5/25

[hihoplastic]

FanFic: Things Don't Change: HouseFic50 (1/1)


Title: Things Don't Change
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, MD
Character/Pairing: House, Cuddy, Wilson
Prompt: 005: Last
Word Count: 3820
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Quotes in italics from various episodes. Feel free to ask. / Mild AU / Certifying my hypocrisy / I have no idea what this is.
A/N2: For Ollie because she is made of awesome. Thank you so much for helping me with this! Really. I'll have to bake you a cake or something... or get you a Lisa... something. *hearts*



You remember her the way you remember everybody else.

--

The last time you saw her you told her you were sorry, and didn’t really mean it. You led her to wonder, did you ever? and even you can’t answer that. There’s a very tiny space between what you say/think/feel/know. It’s all heaped together and divided into subsections

- not subdividing it and putting it in condos -

so every little piece has just a little bit of contempt/thought/manipulation/tenderness(?).

Maybe, but that doesn’t sound like you.

The last time you saw her, you didn’t really care.

--

Four years later and nothing’s changed.

You still breathe in and out and your leg’s no better; maybe worse, but you take more drugs and it all evens out. Wilson tries to tell you your liver will fail, but you’re indestructible.

You sit on your couch and watch soaps and cartoons and TiVo everything from seven to nine, while you’re taking nightly walks up and down the block, the same block, pacing the clench out of the muscle in your thigh. It doesn’t work, but if you concentrate more on one step two step three step pivot it’s easier to manage.

The lady who lives in the apartment above yours watches you for ten of your one-hundred-twenty minutes, until she gets bored with the monotony.

Four years later and you’re going out of your mind sometimes.

Four years later and everyone’s different except you.

--

Wilson was pretty sure it had a profound effect on you, and was waiting for you to spill. He’d been waiting for eight months and you hadn’t said a word because you didn’t have anything to say. Rather, nothing he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear you have a soul.

You wanted to tell him that nothing really changed.

Eight months and Wilson was in front of your television, drinking his way through your refrigerator. It wasn’t unusual, not even uncommon, and you knew by the way he was reaching for another bottle that he’d spend tomorrow on your couch with a tub of aspirin. You know it’s not about her; probably an argument with potential wife number four; probably lost a patient; probably just needed a break. But it’s not about her because it’s not like there was ever anything there.

--

There are two dates.

You get them confused, but at least you know them.

The last time you saw her she was shaking her head and not crying – never, ever crying, not with you around – a tormented smile plastered to her face, like someone slapped it on haphazardly and forgot to make sure it stuck.

She was standing in her office with her arms around her stomach, staring at the brick wall outside her window. Her window. Her office. Her life in four walls. You understand protection. You still don’t understand how it’s doing her any good.

You walked in slowly, carefully, because you recognized the stillness, recognized how cracked it was, splintered; hot water on frozen glass.

Onomatopoeias always come to mind.

Sometimes you think she was waiting. Maybe for you, maybe for someone else, maybe just for something, but probably for you.

- someone you trust; someone like you? -

She didn’t say anything because she didn’t have to. You didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to say.

The last time you saw her she smiled at you, thank you and goodbye.

--

You remember finding her in your office, walking your ball back and forth with two fingers while she waited. You walked in with a question on your face and she almost laughed – almost uncomfortable, almost nervous, oh so very happy – and gave a little shrug.

You said congratulations, and wondered what it would mean for you.

--

You watched him watch her, and wondered if there was something there after all. She was filling out a chart, maybe something important, something absorbing her thoughts, naïve enough to be believe she could be distracted by a piece of paper. Your gaze shifted to the way her hair hung, covering her face, hiding the bruises that remained only for spite, only as a physical reminder.

‘It’s too soon,’ he said, but you didn’t tell him you agree.

‘Let’s grab a beer.’

You remember the look he gave you because it burned, burned its way through every defense you have, every bitter thought. Burned its way through even your ego, and you had the decency to look guilty (even if you weren’t).

‘You can’t write this off,’ he told you. ‘She matters.’

- who you are matters -

You stared, said nothing, left him to watch, left him helpless and went home; watched four hours of The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air before not falling asleep.

