5-9
Above them, the sky begins to change hue, streaks of orange and pink lighting up the morning.
He notices the coffee shop close to her house is coming to life; a worker sitting the sign with the specials on the sidewalk.
Down her street, a woman jogs along with her dog.
Lucas watches her pass, coming alive from his slumped posture against the window and craning his neck to look back at her. The act makes him frown. Here this punk is, headed home to the woman he'd snap this guy's neck for if he could get away with it, and he's staring at a skinny, sweaty, blond.
“We're here,” House announces, a fact painfully obvious from their perch across the street from Cuddy's drive.
“Yeah, I kind of gathered that,” Lucas sneers and opens the car door.
House watches him carefully as he rounds the front of the car and comes to duck inside his rolled down window.
“Oh, thanks for the ride. Asshole,” Lucas says playfully, punching him roughly in the arm. A victorious smile spreads across Lucas' face, no doubt because of the successful punch.
“No more free diagnoses for you!” House yells out across the street.
Lucas doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge him at all outside of flicking up the middle finger on his left hand.
He watches as Lucas removes his shoes, reaches into his pocket to get a key, and unlocks the front door, disappearing behind it.
A water sprinkler comes on, a gesture of absurdity due to the chill of the morning air.
The clock on his dash reads 7:34a.m and her car hasn't left the drive.
He turns the keys in the ignition, trying to drown out all sound.
Trying to drown the world.
Trying to get away from a life behind a door he isn't living with someone he can never have.
*
The birds do not even chirp when she rises to the sound of her alarm clock. The world, most of it, still sleeps in their beds, tucked somewhere deep in slumber.
The day begins like every other at first: an empty bed and a mind on autopilot. She weaves her hands through the bed sheets feeling the coolness on her skin and the absence of her lover's form beside her, near her, in her.
Her body fights, metaphorically yawns and physically creaks as she swings her legs out of her temporary sanctuary. The lace of her pajama top and shorts crumples on the floor as she pulls the tank top and workout pants on.
She contorts, bends, wills her body to fire its synapses and remember movement from the previous day, from all previous days. The push and pull of her muscles contracting feels deliciously wonderful as she brings a foot in front of her and points her toes higher into the air.
Leaning over, she can feel the burn in her stomach as she leans forward, trying to touch her head to her knee. Midway, a cry bursts over the baby monitor, her daughter upset and awake for the remainder of the day.
The role of motherhood is never easy but she feels less lost and more whole with someone to depend on her. Love is rarely unconditional, especially in human form. Time progresses, love grows. We're born and we need. We do not love though, not initially. The connection between Rachel and her has grown beyond this though, at least on her part.
They shower, the stream of water droplets covering her daughters tears and the pelting of the water on the shower tiles drowning out her wails.
Now, there is no time for slow pacing, enjoyment, relaxation. The day burns and Rachel is burning up with fever but she cannot call in today because of the negotiations with Atlantic Net.
The babysitter is late, but she's finally here as she finishes her makeup.
She's running late as she tries to tie her scarf around her neck and say her goodbyes, only to immediately backpedal as Lucas comes through the door and steers her into the wall.
He looks wired and the stubble of his cheeks give him a few years of age.
“Lisa, see if you can remember where you put my boots!” he says loudly between kissing her neck and pushing her towards the hall.
She feels her body respond. She silently curses her biological urges and ignores the melodramatic show as they make her way towards the bedroom.
It's wrong. It's already late and it's wrong but she's back in bed, this time with her body on overdrive instead of clinging to sleep. She kisses him and thinks nothing much, just feels.
A buzz catches her attention and she feels flesh drifting away from her palms.
“It's House,” Lucas tells her, as if it would be anyone else really.
“Ignore it,” she breathes.
“It says emergency.”
“I said ignore it.”
“Cool,” Lucas responds.
But then, for a brief moment, the hands roaming and lips against her own aren't Lucas' but his.
This is all wrong; Lucas' cheek glides against her open mouth and she can't help but think she's become one of those women she's read about in Cosmo or Vogue, about women who imagine other men when they are in bed with their lovers.
For a minute, she feels guilty. Imagining. Pretending. Day-dreaming.
