Almost
by Your Undoing
Summary: Ten, maybe twenty more steps and she would have saved herself the shame of crying in her own parking lot, in broad daylight, over something so foolish.

Author's note: This is probably the weirdest oneshot I've ever written, as finishing it has literally taken months. An unhappy combination of writer's block, distractions, and that horrible child-torture known to some as 'homework' meant that this poor little fic almost didn't make it. But lucky for all of you (I guess), I decided I wouldn't let myself sleep tonight until it was done. So, ta-da!!

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She made it out the front doors and into the hospital parking lot before she broke down.

The sound of her sobs against the soft clicking of her heels on the pavement sounded pathetic. She hadn't even been able to reach her car. Was she really that weak? Ten, maybe twenty more steps and she would have saved herself the shame of crying in her own parking lot, in broad daylight, over something so foolish.

And it was foolish. Of course it was. She was in her forties, for God's sake. Who was she kidding? She couldn't have a baby. It was far too late.

She was destined to be alone.

But did it really have to be so cruel? To tell a person they can never have something is horrible enough; but to give them a taste, ensure that it's all they want to drink, then snatch it back…

Miscarriage. Again. When she had been so close.

She raised a quivering finger to hastily wipe away the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. Biting her lip and screwing up her face against the barrage of grief that threatened to overwhelm her, Lisa Cuddy quickened her pace. She longed to be rid of the feeling of vulnerability she associated with showing her emotions in public. To sink back into the seat of her car, put her face in her hands, and—

Her shoe was caught on something, and she barely had time to fling her hands out in front of her before colliding roughly with the ground.

For a moment she lay there. The world was mocking her, that was for sure. The rough texture of the asphalt prickled, and tears mixed with dust upon her cheeks. What a world. What a day.

Her best white suit jacket what surely ruined. Her heel, probably broken.

Her baby, dead.

Lisa screamed; softly, wordlessly, screwing up her face and balling her hands into fists, pounding on the pavement as she pressed her forehead into the ground; willing it to reach up and embrace her, to pull her down into nothing. Where nothing would hurt. Where life wouldn't screw her over every single time.

She snuffled quietly, drawing herself up onto her elbows. She realized how ridiculous she must look; the Dean of Medicine, sprawled on the ground with mascara running down her cheeks and bits of gravel stuck to her face. Thank God the parking lot was deserted.

"You have gravel on your face."

She knew that voice. …Agh, of all people. Screw you, God.

She jumped, tripping over herself and falling backwards as she attempted to stand. Of course.

"Not now," she muttered thickly, fumbling with the folds of her skirt as she tried to hide the dirt stains.

"…You have gravel on your face," House repeated. Cuddy flinched as he moved forward, blocking the sun.

She gave an involuntary sniffle, and she abandoned her attempts at salvaging the skirt. Instead, her hands jumped to her face, where she brushed off a few clingy pebbles and tried to stealthily wipe her eyes dry.

"And you're crying," House observed. He sounded curious; not concerned, but curious.

She bit her lip. Quickly, she lowered her head; a few locks of hair—which, earlier in the day, had been curled rather nicely— flopped limply over her forehead.

She waited, dearly hoping that he couldn't see the expression on her face. Regardless, he remained standing a few feet in front of her. He began to whistle.

Of course he wouldn't go anywhere. This was just too good for him to pass up.

"What are you doing here?" she grumbled.

"I work here."

"What are you doing here?" she clarified through gritted teeth.

"Oh, you know," he said vaguely. He leaned down and whispered with mock-astonishment; "I always knew you were a naughty girl, but I never thought you could be this dirty"

"…That was terrible," Cuddy grumbled, turning her face up to glare at him.

House smirked. "So did the dirt monster barf on you?"

"I just tripped," she snapped.

"Uh-huh. Did you trip because you were crying, or did you cry because you tripped?" he asked casually.

She flicked her now-useless shoes off and struggled to her feet, grasping them in one hand. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

As she began to step away, House reached out a hand and grasped her firmly above the elbow. She shuddered slightly as he placed the index finger of his free hand beneath her chin, lifting it up so that she was forced to face him.

He squinted at her as she averted her eyes, blinking rapidly in to clear the tears that clouded them.

"House, please," she whispered.

His hand dropped from her face like a dead weight, and she quickly lowered her face again. She turned away from him and quickly began the short walk to the safety of her car.

"This is the second time, isn't it?" he asked softly.

She froze, her back still to him. He couldn't possibly know. House was good at reading people, but he sure as hell wasn't psychic and she hadn't told--

"You were further along this time," he said, his tone quietly calculating. "You thought you had finally done it."

She covered her eyes with her palms. Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut--

"But you miscarried. Again."

A sob escaped her throat. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she shoved a few fingers into her mouth to keep from crying out loud. She prayed that he hadn't heard.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Whether or not he meant it, she didn't give a damn. Before she could allow herself to think or to rationalize, she turned around and flung herself into his arms.

She pressed her face against his shoulder, slightly muffled sobs punctuating his stunned silence.

"Um, okay" House said slowly.

She simply tightened her grip around his torso, as though to steady the tremors that accompanied her tears. She didn't know what the hell she was doing; all she knew was that as her body sagged against his, she felt an immense weight lift off her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against the fabric of his jacket. "I don't—I just need someone."

House was silent, but she gave a soft watery laugh as she felt his arms draw up around her.

"I haven't been able to talk to anyone," she said softly. Her eyes were closed, and she found herself suddenly much more aware of her other senses. The salty taste of the tears that leaked into her mouth as she spoke; the feel of his jacket rough on her cheek; the smell of some sort of chemical that he hadn't been quite able to rinse off since his last shift at the clinic; the sound of his heart beating.

"You really shouldn't fool yourself, Cuddy."

She could feel his breath light upon her scalp. House's tone wasn't one of rudeness or spite, but rather, resigned honesty. She pulled away from him, far enough until she could meet his eyes.

"About what?" she asked softly.

"I'm terrible on the moral support front," he said simply, shrugging one of his shoulders.

She smiled weakly, allowing her hands to fall limply down by her sides. House was right, of course. What in the world had she been thinking?

"I just… had a really weak moment," she said, feeling suddenly ashamed.

House raised his eyebrows. "Hell yeah you did."

She blushed. "God, I'm a wreck… House… I don't know what came over me. It's just…"

She put a hand to her forehead distractedly.

"There's something wrong with me," she mumbled.

House reached out his hand and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. She blinked with surprise, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"You still have dirt on your face," he said in response to her curious expression.

She smiled slightly, but her eyes still welled with tears—this time, she had embarrassment to add to her list of horrible, crappy feelings. She didn't bother hiding it this time; she had already made a fool of herself, what more could a few tears do?

"Hey House," she said softly.

He stared down at her, one eyebrow raised inquisitively. "Yes?"

"Can I…" she broke off, biting her lip. "Can I hug you again?"

His face could have killed her. For the first, and probably the last time, House's expression was one of simple concern. One of sadness. No barely contained laugh, no condescending narrowing of the eyes—this was Greg House, and it seemed as though he might really care. It was unnerving—it was terrifying—yet here she was, sinking once again into the folds of his jacket.

She didn't know what would happen when they came apart. She didn't know what would happen when her tears dried. She didn't know how much this meant to him, if anything—but she did know, with every fiber of her being, that now—just now, at this moment—she was safe. Standing in the middle of the hospital parking lot, one grown professional clutching onto another… she felt right.

For now… she was okay.