Work Text:
denial
It's a bad day. House's leg screams when he shifts his weight. He leans against the wall, fingers tight on the handle of his cane. His mind is empty inside the pain, tying clues together, diagnosing.
A month ago Cuddy's assistant brought her dry bagels, lightly toasted. Now she clutches a cup of bitter cafeteria coffee. She greets the nurses, smiling politely, barely listening. When she turns, he sees the line of her bra beneath her blouse. It fits, no longer cutting across her breasts.
Cuddy's the perfect professional. The perfect mask. She looks up, catching him watching.
He knows.
anger
After hours, House breaks into Dr. Skorenki's office. He finds her appointment calendar in an unlocked drawer. He flips back two weeks before he finds what he wants.
House hammers at the filing cabinet lock with his cane until it shatters. He rifles through the files and reads Cuddy's by the light of the lamp. Skorenki's handwriting is efficient, routine.
When he leaves, Chase dogs him down the hall. "It's not necrotizing fasciitis," he says. "It's porphyria. You were wrong."
House punches him. His knuckles smash through Chase's jaw like it's water.
He should have realized. He should have known.
bargaining
"Hey! Wilson!" House catches the office door before Wilson shuts it in his face and barges in. Wilson clenches his fists. "Going to hit the cripple?" House taunts, feeling vicious.
"No," Wilson says, glaring, "but I might pop the lying junkie one."
Fury is written in every line of Wilson's body. House keeps pushing. "You were in Cuddy's office."
"Get out."
"Tell me what she said."
"No." Wilson jabs one finger forward. "You were unforgivable. You lost the right to know."
"Did you comfort her? The sympathetic shoulder routine?"
"Go to hell, House."
"Too late," House sneers, and slams out.
depression
The lights are off in Cuddy's office, but her car's still in the lot. House limps to the door and rests his forehead against the glass, before he lets himself in with a key he shouldn't have.
Cuddy flinches when he comes in, but he drops down on the other end of the couch anyway. His entire body aches. He imagines it's how he'll feel when the bike's tires finally slide out from under him on some sharp wet corner.
He hurts too much to speak, and her makeup runs with tear tracks.
They breathe silence, together in the dark.
acceptance
She lets him drive her home. He parks, turns off the engine, and says, "I'm sorry."
Cuddy makes a sound that's more laugh than sob.
House says, "You should have told me." It's too easy to imagine her in Skorenki's office, afterwards. Alone.
She shakes her head. "It wouldn't have stopped you from saying that."
He nods, once. "I was wrong."
Cuddy walks to the door, moving like she's broken. When she looks back, he follows. He stands close behind her; he touches her shoulder. "We can try again," he says.
"Not now," she answers.
It's not never. It's enough.