Chapter Text

Part I: this cage was once just fine

“Those who are hardest to love,

need it the most.”

Socrates

“It’s a bit early in the day for dumpster diving, don’t you think?” The voice behind him is smug, judgmental, the slightest bit curious, and he’s more than familiar with the way her very much unwelcome shadow looms over him in this crouched—as crouched as a cripple can get—position. “And don’t you have a patient now?” She asks before he even has a chance to retaliate.

“One question at a time, Nurse Ratchet,” House says chidingly, left hand still inside the trash can. “You know, it’s bad to overwhelm a poor cripple,” he shakes his head somberly as the fingers of his right hand tighten their grip on his cane as he hauls himself up to face her. “Isn’t that the first thing they teach you in nursing school? ‘Never smother a cripple?’” He taunts, stuffing his ‘loot’ into his pants pocket. 

“It’s the second thing they teach you,” Brenda responds with a roll of her eyes, her brow twitching at the sight of House’s apparent find, but saying nothing more. “And there’s no rule to be followed when the cripple’s an asshole,” she can’t help but add, hands on her hips.

“Wow,” House gasps, blinking rapidly in his manufactured disbelief, “I didn’t know that. And I still don’t care.” 

“Hell will freeze the day that you do,” the nurse snips, brushing past the doctor in favor of the files that had seemed to double in the five minutes it took for her to use the bathroom. 

“I’ll be sure to bring a warm coat,” he smirks—he contemplates winking at her for the shits and giggles, but ultimately decides against it—then limps past the nurses’ station and out of the clinic, whistling the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’ under his breath. 

2004

Happy Birthday, Dr. House. I wish you nothing but success and many more birthdays to come.

~ Dr. Lisa Cuddy

He knows where she lives, because of course he does, and parks haphazardly along her street, taking a secret pleasure at the thought of pissing off the neighborhood watch as he ambles carefully up the steps. The curtains are shut and the porch light is turned off, and any sane person would take it to mean that visitors at this hour probably (definitely) weren’t welcome.

House, however, takes this as an invitation (a challenge) and pounds on her door with the tip of his cane. Repeatedly. Incessantly. 

The door swings open so violently, the momentum nearly sends House falling forward, and he’s just barely able to plant his cane back on the ground to hold himself upright. 

“Dr. House,” Cuddy all but growled, her full lips set in a harsh line. “This is not appr—”

“What’s not appropriate is not wishing your star employee a happy birthday,” he quickly interrupts once his internal equilibrium has been reestablished, both hands folded primly at the top of his cane, looking down at her expectantly–and boy, does he like what he sees.

Her long, dark hair had been freed from its confines (he always did prefer her hair down), and she’s traded her starched designer pantsuit for something a little less uptight. The pale blue robe did wonders for her figure, and the gorgeous swell of her breasts was more than visible through the wide gap the silk had provided. (At the risk of sounding like Chase, the color of the robe does compliment her eyes very well, but House’ll be damned if he ever said it out loud. Or even to himself.)

What he does admit to himself, however, is that she looks so much like his Lisa that it nearly hurts. 

“It’s nearly midnight,” Cuddy continues, pointedly ignoring his comment and too caught up in her own irritation to notice his staring, “and it’s a weeknight. We both have work in the morning.” It goes unsaid that House’s definition of morning is Cuddy’s definition of the afternoon. 

“Exactly,” House nods, reaching into his pocket and drawing out the prize he had won from dumpster diving earlier in the day. He holds the card up by its corner, allowing Cuddy to see the purple icing, pink candles, and blue lettering in all their tacky Hallmark glory. 

Satisfaction pools deep into his belly at the sight of her eyes widening and cheeks flushing pink at the card in his hands. 

“So you were going to wish me happy birthday in the clinic,” he says triumphantly as Cuddy is evidently struck dumb by his discovery. “And you, of all people, chickened out.”

That seemed to snap Cuddy right out of her daze as her eyes flicker from the card to his smug, grinning face. 

“It’s not chickening out,” she defends, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. “It’s called having a lapse in judgement.” 