She refocuses her efforts on the man currently in bed with her.
But Lucas stops with a drawn out “oh.”
“What?” she asks, breathless.
“I may have...” he begins.
“You've got to be kidding me,” she spits out in disbelief.
He throws her a less than concerned look and rolls off of her, breathing heavy.
They lay side by side in silence.
“I needed to pace myself. I guess that's what happens when you spend ten hours thinking about it.”
“That's just great,” she says, rising. “Now I'm late AND frustrated.”
She rolls off of her bed, stopping by the mirror to smooth her hair. Her voice comes out, a little less quiet than she intended to talk to herself.
Lucas sits oblivious, as always.
Somewhere in the house, Rachel whimpers, muffled. Condensation collects on the glass from her breath as she stares at herself.
So begins another day in the life of Lisa Cuddy.
-
Inside her car, she tries to focus on her breathing. To not pant in exasperation and let tears fall onto her lap. For a long time, she just grips the steering wheel and breathes in and out.
Her car is compacted with markers of life: Of take out cups and empty goldfish sacks and toys for Rachel. A home away from home on wheels with objects to get them by on life but not allow them to enjoy what it is they really need.
She scolds herself for being so preoccupied with the contact negotiations and with her frustrating love life. Lucas is good to Rachel though, wonderfully so. So why does it feel like something is missing?
Thwack, thwack, thwack against her passenger side window.
She jumps, obviously startled, but opens the locks once she sees his face. Piles of her life lift in her fingers and fall like a landslide down a mountain into her back seat. Silence envelops both of them in a cocoon and she stares across the garage at nothing.
“You owe Lucas the money,” she finally admits. “We were having sex when you called.”
She omits “trying to” because it would just be kindle in House's mind, fuel for a fire she doesn't feel like putting out. Especially with so many already burning.
He brings up the cancer patient from the clinic earlier but all she can seem to focus on, more than Rachel or Lucas or anyone else, is Atlantic Net.
“They're not going to fire you,” he soothes after she voices her fears. “And you're not gonna quit.”
So confident. So him. So...House.
“Why not?” she asks, pessimism tainting her words.
“Because you're an idiot,” he starts but then stops when she shoots him a look. “This place needs you. And that matters to you.”
What he tells her is true, on her part at least. The past has been nothing but sacrifice and back breaking hard work. For her, the path was always clear. That path led to medicine and in the end, administration. At her very core, she's a doctor. She knows how to run a hospital and remembers the things she needs to do her job as a doctor. It's why she's fighting so hard for this contract.
But then it's not just Atlantic Net today. It's Gail too.
She finds herself asking for his advice again and he makes just the right type of joke that makes her smile and laugh a little.
Epiphany hits her, an idea in its inception, but she can feel it growing. Is this how he feels when a solution becomes so clear?
He looks at her like she's crazy and she feels the excitement of resolution bubble in her veins.
-
She releases the crumpled and torn paper from her hands, watching it cascade into the trashcan like snow. With a smile, she picks up her briefcase and begins to trek to her car from her office.
Her car sits on the second floor of the parking garage so she glances at the elevator, bodies crowding it and waiting for a ride upward. Walking seems easier so she opts for the fifteen step climb in order to feel the delicious burn in her calves. When she opens the door to the second floor, she sees him standing beside his bike and fitting his cane into the carrying compartment.
She stops and just stares, not saying a single word. He turns back to her but says nothing either. Her chest tightens and breath filters out in small puffs of air. He looks at the ground and fidgets, as if he is trying to find something to say to her. She shakes it off and begins the walk to her car, lightly brushing past him to get to her spot.
“So that was a pretty ballsy thing you did. Taking the chance and gambling with Atlantic Net. Congrats on the twelve,” he finally tells her.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, to the ground. But then she lays a hand on his shoulder and for once, she doesn't worry about what he might read in to it. “And thanks for the advice.”
This feels so grown up for the two of them, disparate to how they normally operate.
The gap between them, the chasm that has been between them these past months at the hospital, seems infinitesimally smaller.
She leaves him with a smile and he nods his head as she removes her hand from his shoulder and walks away.