--

For some reason, she was less obnoxious pregnant than she was regularly. It was a phenomenon you had to figure out, you told yourself, and that was why you spent more time with her, little by little.

You’re involved, you told yourself, only to find out what changed.

--

You woke up the next morning to the sound of Wilson slouched over the toilet. At least, you hoped it was the toilet, because you didn’t want his hang-over on your bathroom floor.

You woke-up knowing; no split-second of blissful ignorance most people get away with. Your last thought was that you should give her a call. The first was whether or not you were out of cereal.

Wilson slept the rest of the day, alternating between your bed and your couch, complaining in between that it wasn’t dark enough in either room. You told him to stop whining and close the curtains, but he never remembered and you didn’t (don’t) have the courtesy to do it for him.

You wondered briefly how she’d react if you showed up at her door. If you brought a gift or Chinese food. If you just sat and talked and let her be distracted.

It’s twenty-three minutes to her house by car, provided there’s no traffic. It was only two, so you probably could have made it there in under thirty. Perry Mason was on in twelve.

‘TiVo it,’ Wilson said groggily.

You pretended to consider it until he fell back asleep, then shut off the TV and listened to L’elisir d’Amore; you only watch the last ten minutes of those shows anyway. You don’t care how they do it, you just want to see them get the guy.

--

She showed up at your apartment one afternoon, still slightly swollen, still exhausted, but, as you put it, obscenely happy. You refused to admit the mutant in her arms masquerading as a child was adorable, but it had her eyes, her cheeks, her chin. You didn’t recognize the nose, or the ears, but you weren’t meant to.

She had her hair pulled back, no-make up on, was dressed in jeans and a University sweatshirt, and you were pretty damn sure you’d never seen her more attractive.

You took a cold shower after she left, and tried to forget:

‘House.’ She was halfway out the door, you were almost in the clear. She looked back, opened her mouth to say something else, smiled, said, ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’

- you came all the way up here just to tell me that?; no. –

--

There were more times than you could count that she came by the hospital, lump on her hip and that damned smile on her face, even when she wasn’t smiling. Wilson told you you were jealous; at least one of you had found happiness. You said you’d take misery over two-am breastfeeding any day.

It was one of those days that a nurse called her away (because even if she was supposed to be on leave, she was still the boss) and without a second thought she passed the bundle to you.

People gave you funny looks, cringing with anxiety as you shuffled cane and baby and differential all at the same time.

Cameron said you were a natural. You pretended to drop the kid.

When she came back you shoved the baby in her arms and palmed two pills just for show. She rolled her eyes and you watched in (purely scientific) awe as the little mass snuggled against her.

‘She’s cute,’ you said, ‘for the spawn of Satan.’

--

Wilson woke up at six and told you you were a bastard.

‘You’re the one who’s drunk,’ you reminded him and he shot you an exasperated look. You took another handful of popcorn out of the bag and tossed a few kernels into your mouth. Now that he was awake and could deflect the shots, bouncing them off his nose wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining.

‘Go see her,’ he grunted. You called him a hypocrite and he called you an ass but his eyes faltered and you almost felt bad for him, but not quite.

At six o’clock there was nothing on TV but news. Your head was still ringing with overlapping music and if you added anything to the jumble in the next hour your head would explode

- and i don’t want to get any on me. -

‘House,’ he said sternly/pleadingly, and you finally lifted yourself off the couch.

--

Wilson tried to convince her join group therapy. You told her therapy was for losers and gave her a brochure for a firing range. She almost laughed, at least, and from then on Wilson was on your case about spending more time with her.

‘You help,’ he said repeatedly, but neither of you have ever been idiots.

- i like to think i’m more of a jerk -

‘No such thing,’ you said, and he didn’t have the audacity to disagree with you.

--

‘It has to happen to someone,’ you said - ‘Statistics’ - and ignored his disapproving glare.

Laws of probability suck, even when they’re low.

Five years, approaching four months.

You walked away before he could ask, Yeah, but why her? because you still don’t have the answer to that.

--

She refused to leave work, even when she was heaving into a trash bin behind her desk. You found the whole spectacle amusing, and had no qualms informing her of such.

‘You’re taking a perverse pleasure in watching me suffer, aren’t you?’

