These are pages 41-43. I am currently on page 45. As soon as I finish that I will post pages 44-45. Thank you all for reading. As always, please comment. =).
The room swirled around her as she tried to focus on this conversation, on saying what it was that she was trying to convey and, of course, remaining in a sitting position. She was less successful in the second endeavor. The room began to tilt to the right and she could feel herself falling. She stopped herself by grabbing the table and then hunched over it, propping her head up with her hands.
“I meant sorry that you feel you have to stay with me all night.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re wonderful company when you’re drunk. Incidentally how much did you drink?”
“Uh...eight…or nine……or maybe twelve glasses.”
“Smooth move, Cuddy. Now I’ve definitely got to take you to the ER.”
“No!”
“You probably have alcohol poisoning. Do you have charcoal lying around your house?”
“Yes!”
“Where!”
“…somewhere,” Cuddy spat for arguments sake.
She didn’t actually have any charcoal; she just didn’t want to go to the ER.
“Alcohol really screws with your ability to lie.”
“I can’t go to the ER. They’ll ruin me,” she pleaded, talking so fast, her speech so slurred, that her sentence sounded like one really long word.
It took House a couple seconds to figure out what she was trying to say.
“You know what else will ruin you? Death! You’re screwed anyway. You know just as well as I do that you’re going to lose that trial.”
“There’s a chance that I could __”
“If you really thought that would you have spent the last five hours drinking yourself into oblivion?”
“I’m not going to the ER.”
“Cuddy, be reasonable. This could help your case. You know that when people drink this much and end up in the ER they are at least interviewed by a psychiatrist.”
“If you want me to go so bad, you’re going to have to make me.”
“If that’s what it’ll take.”
“Go ahead then. Make me,” Cuddy dared, knowing that he would back down.
For a minute no one moved. House had been caught off guard by Cuddys’ actions. He had only been bluffing. She had been supposed to surrender not challenge him.
“Fine,” he said sharply, “If you die, your blood is on your head.”
“I’m not going to die.”
“Whatever, Cuddy.”
“If you really think my life is in jeopardy then make me go. God knows you could if you wanted to.”
“Really,” House exclaimed in mock surprise.
“So why aren’t you?”
“You want me to force you?”
“No, I’m just wondering why you won’t.”
“My leg hurts.”
”Because I was raped.”
Silence was the only reply she got. The anger she had felt in the bar flared up inside her again, unfortunately the nausea also took a turn for the worst.
“That doesn’t have to change every God damn thing,” she said ignoring the nausea.
“You expect it to change nothing? You expect everything to go back to normal like you weren’t the victim of a violent crime,” House replied, “Things like that tend to change everything.”
“Why does it have to change everything?”
“Because it does.”
“Well that explains it.”
“Why did it have to change you?”
“It didn’t__”
“I wish I had video evidence of the last two weeks so you could see what you were like.”
“I looked the same as I always did. I acted the same. I made sure of that.”
“How you look is irrelevant, you’ve always hid behind a shield of esthetics and beauty products, but no matter how good an actress you are Cuddy, you can’t hide that kind of trauma.”
Cuddy glared at him, knowing he was right, but not wanting to admit it. Suddenly she didn’t feel so peaceful anymore. The confidence was gone and in its place was the crippling sense of defeat which had become so familiar.
“Why do you try so hard to appear perfect to the people who don’t care how far from it you are,” House asked, “You’re just making this harder for you.”
When he looked into her eyes all of his frustration and annoyance with her dissipated. She looked like a scared little girl who had just lost all hope. The ways of the world had been revealed to her in one of the harshest manners imaginable and for two weeks she had put on a brave face, trying to maintain her image and now the walls of defense crumbled around her, leaving her afraid and vulnerable… and in unfathomable agony. He had kicked her while she was weak and had broken her down. Now she was too upset to even keep up the façade.
“My life is ruined,” she whispered.