“Yeah,” House scoffs, rolling his eyes, birthday card still firmly in hand, “like that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Cuddy answers primly, regaining her bearings from this near-midnight ambush, and the mask has slipped back on, even with her unruly hair and pale blue robe. “It’s one thing for me to greet an employee on their birthday. It’s the professional, polite thing to do. When cards get involved, it gets personal. If I give you a card, it would be expected of me to give everyone a card. And if you get a card when no one else does, then it’s favoritism. It would be an ethics violation.”

“But you got me a card anyway,” he persists, waving it around like the prize that it was. “You got me a card, which means you violated your own ethical policy, which makes me the exception to your rule. As I always am.”

“I bought a card, yes,” Cuddy admits slowly, knowing that giving House an edge in anything would be a slippery slope. “Except, the card was never given.”

“And yet, you penned it to me,” House countered gleefully, taking a step towards her and into her personal space. He flaps the card once, letting it fall open to reveal the neat lines of her pen, then looks back at her with something akin to victory in his blue eyes. “If you ask me, there’s nothing inappropriate about it.” 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs, raising her chin to meet his gaze, “you think hookers in the workplace are morale boosters, you’re the last person who should be talking about workplace propriety.” 

“What I’d give to see Chase come face-to-face with a hooker,” he says almost wistfully before shaking his head, looking back down at her. “The fact of the matter is, you thought of me. You wanted to wish me a happy birthday in the clinic and only backed out when I mentioned Cameron.” 

“I didn’t back out,” Cuddy reiterates. “I simply realized it would be unprofessional before it was too late.”

“One could argue that throwing out a personal card in the clinic trash can for all those with eyes to see is equally unprofessional. You just did it with more steps, which really only proves that you’re an administrator at heart.” Another step, and he’s passed the threshold until he was bathed in the warm glow of the living room light and he was so close to her he could almost feel her breathe. “If you really didn’t want me to find this, you would’ve disposed of it somewhere else.”

“Except you’re a psychopath that would rather dig through the trash than spend an hour treating clinic patients.”

“Why does everybody keep fixating on that?” House whines, “does ‘highest success rate in the hospital’ mean nothing to you people?” 

“It’s the only thing that keeps me in your corner most days,” Cuddy says, half in-jest. Genius or not, House’s bedside manner was more than lacking and the lawsuits that his successes would often draw would be enough for most deans to cut him loose. 

Cuddy, however, was not most deans.

“Your open blouses say otherwise,” he smirks, raising his brows suggestively. “With the way you dress around the hospital, it’s a wonder that patients don’t think you’re the hooker–”

“And you wonder why you have no one to go home to.” It’s a low blow, she knows, but it’s one that shuts him right up. 

“Now that’s just mean,” he nearly pouts, clutching the birthday card to his chest. 

“What can I say,” Cuddy shrugs, taking a step back and reaching for the door, “the truth hurts.”

She means to slam the door in his face, to leave him standing pathetically on her porch for as long as he desired. The conversation was supposed to end with her final word, and when they’d inevitably see each other at work in the morning, neither of them would mention their bizarre encounter and that would be the end of it.

But even with a bum leg, House’s lacrosse reflexes never faltered.

The card is dropped in his effort to keep the door open, the cardstock fluttering to the ground between them; in one swift move, the grip on his cane had transferred to his left hand as his right arm shot out to the rapidly closing door. Cuddy’s gasp is a sharp one as he all but hauls the door back open.

“House–” is all she manages to say before he speaks again.

“Why didn’t you give me the card?” He asks, leaning in so close he could feel her breath on his face. 

“House,” Cuddy says again, softer this time. “It’s late and we have work.”

“You already said that,” he tells her, his own voice softening as well. 

“It’s stupid,” she whispers, looking down at her feet and placing both hands on his chest in a move that was nearly subconscious. 

“Probably,” House agrees easily, glancing at her hands. “But you should really let me be the judge of that.”