- it’s what i live for -

she asked once, and you had the grace not to take her seriously.

‘Just think of it this way,’ you said, reclining on her couch and trying to balance your cane on the tip of one finger. ‘What you’re feeling now is what I feel every time you make me diagnose hiccups, inflammatory bowel or masturbation among small children.’

You waggled your eyebrows and she shook her head, wearing her trademark, ‘I should be used to this by now’ expression and returned to the desk calendar in front of her.

You stayed in her office and played nice long enough to distract her from banishing you to the clinic, and pretended that it hadn’t become a habit.

--

You stopped your question before you asked, stayed silent—barely. You said her name, but she didn’t hear you. Couldn’t hear you, maybe.

‘What happened?’ you asked, and the silence burned long and hollow.

You stepped closer, almost behind her, almost touching but never actually. You said her name again, close enough to spot the almost tears.

It hadn’t been long enough for her to cry.

The last thing she ever said to you was in a flat, broken tone:

‘Seventy is too fast for a neighborhood.’

--

It was three months later, give or take the day when you found her sitting on your doorstep. She was holding a worn out, baby-sized trucker hat with Gravedigger emblazoned on the front. You never thought she let her wear it, but apparently she had.

You sat on the stoop next to her, as patient as you could manage, watching from the corner of your eye as she tried repeatedly to speak.

‘I don’t…’ and she would trail off, shake her head, try again and fail. ‘I keep finding things,’ she murmured, finally, still holding the cap as if it were about to fall apart. ‘Shoes. Hair-brushes. Coloring books.’ Her smile died before it began. ‘Half-eaten crayons.’

You invited her in because there was nothing else to do, but she shook her head, stood; you followed suit and when you finally met her gaze felt a little tug that you ignored. This wasn’t bringing you any closer it was pushing you apart. Normally you would have appreciated that, but you recognize that misery loves company and combined the two of you had (have) hit the jackpot.

She looked down, swallowed, finally smiled in a way that made you angry, because you were tired of looking at a lie.

‘Here,’ she said, and handed you the little black cap, soft and care-worn and so obviously loved. ‘It may not mean anything to you, but it does to her,’ she said, and then left fast, because there was no way with the tears in her eyes she could correct herself without crying.

--

‘You didn’t do this,’ Wilson was telling her, but you could tell by the look on her face that she wasn’t hearing a word. ‘It’s not your fault.’

You would have told her the same thing if you had thought it would do any good.

--

‘You walk funny,’ she said, pointing to the third leg.

‘You look funny,’ you sneered, but she only giggled and tugged at her mother’s skirt over her stern, non-verbal reprimand. She asked you what you needed and you handed over the patient file. You hated (hate) getting her approval on things, but there’s still nothing you can do about it.

You sat down on the couch because you knew it would take her a while to hash it out; you’d have to go through the requisite ‘You can’t do this’; ‘do you want [him] to live?’; ‘fine but I hate you (but not really)’ –dance. Your leg was acting up more than it had been, and you pressed your palm into your thigh, hoping she’d be too distracted and outraged to notice.

The little mutant noticed though, and plopped on the couch next to you.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the plastic bottle.

‘Candy,’ you said, holding out your hand. ‘Want some?’

‘House!’ You flinched at the harsh sound, but figured you had it coming, palmed the Vicodin and smirked at the disappointed child.

She dropped the file on her desk and sighed heavily. ‘You can’t do this,’ she said, and you could barely hide your smile.

--

You went to the service because Wilson stole your pills, because he guilt-tripped you into it, because there was no way now, after everything, that you couldn’t not go.

You remember the eyes on every face of every sad spectator and every hushed murmur; you remember the little tiny child-sized casket and that she barely spoke; her eyes were swollen and tear-stained but you remember vividly that she didn’t cry.

--

You didn’t know what you were doing there, or what difference it made, if any. You didn’t know why you let him talk you into such things, or how you managed to talk yourself into it. But you seemed to be saved, because you leaned on the doorbell for almost two minutes with no answer, so you left.

Instead of going home, you pulled into the parking garage on your orange bike and headed inside, unsurprised to find her sitting at her desk, open folder, pen in hand, just like every other day.

‘House,’ she said, surprised, cautious, so determined. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I work here.’