The words were heart wrenching to House. They were words of surrender, Lisa Cuddy had never surrendered before. He hated himself sometimes. Why couldn’t he just lie to her, give her hope, even if it was false? Instead he had to add insult to injury. He had broken the seemingly unbreakable. This accomplishment did not make him as proud as he had imagined it would. Instead it made him feel like shit. He watched in horror as her expression changed from one of pure, unadulterated hatred, to fear and sadness. Her delicate hands were soon covering her face and her shoulders were shaking. Oh God no, she could not be crying. There was nothing he hated more than seeing her cry, except being the one that made her cry. He was no good at consoling people and he was worse at apologizing.
“You don’t know that your life is ruined,” he said uncomfortably.
The only reply he got was a shake of the head. Her hands slammed against the table and before he could stop her she stood up.
“Cuddy, sit down. You’re going to fall.”
She did not make it very far. The moment she had stood up the room had began spinning so fast that her kitchen had turned into a giant blur of unintelligible streaks of color. Cautiously she leaned on what she thought was the table tottering on her heels. Storming off had not proven so effective. There was no point in trying to get away. She was stuck here with House until she went to the trial the next day, just like she would be trapped in the courthouse and trapped in this miserable existence. It’ll all be over soon, that little annoying voice that wouldn’t shut up argued, you’re life will soon go back to being perfect. Deep down she didn’t believe it. Cuddy did not believe that this would end with the trial. No matter how the judge ruled Tritter would do as he had promised. Whether it was ten years from now or the day after tomorrow, he still was going to torment her and everyone she cared about. Standing grew too exhausting and challenging for Cuddy, so she flopped down in the chair behind her, another gesture of defeat. House did not like seeing her give up on anything. Tears continued to flow down her cheeks, saying more than she was willing to say with words, displaying the fear and desperation she was working so hard to hide. The only sign that she was the same old obstinate Cuddy was that her arms were folded across her chest, her hands clenched around her upper arms. Her eyes were tired and sad. The normally pale hue of her face was tarnished with gray. House was seriously debating forcing her to go to the ER.
“Cuddy are you…physically okay,” he asked.
As he had expected, she did not answer. For some reason this did not piss him off. All it did was make him worry about her more.
“Can you bring the trashcan over here,” she finally asked softly.
Remaining uncharacteristically mute, House dragged the trashcan over to her side, but he did not go back to his seat. Instead he did something else uncharacteristic: He hesitantly rested his hand on her shoulder, fully expecting her to hit him or shrink away. To his surprise she did neither of those things. Now where the hell did he go from here? Consoling people was far from one of his strong points. What was he told to do in those classes on how to tell people they were dying? Wait a second, Cuddy wasn’t dying. Then again she certainly looked like she was dying. She had been acting like she was dying. Maybe the principles would still apply. The trick would be twisting the principles around to make them apply to her situation. He wouldn’t want to piss her off by making it sound like she was a dying patient. There was only one problem with that plan: He hadn’t paid attention in his ‘How to Tell People They’re About to Kick Off” class. That class period had been spent having diagnosing competitions with Sarah. They would look up weird cases on the internet on their respective laptops and read each other the symptoms. Whoever lost had to volunteer for role play at the next class. After several ties they convince some kid who sat in their row to join in because they knew diagnosing was not his strong point. Oh what the hell, House would just wing it.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you…” he started.
God this was difficult.
Cuddy turned around in her chair to face him, her expression one of confusion.
“Do me a favor,” she said, her words slurring together.
“Okay…”
“Don’t try to consol me using techniques from our “You’re Dying 101” classes.”
“That doesn’t leave me with any material.”
“You don’t have to try to be comforting. I get it.”
For a couple seconds House just stood there awkwardly, his hand still on her shoulder. Then he walked back to his seat across the table and sat down, wondering why he cared so damn much. The coffee pot dinged signifying that the coffee was finished. Still absorbed in his own thoughts he poured two mugs and brought them back to the table.
