Fic: Every Fairy-Tale Hero
[Every Fairy-Tale Hero]
Cuddy, Apocalypse!AU (and not), 6100 words, spoilers till the end of Season 4. Features some het, although that's not the focus of this story.
hihoplastic allowed me to steal borrow a seminal thing from her fabulous House/Angel x-over, Never Heals. And then she read through this thing and encouraged me, for which I can't thank her enough. ♥
If you do manage to read through the entire story, leave a word. Any word.
Summary: Her life would make a boring story. The stories we tell ourselves.
*
prologue
The world ended on a Thursday, at about four in the morning, although the precise moment remained a matter of dispute between scientists and astrologers. Most people were asleep at that hour, and so they didn't notice the pale blue tinge to the moon and the rows of ants on the streets, marching silently to nowhere.
Parts of Asia witnessed a solar eclipse, sudden and unannounced (again, a matter of dispute between scientists and astrologers). There were reports of UFO sightings from all over Tokyo. Similar reports came in from parts of Europe, about an unearthly chariot-gleaming, white, luminous-journeying across the skies at night. A small boy in Denver claimed to have seen an angel-radiant and white, startling against the night sky.
Less interesting things were happening closer home. A few drunken university students saw shooting stars, red and gold and orange. Dr. Lisa Cuddy, among some others (you could never be very sure, those days), gained what might be called a new talent (she never did approve of the term 'superpower').
It was, one might say, a boring story.
*
the book of ambition
She closed her eyes, spreading her palm on the feverwarm skin of the patient's chest and her left hand firm on the mattress. His heartbeat was erratic against her hand.
Deeper, she willed herself, coursing through flesh and muscle: his blood pulsing through her veins, searing, deeper, his pulse racing or maybe her own-
Deeper. She could taste pain on her lips now. The damaged tissue, yielding to her palm and her will.
She was nearly breathless when she opened her eyes. Everything was too bright and so she closed them again, clutching the bed with both hands for support.
'Are you all right?' she heard Wilson say, anxious, hovering somewhere behind her.
She was dizzy and breathing very hard. 'Yes, I-' It took her a moment to collect herself. Even her nails hurt.
Wilson put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Cuddy drew in a deep breath and said, 'I'm fine.'
She was used to this by now. Almost.
The man lying on the hospital bed in front of them could not have been more than twenty five. He was deathly pale against the white sheets, his face worn and drawn. But his pulse, when she reached for it, was steady, his breathing no longer harsh and laboured.
'Fever's down,' Wilson said. 'And the wound, let me see…'
The wound on his abdomen had not disappeared; neither-she was certain-had the pain gone away completely. The change, nonetheless, was remarkable. Unthinkable, even, given that it had been achieved, entirely, with bare hands.
Cuddy watched Wilson pick up his right hand and examine the fingers.
'I think we have a new record,' Wilson said, smiling. There was a hint of awe in his voice, and she smiled in response, her own heart-
/
'That's his right hand,' Stacy said, not caring-for once-to mask her dismay with cool professionalism.
In a way Cuddy was grateful for it, if only because it made her grief less unseemly. Out of place.
'Yes,' she said in reply, watching his mother stroke his forehead, his little brother grin encouragingly as he lifted the bandaged arm up and down.
Alfredo had never been a particularly dedicated employee- excuses every other day and slacking off when she wasn't looking.
Her flowerbeds, however, had blossomed in his hands.
\
-filling with relief and maybe even some pride. Her palm was hot and tingling, the way she always did… this. Whatever this was.
'He will still be in pain,' Cuddy said, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. There was no science to this, no means to determine precisely what had worked and how. There was just this-her hand and her will.
She was used to this by now. Almost.
'No morphine,' Wilson shook his head.
'I know,' Cuddy said. Morphine was precious now, and their patient was comparatively healthy and young.
'You should rest,' Wilson said briskly. 'I'll see to everything else.'
'I'm fine,' Cuddy protested. It sounded weak to her own ears.
'I'll see to it,' he said, his voice firm.
She heard the reproach underneath and did not argue-they'd had this discussion before, in those first few days of madness. They were in this together. The hospital, so far, had five doctors who shared her talent (and also the night janitor, who was now under the AAP's observation along with other non-medical individuals who possessed a similar skill). They'd handled epidemics. They'd handled House and a hundred other minor crises everyday.
They were in this together.
It was something she had to tell herself every now and then.
*
'Well if it isn't Jesus herself.'
House was stretched out on the chairs in the clinic's waiting area, the now familiar pair of field glasses pointed predictably at her chest.
It was three in the afternoon and the clinic bore a desolate look: she tried not to think about the battles with the board and the endless fund-raising campaigns, the bustle and chaos and the standard House tantrums that made up a normal working day.
It was still open (three hours a day, four days a week). It was still free. She only wished it were enough.
'I'm pretty sure that counts as sacrilege,' she said as she walked closer and pushed the field glasses away. He gazed up at her, unrepentant.
'Perform any miracles lately?'
'Biological manipulation isn't the same as-' she stopped. 'Biological manipulation'. That was the term. Agreed upon by the Department of Health, in conjunction with the AAP (Association for Altered Persons; 'The Justice League has a better ring to it,' House had sneered).
'That's what all the comic books say.' House looked smug.
Cuddy bit back a sharp response. It wasn't fair, the way it always worked on her.
It was, in many ways, an improvement over his initial response-his derision for 'magic', his refusal to accept 'I don't know' for an answer. There had been a battery of expensive tests: X-Rays, MRIs, blood samples. Back when expensive tests were still routine. Normal.
House hadn't found the answer to his riddle: not then, and not now.
'I thought you had a patient,' she said.
'I did. She has MS.' House drummed his fingers against the chair. 'Next time, try finding something that can't be diagnosed by a trained monkey.' His tone was mocking, but he wouldn't look her in the eye.
'The diagnosis for MS can often be inconclusive- '
'It's MS,' he proclaimed with an air of absolute finality.
Cuddy thought of the inevitable consequences. The state of supplies and insurance and her own strength, which was frail.
'We'll do what we can,' she said. She said that too many times these days.
She said that too many times to him these days.
'Do your superpowers raise the dead now?' His eyes were feverbright. Skewering.
/
'I checked on Alfredo. He's recovering well,' Stacy was saying as she took a chair in front of her desk, her voice gentle.
Cuddy knew he was, because she'd done the same thing herself.
'He's young,' she said in reply. So young.
'Have you ever considered that you couldn't have known about what he did on Saturday nights?' Stacy said. 'Just a thought.'
'I have,' she said. It didn't make any difference.
These days, she could barely glance at her flowers. The grass remained overgrown and uncared for. There was an abundance of weed in her yard.
Stacy sighed. 'Do you want to go over the settlement terms now? It can wait if you wish.'
'No, we'll do it now,' she said, and Stacy didn't push.
This was what she did. This was what she was good at.
The rustle of paperwork was almost soothing.
\
Cuddy watched as House fished around in his pocket for the bottle of pills and dry-swallowed one with perfect ease. She wondered how many he had in store.
It was not something she'd discussed-not with House, of course; not even with Wilson.
His Vicodin stocks would be exhausted some day. She wondered if he would ever ask.
She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat, ignoring the prickling sensation in her fingertips.
*
She made a point to never miss her rounds. The rounds were important. The rounds were routine. The rounds were ordinary and normal even when the world was chaos.
The clinic was still open and Paediatrics still needed a regular supply of candy (Stinson wouldn't have it otherwise) and there was still life and energy left in this hospital.
The rounds kept her sane.
There was no crisis at hand today, only the familiar hospital sounds and smell; at Paediatrics, Stinson was putting together a Hogwarts LEGO set under the watchful supervision of some of his patients. She turned down his generous offer to 'join in the fun' in favour of a quick detour to the balcony.
