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Beautiful Mourning
by melissaisdown
As dawn crests the sun shines a horizontal highlight below
this sad man's eyeline and Cuddy awakens. Her head rises off of his
chest and she considers how beautiful he is in the soft blue light.
Her lips rise to his ear and graciously,
"I love you too, House." A promise more than a revelation.
But House is not really sleeping. He wants to open his eyes,
to acknowledger her sentimentality. But in that moment of
hesitation she kisses him on the cheek and falls to his side, and
he knows no words can sustain this feeling. Soon, Cuddy falls
back asleep, the warmth of the morning sun making them both
drowsy. Eventually House dozes off, but only briefly.
As the morning passes, they lie close, both in a fetal position,
facing eachother. He is watching her when her eyes open,
their legs tangled, a hand on hers. The air is fresh, a motionless
gaze then,
"The rain stopped," he says in his post tryst voice, almost romantic.
Cuddy smiles, back to the window, she turns surprised to see
a blue sky, the same color as his eyes. Biting her bottom lip
suddenly aware she's naked, she looks back at him, a victim
of that hue. She's trying to read him, but it's never that simple.
No tears. No pity. Less fear. Both are speechless. If nothing else
there is a mutual understanding. House's eyes travel down her
body, taking notes on the details of a recently coital Dean of Medicine's
body. Beautiful, the only adjective his mind can generate, her body
tangled in bedsheets, her face meeting a pillow. Even with last night's
make up smeared, most of it washed away by sweat, she was shining,
flawless. Scared of what he suspects he's feeling (a four letter word
with unconditional in front it) he speaks,
"How's your foot?"
He twiddles her toes with his own, flirting. Cuddy pulls the sheet up
a few inches, revealing that the body part in question is in fact quite magenta.
"Bruised."
A prolonged blink, then she sits up, dangling her legs over
the edge of the bed.
As her feet touch the floor, "You can use my cane if you want."
Ignoring the sarcasm, Lisa Cuddy limps to her bathroom, the
voyeur that is her lover,was and still is rather, watching.
He considers going in,being domestic, peeing while she brushes
her teeth, whatever married people do, but doesn't. It's her home
and she's entitled to privacy. She doesn't take long, her step anxious,
her expression anything but ordinary when she returns to the bed.
Sitting beside him Cuddy goes to say something but he sits
up behind her, putting her between his legs and touching his lips
to the place where her neck meets the shoulder. It's a gentle kind of
'good morning' kiss, more sensitive than either of them may have
conceived.
Begging his heart to be still, he pulls away, as if hurt.
"I should go."
Immediately and louder than intended, "No."
Cuddy realizes that was a demand and continues almost apologetically,
"I mean, I'm going to make coffee. And I have today off. You have
a few weeks off. Will you stay atleast for coffee?"
House nods, unsure if she would even take 'no' for an answer. He doesn't
really want to go though, he was testing her, out of fear of overstaying his welcome. Experimenting with her state of mind, trying to decipher
the language of the page he wants them to both be on. It was a Rosetta stone
really,one they carved into every hundred years, scrawling secrets, recording
regrets only for it to be untranslatable. He stood after her, leaving
the natural light of the bedroom for the kitchen fluorescence.
The coffee maker was making that noise that coffee makers make.
A creature comfort. And the aroma that was suffocating House was
gourmet, he surmised, imported from a Spanish speaking
country of unimportant specificity. No doubt the cup she was
about to pour him would be the equivalent of ten dollars. Bare feet on
her tiles, House creeps up behind her, peering his head over her shoulder,
tipping a toe in tepid waters. Wanting to kiss her again.
Always wanting to kiss her.
"How do you take yours?"
A disappointed blink.
"Black's fine." He resigns to his seat.
Cuddy brings the coffee over and sits, crossing her legs. House's
elbow on the table, he rests his head on his fisted hand, leering
at her cleavage and thinking. This felt formal. Forced. They were
supposed to be in bed, watching cartoons, spilling orange juice
on cotton sheets, not at a kitchen table sipping expensive coffee
with crossed legs.
"How do you feel?"
A dangerous question. It was only Cuddy being concerned but
still an open invitation. Normally for something sardonic,
but this morning was different, on the last syllable they both realized as much. House was about to be honest.
