spoke, his words gaze away the myriad of emotions lying just beneath the surface. "I bit you," he said miserably, apologetically.

Instantly she understood: in his attempt at avoiding her eyes, he'd caught sight of her neck and felt guilty immediately for what he'd done.

"That doesn't matter, " she said emphatically.

And it didn't. He'd made her bleed - a glance in the mirror had told her as much - but it was little more than a superficial wound. In a few days, the miniscule places where the skin had broken would heal over, and she would be fine. Perhaps a little embarrassed by the fact that she was a woman in her forties with a child and now also with a hickey, but other than that, she would be fine.

He didn't get that though.

"You think I'm going to break up with you for giving me a hickey?" She shook her head as though the idea was preposterous (which honestly it was). "Of all the things we've done to one another, you think that's going to be what pushes me over the edge?" She didn't give him a chance to answer before she kissed him again; she didn't want to give him the opportunity to be offended by her words, and following the question up with a quick peck was the best way she knew how to show him she wasn't being serious. "You've switched my birth control pills, broken nearly every piece of equipment and fought with nearly every employee in the hospital. You spend your days making lewd comments about my body, and when you aren't, you're grabbing it as delicately as Rachel pet that rabbit at the petting zoo." Her lips quirked into a smile, and she pointed out, "This morning you inquired about involving urine in our sex life. I'm not going to dump you for this."

Cuddy gestured to her neck, but he didn't look. So he must have still felt guilty, she supposed. "I'm not twelve and afraid my mother's going to know I was making out with a boy. And I would have thought that you would know by now that I'm not afraid of things being a little rough either."

Under normal circumstances, she would have braced herself for the slew of insults and quips headed her way. Given that she'd mentioned work, watersports, the fact that she'd been making out with boys at twelve, her penchant for rough sex, and her mother, Cuddy knew that she'd given House more than enough material. But in this particular instance, she wasn't worried about that. Maybe she was giving House too much credit here, but she really believed that he was too desperate for her reassurance to make fun of whatever she offered.

Indeed, she saw the mischief glinting in his eyes. As though a metaphorical light bulb had gone off, she could practically see the synapses in his brain taking everything she was saying and parsing out every embarrassing or joke-worthy detail. Truth be told, Cuddy had no doubts that at some point she would pay for what she'd said. He couldn't resist. She was just hoping that he would restrain himself now.

Maybe that was hoping for too much.

But it didn't seem like it, because his response was not a quip, not an insult, or anything of that sort. Instead, he changed the subject completely by uttering one word that encompassed so much: "Rachel."

House hadn't wanted to discuss it. Ever. But not wanting to concede that maybe she had a point about her neck, he was left with no other topic.

Oh, he knew he could have tried to drop the matter all together. But that wouldn't have worked. How could it have when Rachel was the reason for everything that had happened? It couldn't. Even if he'd refrained from mentioning it, Cuddy sure as hell wouldn't have. She absolutely would have brought it up.

And no, he didn't want to talk about it - ever. Which was why he'd given her the option for a clean end to their relationship, no awkward discussion necessary. But Cuddy had clearly rejected that, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one ending things, so now he was left with no choice but to have the messy conversation that would inevitably leave them both broken-hearted and resentful.

He didn't want to believe that the ending had already been set in stone; it definitely didn't make the talk they were going to have any more enticing. Yet he didn't doubt that he was right. He knew he was. Cuddy might have wanted to avoid a break up, but really, how could they?

Based on his logic, they couldn't.

And even if she disagreed, she must have realized the gravity of the situation. Because the second he uttered Rachel's name, Cuddy looked as though whatever confidence she'd had had just left her.

Well, welcome to the club, he thought bitterly.

He wanted to say that out loud, but knowing it wouldn't do anyone any good, he sat there quietly as she joined him on the window seat. Perching herself on the sliver of bench he hadn't taken up, she accidentally nudged his hip with her ass as she tried to settle in next to him. But since she was insisting on facing him, there was no way she was going to be comfortable; her back was unsupported, her feet on the floor, but she didn't complain.

Instead, she repeated what he said, "Rachel."

"Yeah." Only the slightest bit of irritation escaped him in the single word. He supposed he could qualify that as a success, considering.

Cuddy, on the other hand, remained calm. "You think I'm going to dump you hours after Rachel says she cares about you? After all we've -"

"Don't do that," he snapped in irritation.

She didn't understand. "Do what?"

"You know."

"If I had any idea what you were talking about, I wouldn't ask -"

"Don't act like this doesn't mean anything when you know it does," he interrupted in warning.

She shook her head a few times. "I wasn't."

House remained unconvinced though. "You were."

"Just because I don't think it's the end of the world doesn't mean I -"

"You honestly believe that," he said in realization. He hadn't thought she was that stupid, but the way she was speaking made it very clear that she was, in fact, that dumb. "Then you're an idiot."