The sun shone crimson against the evening sky; at a distance she could see the silhouette of Dr. Kutner moving about in the makeshift herb garden at the courtyard.
It did not make sense that the sun still rose and the skies were still beautiful. That she was still here and playing her part.
On her way back, Cuddy switched off the lights in some of the deserted corridors.
Someday the lights would go out.
*
the book of desire
The hospital was transformed on benefit nights, as though by a magic wand.
Organizing the event was a nightmare, one she was doomed to repeat every year. The end result, though: bright lights and music, all her doctors at their stylish best. Conversation and laughter, marking a pleasant change from all the misery and sorrow that made up the usual hospital fare.
The end result was something she could be proud of.
She could bask in her borrowed glory and let her hair down, if only until midnight.
The poker table was enticing; the silent invitation in House's eyes even more so.
She could let herself be enticed. Until midnight.
'It's gastro-enteritis,' Cuddy said. 'And I'm going all in.'
/
Yesterday's patient had been shifted to a dormitory. Their dormitories were overcrowded now, new arrivals banging at their door every hour while they scrambled to discharge people and make more room. They didn't turn patients away: not yet, not until they had to (soon).
Cuddy found Dr. Hadley by his bedside, adjusting his IV. The patient was asleep.
'Wilson was just here,' Hadley said, handing her the chart. 'Everything looks fine.'
Cuddy went through the chart and inspected his stats, and it was true, everything did look fine. It had worked.
She was almost used to it now, this… phenomenon. This 'talent'. Superpower, as House liked to call it, if only to annoy her.
The man on the bed was tranquil in his sleep. Her palm tingled when she placed it on his forehead.
*
'How do you do this?'
Cuddy turned to face Hadley, who had accompanied her to the stairs. She appeared agitated now, nervous, in a manner that was a far cry from her usual reserved self. 'What do you mean?'
'I know how you cured that man,' Hadley said.
'It's not exactly a secret,' Cuddy said slowly. 'If you're asking me how it works, if it can be taught or learnt then the answer is- '
'I'm asking you how you do this. This, the end of the world and miracles,' Hadley said fiercely. 'Everything.' Her face was flushed. Her eyes were very green. And there was something in face, maybe, that made Cuddy say, 'Why are you asking?'
Hadley hesitated for a moment. Then she lifted a hand and held open her palm.
In another world, Cuddy would have dismissed the tiny ball of fire on her palm as some sort of a fantasy or illusion; maybe paid the long overdue visit to her ophthalmologist.
*
It took her a while to be able to concentrate on the expense reports-they were almost redundant now-her mind still on Hadley and the flames she seemed to be able to produce at her will-no different than her own… condition. She had smiled encouragingly at Hadley and asked her to contact the AAP, register herself as soon as possible. It paid, these days, to stick together.
Healing, extraordinary strength, fire-all the so-called superpowers (the term still made her wince), straight out of comic books and superhero movies.
Perhaps it was a defence mechanism, developed by the human body in order to ensure survival in a hostile universe. Scientists had been working on that theory-she (and everyone else like her, everyone who had been registered) had to endure sessions with government investigators every couple of weeks. Perhaps it was something else.
How do you do this, Hadley had asked.
She woke up in the morning and knew that she had a hospital to run, that was how.
*
She stopped to speak to Kutner on her way out, as she often did these days.
'That's osimum sanctum-a variety of basil,' he was explaining to a thoughtful Cameron, spade in hand, quite noticeably thrilled to have an audience. 'Very useful for common cold, to name one use.'
'My grandmother knew a lot of natural remedies like this,' Cameron said thoughtfully. 'I never really paid attention.'
The herbs were originally Blake's idea. His recent (borderline obsessive) interest in astrology and alternative medicine was mostly a matter of amusement among his colleagues (and some annoyance for Wilson, his ill-fated employer), a prime topic for in-jokes and watercooler gossip before the world ended and Lisa Cuddy-among a few others-gained a new talent.
The Nostradamus Association was an instant hit; there would be a couple of (handwritten) leaflets on her desk every week, promising further doom and gloom (something to do with the number nine, she couldn't keep them straight). The herb garden on the other hand generated little interest before Kutner decided it was 'neat'. And now it appeared to be paying off, as supplies dwindled and the commonest of pills became hard to obtain.
'Where did you get the saplings from?' Cameron asked.
'I know some people,' Kutner said, vaguely waving his spade in the air. 'We… may have to invest in some manure.'
Cuddy couldn't help but smile.
*
Cuddy walked back home. Fuel was precious, its cost reaching new, astronomical heights every day-and she could certainly use the exercise.
If it wasn't for the graffiti on the walls ('The Antichrist is come!') and the man gently levitating off the ground, right there on the sidewalk, it could've been just another evening.
After a while it began to drizzle. She let herself enjoy it, the cool spray on skin and fresh rain smell.
*
It turned out she had a visitor. A mysterious visitor who had stolen her spare key and made himself at home in her absence, who greeted her with, 'You won't believe what they're charging for pizzas these days,' a battered copy of the Journal of Molecular Endocrinology in hand.
'I'm surprised we still have pizzas,' she said, dropping her bag and taking off her sensible (and slightly wet) pumps.
'That's why you brought about the apocalypse, didn't you? No carbs, no junk food, just nature's not-so-fresh produce in a dieter's heaven.'
This happened sometimes these days. She wasn't going to let herself get used to it, but she could use the company.
*
'The ants have gone. Have you noticed?' House said conversationally, a hand caressing her spine.
Cuddy blinked. 'The ants-'
'Gone. Disappeared. There isn't a single one left anymore.'
'Is that what you do with those field glasses all day? Antwatching?' she said, incredulous.
'Ants. Babes. I watch a lot of things. Did you know bras have been rendered obsolete with the apocalypse?'
'Well I better get rid of this one then, shouldn't I?' she said, drawing closer to him on the couch.
'Wouldn't want you to be a fashion victim,' he agreed. The lone remaining pizza slice lay forgotten on the coffee table.
Afterwards, she settled herself drowsily against his chest. She hadn't noticed when it'd started to pour in earnest-being otherwise occupied-but she was glad for his warmth, his presence.
House appeared restless. 'I can hear you think,' she told him after a while. 'Are you still brooding about ants?'
A muttered 'they disappeared' was all he would offer in reply.
He would obsess over it for days now, she knew, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. House needed his facts, his science, and he would run himself ragged till he reached a satisfactory conclusion-or brood over the unsolved puzzle for the rest of his life. But it was the end of the world and she'd healed a man with her bare hands, watched Remy Hadley with that ball of flame in her palm. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism, developed by the human body in order to ensure survival in a hostile universe. Perhaps it was a short-circuit in the system, a technological error or even, yes, a miracle. It was unforeseen. Inexplicable. It was the end of the world and she had a hospital to run. She could use the rest.
She fell asleep to the sound of rain beating steadily against the window panes.
\
House's report read, 'Gregory House saves the day. '
He took great pleasure in writing these so-called reports-odes to his ego. It was the only kind of paperwork he produced without any trouble whatsoever. She had quite a collection of them.
Cuddy stared at the empty page in front of her, pen in hand.
*
the book of betrayal
He'd stolen the dead man's pills. It was right there on the register, for her and the rest of the free world-for Judge Helen Davis-to see.
He'd stolen the pills and overdosed on them. She hadn't spoken to him afterwards.
It had come to this.
An orderly came in with her coffee and she thanked him with a smile. Maintenance called to inform that the elevators would be fixed 'shortly'; her voice-as she threatened them with dire consequences-was steady.
