(Author's Note: I had to put my own spin on this scene, being the crazy Huddy fangirl that I am. I've watched that scene what seems like a million times. I'm in LOVE with it! So… I hope you like this piece. I turned like… two minutes into over 1,000 words, so hey. Go me.)
There's no glow anymore.
That's the first thing he notices when she opens the door. Her clothes are no longer the form-fitting, flirtatious kind that she's been wearing as of late. Her makeup's been cried off and her eyes that were twinkling sapphire just hours ago now seem almost gray with bloodshot. Her perfectly curled dark hair no longer frames her face to enhance her looks – it is yanked back almost violently off her shoulders, frizzy and unkempt. She looks like she's gone through the ringer. Emotionally, she probably has.
"Not really a good time for gloating." Her voice cracks a bit, and it's already strained from hours upon hours of crying.
He looks at his shoes for a moment, an oddly placed reaction that seems beyond his compassion level. In all honesty, he has no idea what say to her. He's not sure why he's here. He just got on his motorcycle, and instead of shoving the key into his dingy apartment door, he ended up at her humble abode instead. He lumbers in anyway, playing things by ear. He has to speak his words carefully – she's very vulnerable right now. In a way, the fact that she shows her vulnerable side to him excites him – which also sickens him a bit. He can't help but feel a little upset that Wilson can see her smile, and she saves her tears for him. Like now.
"There are plenty of babies out there. Plenty of teenage boys wanting to ride bareback," he offers slowly.
Success. She smiles, even chuckles a bit. She expects it of him, and he's glad to offer a sarcastic remark to make her happy. Even if the happiness is just a mask.
Her smile fades as quickly as it came.
"No. I'm done. I… can't go through that again."
He sees the glaze of tears, fresh in her eyes. By now, one would think she'd run out, but she hasn't. Not yet.
"Just like the injections?"
She nods slowly, swallowing tearfully.
She needs comfort. He knows that, but he doesn't have a clue what to say. Unfortunately, his "winging it," just ran out. He moves forward a bit, glancing around the house rather than looking at her face. He sighs. He almost knows what will happen with his next words, but he can't help it. It's time to tell the truth. He can't continue to berate her. He doesn't have the power right now.
"It's… too bad. You would've made a great mother…"
There's a long silence and she shifts rather inelegantly. Her jaw tightens and her eyes start to flame almost. She looks at him with a look of pure hate.
"You son of a bitch."
Finally, he looks at her, fighting a flinch, knowing this was to come. She begins to approach him like a lioness, going in for the kill. He doesn't back up. He'd rather she be mad at him than at herself or her situation.
"When I am getting a baby, you tell me I would suck as a mother. Now that I've lost it, you tell me I'd be great as a mother."
He swallows heavily, worriedly. Her anger is mixing with her hurt and her look is breaking his heart a bit.
"Why… Why must you negate everything?!"
He stares at her. This is definitely not the first time he's been out of things to say this evening. He wants to say because it gets your attention, or because it helps you do the right thing, or even because it takes the pain away from me for a minute. But those would all be lies. Everybody lies, but not tonight – not in moments like this. He looks in those beautiful, sad eyes, looking up at him, waiting… waiting for an answer… waiting for… something.
"…I don't know," he whispers.
There's a silent moment that last for an eternity. He watches as her face contorts with a mixture of emotions. Now she's speechless. He's wondering if he should have lied anyway. She looks so hurt… lost in a world that gave up on her. It gave up on him a long time ago, and he can share that horrible feeling with her. He hates it. He hates that girl that decided to yank the child out of Cuddy's arms. He hates how much it hurt. He wants her not to want a baby, and not because he bet on it. He doesn't want her to cry – to look at him like that, like it was his fault.
Without really understanding why… he makes a decision.
He kisses her.
There's a brief moment of surprise, and then, in all her anguish, she lets go and lets it happen. Arms are twisting everywhere – one moment it's on his shoulder, the next the back of his head. She's gripping to him as if he's the only thing keeping her standing, his breath the only thing keeping her breathing. And God, the hurt, the absolute hurt that courses through her soul is intertwining with his. No Vicodin can cure this itch – nothing. It will twist in his stomach forever. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close to him, as if their pain might mix together and create happiness – hardly a possibility. He can feel bolts of electricity shooting through him, and he can't help himself. Ten seconds becomes ten years and he's kissing her the entire time.
Finally, they pull away, and she almost comes in again, but finally lands back, flat on her feet, just a breath away from more. Suddenly, he's very aware of what he's done, and he can feel the cold grip of fear in his gut, screaming at him for making such an idiotic move. He can't stay. If he stays…
He might just fall for this sorrowful beauty.
"Goodnight," he whispers, then whirls away to make his escape. As fast as his bum leg can carry him, he edges out the door.
He hears a stumbled word from her lips as the door slams shut.
It's not a good night. He lied. She lied. Everybody lies, even tonight, after a small, passionate, sorrowful, and yet oddly blissful moment.
And he has a strange feeling that the morning won't be much better.
She would have been a great mother.
Of that, he is certain.