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Intense
by chippers87
It was complex. It was simple. It was theirs.
i.
Without fail, the pain always hit about five seconds before the
alarm clock clanged to life. He was never sure how his aches
and throbs knew what time he'd set the alarm for, but they did,
and they never took a holiday. The only question these days
was over which of his injuries would slam back into him first --
his old friend Mr. Thigh-Be-Gone or the new guy in town, Mr.
Concussion-Slash-Deep-Brain-Stimulation. New guy
needs a better name, he thought as he gingerly arose to
lean over and silence the peals of his clock. Taking a few
minutes to breathe deeply and gather himself, he determined
that it was definitely his head this morning. In fact, his thigh
pain was nearly non-existent. Normally that'd be a good
thing, a sensational thing even, but given the rave that seemed
to be taking place in the annals of his mind at the moment, he
was having a hard time convincing himself of a reason to
celebrate.
Carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed, House
took a couple more steadying breaths and then stood. He
winced as he felt a stab run up his right side. Slept in this
morning, Mr. TBG? Thanks for playing anyway, though.
Grabbing his new, completely non-bitchin' cane and stumbling
his way to the bathroom, he made a quick stop before limping
to the kitchen, stopping just once to see if she was still there.
She was the one who'd made him set an alarm in the
first place, even though he had no business being awake
before noon for at least three more weeks. That was when the
lovely people in HR had dictated that he'd be completely healed
and ready to make their collective lives miserable once more.
He was beside himself with anticipation.
She was being quite the hypocrite, sleeping as he was
struggling. Telling him that he needed to establish a routine
and stick to it; that it would help "the healing process."
Cuddy, my dear, you're slipping, he smirked to himself
as he pulled out the coffee filters. Starting to sound like
those quacks you hired to pontificate on the fourth floor.
Healing process, my ass. He peered out into the living
room to check that she was still dozing comfortably on his
couch. Such a hypocrite. Every morning, he was both
exasperated to find her still annoying him with her presence
and terrified that one day she wouldn't be.
ii.
Without fail, the pain always hit about five seconds before
House's alarm clock clanged to life. She had never been a
deep sleeper, for the same reasons she was never late to a
meeting or a party -- she didn't want to miss a thing.
However, these days, she could have done with some amnesia
of her own. Everyday, around 7:29:55 A.M., everything would
come crashing back to her at once -- the debilitating pain she
knew House was experiencing, the indescribable grief Wilson
was facing, the deafening silence that was already enveloping
her hospital because nothing would ever be the same again,
and the acute awareness she felt waking up on the lumpy
leather sofa that Wilson had once inhabited, should still be
inhabiting. If that makes any sense. As she waited for
House to turn off his alarm, she took a few deep breaths and
shut her eyes tighter. She couldn't wake up, not yet.
Cuddy sensed that he was self-conscious about the way his
body looked and moved, and she wanted to give him the few
moments to collect himself before having to face "the devil." It
certainly saved the awkward embarrassment of having to look
away when his leg gave out first thing in the morning. The
stubborn bastard didn't want any help; she didn't want to push
him more than was needed. Quite frankly, just hearing that
clock each morning was a tiny victory for her.
When she had finally persuaded him that her staying with him
to aid in getting him back on his feet was a good thing, Cuddy
had suggested to him that staying on a regular routine would
help his transition back to work. He'd immediately resisted.
What's the good in waking up when there's nothing to do all
day, he argued. Nevertheless, every evening before settling
into the couch, she would make sure the alarm clock was set
for 7:30. And for the first two days, he would switch it back off
the minute she left the room. After a couple days of not
awaking until 11:00 A.M., she developed a new strategy of
sneaking in and turning it back on during the middle of the
night. Only once did he try to wake up after her to turn it back
off again. Probably reasoned that a full night's sleep
boosts one's ability to be an ass each and every glorious
morning, she considered as she heard him start fiddling
around in the kitchen. Now she could finally get up. Every day,
she was both more and more exasperated to find him still
irritating her beyond belief and more and more terrified that
one day he wouldn't be.
iii.
"Morning," she said as she ambled into the kitchen.