/
On Tuesday she met Helen Davis-the NJHA chairperson, her long-standing acquaintance-before work.
In another lifetime, both she and Helen would have had impossible schedules and there would have been phone calls, clearing of schedules and a lot of planning involved. Another lifetime, when the phrase 'prior appointment' still held some meaning. Now, after a few fruitless attempts to reach her on the phone-the connections were getting worse and she hadn't spoken to her mother in a week-Cuddy simply walked in.
The absence of protocol, in some strange way, was liberating.
Cuddy had queries, and statistics, and the meeting grew long as they spoke of floundering finances and the insurance quagmire.
'We've been in touch with the Health Department-they're trying to figure something out,' Helen said with a sigh, 'but between you and me, Lisa, I don't know how much it'll work out. Everyone's just as clueless as we are. They're just fumbling in the dark trying to hold things together.'
Cuddy raised an eyebrow. 'So you're telling me that this woman is doomed?'
'Aren't we all?' Helen said. 'Give me the file and I'll see to it.' Cuddy couldn't resist a small grin as she handed her the file containing the medical and insurance records of the woman House had diagnosed with MS. 'But the system is falling apart, Lisa,' Helen continued. 'Nothing makes sense anymore.'
'It's gonna get worse,' Cuddy said.
A moment's silence, and then Helen said, fiddling with a paperweight, 'People need doctors. Now more than ever.' A ray of sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting shadows on her face. Helen looked very weary.
Everywhere, clinics and hospitals were closing shop. Companies were cutting down on production. Pharmacies were shutting down. The blackmarket was spiralling out of control.
'We're not going anywhere,' Cuddy said.
And besides, there wasn't anywhere left to go to.
*
It was mid-day by the time she reached the hospital. A figure was bent over the plants in the herb garden, her face obscured among leaves and her hair like gold against the sun; another girl stood by her, watering the plants. They were, Cuddy realised, among the few med students who'd stayed back.
Evidently Kutner's diligence had attracted converts, she thought, amused.
They looked nervous when she passed by. Some things never changed.
*
'Dr. Wilson was looking for you.' Brenda said, falling in step beside her.
Her nursing staff had stood by her in the days of initial panic, through the slow disintegration of their world and everything familiar. There were no medals for this- this quiet, competent support, this heroism, and she herself had little to offer except a few words in appreciation, and maybe, the recognition that there was life yet in this hospital.
They weren't going anywhere.
'Was House in the clinic this morning?' she asked.
Brenda rolled her eyes. 'He hasn't set foot in the hospital all day,' she said. Some things never changed. It was, in a way, reassuring. It meant some things were still normal.
*
She found Wilson in the ER, tending to an emaciated young man with too many piercings. His left eye was swollen shut, and he had bloody gash on his forehead.
'Assault. Some kind of a blunt weapon,' Wilson said, pressing a ball of cotton on the wound. The patient winced. 'Bleeding's under control, would you like to-'
'Yes,' Cuddy said, her heart beating a little faster.
Wilson pulled the curtains around them. Cuddy drew a deep breath.
She placed her right hand on his forehead, bracing herself for the initial rush, the flash of white light behind her eyes and pain-
Her palm felt cool. Unresponsive. The patient made a low, keening sound. He was in pain. He was in pain and she couldn't feel it, couldn't taste hurt on her tongue in that way she had grown (almost) used to.
'What's wrong?' Wilson said, frowning.
'I, I don't know.'
Deeper, she thought, closing her eyes again. Deeper.
The patient moaned again. Her palm was limp against his forehead.
'I can't do it,' she told Wilson, feeling strangely calm.
\
Years of unending paperwork, years of working with lawyers and bureaucracy and Cuddy knew this: papers could be managed. A scratch here, a few dollars there and a quietly slipped envelope-end of story. Papers-like everyone else, like the one in front of her right now-lied.
It had come to this.
Brenda came in with a few files for her to sign. Her coffee had gone cold.
All summer, House ran. His gait was odd, uneven, and his stamina was nowhere near what it used to be. The scar in his thigh hadn't disappeared. The muscles in his thigh were still missing. But he wasn't in pain. He ran.
She remembered the shock the first time he rapped on her door, panting, hands on his knees and his t-shirt drenched in sweat. 'Water,' he demanded and she obliged, choking back a hundred anxious questions. It was his moment of triumph.
She remembered the fear. She remembered staying up late and re-reading articles on the Ketamine procedure, wishing her cup of herbal tea was a little more alcoholic.
'Up to running the marathon yet?' she asked him on the third day, her tone deliberately light.
'Gonna outrun you in another week,' he said, and smiled. 'You run like a girl.'
'You wish,' she smiled back. It was, after all, her triumph too.
/
She couldn't do it.
The patient's moans had subsided under Wilson's careful ministrations-she couldn't do it. It was not a skill she'd acquired over the years, not a trick she'd learnt in medical school. There was no science to it. She woke up one morning with a strange sensation in her palm and the knowledge that something was different.
Pale sunlight crept in through the blinds in her office-she hadn't had the urge to open them-and she felt herself longing for clean air. Light.
Brenda looked surprised when she announced, 'I'm taking off for the day,' but she knew better, far better, than to ask.
*
The park was quiet, mostly deserted, its paths littered with yellowed leaves now that cleaning them was no longer imperative. A couple sat holding hands underneath a maple tree, surrounded by fallen leaves and overgrown grass.
She settled herself on a dusty bench, staring off into the distance. The reservoir was a calm blue, not a ripple on its surface.
The sun still shone. People fell in love and held hands.
The familiar thump of cane against gravel woke her from her reverie. House hadn't bothered to set foot in the hospital all day, so of course he would turn up just when she needed some time to herself. Some things never changed. The field glasses hung around his neck; there were, she observed as he drew closer, twigs in his hair and on his coat.
She braced herself for a lewd comment about running away from work for an afternoon nookie, his voice too loud. House thrust the field glasses into her hand and pointed his cane at a nearby tree. 'What do you see?'
'House, what-'
'What do you see?' There was a very definite edge to his voice now, and she found herself compliant, looking into the glasses and the yellowing leaves.
'A tree,' she told him.
'What else?' he said, impatient.
'Leaves. Branches. A couple of crows.'
'Now look at that one.' He sounded satisfied. 'What do you see?'
She obeyed, noting the bare branches and the lone crow, its smooth black coat gleaming in the sun. 'Branches. A crow.'
'And there?' House said, sounding very satisfied. She knew that tone. It meant he was right. About whatever it was he was trying to establish.
She felt a strange sense of foreboding as she raised the glasses to her eyes. The couple underneath the maple tree were kissing now, oblivious to the rest of the world. A lone crow polished his feathers on the branch, very black against the leaves.
Cuddy let out a shaky breath. 'Another crow. House, what are you trying to prove?'
'The birds. They're gone,' House said. 'All except crows, I'm not sure why.'
'Gone. Like ants.'
'Disappeared,' House nodded.
'Has there been some kind of epidemic?' She imagined dead birds littering the streets, like leaves.
'I spoke to a Dr. Jay Viswanathan today. Ornithologist,' House said, sinking down heavily beside her. 'They don't think it's an epidemic.'
'What do they think it is?'
'They have no idea,' House said.
'I had a patient today,' she said after a while. 'I couldn't do it.' There was no need to explain what the 'it' was.
The couple under the tree were still kissing.
*
She went to bed alone that night, after a few more fruitless efforts to call her mother, two states away. Her feet were cold. She couldn't sleep.
It was easy, she thought, to get used to things. The end of the world and company in her bed. Miraculous healings. Superpowers.
It was easy to believe that it all meant something. That she was still here to play her part.