She stays silent at his proclamation, bringing her gaze down to his chest instead, almost like she can’t believe she’s touching him in this manner. And it’s funny, because House can remember a time where the feel of her hands over his skin was the only thing that mattered in his world.

How far they’ve come from those days. 

“It’s my birthday,” House adds softly, “and you remembered it.”

“That doesn’t matter–”

“Except that it does.”

Cuddy sighs, letting her hands slip from his chest and back down to her sides as she takes a step back from him, crossing her arms protectively around her waist. 

“You don’t like acknowledging your birthday,” she finally says, though it’s clear by the look on her face that the admission brings her no pleasure. “It was different, back when…” Cuddy trails off, and House can’t help but raise his eyebrows at her. “The relationship between us is drastically different,” she redirects, abandoning her initial thought process entirely in favor of a slightly more professional rationale.

“Not that different,” House mumbles under his breath, drawing a not-so-amused glance from Cuddy. But there’s truth to his statement, because Cuddy had always been a little uptight and anal, despite the Partypants moniker she’d earned in college. 

“I just thought you wouldn’t take kindly to your boss greeting you a happy birthday in front of everyone in the clinic,” she finishes lamely.

“You could’ve given it to me in your office, where there are blinds and a door.” House reasons easily, reaching back to shut the front door, essentially ensuring that there was no escape from Cuddy, nevermind the fact that he was standing in her home. 

“That still makes it unprofessional, especially considering our working relationship.”

“And our personal one?” He asks the question before he can even stop himself, his mouth snapping shut as his gaze drops from hers to inspect a scuff mark at the tip of his sneaker.

“Twenty years, House.” Cuddy answers softly, knowingly, but they both know (and refuse to admit to the other) that it’s only really been seventeen. “Doesn’t count for anything anymore.”

“Nice,” House murmurs, the corner of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly.

“Can I go back to bed now?” She asks with a sigh, that familiar exasperation creeping back in to replace the vulnerability she let slip through. “It’s late, getting later, and…” she trails off to crane her neck back to glance at the clock hanging above the mantle. “In about twelve minutes, it’s not even going to be your birthday anymore, so this entire conversation is going to end up a waste of your gas and both of our time.” 

“Wish me a happy birthday.” He says it so softly that he even finds it difficult to believe that he said the words out loud.

“What?” The exasperation is only becoming more pronounced, as if each passing second is another inch of her professional mask slipping back into its pristine place. 

Lisa is slipping through his fingers right in front of him, the same way he had let her slip away seventeen years ago.

“Wish me a happy birthday,” he repeats, voice just as soft as it was the last time he said it. “You don’t have to tell me about the card anymore, it’s fine.”

“That’s it?” Cuddy asks, disbelief written all over her pretty, pretty face. “I wish you a happy birthday and you’re gonna let this whole thing go?”

A single nod, and his eyes drop down briefly, his gaze finding the entire purpose of this conversation forgotten on the floor, a corner of it trapped beneath the tip of his cane.

And maybe it was the Vicodin he had popped just before sliding his key into the ignition, but the simplistic cartoon cake with its purple icing seemed to be laughing at him from its place atop the hardwood. Almost like even it was aware of how pitiful he must seem, to be vying for the attention of a woman who’d loved him seventeen years ago and likely no longer did. 

“What the catch?” She’s still suspicious, and it’s not like he can blame her. In the eight years he’d worked for her, she’d always been at the butt of his jokes and insults, fought with her constantly over the big and little things, and never did his clinic duty if he could help it. And in that retrospect, why wouldn’t Cuddy be suspicious of his sudden affability? 

“No catch,” House tells her, an attempt at sincerity that has him wincing when the words come out more barbed than he wanted them to be. “Say those two little words and you’ll see my crippled ass walking down your pathway and we never have to speak of this again.”

He watches as she takes a few moments to deliberate, an administrator to the very end. He can practically see the thought racing behind her eyes, weighing each possible outcome carefully, like wishing someone a happy birthday held the same weight as deciding whether or not some schmuck would be approved for a liver transplant. 

A sigh.

“Happy birthday, House.” Cuddy finally says, looking up at him through her lashes as her full lips curl up in an involuntary smile. 