"Sure."
"Looks like it rained last night."
"Yeah."
Rolling her eyes and nodding, Cuddy resigned herself to the
fact that this was going to be yet again the extent of their
conversation for the morning. She grabbed a mug and filled it
with hot coffee as House retrieved his morning paper from the
front door. As per their two-week long habit, he handed her
the front page whilst keeping the comics and crossword
puzzle for himself. She never mentioned that she also liked
working the daily puzzle, and he never mentioned that he
enjoyed discussing their opinions on current events.
"Toast?" Cuddy asked after she finished reading about the
latest natural disaster to hit the Midwest.
"Hmm...?"
"For breakfast. Toast?"
"Oh. Yeah. Sure."
She rammed the white bread into the toaster, unsure of why
she was becoming so frustrated. She knew, getting into this,
that he was the least likely person on Earth to be a fount of
heart-to-heart dialogue, and yet, she also knew that this much
quiet wasn't normal for House. He always needed to fill the
silence, hence his tendency towards the most boorish of
remarks. No, she knew exactly why he was acting like this --
he wasn't talking to Wilson. He hadn't talked to Wilson since
Amber died.
Amber died. Cuddy still hadn't completely grasped
that concept. The thought of it still made her heart twist in
ways she didn't think possible for someone she didn't like. It
made her scared for what would happen if someone especially
close to her were to...
The bread popped out of the toaster, jarring her from
despondent musings. She quickly spread some butter on it,
grabbed a plate, and placed it in front of House. "Here. I'm
going to go take a shower."
"Sure."
"Yeah."
iv.
He crumpled her sheets together and pushed them to the side
as he sat down on the sofa. It was pointless was to turn on the
TV; his soap wasn't on for another four hours, and he wouldn't
dare watch morning talk shows again. Cameron had once
caught him in the middle of Oprah and had decided
she wanted to "discuss it." Nope, House was never making that
mistake again. He needed to find something to do, though,
because he could hear the shower turning off, which could
only mean one thing -- Cuddy was still definitely naked. He
may talk a good game, but he knew that the last thing he
needed to be doing right now was picturing his incredibly hot
boss/caretaker/one-time-lover in the nude.
Caretaker. House still hadn't completely grasped the
concept that he needed one, and that his was Cuddy, at that.
The thought of it made his heart twist in ways he didn't think
possible for someone he wasn't supposed to like. It made him
scared for what would happen if someday he would just let
himself fall...
"I need to go run some errands."
What? How had she dressed that quickly? "Oh. Okay."
"Do you want to come along? Get some fresh air and all that?"
"No, I'll just stay here and read... something."
"All right. Just don't let me come back to find you drunk
again." She was rewarded with a glare. "Can you hand me my
to-do list? It's on the coffee table."
"Here. I added to it."
"Mm-hmm," she responded absently, already removed from
the chat as she searched her purse for her car keys. "Shouldn't
be more than a couple hours. See ya."
"Bye."
v.
Bell peppers.
I need bell peppers for the pasta salad.
Wait...does he like bell peppers?
Does he even eat vegetables?
Whatever. He will tomorrow night.
She bagged the peppers and tossed them into the cart.
Wandering around the supermarket, a thousand thoughts
raced through her mind -- keeping a running total of how
much the groceries were going to cost, figuring how best to
explain to donors her five-week sabbatical, listing possibilities
of what the weird stain on the middle cushion of the couch
might be, pondering how perhaps to get Wilson to
"accidentally" drop by Friday night, trying to identify what song
the grocery store was blasting over the speakers, and most
importantly, determining what to make for dinner tonight.
Cuddy realized that House was a grown man and was capable
of making his own meals, but it was her guilt, her own
perverse guilt that kept her so utterly over-supportive
of him this time around. Guilt over what, exactly, she wasn't
sure. Possibly because she wasn't there for House as much as
he needed when Wilson started seeing Amber, or maybe
because whatever latent maternal genes she possessed were
cropping up again, or, for all she knew, the whole reason she
was doting over him now was because everything bad that he
did or that happened to him now was ultimately all her fault.