*
the book of revelations
There were rings under her eyes when she stood in front of the mirror the next morning. She wondered if she should care to cover them up and then did it anyway. She wondered, somewhat hysterically, what would happen when make-up stocks ran out.
On her way to work, she spotted a couple of crows, pecking away at something in a gutter.
*
Cuddy was neck-deep in the monthly budget, reports and spreadsheets scattered on her desk when Wilson came in.
She had been expecting him all day, but that didn't make this any easier.
'Have you noticed how 'apocalypse' actually translates into even more paperwork?' he said as he drew up a chair.
Cuddy smiled. 'I'm pretty sure that was the original meaning.'
Wilson's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. And then, 'What happened yesterday?' No beating about the bush. Great.
'I couldn't do it,' she said simply, feeling again that unexpected calm, the same calm of recognition she'd felt after she knew, her palm limp against his forehead.
'Did you try again afterwards?'
'I-' She faltered. 'No.'
Wilson remained quiet for a moment. 'I had a patient this morning,' he said. 'Burn victim. First degree, but I've never treated one before, and I thought-'
'You thought you wouldn't be able to do it, like me,' she filled in.
'Yes. But it worked.'
'It appears my superpowers came with an expiry date,' she said lightly. Wilson didn't smile.
'I have a lot of patients who have no hope of survival. No hope of anything but a bit of relief from pain and discomfort,' Wilson said, looking at his own hands. 'I thought- I can't cure cancer, but we could give them that.'
Cuddy nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.
'You'll have to try again,' Wilson said.
She'd lain up last night thinking about it. It was tempting-just heading back to the hospital and finding another person in need of healing (there were always so many). Her hand and her mind: miracles.
'What if it doesn't work?'
'We have to know. You know that.'
They had to know-that part was true. There was no science to this, no explanation, and all they had was their observations and theories, each one wilder than the one before. They needed to know if it was just a fluke. They needed to know if she was the only one. They needed to know if she was the first.
*
She'd bumped into Wilson on her first AAP meeting.
She had sneaked in furtively one afternoon, avoiding other people's eyes and smiles and found a seat at the back row, away from everyone else. She sat, and watched people file in, one by one. People of all shapes and colours. People like her.
'Hi,' said a familiar voice, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. 'Nice camouflage.' Wilson was smiling, a little awkward. She had fished out an old beret cap for the occasion. 'I didn't know you were a member.'
'It's my first day,' she told him, feeling herself flush. 'I found out… a few days ago.'
'"Altered persons", huh?' she said afterwards as they made their way through the crowd.
'Would you prefer "mutants"?' Wilson said. 'It's what House has been saying.'
'Better than "freaks" at least,' Cuddy said.
It began with little things: a cut healed (Wilson's); a sprain repaired (her own).
'Magic's not a substitute for medicine,' Wilson said time and again, echoing-she knew-House, but every day they grew a little bolder.
*
They walked out of her office to find House on a chair in the corridor, forehead leaning in a familiar posture on his cane. 'Did you hear the story about the thief who tried to steal a building?' he said, not looking up.
'No, but I assume you're going to tell me,' Wilson told him.
'He exists,' House said brightly.
The Records Office was two blocks away from the hospital. She passed by the building twice every day on her way to work, seldom paying attention to its gloomy façade and ancient, battered windows.
They could spot the crowd from a distance. A couple of police cars stood by.
She had seen a lot of things in the past few days, but nothing could have prepared Cuddy for the sight of the gaping crater where the building once stood.
'House, what-'
Police had cordoned off the area. House elbowed past a few people and moved to stand nearer the chasm. He hadn't forgotten his field glasses.
Cuddy didn't move. The hole was dizzying, terrifying, even from where she stood.
'What happened in here?' she heard Wilson say. She couldn't move, couldn't look away.
'Who knows?' said another voice. 'You know what it's like these days.'
The crowd chattered on around her, excited. There were theories floating around, terrorists and government conspiracies and aliens from outer space, and none of them made any sense, any sense at all.
'Let's go,' House announced, evidently having satisfied his curiosity. His eyes were very bright. 'There's too much confusion here.'
*
It was almost dark by the time they made it back to the hospital. House settled himself on one of the benches outside, stretching out his bad leg. He was in pain, and she knew it, and perhaps-
Cuddy moved to sit beside him, ignoring the insane urge to ask.
She watched the figures at work, not very far away from where they sat: Kutner, as always, and Foreman, a spade in his hand and his sleeves rolled up. Their eyes met, and Foreman nodded, appearing vaguely embarrassed.
'Any theories?' Wilson was pacing, hands shoved inside his pockets.
'A few,' House shrugged. 'Did you know that in ancient Greek, "apocalypse" actually means "revelation"?'
Wilson paused. 'You mean, Judgement Day?'
'Just revelation. Without the judgement part,' House said.
'And what does this reveal?' Wilson said.
'Everybody dies,' House said, matter-of-fact.
'I was hoping you'd say something a little less… obvious.' Wilson was smiling a small, wry smile.
The two figures in the herb garden had been joined by a third one now: Dr. Hadley. They were huddled together, deep in discussion. Kutner was chuckling. Hadley threw back her head and laughed, appearing more animated that she had been in days.
The lights went on after a while. Cuddy made no effort to get up. The glow-sign in front of the hospital read, 'PRINCETON PLAINSBORO TEACHING HOSPITAL' and she stared at it till the letters blurred together. She'd have to have it turned off in evenings from now on-electricity was precious.
Someday the lights would go out.
\
House was very still on the bed, pale against the white hospital sheets. Unnatural.
Cuddy checked his stats and went over his chart, made sure the drips were functioning. In motion House was electric, outrunning her and the rest of the world with one good leg and a cane.
She should be used to this by now. She wasn't.
*
Cuddy switched on the lights in her office and blinked at the sudden glare. There was a pile of unopened files on her desk.
She could try to call Wilson again. She could go sit by House and hold his hand.
She opened a page and all the words were the same. The rustle of paper was too loud, jarring.
This was she did. There were still formalities involved: leaves that needed arranging and excuses that needed to be made. Insurance. Releasing the body.
She picked up the pen and began to write.
*
prologue
'It's such an honour, being on the same platform with you and so many other doctors.'
'Thank you,' Cuddy said, smiling encouragingly at the young man in front of her. He was, along with a few others, the recipient of the NJHA's annual 'Outstanding Young Talent' award. He was also very young, and justifiably a little dazed by the occasion and all the big names around him.
'I'm just very glad I had this opportunity,' he said, taking a nervous sip of his champagne.
'I know,' Cuddy said, still smiling. Her jaw was beginning to ache.
'Hi,' said a familiar voice from behind her. 'You look beautiful.' Wilson was smiling, looking rather impressive in his tuxedo.
'Thank you,' Cuddy said, not entirely unhappy to have finished with that conversation.
'I'm sorry I missed the ceremony,' Wilson said, looking suitably contrite. 'Julie sends her best wishes.'
'Really sorry,' said his companion, not looking even remotely ashamed.
'I'm sure you are,' Cuddy said, this time flashing a genuine smile.
'I was ready,' Wilson protested. 'He decided to come at the last moment. And then took an hour to get dressed.'
'That's because you wanted me to dress nicely,' House said.
'How did it go?' Wilson asked. House stopped a waiter and snatched a handful of hors d'œuvres from his plate.
'Well I got to make a speech. Then they gave me a certificate and said nice things about me,' Cuddy said. 'Apparently, I'm a shining beacon of hope for women in the field of medicine.'
'That's so inspiring,' House said, between bites. 'You should write a book about it.'
Cuddy smiled. 'It would make a boring story.'
*
End
A/N: For the
cuddy_fest Round 2 prompt: Cuddy is writing a book. That was last year. I know.