‘It’s your day off.’

‘Yours too.’

She looked away briefly. ‘I had a few things to finish up. You don’t have any cases.’

You dropped casually into the chair opposite her desk. ‘Wilson’s stinking up my apartment,’ you lamented. ‘My kitchen smells like rotting health food, my living room smells like beer and my bathroom smells like vomit.’

‘What do you want, House?’ she asked with a sigh in her voice that wasn’t quite frustration, wasn’t quite impatience, wasn’t nearly amusement. You thought it might be exhaustion, but she’d been tired for so long you couldn’t really tell the difference anymore.

You bounced the cane on the floor and contemplated the pros and cons of serious vs. humour. She seemed to pick up on your conflict and shook her head.

‘I’m fine.’

‘I never said you weren’t.’

‘Then stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you think I’m about to break.’

Your lips twitched and you looked away, accused and honestly guilty.

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Neither do I.’

You stared at each other silently until you hooked your feet over the edge of her desk, threw your cane across your lap and picked up the glass ball on her desk.

‘You’re just going to sit there.’

You shrugged and tossed the ball, judged her reaction: minimal. You couldn’t leave now.

‘I did mention the vomit, right?’

She sighed and relented, went back to her file; ‘Get your feet off my desk.’

You didn’t, of course, and she didn’t tell you again.

Three hours later you took her home and fucked her on the living room sofa in her house that smelled (probably still smells) unlived in. Everything was so clean it made you sick, and every single vestige of the years before eight months prior had been erased, eradicated. You knew it couldn’t be healthy, but you’re still the last person with the rap sheet to tell her differently.

While she was in the shower you wandered into her kitchen, found a suspicious lack of food and noted the cliché in it all before surveying the bedroom. It was all so grotesquely perfect, impersonal, until you found the photograph sticking out from under the bedside lamp, like she was trying to put it away but didn’t have the strength (or the will).

Edge-weary and tear-stained; you took that picture. Grudgingly, you always add, at a hospital benefit. Little Morgan with Mommy’s eyes and chin and hair and cheeks was in a little yellow dress, giggling and screaming, trying to escape her mother’s ticking fingers. You snapped the picture when they weren’t ready, and told her to live with whatever she got.

She was tying a sash around her waist when she walked in, found you staring, looked away. She figured you’d be gone, and you couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not.

‘Cute picture,’ you said gruffly, waved it slightly and tossed it back on the nightstand.

She nodded, started to say something, didn’t trust herself to speak. Swallowed.

‘She’d be six.’

There are two dates, and you always got them confused.

One is the day she was born, small and perfect and happy and into a small and perfect and happy mother’s arms where they could be small and perfect and happy together.

One is five years, four months and give or take a few days later, the day you saw her last, standing in her office, there, not there, same, different.

You nodded. You wanted to leave, but you didn’t want to leave her alone.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said to reassure you (to reassure herself), but you didn’t believe her. You never do.

--

Some doctor you’d never heard of was on call that night at Princeton General. Wednesday, you think it was, but you’d have to ask her to be certain, and even you aren’t that much of a sadist.

You weren’t there, but you know nobody recognized her. She was covered in blood and shock and fear and when the doctor came out with his eyes down and his head shaking, there wasn’t anything to say.

You weren’t there when they finally turned off the machines, when they tried to get a reaction of any kind, tried to lead her away and tend to her own wounds. If you’d been there, you would have told the nurse she couldn’t feel the gash on her head, the dislocated shoulder, the bruises.

You weren’t there when they finally turned off the lights and let her sit there, quietly, dry-eyed and numb. You didn’t see her run her fingers through the soft, matted hair, or brush the still, warm knuckles.

You didn’t hear her silently pray for a mistake.

You weren’t there when the doctor tried to be consoling, but she couldn’t look him in the eye.

‘We tried our best,’ the doctor assured her. If you’d been there you would have told him that it wasn’t enough.

--

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ they all tried to say, but you know it doesn’t work with her. You know those words fall on deaf ears, but you didn’t tell them that.

You found her later (hours? a day? you figure time was (is) pretty much irrelevant), in her office, arms wrapped around her stomach. You were about to ask her for a signature, but you paused just long enough to realize.