"Tricky question, being that there was an exchange of bodily
fluids oh, all of five hours ago."
"That's not what-"
"Relieved," cutting her off.
"You feel relieved that we slept together?"
"I feel relieved. And we slept together. Could just be a coincidence."
"Okay."
"How do you feel?"
"My foot hurts, I'm tired..."
House shakes his head. She's avoiding eye contact. This isn't right.
"Last night was..." Cuddy trails off.
The duration of the pause that follows is too long.
House repeats, "Last night was..."
House at this point is expecting two words: 'a' and 'mistake'. But to his
surprise,
"Incredible."
This doesn't project from her mouth eloquently. It's mumbled and hesitant,
but he smiles anyway having gotten the confession he wanted. It is
more than he expects, hardly detecting any regret, satisfied enough
to let it go. If she wants to say more she will.
"Got any sugar?"
"I thought you wanted it black?"
"I did. Now I don't anymore. This gourmet stuff is bitter."
House slurps childishly as she hands him the sugar. There he was,
his hand on a spoon in Cuddy's sugar. Imagine that.
"Really, how's your head?"
"Spinning. But I suppose you have that effect on all men who fall
foolishly onto your mattress."
Cuddy scowls, a little relieved, since she was expecting a more explicit aside.
"I'm fine."
Cuddy tries not to worry. House is terrified. Both afraid the other is in some
kind of hurry to say goodbye. Neither want this to be the morning after.
"How's your leg?"
Sternly, "Fine."
After another minute of overpriced coffee sipping, House stands,
limping to her living room, cozying up on the couch and turning on the TV.
"What are you doing?"
"You were boring me. So I abandoned you for my other mistress, television."
Cuddy sits down beside him as House settles on the cartoons of his domestic dream.
After a few minutes she bends her knees, bringing her legs up to her chest,
rubbing her foot. On this motion House slips his arm around her, feeling sixteen, and oddly inexperienced. But not uncomfortable. While she can tell he's looking at her and not the TV, Cuddy steals the remote away from him, and changes
the channel. House sighs in frustration, but does not speak. Both are now awkwardly aware of the arm wrapped round her, but embrace it anyway.
Soon the television disappears, the glow of the interlaced images casting shadows on the wall. Cuddy sees his ear, and he's staring at her knees, both trying
to rationalize the moment, uncertain what to say next. A thumb circles
one of her knees, he's being playful.
"Your knees are soft."
A beat. And another.
"It 's going to all be okay, House."
The phrase escapes jumbled but honest, anything but a platitude.
"Wilson will come back, you'll talk,this will pass."
"This?" Asking as he stops fondling her leg.
Cuddy shrugs, conspicuously bothered by the absence of her own answer.
"What are we now anyway?"
"We're..."
And then it dawns on her, it's simple really.
"...here. "
Then,
"We're friends."
If you cant' stay in place you can't tell who's walking away.
Who remains, who stays. Only a thought as House sees the entire world
falling from him. Swimming against the current, drowning now
angry at the water, angry at the universe. But not angry at her.
At the same moment both wonder what the other is thinking.
"You're desperate to have somebody jump on you and tell you they love you
one grunted syllable at a time..." Cuddy's thought, as she recalls his evaluation
verbatim. Hoping that's not all last night was.
Granted, hope is for sissies,but still, she hopes.
Is this running away?
If it is, they're both running, in different directions and at variable speeds.
For this woman to run she must want something, she could stop now, turn around,
return, stop denying herself the inevitable. But Greg House was a truth she would rather lose than never laid beside at all,
"It wasn't guilt."
House looks at her, not completely sure what the outburst is referencing.
"I never slept with you out of guilt."
"Pity then. Same difference."
"I slept with you because I wanted to, House. And...I run away from
what I want."
Flattered that she is quoting him, he absorbs the affirmation, aware of
its truth.
"I know."
An understatement. He always knew. Even now, he knows more about her
than she does herself. Cuddy's legs lean towards him, her arm settles in a
space low and behind his back. House closes his eyes as the low hum of the
television drones a while, the sound soon dissipating.
Beneath the tousled hair, and under the fractured skull, House's
mind wanders. About choices, about chance, about Cuddy.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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