Cuddy, Apocalypse!AU (and not), 6100 words, spoilers till the end of Season 4. Features some het, although that's not the focus of this story.
hihoplastic allowed me to steal borrow a seminal thing from her fabulous House/Angel x-over, Never Heals. And then she read through this thing and encouraged me, for which I can't thank her enough. ♥
If you do manage to read through the entire story, leave a word. Any word.
Summary: Her life would make a boring story. The stories we tell ourselves.
*
prologue
The world ended on a Thursday, at about four in the morning, although the precise moment remained a matter of dispute between scientists and astrologers. Most people were asleep at that hour, and so they didn't notice the pale blue tinge to the moon and the rows of ants on the streets, marching silently to nowhere.
Parts of Asia witnessed a solar eclipse, sudden and unannounced (again, a matter of dispute between scientists and astrologers). There were reports of UFO sightings from all over Tokyo. Similar reports came in from parts of Europe, about an unearthly chariot-gleaming, white, luminous-journeying across the skies at night. A small boy in Denver claimed to have seen an angel-radiant and white, startling against the night sky.
Less interesting things were happening closer home. A few drunken university students saw shooting stars, red and gold and orange. Dr. Lisa Cuddy, among some others (you could never be very sure, those days), gained what might be called a new talent (she never did approve of the term 'superpower').
It was, one might say, a boring story.
*
the book of ambition
She closed her eyes, spreading her palm on the feverwarm skin of the patient's chest and her left hand firm on the mattress. His heartbeat was erratic against her hand.
Deeper, she willed herself, coursing through flesh and muscle: his blood pulsing through her veins, searing, deeper, his pulse racing or maybe her own-
Deeper. She could taste pain on her lips now. The damaged tissue, yielding to her palm and her will.
She was nearly breathless when she opened her eyes. Everything was too bright and so she closed them again, clutching the bed with both hands for support.
'Are you all right?' she heard Wilson say, anxious, hovering somewhere behind her.
She was dizzy and breathing very hard. 'Yes, I-' It took her a moment to collect herself. Even her nails hurt.
Wilson put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Cuddy drew in a deep breath and said, 'I'm fine.'
She was used to this by now. Almost.
The man lying on the hospital bed in front of them could not have been more than twenty five. He was deathly pale against the white sheets, his face worn and drawn. But his pulse, when she reached for it, was steady, his breathing no longer harsh and laboured.
'Fever's down,' Wilson said. 'And the wound, let me see…'
The wound on his abdomen had not disappeared; neither-she was certain-had the pain gone away completely. The change, nonetheless, was remarkable. Unthinkable, even, given that it had been achieved, entirely, with bare hands.
Cuddy watched Wilson pick up his right hand and examine the fingers.
'I think we have a new record,' Wilson said, smiling. There was a hint of awe in his voice, and she smiled in response, her own heart-
/
'That's his right hand,' Stacy said, not caring-for once-to mask her dismay with cool professionalism.
In a way Cuddy was grateful for it, if only because it made her grief less unseemly. Out of place.
'Yes,' she said in reply, watching his mother stroke his forehead, his little brother grin encouragingly as he lifted the bandaged arm up and down.
Alfredo had never been a particularly dedicated employee- excuses every other day and slacking off when she wasn't looking.
Her flowerbeds, however, had blossomed in his hands.
\
-filling with relief and maybe even some pride. Her palm was hot and tingling, the way she always did… this. Whatever this was.
'He will still be in pain,' Cuddy said, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. There was no science to this, no means to determine precisely what had worked and how. There was just this-her hand and her will.
She was used to this by now. Almost.
'No morphine,' Wilson shook his head.
'I know,' Cuddy said. Morphine was precious now, and their patient was comparatively healthy and young.
'You should rest,' Wilson said briskly. 'I'll see to everything else.'
'I'm fine,' Cuddy protested. It sounded weak to her own ears.
'I'll see to it,' he said, his voice firm.
She heard the reproach underneath and did not argue-they'd had this discussion before, in those first few days of madness. They were in this together. The hospital, so far, had five doctors who shared her talent (and also the night janitor, who was now under the AAP's observation along with other non-medical individuals who possessed a similar skill). They'd handled epidemics. They'd handled House and a hundred other minor crises everyday.
They were in this together.
It was something she had to tell herself every now and then.
*
'Well if it isn't Jesus herself.'
House was stretched out on the chairs in the clinic's waiting area, the now familiar pair of field glasses pointed predictably at her chest.
It was three in the afternoon and the clinic bore a desolate look: she tried not to think about the battles with the board and the endless fund-raising campaigns, the bustle and chaos and the standard House tantrums that made up a normal working day.
It was still open (three hours a day, four days a week). It was still free. She only wished it were enough.
'I'm pretty sure that counts as sacrilege,' she said as she walked closer and pushed the field glasses away. He gazed up at her, unrepentant.
'Perform any miracles lately?'
'Biological manipulation isn't the same as-' she stopped. 'Biological manipulation'. That was the term. Agreed upon by the Department of Health, in conjunction with the AAP (Association for Altered Persons; 'The Justice League has a better ring to it,' House had sneered).
'That's what all the comic books say.' House looked smug.
Cuddy bit back a sharp response. It wasn't fair, the way it always worked on her.
It was, in many ways, an improvement over his initial response-his derision for 'magic', his refusal to accept 'I don't know' for an answer. There had been a battery of expensive tests: X-Rays, MRIs, blood samples. Back when expensive tests were still routine. Normal.
House hadn't found the answer to his riddle: not then, and not now.
'I thought you had a patient,' she said.
'I did. She has MS.' House drummed his fingers against the chair. 'Next time, try finding something that can't be diagnosed by a trained monkey.' His tone was mocking, but he wouldn't look her in the eye.
'The diagnosis for MS can often be inconclusive- '
'It's MS,' he proclaimed with an air of absolute finality.
Cuddy thought of the inevitable consequences. The state of supplies and insurance and her own strength, which was frail.
'We'll do what we can,' she said. She said that too many times these days.
She said that too many times to him these days.
'Do your superpowers raise the dead now?' His eyes were feverbright. Skewering.
/
'I checked on Alfredo. He's recovering well,' Stacy was saying as she took a chair in front of her desk, her voice gentle.
Cuddy knew he was, because she'd done the same thing herself.
'He's young,' she said in reply. So young.
'Have you ever considered that you couldn't have known about what he did on Saturday nights?' Stacy said. 'Just a thought.'
'I have,' she said. It didn't make any difference.
These days, she could barely glance at her flowers. The grass remained overgrown and uncared for. There was an abundance of weed in her yard.
Stacy sighed. 'Do you want to go over the settlement terms now? It can wait if you wish.'
'No, we'll do it now,' she said, and Stacy didn't push.
This was what she did. This was what she was good at.
The rustle of paperwork was almost soothing.
\
Cuddy watched as House fished around in his pocket for the bottle of pills and dry-swallowed one with perfect ease. She wondered how many he had in store.
It was not something she'd discussed-not with House, of course; not even with Wilson.
His Vicodin stocks would be exhausted some day. She wondered if he would ever ask.
She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat, ignoring the prickling sensation in her fingertips.
*
She made a point to never miss her rounds. The rounds were important. The rounds were routine. The rounds were ordinary and normal even when the world was chaos.
The clinic was still open and Paediatrics still needed a regular supply of candy (Stinson wouldn't have it otherwise) and there was still life and energy left in this hospital.
The rounds kept her sane.
There was no crisis at hand today, only the familiar hospital sounds and smell; at Paediatrics, Stinson was putting together a Hogwarts LEGO set under the watchful supervision of some of his patients. She turned down his generous offer to 'join in the fun' in favour of a quick detour to the balcony.