The room swirled around her as she tried to focus on this conversation, on saying what it was that she was trying to convey and, of course, remaining in a sitting position. She was less successful in the second endeavor. The room began to tilt to the right and she could feel herself falling. She stopped herself by grabbing the table and then hunched over it, propping her head up with her hands.
“I meant sorry that you feel you have to stay with me all night.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re wonderful company when you’re drunk. Incidentally how much did you drink?”
“Uh...eight…or nine……or maybe twelve glasses.”
“Smooth move, Cuddy. Now I’ve definitely got to take you to the ER.”
“No!”
“You probably have alcohol poisoning. Do you have charcoal lying around your house?”
“Yes!”
“Where!”
“…somewhere,” Cuddy spat for arguments sake.
She didn’t actually have any charcoal; she just didn’t want to go to the ER.
“Alcohol really screws with your ability to lie.”
“I can’t go to the ER. They’ll ruin me,” she pleaded, talking so fast, her speech so slurred, that her sentence sounded like one really long word.
It took House a couple seconds to figure out what she was trying to say.
“You know what else will ruin you? Death! You’re screwed anyway. You know just as well as I do that you’re going to lose that trial.”
“There’s a chance that I could __”
“If you really thought that would you have spent the last five hours drinking yourself into oblivion?”
“I’m not going to the ER.”
“Cuddy, be reasonable. This could help your case. You know that when people drink this much and end up in the ER they are at least interviewed by a psychiatrist.”
“If you want me to go so bad, you’re going to have to make me.”
“If that’s what it’ll take.”
“Go ahead then. Make me,” Cuddy dared, knowing that he would back down.
For a minute no one moved. House had been caught off guard by Cuddys’ actions. He had only been bluffing. She had been supposed to surrender not challenge him.
“Fine,” he said sharply, “If you die, your blood is on your head.”
“I’m not going to die.”
“Whatever, Cuddy.”
“If you really think my life is in jeopardy then make me go. God knows you could if you wanted to.”
“Really,” House exclaimed in mock surprise.
“So why aren’t you?”
“You want me to force you?”
“No, I’m just wondering why you won’t.”
“My leg hurts.”
”Because I was raped.”
Silence was the only reply she got. The anger she had felt in the bar flared up inside her again, unfortunately the nausea also took a turn for the worst.
“That doesn’t have to change every God damn thing,” she said ignoring the nausea.
“You expect it to change nothing? You expect everything to go back to normal like you weren’t the victim of a violent crime,” House replied, “Things like that tend to change everything.”
“Why does it have to change everything?”
“Because it does.”
“Well that explains it.”
“Why did it have to change you?”
“It didn’t__”
“I wish I had video evidence of the last two weeks so you could see what you were like.”
“I looked the same as I always did. I acted the same. I made sure of that.”
“How you look is irrelevant, you’ve always hid behind a shield of esthetics and beauty products, but no matter how good an actress you are Cuddy, you can’t hide that kind of trauma.”
Cuddy glared at him, knowing he was right, but not wanting to admit it. Suddenly she didn’t feel so peaceful anymore. The confidence was gone and in its place was the crippling sense of defeat which had become so familiar.
“Why do you try so hard to appear perfect to the people who don’t care how far from it you are,” House asked, “You’re just making this harder for you.”
When he looked into her eyes all of his frustration and annoyance with her dissipated. She looked like a scared little girl who had just lost all hope. The ways of the world had been revealed to her in one of the harshest manners imaginable and for two weeks she had put on a brave face, trying to maintain her image and now the walls of defense crumbled around her, leaving her afraid and vulnerable… and in unfathomable agony. He had kicked her while she was weak and had broken her down. Now she was too upset to even keep up the façade.
“My life is ruined,” she whispered.