She frowned. "I'm not -"

"You think Rachel liking me is a good thing?" He nodded his head emphatically and told her disdainfully, "If you actually believe that, yeah, your I.Q. is in the double digits."

He understood that the words were insulting. But in this case, he wasn't lying; if she really thought that they didn't have a problem here, she simply didn't get it.

And it pained him to have to make her comprehend what was going on, because who in the hell really wanted to have to tell their girlfriend that she needed to go her own merry way? He didn't want to do it, not at all, but what choice did he have? He could keep her in the dark, but at some point she would realize what the truth was, and then she would dump him anyway. And he did not want to spend the next days, months, years maybe waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That, he thought, might have been a fate even worse than the one a break up now would create. Because as much as he didn't want to force her hand, he knew that he couldn't live in the limbo that situation would birth. He just couldn't, which meant his only choice was to show Cuddy just how wrong she was.

And for that, he was calmer, less offensive. As much as part of him wanted to be as rude and crass as he could be to protect himself, he knew that would backfire. It would just make her want to fight him on the subject. So he forced himself to talk in a quieter, more rational manner. "You want to believe that this can work out, because that would make you happy. You… want to believe I'm a good choice, because if I'm not, you know this can't go on."

He sighed and looked away - just for a moment though - before continuing. "You don't want to face this, but… we both know Rachel deserves someone who… is not like me. I -"

"You think I don't know your flaws?" she interrupted in a voice that was both joking and curious. "You think I just got really drunk one night and said, 'Oh, what the hell, House and I haven't had sex in a while'?"

He shrugged his shoulders a little. To be perfectly frank, he never really understood what had driven her to him. All he knew was that she'd been happy with Lucas, and then she hadn't been, and the next thing House had known he'd been in bed with Cuddy himself.

In his mind, there had been and still was no logic behind that move, and every opportunity he'd taken to ask Cuddy what her logic had been had been met with non-answers and anger.

She'd always resented that line of questioning, and he supposed he understood why. In those moments, she'd assumed that he was asking her out of doubt, that he was saying she didn't know what she wanted. But that couldn't have been further from the truth. He'd asked, because he didn't understand why she would want someone like him.

An awful truth now inherent in her question, he couldn't even begin to offer her an answer of his own. Pride denied him the ability to admit that he had no idea why she'd entered this relationship. And yet every defense he possessed failed him when it came to creating a quip or a lie; his verbalized armor had been stripped away by Rachel's confession and the knowledge it had both created and forced him to confront.

Of course though, Cuddy took his silence as assent. "You actually think that, don't you?" she said in surprise, in disgust.

House thought about correcting her, thought about saying that he didn't know what to think. But then he realized that, out of a need to show him the error of his ways, she would finally give him the answer he was looking for if he kept his mouth shut all together. She would explain to him why she'd wanted him at all. And wanting - needing - that so badly, he kept quiet.

"You're wrong," she told him in a voice that approached bitter.

She waited for him to say something, anything in response. But when he didn't, she knew something wasn't right. After all, she'd just said he was wrong. To him wrong was essentially an insult - and an awful one at that. Saying that almost always led to a heated argument.

But this… wasn't?

Why?

Because….

Her mind quickly worked to solve the problem in front of her. She'd said he was wrong, but he said nothing. She'd given him ample time to respond, but he remained silent. So that must have meant that he wasn't offended… and the only way that would be the case was if… he thought he was wrong as well?

No, she thought with a mental shake of the head. If he thought he was wrong, he would have fought her when she'd originally brought up the subject. If he'd had a different theory about their relationship, he would have shared it. Or if he didn't share it, he would have breezed past that topic of conversation. But he wasn't doing any of that. So…

He didn't think he was wrong. He just… wanted to be wrong, she realized finally.

Cuddy didn't bother to consider why that might be. She would later, but at the moment, she was simply happy to have the opportunity to tell him just how incorrect he was.

With a smile she couldn't suppress, she explained in a much friendlier voice, "Whenever a family member of one of your patients comes to me to complain, they complain about one of two things: that you're being a jerk - obviously." He smirked a little at that, thankfully. "Or that you're making their relative worse. They… see clusters of severe symptoms and assume that, since you haven't automatically cured them, you're making things worse. They believe that you're responsible for their loved one being so ill."

"I'm assuming there's a point to all this. You're not just telling me something I could have guessed if I ever cared enough to -"

"The point is that they only see what's happening in that moment. You think I was impulsive coming to you, choosing you," she said knowingly, her gaze trained on him. "But the truth is… you and I spent the better part of our lives pretending like this wasn't absolutely what we wanted."