The sun shone crimson against the evening sky; at a distance she could see the silhouette of Dr. Kutner moving about in the makeshift herb garden at the courtyard.
It did not make sense that the sun still rose and the skies were still beautiful. That she was still here and playing her part.
On her way back, Cuddy switched off the lights in some of the deserted corridors.
Someday the lights would go out.
*
the book of desire
The hospital was transformed on benefit nights, as though by a magic wand.
Organizing the event was a nightmare, one she was doomed to repeat every year. The end result, though: bright lights and music, all her doctors at their stylish best. Conversation and laughter, marking a pleasant change from all the misery and sorrow that made up the usual hospital fare.
The end result was something she could be proud of.
She could bask in her borrowed glory and let her hair down, if only until midnight.
The poker table was enticing; the silent invitation in House's eyes even more so.
She could let herself be enticed. Until midnight.
'It's gastro-enteritis,' Cuddy said. 'And I'm going all in.'
/
Yesterday's patient had been shifted to a dormitory. Their dormitories were overcrowded now, new arrivals banging at their door every hour while they scrambled to discharge people and make more room. They didn't turn patients away: not yet, not until they had to (soon).
Cuddy found Dr. Hadley by his bedside, adjusting his IV. The patient was asleep.
'Wilson was just here,' Hadley said, handing her the chart. 'Everything looks fine.'
Cuddy went through the chart and inspected his stats, and it was true, everything did look fine. It had worked.
She was almost used to it now, this… phenomenon. This 'talent'. Superpower, as House liked to call it, if only to annoy her.
The man on the bed was tranquil in his sleep. Her palm tingled when she placed it on his forehead.
*
'How do you do this?'
Cuddy turned to face Hadley, who had accompanied her to the stairs. She appeared agitated now, nervous, in a manner that was a far cry from her usual reserved self. 'What do you mean?'
'I know how you cured that man,' Hadley said.
'It's not exactly a secret,' Cuddy said slowly. 'If you're asking me how it works, if it can be taught or learnt then the answer is- '
'I'm asking you how you do this. This, the end of the world and miracles,' Hadley said fiercely. 'Everything.' Her face was flushed. Her eyes were very green. And there was something in face, maybe, that made Cuddy say, 'Why are you asking?'
Hadley hesitated for a moment. Then she lifted a hand and held open her palm.
In another world, Cuddy would have dismissed the tiny ball of fire on her palm as some sort of a fantasy or illusion; maybe paid the long overdue visit to her ophthalmologist.
*
It took her a while to be able to concentrate on the expense reports-they were almost redundant now-her mind still on Hadley and the flames she seemed to be able to produce at her will-no different than her own… condition. She had smiled encouragingly at Hadley and asked her to contact the AAP, register herself as soon as possible. It paid, these days, to stick together.
Healing, extraordinary strength, fire-all the so-called superpowers (the term still made her wince), straight out of comic books and superhero movies.
Perhaps it was a defence mechanism, developed by the human body in order to ensure survival in a hostile universe. Scientists had been working on that theory-she (and everyone else like her, everyone who had been registered) had to endure sessions with government investigators every couple of weeks. Perhaps it was something else.
How do you do this, Hadley had asked.
She woke up in the morning and knew that she had a hospital to run, that was how.
*
She stopped to speak to Kutner on her way out, as she often did these days.
'That's osimum sanctum-a variety of basil,' he was explaining to a thoughtful Cameron, spade in hand, quite noticeably thrilled to have an audience. 'Very useful for common cold, to name one use.'
'My grandmother knew a lot of natural remedies like this,' Cameron said thoughtfully. 'I never really paid attention.'
The herbs were originally Blake's idea. His recent (borderline obsessive) interest in astrology and alternative medicine was mostly a matter of amusement among his colleagues (and some annoyance for Wilson, his ill-fated employer), a prime topic for in-jokes and watercooler gossip before the world ended and Lisa Cuddy-among a few others-gained a new talent.
The Nostradamus Association was an instant hit; there would be a couple of (handwritten) leaflets on her desk every week, promising further doom and gloom (something to do with the number nine, she couldn't keep them straight). The herb garden on the other hand generated little interest before Kutner decided it was 'neat'. And now it appeared to be paying off, as supplies dwindled and the commonest of pills became hard to obtain.
'Where did you get the saplings from?' Cameron asked.
'I know some people,' Kutner said, vaguely waving his spade in the air. 'We… may have to invest in some manure.'
Cuddy couldn't help but smile.
*
Cuddy walked back home. Fuel was precious, its cost reaching new, astronomical heights every day-and she could certainly use the exercise.
If it wasn't for the graffiti on the walls ('The Antichrist is come!') and the man gently levitating off the ground, right there on the sidewalk, it could've been just another evening.
After a while it began to drizzle. She let herself enjoy it, the cool spray on skin and fresh rain smell.
*
It turned out she had a visitor. A mysterious visitor who had stolen her spare key and made himself at home in her absence, who greeted her with, 'You won't believe what they're charging for pizzas these days,' a battered copy of the Journal of Molecular Endocrinology in hand.
'I'm surprised we still have pizzas,' she said, dropping her bag and taking off her sensible (and slightly wet) pumps.
'That's why you brought about the apocalypse, didn't you? No carbs, no junk food, just nature's not-so-fresh produce in a dieter's heaven.'
This happened sometimes these days. She wasn't going to let herself get used to it, but she could use the company.
*
'The ants have gone. Have you noticed?' House said conversationally, a hand caressing her spine.
Cuddy blinked. 'The ants-'
'Gone. Disappeared. There isn't a single one left anymore.'
'Is that what you do with those field glasses all day? Antwatching?' she said, incredulous.
'Ants. Babes. I watch a lot of things. Did you know bras have been rendered obsolete with the apocalypse?'
'Well I better get rid of this one then, shouldn't I?' she said, drawing closer to him on the couch.
'Wouldn't want you to be a fashion victim,' he agreed. The lone remaining pizza slice lay forgotten on the coffee table.
Afterwards, she settled herself drowsily against his chest. She hadn't noticed when it'd started to pour in earnest-being otherwise occupied-but she was glad for his warmth, his presence.
House appeared restless. 'I can hear you think,' she told him after a while. 'Are you still brooding about ants?'
A muttered 'they disappeared' was all he would offer in reply.
He would obsess over it for days now, she knew, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. House needed his facts, his science, and he would run himself ragged till he reached a satisfactory conclusion-or brood over the unsolved puzzle for the rest of his life. But it was the end of the world and she'd healed a man with her bare hands, watched Remy Hadley with that ball of flame in her palm. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism, developed by the human body in order to ensure survival in a hostile universe. Perhaps it was a short-circuit in the system, a technological error or even, yes, a miracle. It was unforeseen. Inexplicable. It was the end of the world and she had a hospital to run. She could use the rest.
She fell asleep to the sound of rain beating steadily against the window panes.
\
House's report read, 'Gregory House saves the day. '
He took great pleasure in writing these so-called reports-odes to his ego. It was the only kind of paperwork he produced without any trouble whatsoever. She had quite a collection of them.
Cuddy stared at the empty page in front of her, pen in hand.
*
the book of betrayal
He'd stolen the dead man's pills. It was right there on the register, for her and the rest of the free world-for Judge Helen Davis-to see.
He'd stolen the pills and overdosed on them. She hadn't spoken to him afterwards.
It had come to this.
An orderly came in with her coffee and she thanked him with a smile. Maintenance called to inform that the elevators would be fixed 'shortly'; her voice-as she threatened them with dire consequences-was steady.