She had started it all nine years ago by opening her big, fat
mouth to Stacy about "a middle ground."
Stopping in the middle of the produce section to catch her
breath and to will the tears to not fall, she forced herself to
quit dwelling on the past. It was pointless to do so; she'd
already inserted herself into the situation, and he didn't seem
to be kicking her out. Yet. Nevertheless, she was going to
soldier on and complete to what she had committed herself.
He would never respect her again if she were to just quit.
When she finally had figured out a menu for the evening and
had finished her shopping, she put everything into her car and
grabbed her list.
To do:
1. Pick up dry cleaning. Check.
2. Pick up prescription refill at pharmacy. Check.
3. Drop off dry cleaning at home. Check.
4. Buy groceries. Check.
5. House. Che...Huh?
Suddenly it all came flooding back to her: "Can you hand
me my to-do list? It's on the coffee table." "Here. I added to
it." "Yes, you certainly did," she murmured to herself, a
smile crossing her features for the first time that day. She was
sure that this was one of those things that she was supposed
to find irritating, but found she couldn't muster the
displeasure. In fact, she felt just the opposite -- delight. It
was always the simple things that brought out the complexities
of their relationship.
vi.
Bell peppers.
"What are bell peppers, Alex?"
"You are correct!" Trebek announced.
"Ha! Knew I wasn't brain-damaged," House remarked to no
one in particular. As Jeopardy! continued to drone on
in the background, he mentally surveyed what he'd
accomplished for the morning. The diagnostic flash cards
sitting on the table in front of him represented the reading
he'd told Cuddy he was going to do. After all,
knowing you aren't brain-damaged and
confirming you aren't brain-damaged are two very
different things. Then, he'd made his bed the way his father
had taught him -- so crisply one could bounce a quarter off it
-- just to throw her for a loop. She never expected him to be
tidy. After that, he had settled in for a rousing game of him
versus the idiots on TV. So far, he'd gotten every question
right but one. He wasn't worried, though; he hadn't known the
names of all five members of *NSYNC before the deep brain
stimulation, either.
He noticed the coffee cup on the table and quickly moved to
place it on a coaster, though he didn't know exactly why.
During the weeks that Wilson had lived here, his friend had
ranted and raved about the benefits of using coasters, but
House couldn't have been bothered to care. Now, with Cuddy
here, he did it without even thinking. His whole place had
been spruced up lately, come to think of it. It wasn't that he
was a disorganized person, per se, but dust didn't bug him,
and since he was the only one living here, why should he
concern himself with dusting? Yet she'd had the entire
apartment spick and span within a day of moving in -- the
advantages of being bored, he guessed.
But why did they do these things for each other? They disliked
one another so much, and yet they took care of each other and
protected each other and...and used coasters for each other.
Why? There was only one answer -- he was House, and she
was Cuddy. It couldn't be explained any other way. He
snorted. It was always the complex things that brought out
the simplicities of their relationship.
vii.
She hadn't been aware of just how much she'd purchased until
she tried getting it all into the apartment without any help
whatsoever. "Your assistance is, as always, duly appreciated."
"It's what I'm here for," he called back from the couch, too
enthralled by Prescription Passion to even consider
getting up to carry a bag.
After putting everything away, she flopped down next to him.
"So what has Brock Sterling been up to lately?"
"Anna's twins were born today."
"House?"
"What?"
"Are those the twins?"
"Of course."
"They're two different races."
"That's because they have two different fathers."
"Come again?"
"Two different fathers. Cuddy, it's a soap opera. Did you
actually expect it to be logical?"
"I guess not. So, how much longer is this on?"
"About ten more minutes. Why?"
"I was hoping we could go for a walk."
"Can't."
"House, your leg can make around the block. You need to get
outside, get your day's worth of Vitamin D."
"It's not my leg. It's my routine. I always watch Access
Hollywood after this. Getting up now would be
detrimental to my healing process."
"Walk with me now, and you'll find yourself with four less clinic
hours when you get back to work."
He seemed to consider the offer for a bit. "Make it eight, and
you've got a deal."
"Six."
"Seven."
"Six and a half."
"Deal. Now shush, I can't miss the end."