He nods his thanks, almost bashful in the gesture and it makes him look so much like the Gregory House she first fell in love with at nineteen that something in her chest constricts at the sight of him. 

“It’s too late to ask for a birthday kiss, isn’t it?” The question slips out without prior thought, the words coming to him like muscle memory.

“No,” Cuddy says, voice gentling and eyes misting.  

As she looks at him now, at this very moment, she can pretend that there’s no chasm worth seventeen years between them. That she isn’t part of the reason for the gaping hole in his thigh, that he’s not an addict who goes home to an empty apartment every night, like he’s not the person she used to picture herself growing old with. At this moment, she can fool herself into thinking that he’s still in love with her.

She lets herself be weak in front of him for that single, aching moment. 

He leans down the second he sees her raise her head towards his, and when their lips finally meet, he almost groans in sweet relief. It starts with a soft brush of lips, and suddenly his cane clatters to the floor alongside the long-forgotten birthday card, both his arms wrapping around her body, the silk of her robe slippery beneath his fingers. 

Her hands are in his hair, the softest of sighs escaping her at the welcome feel of his mouth against hers and she presses herself closer to his body, molding herself into the supple leather of his biker’s jacket. They stood in the foyer of her home for who knows how long, Cuddy’s front door still partially open from her thwarted attempt to shut the door in his face.

When the need to breathe eclipsed his reignited need for her, House pulled himself away from her mouth even as his arms remained steadfast around her form. 

“Happy birthday to me, then,” his voice rumbles against her, and against her will, a throaty laugh escapes from Cuddy. He savors it. All of it: the feel of her in his arms again, the smell of her shampoo, how her body still fits so well into his, even after all this time. 

“Yeah,” Cuddy agrees, pulling back slightly to look him in the eye, but making no attempt to remove herself from his embrace. “Happy birthday,” she reiterates, because for once, she can’t find the appropriate words. 

The air between them is heavy, the air surrounding them even heavier and House is suddenly so very aware of where he is, of who he is, and most importantly, who she is. It’s not supposed to be this way, he’s supposed to hate her and she’s supposed to dislike him right back. She’s the employer who finds ways to save his skin because he’s her hospital’s greatest asset, he’s the abrasive employee who’ll break every conceivable rule in the playbook for a diagnosis. Employer and employee is the only thing they’re supposed to be to each other. 

And in the blink of an eye, the Great Wall of China, with its armed sentries posted every twenty feet between love and hate, had blurred so violently, it was difficult to see where one ended and the other began. 

Cuddy is still in his arms, looking up at him with those big watercolor eyes, face so open and so vulnerable it somehow makes his leg ache even more. Her hands have left his hair, had migrated downward to drape loosely around his neck, her arms a welcome pressure at his nape. 

He realizes then and there that no amount of Vicodin in the world will be able to numb the feeling of inexplicable regret that simmers deep in his chest at the sight of her like this.

They cannot work, they barely function as they are now. If House is aware of it, then he’s damn sure that Cuddy is just as aware.

“Have a good night,” he rasps, hoping she can’t hear the slight tremble in his voice as he releases his hold on her hips and slips out of her arms. His eyes stay on the ground as he bends slowly for his cane, only for Cuddy to bend down as well, crouching with an efficiency he will never get to experience again. And it’s because of her, a traitorous little voice whispers in the back of his mind. 

He doesn’t thank her when she hands him the cane, taking it from her loose grip without ceremony before pivoting. His back is to her, and he makes his way to the still-open door wordlessly, his uneven gait heavier and more awkward than normal. But he grits his teeth against the discomfort and the searing pain that shoots up and down where the muscle of his thigh once was. All he could afford to think about was getting to the car, to get back to the safe, dark haven of his apartment where he could find solace in his scotch or a hooker or both, and forget about the taste of her, which lingers in the back of his mouth and has left his tongue tingling. He leaves her for his solitude without a goodbye.

And Cuddy, who remains at the doorway, thinks of Ann Arbor and the man who once loved her.