/
On Tuesday she met Helen Davis-the NJHA chairperson, her long-standing acquaintance-before work.
In another lifetime, both she and Helen would have had impossible schedules and there would have been phone calls, clearing of schedules and a lot of planning involved. Another lifetime, when the phrase 'prior appointment' still held some meaning. Now, after a few fruitless attempts to reach her on the phone-the connections were getting worse and she hadn't spoken to her mother in a week-Cuddy simply walked in.
The absence of protocol, in some strange way, was liberating.
Cuddy had queries, and statistics, and the meeting grew long as they spoke of floundering finances and the insurance quagmire.
'We've been in touch with the Health Department-they're trying to figure something out,' Helen said with a sigh, 'but between you and me, Lisa, I don't know how much it'll work out. Everyone's just as clueless as we are. They're just fumbling in the dark trying to hold things together.'
Cuddy raised an eyebrow. 'So you're telling me that this woman is doomed?'
'Aren't we all?' Helen said. 'Give me the file and I'll see to it.' Cuddy couldn't resist a small grin as she handed her the file containing the medical and insurance records of the woman House had diagnosed with MS. 'But the system is falling apart, Lisa,' Helen continued. 'Nothing makes sense anymore.'
'It's gonna get worse,' Cuddy said.
A moment's silence, and then Helen said, fiddling with a paperweight, 'People need doctors. Now more than ever.' A ray of sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting shadows on her face. Helen looked very weary.
Everywhere, clinics and hospitals were closing shop. Companies were cutting down on production. Pharmacies were shutting down. The blackmarket was spiralling out of control.
'We're not going anywhere,' Cuddy said.
And besides, there wasn't anywhere left to go to.
*
It was mid-day by the time she reached the hospital. A figure was bent over the plants in the herb garden, her face obscured among leaves and her hair like gold against the sun; another girl stood by her, watering the plants. They were, Cuddy realised, among the few med students who'd stayed back.
Evidently Kutner's diligence had attracted converts, she thought, amused.
They looked nervous when she passed by. Some things never changed.
*
'Dr. Wilson was looking for you.' Brenda said, falling in step beside her.
Her nursing staff had stood by her in the days of initial panic, through the slow disintegration of their world and everything familiar. There were no medals for this- this quiet, competent support, this heroism, and she herself had little to offer except a few words in appreciation, and maybe, the recognition that there was life yet in this hospital.
They weren't going anywhere.
'Was House in the clinic this morning?' she asked.
Brenda rolled her eyes. 'He hasn't set foot in the hospital all day,' she said. Some things never changed. It was, in a way, reassuring. It meant some things were still normal.
*
She found Wilson in the ER, tending to an emaciated young man with too many piercings. His left eye was swollen shut, and he had bloody gash on his forehead.
'Assault. Some kind of a blunt weapon,' Wilson said, pressing a ball of cotton on the wound. The patient winced. 'Bleeding's under control, would you like to-'
'Yes,' Cuddy said, her heart beating a little faster.
Wilson pulled the curtains around them. Cuddy drew a deep breath.
She placed her right hand on his forehead, bracing herself for the initial rush, the flash of white light behind her eyes and pain-
Her palm felt cool. Unresponsive. The patient made a low, keening sound. He was in pain. He was in pain and she couldn't feel it, couldn't taste hurt on her tongue in that way she had grown (almost) used to.
'What's wrong?' Wilson said, frowning.
'I, I don't know.'
Deeper, she thought, closing her eyes again. Deeper.
The patient moaned again. Her palm was limp against his forehead.
'I can't do it,' she told Wilson, feeling strangely calm.
\
Years of unending paperwork, years of working with lawyers and bureaucracy and Cuddy knew this: papers could be managed. A scratch here, a few dollars there and a quietly slipped envelope-end of story. Papers-like everyone else, like the one in front of her right now-lied.
It had come to this.
Brenda came in with a few files for her to sign. Her coffee had gone cold.
All summer, House ran. His gait was odd, uneven, and his stamina was nowhere near what it used to be. The scar in his thigh hadn't disappeared. The muscles in his thigh were still missing. But he wasn't in pain. He ran.
She remembered the shock the first time he rapped on her door, panting, hands on his knees and his t-shirt drenched in sweat. 'Water,' he demanded and she obliged, choking back a hundred anxious questions. It was his moment of triumph.
She remembered the fear. She remembered staying up late and re-reading articles on the Ketamine procedure, wishing her cup of herbal tea was a little more alcoholic.
'Up to running the marathon yet?' she asked him on the third day, her tone deliberately light.
'Gonna outrun you in another week,' he said, and smiled. 'You run like a girl.'
'You wish,' she smiled back. It was, after all, her triumph too.
/
She couldn't do it.
The patient's moans had subsided under Wilson's careful ministrations-she couldn't do it. It was not a skill she'd acquired over the years, not a trick she'd learnt in medical school. There was no science to it. She woke up one morning with a strange sensation in her palm and the knowledge that something was different.
Pale sunlight crept in through the blinds in her office-she hadn't had the urge to open them-and she felt herself longing for clean air. Light.
Brenda looked surprised when she announced, 'I'm taking off for the day,' but she knew better, far better, than to ask.
*
The park was quiet, mostly deserted, its paths littered with yellowed leaves now that cleaning them was no longer imperative. A couple sat holding hands underneath a maple tree, surrounded by fallen leaves and overgrown grass.
She settled herself on a dusty bench, staring off into the distance. The reservoir was a calm blue, not a ripple on its surface.
The sun still shone. People fell in love and held hands.
The familiar thump of cane against gravel woke her from her reverie. House hadn't bothered to set foot in the hospital all day, so of course he would turn up just when she needed some time to herself. Some things never changed. The field glasses hung around his neck; there were, she observed as he drew closer, twigs in his hair and on his coat.
She braced herself for a lewd comment about running away from work for an afternoon nookie, his voice too loud. House thrust the field glasses into her hand and pointed his cane at a nearby tree. 'What do you see?'
'House, what-'
'What do you see?' There was a very definite edge to his voice now, and she found herself compliant, looking into the glasses and the yellowing leaves.
'A tree,' she told him.
'What else?' he said, impatient.
'Leaves. Branches. A couple of crows.'
'Now look at that one.' He sounded satisfied. 'What do you see?'
She obeyed, noting the bare branches and the lone crow, its smooth black coat gleaming in the sun. 'Branches. A crow.'
'And there?' House said, sounding very satisfied. She knew that tone. It meant he was right. About whatever it was he was trying to establish.
She felt a strange sense of foreboding as she raised the glasses to her eyes. The couple underneath the maple tree were kissing now, oblivious to the rest of the world. A lone crow polished his feathers on the branch, very black against the leaves.
Cuddy let out a shaky breath. 'Another crow. House, what are you trying to prove?'
'The birds. They're gone,' House said. 'All except crows, I'm not sure why.'
'Gone. Like ants.'
'Disappeared,' House nodded.
'Has there been some kind of epidemic?' She imagined dead birds littering the streets, like leaves.
'I spoke to a Dr. Jay Viswanathan today. Ornithologist,' House said, sinking down heavily beside her. 'They don't think it's an epidemic.'
'What do they think it is?'
'They have no idea,' House said.
'I had a patient today,' she said after a while. 'I couldn't do it.' There was no need to explain what the 'it' was.
The couple under the tree were still kissing.
*
She went to bed alone that night, after a few more fruitless efforts to call her mother, two states away. Her feet were cold. She couldn't sleep.
It was easy, she thought, to get used to things. The end of the world and company in her bed. Miraculous healings. Superpowers.
It was easy to believe that it all meant something. That she was still here to play her part.
