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hihoplasticFanFic: This Is The Way You Say You're Sorry: HouseFic50: (1/1)
Title: This Is The Way You Say You're Sorry
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, MD
Character/Pairing: House, Cuddy (Wilson)
Prompt: 016: Lies
Word Count: 1032
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Grammar? What's that? / (Vague) spoilers for Finding Judas, Merry Little Christmas and Words and Deeds.
A/N: Muffins to Ollie for the read-through.
i. her door hits the wall with a crack barely audible under his tone, loud and gruff and full of pointed blame. amputation and antibiotics and you did this to her (but at least he doesn't say that) and he's yelling and she's yelling back and people passing the office slow and watch, like they're a train wreck, an injured body, headed towards a cliff. she's saying you can't, you can't and he's saying there's no other way and she's saying find one; he's saying just because it doesn't fit into your pristine idea of motherhood and the way things should be-- and she's saying just because you're in pain doesn't mean that everything's shot to hell and he says this is hell! and then everything goes quiet.
i'm sorry, she says, barely: i wish there was another way (to help you).
there's not (but you could give me my fucking vicodin), he says. flatly. coldly.
she looks down at the file. you're sure this is the only way?
ii. for some ungodly reason she leaves the door unlocked, and he lets himself in. cold hands and cold teeth against her warm skin (she's been hiding under the covers)(the covers and the baby blanket she bought nine weeks ago, when she heard) and he's whispering something. it could be how dare you and it could be i need pills and it's probably how could you do this (to me) but with everything that's happened, she closes her eyes and pretends it's forgiveness; she pretends it's i'm sorry; she pretends that his words and her actions balance each other out.
they don't, but whose favor they'll fall in, neither of them know.
iii. who cares what i think? he says, but knows she does. apologize, he says. why, he replies. because she needs it. i need my vicodin.
(so trade.)
he doesn't like this idea, but suggests it anyway.
you'll apologize for telling me i'll fail as a mother, if i supply your drug habit.
well, when you put it that way--
get out.
he does.
iv. look-- he says, leans on the cane, farther forward: i'm sorry. i... i was in pain. i'm sorry. can we get past this?
past what? she doesn't look up from her desk.
this. you, ignoring me. not everything revolves around you, you know, you have... papers to push. cleavage to flaunt.
fine, she says. good, he replies. first, she starts (he groans) -- tell me you didn't know. (pause.)
know what?
(pause. they hold gaze.) i don't care if it's a lie. tell me you didn't know.
he looks at his feet. i'm sorry, he says. i didn't know, about the... (licks his lips; his voice is strained) you shouldn't give it up, just because--
snap (the file hits the desk): you should have stopped with i'm sorry.
v. the apology was real, he tells himself. he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't meant it (then did he mean what he said to her? does he mean what he says to anyone?)
everybody lies, he says, the hard part is determining when they're lying and when it might be true.
and that? the apology? (he's desperate, but he doesn't care. give me a lifeline, he says. give me something.)
you know the answer to that.
wilson sighs. the problem is, he doesn't.
vi. he sneaks into her office a week from the day and leaves a note in the top drawer of her desk. there's a single flower and a few platitudes attached, and they'll both pretend it was his idea. it doesn't say i'm sorry and it doesn't say forgive me but it makes her smile in that half-true way because she knows by now to read between the lines. it probably isn't genuine and he probably wouldn't mean it if he said it (but he did mean that, and her smile fades) but it probably doesn't matter. after lunch she brings a cup of water back from the cafeteria for the flower, which she sets on her new secretary's desk.
(out of sight, out of mind.)
vii. he says i'm sorry into her neck with butterfly kisses. he says i'm sorry over her lips and across her stomach and behind her knees, little breaths of air and touch of lips.
i'm sorry i dragged you into this. i'm sorry i made you do things you didn't agree with. i'm sorry i didn't trust your judgment. i'm sorry he's not who we wish he was. i'm sorry i used (i'm using) you. i'm sorry, he says, and kisses between her eyes.
it's okay, she says, and lets him.
viii. she's sorry and he's not and that's what it boils down to. she wants to make it up to him (save him) wants to help him (heal him) doesn't want to be his everything (but neither just a shadow). she doesn't want him to love her and she doesn't love him (it would help if she understood what love was, how it felt) but she wants to trust him wants him to trust her wants there to be this little tiny bond, something she can cling to, something he can rely on. she wants him to be happy and she wants him to smile; she wants him free of pain (it doesn't make him smarter. the pills don't make you smarter, house) she wants him to understand. she wants so many things, she topples with their weight.
she thinks she'll start small (she'll give him a job) and work her way up (she'll help him off the pills) and that she won't get lost (and risk her career, her life, her love) but she'll stay true to course (because the rehab's working, house, it's working) and he'll follow through (it has to be real) because he is a good man and she's a good woman and they're both inexplicably strong. they'll make it. one step at a time.
faulty logic, he sneers.
you faked the rehab.
(pause)
god, you're not going to cry are you--
no more, she says. i'm done, she says.
and wishes it were true.