The words were heart wrenching to House. They were words of surrender, Lisa Cuddy had never surrendered before. He hated himself sometimes. Why couldn’t he just lie to her, give her hope, even if it was false? Instead he had to add insult to injury. He had broken the seemingly unbreakable. This accomplishment did not make him as proud as he had imagined it would. Instead it made him feel like shit. He watched in horror as her expression changed from one of pure, unadulterated hatred, to fear and sadness. Her delicate hands were soon covering her face and her shoulders were shaking. Oh God no, she could not be crying. There was nothing he hated more than seeing her cry, except being the one that made her cry. He was no good at consoling people and he was worse at apologizing.
“You don’t know that your life is ruined,” he said uncomfortably.
The only reply he got was a shake of the head. Her hands slammed against the table and before he could stop her she stood up.
“Cuddy, sit down. You’re going to fall.”
She did not make it very far. The moment she had stood up the room had began spinning so fast that her kitchen had turned into a giant blur of unintelligible streaks of color. Cautiously she leaned on what she thought was the table tottering on her heels. Storming off had not proven so effective. There was no point in trying to get away. She was stuck here with House until she went to the trial the next day, just like she would be trapped in the courthouse and trapped in this miserable existence. It’ll all be over soon, that little annoying voice that wouldn’t shut up argued, you’re life will soon go back to being perfect. Deep down she didn’t believe it. Cuddy did not believe that this would end with the trial. No matter how the judge ruled Tritter would do as he had promised. Whether it was ten years from now or the day after tomorrow, he still was going to torment her and everyone she cared about. Standing grew too exhausting and challenging for Cuddy, so she flopped down in the chair behind her, another gesture of defeat. House did not like seeing her give up on anything. Tears continued to flow down her cheeks, saying more than she was willing to say with words, displaying the fear and desperation she was working so hard to hide. The only sign that she was the same old obstinate Cuddy was that her arms were folded across her chest, her hands clenched around her upper arms. Her eyes were tired and sad. The normally pale hue of her face was tarnished with gray. House was seriously debating forcing her to go to the ER.
“Cuddy are you…physically okay,” he asked.
As he had expected, she did not answer. For some reason this did not piss him off. All it did was make him worry about her more.
“Can you bring the trashcan over here,” she finally asked softly.
Remaining uncharacteristically mute, House dragged the trashcan over to her side, but he did not go back to his seat. Instead he did something else uncharacteristic: He hesitantly rested his hand on her shoulder, fully expecting her to hit him or shrink away. To his surprise she did neither of those things. Now where the hell did he go from here? Consoling people was far from one of his strong points. What was he told to do in those classes on how to tell people they were dying? Wait a second, Cuddy wasn’t dying. Then again she certainly looked like she was dying. She had been acting like she was dying. Maybe the principles would still apply. The trick would be twisting the principles around to make them apply to her situation. He wouldn’t want to piss her off by making it sound like she was a dying patient. There was only one problem with that plan: He hadn’t paid attention in his ‘How to Tell People They’re About to Kick Off” class. That class period had been spent having diagnosing competitions with Sarah. They would look up weird cases on the internet on their respective laptops and read each other the symptoms. Whoever lost had to volunteer for role play at the next class. After several ties they convince some kid who sat in their row to join in because they knew diagnosing was not his strong point. Oh what the hell, House would just wing it.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you…” he started.
God this was difficult.
Cuddy turned around in her chair to face him, her expression one of confusion.
“Do me a favor,” she said, her words slurring together.
“Okay…”
“Don’t try to consol me using techniques from our “You’re Dying 101” classes.”
“That doesn’t leave me with any material.”
“You don’t have to try to be comforting. I get it.”
For a couple seconds House just stood there awkwardly, his hand still on her shoulder. Then he walked back to his seat across the table and sat down, wondering why he cared so damn much. The coffee pot dinged signifying that the coffee was finished. Still absorbed in his own thoughts he poured two mugs and brought them back to the table.