You said you were sorry but you lied, because sorry didn’t even begin to cover it.

--

Everything since then, since four years ago to the second date, has been virtually the same. Wilson says it’s not, and you know it’s not for her. You’re not out of a job. Your brain still works. Your leg still works, with more painkillers and less of things that agitate you.

She still makes you work in the clinic, and you still complain as much as you used to.

The last time you saw her, she’d just made rounds through oncology, the children’s hall. You figured instantly that she was a masochist. Wilson told you later that in every one of those children’s eyes, there’s hope. You guess you believe him, but you didn’t at the time.

You didn’t have to ask, because it was pretty clear. Everything about her was a dead giveaway.

Wilson told you later that it wasn’t a funny joke. You told him you hadn’t meant it to be, but he didn’t believe you.

Sometimes, you think you should have done something other than just stand there. You could have said something, offered something, just given her a simple warm embrace, something to hold on to, if only for a little while. But you didn’t. And you won’t now.

And that was the last time you recognized her. Since then, everything’s changed.

--

You remember her like you remember everyone who’s ever died a little inside. You remember her like you remember yourself, before the thing that may or may not have changed you.

--

The last time you saw her, you told yourself you didn’t care, because it was easier than admitting that she was gone.

Comments

[snapplesons.livejournal.com]

You are the awesome, my dear. You already know how much I love this. And reading it for the 28th time hasn't made me love it any less.

And you're very welcome for the 27th time. Really. Anytime!

I'll have to bake you a cake or something... or get you a Lisa... something. *hearts*

A Lisa would be so much better than a cake. Duhh. *hearts*

[anakisa.livejournal.com]

That was so sad.
Beautifully written but really sad.
I'm not one for angst but your story was amazing.

[snapplesons.livejournal.com]

Oh, pssst! and without a second though she passed the bundle to you.
It should say without a second thought.

[hihoplastic.livejournal.com]

Ay! Thank you! (Again!) *fix'd* ♥syou

[littlelunarwolf.livejournal.com]

Well I suppose magnificant really doesn't cover it. You write House, Cuddy and Wilson so well. The fact that House wants to comfort her but is incapable of doing so in the convential ways is so IC. I reckon you tackle loss very well, I'm gonna make parallels between House losing the use of his leg to Cuddy losing Morgan.

Poor Cuddy *hugs* but excellent fic!

[synecdoche.livejournal.com]

Oh, I love this so much. You balance House's sarcasm with the poignance of the story so very well.

Lovely, lovely, lovely. :)

[dancing-crazy.livejournal.com]

...

But I cry...

This was beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. Beautifully, beautifully written and so sad and poetic and did I mention beautiful? I'm gonna go, you know, cry a lot now. You win. Really.

::frosts Lisas::

[friendsholic.livejournal.com]

This was absolutely great! I mean it was sad, but so good. So well written. I felt like crying then it was a flashback i'd go awww, maybe she's not really dead, then i felt like crying again when i realized it was just flashbacks.

scarlett7188 recommended this fic and she's right it is GREAT!

[allthingsholy.livejournal.com]

Oh, I like this a lot. Poor tragic Cuddy. She's so made for the tragedy, isn't she? Maybe it's the eyes. She got great sad eyes.

[exhumedpotato.livejournal.com]

Oh my God, this was so heartbreaking! I'm speechless. I'm without speech. It's seriously so sad my chest actually hurts. Amazing, amazing work! No words to describe how much you rock.

[pajamas.livejournal.com]

Oh, that was mean. It was also very pretty, in a heartbreakingly morbid kind of way, but it was mostly mean. Poor Cuddy. :(

[phineyj.livejournal.com]

This is an astonishingly confident and accomplished piece of writing; you should be very proud of yourself. I loved how you played around with the chronology, giving out just enough information so we'd keep reading, while holding back key points for later.
Somehow, this dreamlike, disjointed style allows you to say something much more powerful about grief and memory than a more prosaic third person effort would have done.

The line about her smile being plastered on as though someone had stuck it there was memorable, as was the picture of her calling on House in her sweatshirt with no makeup on. Even little Morgan comes across as a real personality and not just a plot device. And I liked the subtle, background sketching in of Wilson's nervous breakdown.