Ten minutes later, they were off. Cuddy wasn't completely sure
why she had insisted they go now, other than for the reasons
she had told him, but she knew that he needed to get out.
Since the accident, he'd been walking considerably slower than
usual. It was hard to tell if it was because of the bus accident
itself or because of his significant lack of movement
afterwards, but if he didn't keep moving now, his muscles
wouldn't recover.
She also was aware that he needed to get reacquainted with
the world. House had been outside a grand total of twice since
being released from the hospital two weeks ago -- once to sit
unnoticed at Amber's funeral and again to meet with Foreman
for a check-up. Though not inherently social, he wasn't a
hermit, either. Aside from his music and his puzzles, he
derived his greatest pleasure in astounding others with his
soaring wit. If there were no "others," then what would be left
of his banter?
That was what had initially drawn Cuddy to House -- their
mutual capacity for banter. She counted the first time she had
won a verbal sparring match against him as one of the greatest
moments in her life. Such a high was created from that event
that she became an instant addict. She understood perfectly
well his dependency on medical puzzles because she extracted
the same ecstasy from every time they spoke. It was just plain
fun to talk to House, and she wouldn't change that for the
world.
viii.
He would never admit it aloud, but he was truly enjoying this
little jaunt around the block. The sun felt fantastic, and the
silence felt comfortable. The outside air gave him room to
think in a way that his own air conditioning never could.
And right now House chose to think about Cuddy. Again. She
really was absolutely gorgeous. He hadn't even been
aware of his fetish for dark, curly hair until he'd met her. And
then there were her eyes. Her eyes made him want to confess
everything to her -- that he'd almost called Wilson five times
today, but was too scared to dial that last number, that he
never wanted to let go of her hand at the hospital, and that it
was Chase who kept hacking into the clinic schedules database
and switching everything around and not Kutner as she'd
suspected.
But he couldn't do that, and he wouldn't, because that's not
how they worked. They avoided and talked around issues.
They lied to each other and sold each other out. They let
everyone think that they hated one another, and he would
have given the world to change that.
ix.
The rest of the day proceeded uneventfully; he secretly
reviewed one of his old Nephrology textbooks so that she
wouldn't suspect that he was worried about his memory, and
she kept him out of the kitchen so that he wouldn't suspect
what was for dinner. They had pretty much succeeded in
avoiding each other until about mid-evening, when he limped
questioningly across the living room. "Do I smell...meat?"
"Yep." She was searching through one of his cabinets for a
non-stick frying pan.
"Actual meat? Of the animal variety?"
"Uh-huh." Finding what she was looking for, she turned back
to the stove.
"But you don't eat meat. Whenever you cook, we eat rabbit
food. In the past twelve days, I've only had meat when I bought
it for myself."
"Well, not tonight."
"So what are we having tonight?"
"I'm still having the rabbit food. You get hamburgers."
"Burgers."
"Burgers."
"Huh." Half an hour later House was devouring his food as
though he hadn't eaten in weeks as Cuddy nibbled her way
through a salad. He never mentioned to her how much it
pleased him that she, a devout vegetarian cooked him
hamburgers, and she never mentioned to him how much it
pleased her that he, her number one critic enjoyed her
cooking.
x.
To avoid any appearance of domesticity, he only played piano
for half an hour instead of his usual hour after supper as she
read a novel by the fire. Looking at her afterwards, he had to
remind himself that he loathed her. There was only one way to
do that -- rile her up. "I notice that you forgot one very
important item on your errands list."
"I completed number five on the list twenty years ago," she
answered without so much as looking up from her book.
Not nearly as dramatic as I'd hoped. "You're a mean
woman, Doctor Cuddy."
"Damn straight, Doctor House."
Forget it. If she wasn't going to play, then he was going to
bed. He hadn't taken a shower that day anyway. "Did you set
your alarm clock?" she asked as she watched him get up to
leave.
"Would you punish me if I didn't?"
She feigned a scandalized look and laughed, and he gave her a
wry smile. "Goodnight, House."
"Goodnight, Cuddy."
It was simple. It was complex. It was theirs.
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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