At that Cuddy sighed and confessed, "I tried so hard not to want you. The first time we met, you knew me, in thirty seconds, better than anyone else ever had, and I thought if I just… slept with you, I'd be fine."

There was a slight nod of his head that was proof he was following along, that he understood. "I wanted you," she admitted honestly. "But I thought if I let myself sleep with you, I'd be able to get past you."

She really had believed that. Now it seemed stupid to even consider doing that, but at the time, she had honestly thought that, if she'd given into the one thing that tempted her, she would never want it - him - again.

Of course, that hadn't been the case. He'd been an itch that once scratched threatened to consume her. Far from over him - as far away as one could have possibly been - she'd only wanted him more after their one shared night together.

And that had terrified her.

Without exaggeration, it honestly had. Because back then, she'd only expected and been prepared for a brief tryst that would mean nothing when morning came. And when she'd realized that what had been right in front of her was much more than that, she'd been faced with the dilemma of choosing: her career or House.

Even now, it seemed overly dramatic to put it that way. But she believed whole-heartedly that there had been a choice to make; she could either pursue her dream or have all of that swept away by being associated with House.

He would have never wanted her to face that decision. He would have never asked her to. The rest of the world, however, wouldn't have been so kind, and she had known at the time that, if she acted on her feelings for House, the rest of the world would have penalized her for it.

Any intelligence she'd had would have suddenly not been her own. If she'd aced a test, diagnosed a patient, done anything even remotely clever, they would have assumed House had helped her. If she'd done something risky, the response would have been, "House must be rubbing off on you," and so on and so forth. In job interviews, she would either be cursed or blessed to be associated with House. But the end result would always be the same: his antics would overshadow and diminish her own accomplishments.

And honestly… she'd been relieved when he'd failed to call her the next day.

"So I was just a booty call," House said loudly, interrupting her thoughts.

It was impossible to miss the disappointment in his voice.

"You were… everything I could have ever wanted," she responded instantly. "But I wasn't ready for you then."

She placed a hand on his knee to soothe whatever sting the admission might have caused.

"And then I hired you, and then it became 'I'm your boss, and you work for me.' Or 'you're not right for me.' I spent all the time trying to convince myself that someone else better was out there."

At that moment, she considered mentioning some of the idiots she'd dated in the past. Ultimately though, she decided against it; she didn't need House fixating on that. So she simply said instead, "I tried so hard to find someone else, dated guys who were good on paper, guys who were bad on it, and it never worked out."

Cuddy let out a rush of air through her nose and paused. Looking at him, she could tell that he was listening to her; his eyes were trained on her, taking in every move she was making.

He knew he was being obvious in his intent; he was clearly trying to see if she was lying. The way he was watching her for even the slightest hint of a tell, he was being completely transparent. House realized that.

But he didn't care.

A desire for subtlety was nothing, meant nothing when compared to his need for an answer. If she realized what he was doing, fine; he just wanted to know if he could believe anything she was saying.

In truth, part of House understood he had no reason to doubt her. Lying in this case would be pointless. He knew she loved him, so if she lied at all, it would be about the circumstances in which they'd been brought together. And he was pretty sure that, instead of lying, she would have just found some other way to make her argument.

So he supposed she must have been telling the truth. It was the only thing that made sense, though it still felt odd listening to her say what he'd always wanted to hear.

That feeling of weirdness must have translated to the look on his face, because at that moment, Cuddy tugged on his pants leg to get his attention.

Immediately he forced himself to focus on the present. Losing himself in the analysis was much easier than idly allowing her words to wash over him, to comfort him. But he wasn't about to make her stop by letting her think he wasn't paying attention. So he made an overt showing of interest to get her continue.

Thankfully it worked.

"I didn't understand why those relationships never worked out," she explained in a careful voice.

"Probably had something to do with the fact that they would have liked you when you still had your penis," House quipped, unable to stop himself.

Cuddy fumed in response. "Much to your dismay, I've never been a man or dated one interested in them."

"Oh, I don't know…." He was talking in that way that Cuddy knew meant he was working up to an insult. "That marine -"

"Anyway," she interrupted quickly, seeing exactly where he was headed.

Sure, at this point, Cuddy was simply putting off the inevitable. As soon as she told him she was going to see John (and she would tell him), they would have this conversation. But frankly, considering the next time John's name was brought up would be much worse, she didn't want to have this discussion twice.

Technically, she didn't want to have it at all. But since avoiding it all together was impossible, she would settle for once.

And wanting to make that happen, she hurriedly started talking before he could get another quip out. "My point is that none of those relationships worked out. And I know you have fun thinking that there's some seedy underlying cause to that, but there isn't," she told him firmly.

Her voice staccato and straight to the point, she then uttered the one truth he seemed incapable of seeing. "They just weren't you."

Continue on to the rest of the chapter