Title: This Is The Way You Say You're Sorry
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, MD
Character/Pairing: House, Cuddy (Wilson)
Prompt: 016: Lies
Word Count: 1032
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Grammar? What's that? / (Vague) spoilers for Finding Judas, Merry Little Christmas and Words and Deeds.
A/N: Muffins to Ollie for the read-through.
i. her door hits the wall with a crack barely audible under his tone, loud and gruff and full of pointed blame. amputation and antibiotics and you did this to her (but at least he doesn't say that) and he's yelling and she's yelling back and people passing the office slow and watch, like they're a train wreck, an injured body, headed towards a cliff. she's saying you can't, you can't and he's saying there's no other way and she's saying find one; he's saying just because it doesn't fit into your pristine idea of motherhood and the way things should be-- and she's saying just because you're in pain doesn't mean that everything's shot to hell and he says this is hell! and then everything goes quiet.
i'm sorry, she says, barely: i wish there was another way (to help you).
there's not (but you could give me my fucking vicodin), he says. flatly. coldly.
she looks down at the file. you're sure this is the only way?
ii. for some ungodly reason she leaves the door unlocked, and he lets himself in. cold hands and cold teeth against her warm skin (she's been hiding under the covers)(the covers and the baby blanket she bought nine weeks ago, when she heard) and he's whispering something. it could be how dare you and it could be i need pills and it's probably how could you do this (to me) but with everything that's happened, she closes her eyes and pretends it's forgiveness; she pretends it's i'm sorry; she pretends that his words and her actions balance each other out.
they don't, but whose favor they'll fall in, neither of them know.
iii. who cares what i think? he says, but knows she does. apologize, he says. why, he replies. because she needs it. i need my vicodin.
(so trade.)
he doesn't like this idea, but suggests it anyway.
you'll apologize for telling me i'll fail as a mother, if i supply your drug habit.
well, when you put it that way--
get out.
he does.
iv. look-- he says, leans on the cane, farther forward: i'm sorry. i... i was in pain. i'm sorry. can we get past this?
past what? she doesn't look up from her desk.
this. you, ignoring me. not everything revolves around you, you know, you have... papers to push. cleavage to flaunt.
fine, she says. good, he replies. first, she starts (he groans) -- tell me you didn't know. (pause.)
know what?
(pause. they hold gaze.) i don't care if it's a lie. tell me you didn't know.
he looks at his feet. i'm sorry, he says. i didn't know, about the... (licks his lips; his voice is strained) you shouldn't give it up, just because--
snap (the file hits the desk): you should have stopped with i'm sorry.
v. the apology was real, he tells himself. he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't meant it (then did he mean what he said to her? does he mean what he says to anyone?)
everybody lies, he says, the hard part is determining when they're lying and when it might be true.
and that? the apology? (he's desperate, but he doesn't care. give me a lifeline, he says. give me something.)
you know the answer to that.
wilson sighs. the problem is, he doesn't.
vi. he sneaks into her office a week from the day and leaves a note in the top drawer of her desk. there's a single flower and a few platitudes attached, and they'll both pretend it was his idea. it doesn't say i'm sorry and it doesn't say forgive me but it makes her smile in that half-true way because she knows by now to read between the lines. it probably isn't genuine and he probably wouldn't mean it if he said it (but he did mean that, and her smile fades) but it probably doesn't matter. after lunch she brings a cup of water back from the cafeteria for the flower, which she sets on her new secretary's desk.
(out of sight, out of mind.)
vii. he says i'm sorry into her neck with butterfly kisses. he says i'm sorry over her lips and across her stomach and behind her knees, little breaths of air and touch of lips.
i'm sorry i dragged you into this. i'm sorry i made you do things you didn't agree with. i'm sorry i didn't trust your judgment. i'm sorry he's not who we wish he was. i'm sorry i used (i'm using) you. i'm sorry, he says, and kisses between her eyes.
it's okay, she says, and lets him.
viii. she's sorry and he's not and that's what it boils down to. she wants to make it up to him (save him) wants to help him (heal him) doesn't want to be his everything (but neither just a shadow). she doesn't want him to love her and she doesn't love him (it would help if she understood what love was, how it felt) but she wants to trust him wants him to trust her wants there to be this little tiny bond, something she can cling to, something he can rely on. she wants him to be happy and she wants him to smile; she wants him free of pain (it doesn't make him smarter. the pills don't make you smarter, house) she wants him to understand. she wants so many things, she topples with their weight.
she thinks she'll start small (she'll give him a job) and work her way up (she'll help him off the pills) and that she won't get lost (and risk her career, her life, her love) but she'll stay true to course (because the rehab's working, house, it's working) and he'll follow through (it has to be real) because he is a good man and she's a good woman and they're both inexplicably strong. they'll make it. one step at a time.
faulty logic, he sneers.
you faked the rehab.
(pause)
god, you're not going to cry are you--
no more, she says. i'm done, she says.
and wishes it were true.
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no subject
Date: 2007-03-03 06:11 am (UTC)But I'm glad you liked this too, 'cause HI if Ollie no like, then is SUCK. And suck, not so good. And grammar? Probably necessary to make that sentence not sound dirty. Care? Not so much.
But: LOVE
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Date: 2007-03-04 06:22 pm (UTC)LOOVE. I miss you!