Terrific work!

[hihoplastic.livejournal.com]

Oh, my god thank you so much, you have no idea how much that means to me. I'm a huge, huge fan of your work - System Failure and all it's offshoots are some of the greatest things I've ever read - and to get a review like that, from you, is just such an honor. Sounds lame, but I really just admire you work so much, and your comments mean a lot to me.

And I'm so glad that the disjointed style came across as it was supposed to, and that Morgan came across as real and not Just Another Baby, so-to-speak. I have to thank you for picking up on all of that, as well as the Wilson undertones; I was slightly worried that that part wouldn't come across, or wouldn't come across correctly.

Again, thank you so much - all of your thoughts really do mean a lot to me. And I promise reviews of your work are coming - just been one hell of a busy month. (And I really hope you update System Failure soon. I'm kind of going through withdrawals.)

[cheyenne-maria.livejournal.com]

WOW, I Love it!!!! Fantastic WORK!!! ♥

[barbara-novak.livejournal.com]

wow, I love this fanfic! It´s sad, intense but so beautiful.

Thanks for sharing, you rock!

[miss-atom.livejournal.com]

I have told you I loved this before. It's so heartbreaking!! I mean I just put my make-up on Catherine!! and you go and do this to me :'( I do think it's beautifully written, so tragically poetic.

'Write more, write more, write moooore, write more.' <--that my friend is a song which can be sung to any tune you like :D

[hihoplastic.livejournal.com]

Eee, sorry! *hands you make-up tissue thingie* *blushes* I'm glad you liked it :)

'Write more, write more, write moooore, write more.' <--that my friend is a song which can be sung to any tune you like :D

Hmm, yes, I believe that's sung to the same tune as 'Kelly makes icons of teh sex, kelly makes icons of teh sex, kelly should make more icons of teh sex sooooooooooooon' ;)

[stephantom.livejournal.com]

Wow. That was beautiful. Great job.

[swatkat24.livejournal.com]

Ouch. Actually, ouch doesn't quite cover it. Make that aargh, with a dash of Noooo!, and some *breaks down sobbing*.

The characterisation is, of course, perfect, and I wouldn't expect anything else from you, but I love how you've got the House/Wilson, House/Cuddy and the Wilson/Cuddy dynamic down. I love the second person - it's such a delight to see it well done, and adds the necessary distance that House is maintaining. And *beautiful* use of the quotes from the show.

Also, God, CUDDY. *weeps, because she won't*

You told her therapy was for losers and gave her a brochure for a firing range.

This made me smile, despite everything.

But it's still horrible, and now I'm going to be in my room, crying. In the dark. I hope you're happy.

Psst

[swatkat24.livejournal.com]

Do post a link on housefic as well - a lot of people follow that comm.

[topaz-eyes.livejournal.com]

This is amazing--I love the second person POV, it works here. I also love the time-shifting. Such a sad, and well-written story.

[angiescully.livejournal.com]

Absolutely heartbreaking. Great job.

[lonely-goatherd.livejournal.com]

Um, why don't you just kill me? Because that is what this fic did to me. So sad. Too sad! But done so well.

[karaokegal.livejournal.com]

Absolutely devastating. In a good way. Extra points for being brilliant in 2nd person.

[insanityonline1.livejournal.com]

I loved this :)

IT's really well written and a great view on the characters.

[stop-theworld.livejournal.com]

Catherine, I just found this and read it and I loved it. It was so wrenching and beautiful and raw and deep. The format was incredibly well-crafted and the emotions and bits of dialogue were just so spot-on. You are such an incredible writer and I'm in such awe of you.

[hihoplastic.livejournal.com]

Wow, thank you so much! *turns pink* I'm so glad you liked it/thought it was in character <-- biggest compliment ever. :)

[lissyroo.livejournal.com]

OMG! You made me cry! Wow!

[placenta-sister.livejournal.com]

hey, i love Lisa, you love Lisa.. add me?

[hihoplastic.livejournal.com]

Indubitably :)

[leiascully.livejournal.com]

Oh. That was heartbreaking.

[hihoplastic.livejournal.com]

Yeah, sorry about that. I'm kind of an angst!whore. :/ (Hope you enjoyed it anyway) ^^