Transitions

Chapter 14

A/N: Thank you all for reading and joining me on this ride. Chapter 14 ends this story (I almost ended it last chapter, but a good friend told me never to end with chapter 13, so I didn’t.) I don’t like writing two fanfics at once (I have other writing going on as well—not fanfic), and the material presented in Half-Wit beckons me in another direction (although not unrelated to Transitions).

Thanks to my friends at “HL: Too Handsome for Paperwork” for their inspiration and lively discussion as well as to Silja on TWOP for her medical expertise.

House was dreaming. It was a rare, but recurrent dream. It involved Cuddy, Saturday morning and the smell of fresh ground coffee; conversation and sex. The picture of domestic bliss he would never have again. For a long time, he had dreamed this dream about Stacy, a vague memory, just out of reach. Somewhere along the way, the image of the woman in the dream more and more resembled Lisa Cuddy. It wasn’t unwelcome (and there’s not much one can do about dreams, anyway), but somewhat disconcerting to him.

House opened his eyes, realizing that he had fallen asleep on the sofa. With Cuddy. He could, indeed, smell the aromatic beans, freshly ground, brewing in the kitchen. Sex. No, he was pretty sure that there had been no sex.

“You’re up. Coffee’s made. It’ s nearly 10.” House looked surprised, quirking an eybrow. He’d probably not slept that many consecutive hours in months.

“I could get used to this. Marry me. ” Cuddy guffawed at the absurdity of House’s statement.

“Yeah. I’m sure you could.” House seemed to be in a light mood, given his state of mind the night before.

“Cuddy, look, about last night…” He’d started a sentence he wasn’t sure how to complete. What about last night? Cuddy was right: House did “like” her. Enough so that the idea of her being with anyone else made him slightly queasy. Most of the time he didn’t worry about it too much, but this time Mr. Eastern Lube had enough of what House didn’t to make him… House didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he had been jealous. But he could puzzle out no better description for what he was feeling.

“I liked last night, House, how it ended, anyway.” She was smiling. That particular smile, which had always viewed as beatific, always had the effect of disarming him completely. He returned the smile, or began to, until he tried moving. House could not prevent the gasp emerging from his lips as he tried to move his right leg. It felt as though in a vise grip. Normally he would grab his pills from the nightstand, take a couple and wait out the pain. His pills were in his jacket pocket near the front door; his perception—his fantasy of “normal” faded like the pop of a soap bubble.

“What’s wrong?”

“My pills. Would you mind…?” Cuddy looked immediately concerned as she grabbed his jacket from the desk chair. She watched House desperately retrieve the bottle, shaking out two Vicodin with shaking hands, barely aware of her presence until he had swallowed them. Cuddy observed him as he waited, trying to steady his breathing; calm his leg as he furiously massaged it.

“House.” It was almost as if she weren’t there; didn’t hear her. “House,” she repeated. “Do you want me to get you anything? I can massage…” House looked up, finally aware of her again. He shook his head, wordlessly pleading with his eyes to let him deal with the crisis. Eventually his breathing returned to normal and he let go the death-grip on his right thigh. He glanced up at Cuddy momentarily before looking away, embarrassed that she had seen him like that.

“Sorry we slept all crumpled up like that. I should have realized it would have been hard on your leg.” House shook his head.

“I could have been sleeping on a feather bed surrounded by clouds of down and it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“This is…”

“Only difference was that my meds weren’t right at my hand this morning…and that you were here…” House stared at spot somewhere on the far wall of the living room.

“I had no idea House. Why didn’t you...? It would explain why you’re always…”

“It’s not your business. Or Wilson’s. Or my team’s. It’s my life. It is what it is. Telling you, or Wilson… For what? For sympathy that doesn’t matter? For pity that life as a fucking cripple is not as sexy as one might think…you know with all my inherent woundedness and all…? Believe me, I can barely keep the babes at bay.”

“People care, House.”

“Yeah, I forgot.” The joy of half an hour past had evaporated. The lightness of House’s mood had been trampled beneath the weight of his reality. The smoky light in his eyes from the evening before as he held her, wanting her. His pain momentarily, at the time removed to a vaguely recognizable position, was now replaced simple sadness as he struggled to rise from the sofa, keeping the pressure off his right leg.

House knew that Cuddy was watching him, observing him as he walked with a staggered gait to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, grateful for the barrier between them.

He emerged several minutes later, seemingly better. His composure was newly intact along with a distance that left Cuddy feeling isolated from him. He located his cane and made his way into the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee before returning to the living room. Cuddy wanted to say something about what had happened the night before, but couldn’t find a way back in behind his barriers.

“House, last night…” He froze, about to take a sip from his oversized mug as Cuddy sat near him. He willed himself to look anywhere except into her eyes until absolutely ready; until his own eyes were glacial.

“Last night was a mistake. I can’t… I don’t want you in my life. Not in that way. You’re just not my type. You asked me if I ‘like’ you. I don’t.” Of all the things she was expecting him to say, that wasn’t even 100th on the list. She was stunned at his bluntness; at the iciness of his words. He rose from the sofa, stalking to the fireplace.

Recovering somewhat, Cuddy retrieved her coat and keys. “Fine. Then stay out of my life. Stop stalking me; stop trying to learn every infinitesimal detail of my personal life. Stop gawking at my ass. Stay out of my dates and my private life.” Her voice quavered, trying to keep the tears out of her voice, ending what she hoped sounded like a tirade.

House did not turn around until he heard the door slam loudly behind him. He looked briefly at the coffee mug, taking one last sip of its seductive aromatic flavor, before hurling it against the far wall.

A/N—sorry to have ended this on a bit of a down-note, but I needed to clear the slate. What occurred in Half-Wit couldn’t be reconciled with where this story was heading, and I so adored Half-Wit, that I needed to end whatever House and Cuddy might have been thinking in Transitions. If that makes any sense at all . Never fear, however, Half-Wit opened up all sorts of interesting possibilities for a different exploration of House and Cuddy’s relationship and House’s relationship with his other colleagues as well. Two more weeks till a new episode, so….who knows?