*
the book of revelations
There were rings under her eyes when she stood in front of the mirror the next morning. She wondered if she should care to cover them up and then did it anyway. She wondered, somewhat hysterically, what would happen when make-up stocks ran out.
On her way to work, she spotted a couple of crows, pecking away at something in a gutter.
*
Cuddy was neck-deep in the monthly budget, reports and spreadsheets scattered on her desk when Wilson came in.
She had been expecting him all day, but that didn't make this any easier.
'Have you noticed how 'apocalypse' actually translates into even more paperwork?' he said as he drew up a chair.
Cuddy smiled. 'I'm pretty sure that was the original meaning.'
Wilson's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. And then, 'What happened yesterday?' No beating about the bush. Great.
'I couldn't do it,' she said simply, feeling again that unexpected calm, the same calm of recognition she'd felt after she knew, her palm limp against his forehead.
'Did you try again afterwards?'
'I-' She faltered. 'No.'
Wilson remained quiet for a moment. 'I had a patient this morning,' he said. 'Burn victim. First degree, but I've never treated one before, and I thought-'
'You thought you wouldn't be able to do it, like me,' she filled in.
'Yes. But it worked.'
'It appears my superpowers came with an expiry date,' she said lightly. Wilson didn't smile.
'I have a lot of patients who have no hope of survival. No hope of anything but a bit of relief from pain and discomfort,' Wilson said, looking at his own hands. 'I thought- I can't cure cancer, but we could give them that.'
Cuddy nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.
'You'll have to try again,' Wilson said.
She'd lain up last night thinking about it. It was tempting-just heading back to the hospital and finding another person in need of healing (there were always so many). Her hand and her mind: miracles.
'What if it doesn't work?'
'We have to know. You know that.'
They had to know-that part was true. There was no science to this, no explanation, and all they had was their observations and theories, each one wilder than the one before. They needed to know if it was just a fluke. They needed to know if she was the only one. They needed to know if she was the first.
*
She'd bumped into Wilson on her first AAP meeting.
She had sneaked in furtively one afternoon, avoiding other people's eyes and smiles and found a seat at the back row, away from everyone else. She sat, and watched people file in, one by one. People of all shapes and colours. People like her.
'Hi,' said a familiar voice, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. 'Nice camouflage.' Wilson was smiling, a little awkward. She had fished out an old beret cap for the occasion. 'I didn't know you were a member.'
'It's my first day,' she told him, feeling herself flush. 'I found out… a few days ago.'
'"Altered persons", huh?' she said afterwards as they made their way through the crowd.
'Would you prefer "mutants"?' Wilson said. 'It's what House has been saying.'
'Better than "freaks" at least,' Cuddy said.
It began with little things: a cut healed (Wilson's); a sprain repaired (her own).
'Magic's not a substitute for medicine,' Wilson said time and again, echoing-she knew-House, but every day they grew a little bolder.
*
They walked out of her office to find House on a chair in the corridor, forehead leaning in a familiar posture on his cane. 'Did you hear the story about the thief who tried to steal a building?' he said, not looking up.
'No, but I assume you're going to tell me,' Wilson told him.
'He exists,' House said brightly.
The Records Office was two blocks away from the hospital. She passed by the building twice every day on her way to work, seldom paying attention to its gloomy façade and ancient, battered windows.
They could spot the crowd from a distance. A couple of police cars stood by.
She had seen a lot of things in the past few days, but nothing could have prepared Cuddy for the sight of the gaping crater where the building once stood.
'House, what-'
Police had cordoned off the area. House elbowed past a few people and moved to stand nearer the chasm. He hadn't forgotten his field glasses.
Cuddy didn't move. The hole was dizzying, terrifying, even from where she stood.
'What happened in here?' she heard Wilson say. She couldn't move, couldn't look away.
'Who knows?' said another voice. 'You know what it's like these days.'
The crowd chattered on around her, excited. There were theories floating around, terrorists and government conspiracies and aliens from outer space, and none of them made any sense, any sense at all.
'Let's go,' House announced, evidently having satisfied his curiosity. His eyes were very bright. 'There's too much confusion here.'
*
It was almost dark by the time they made it back to the hospital. House settled himself on one of the benches outside, stretching out his bad leg. He was in pain, and she knew it, and perhaps-
Cuddy moved to sit beside him, ignoring the insane urge to ask.
She watched the figures at work, not very far away from where they sat: Kutner, as always, and Foreman, a spade in his hand and his sleeves rolled up. Their eyes met, and Foreman nodded, appearing vaguely embarrassed.
'Any theories?' Wilson was pacing, hands shoved inside his pockets.
'A few,' House shrugged. 'Did you know that in ancient Greek, "apocalypse" actually means "revelation"?'
Wilson paused. 'You mean, Judgement Day?'
'Just revelation. Without the judgement part,' House said.
'And what does this reveal?' Wilson said.
'Everybody dies,' House said, matter-of-fact.
'I was hoping you'd say something a little less… obvious.' Wilson was smiling a small, wry smile.
The two figures in the herb garden had been joined by a third one now: Dr. Hadley. They were huddled together, deep in discussion. Kutner was chuckling. Hadley threw back her head and laughed, appearing more animated that she had been in days.
The lights went on after a while. Cuddy made no effort to get up. The glow-sign in front of the hospital read, 'PRINCETON PLAINSBORO TEACHING HOSPITAL' and she stared at it till the letters blurred together. She'd have to have it turned off in evenings from now on-electricity was precious.
Someday the lights would go out.
\
House was very still on the bed, pale against the white hospital sheets. Unnatural.
Cuddy checked his stats and went over his chart, made sure the drips were functioning. In motion House was electric, outrunning her and the rest of the world with one good leg and a cane.
She should be used to this by now. She wasn't.
*
Cuddy switched on the lights in her office and blinked at the sudden glare. There was a pile of unopened files on her desk.
She could try to call Wilson again. She could go sit by House and hold his hand.
She opened a page and all the words were the same. The rustle of paper was too loud, jarring.
This was she did. There were still formalities involved: leaves that needed arranging and excuses that needed to be made. Insurance. Releasing the body.
She picked up the pen and began to write.
*
prologue
'It's such an honour, being on the same platform with you and so many other doctors.'
'Thank you,' Cuddy said, smiling encouragingly at the young man in front of her. He was, along with a few others, the recipient of the NJHA's annual 'Outstanding Young Talent' award. He was also very young, and justifiably a little dazed by the occasion and all the big names around him.
'I'm just very glad I had this opportunity,' he said, taking a nervous sip of his champagne.
'I know,' Cuddy said, still smiling. Her jaw was beginning to ache.
'Hi,' said a familiar voice from behind her. 'You look beautiful.' Wilson was smiling, looking rather impressive in his tuxedo.
'Thank you,' Cuddy said, not entirely unhappy to have finished with that conversation.
'I'm sorry I missed the ceremony,' Wilson said, looking suitably contrite. 'Julie sends her best wishes.'
'Really sorry,' said his companion, not looking even remotely ashamed.
'I'm sure you are,' Cuddy said, this time flashing a genuine smile.
'I was ready,' Wilson protested. 'He decided to come at the last moment. And then took an hour to get dressed.'
'That's because you wanted me to dress nicely,' House said.
'How did it go?' Wilson asked. House stopped a waiter and snatched a handful of hors d'œuvres from his plate.
'Well I got to make a speech. Then they gave me a certificate and said nice things about me,' Cuddy said. 'Apparently, I'm a shining beacon of hope for women in the field of medicine.'
'That's so inspiring,' House said, between bites. 'You should write a book about it.'
Cuddy smiled. 'It would make a boring story.'
*
End
A/N: For the
cuddy_fest Round 2 prompt: Cuddy is writing a book. That was last year. I know.