Speech Impairment

Disclaimer: The finale would be much happier if I owned House! *Looks at fanfic* Or not :/

Pairing: House/Cuddy, Huddy.

Genres: Angst and Romance.

Rating: K+ (minor swearing)

Spoilers: Season 6, Season Finale. "Help Me"

Summary: "I don't love you!" You say it and it stings; you can see and practically feel it as your words slap him across the face. And it kills you.

Dedication: Lisa Edelstein, don't let them kill you :3

Author's Comment: For those of you have seen the promo for the season six finale I hope this helps you last until next week. Oh, and I do not know whether this will be how the actual episode works out so don't go taking this seriously, although I wish I could xD.

"I don't love you!"

You say it and it stings; you can see and practically feel it as your words slap him across the face.

And it kills you.

Suddenly you want to take it back, you want to pull the words right out of his ears and hide them under the rubble and wreckage that surrounds you. You really hadn't meant to say it and even if some evil little piece of you did, you hadn't meant it to sound so…so…heartless. Because that's not you and it's never been you, even when you had to face personal demons, the scum of the Earth, or even the world's crankiest, most childish, and not to mention clinically insane diagnostician.

You have always been the nurturing one, the protector, and the worrier. It has always been your job to look out for everyone else's best interest and put yourself—dreams, desires, wishes, and all—on the backburner. So you did that exact opposite of what House had been expecting by telling him off with a fiery passion, one that did bring up bureaucracy, his previous addictions and lifestyle, or those few days in paradise during Michigan. You said something that you knew would cut him to the core and you said it with all the power you could because you had to make him believe it.

"I don't love you!"

Your voice had been so angry, resentful, and lethal. You were forcing a point but on to whom?

Honestly, you're not quite sure.

Maybe that was part of the problem. Hell, it is the problem. Every relationship you've had since House walked back into your life after the whole Michigan fiasco has been about Greg House in someway. Every. Fucking. One. And most of the time House hadn't done anything intentionally, that is until, of course, he realized that he had the opportunity to screw you over something that he then made into a game as a means to entertain himself; especially with your newest relationship. Lucas.

The relationship you share with Lucas must be the healthiest you've ever had with a man. He is stable and sensitive and so freaking wonderful on every level. It's a challenge to find a man who understands the demands of a Dean, of a mother, and of a woman. Now try rolling it all into one. In short, you would nominate him for sainthood if you could. Okay, all right, so you both made mistakes in regards to one another as well as House but that didn't mean you stopped loving Lucas. Had it? Never. No way, no how. You love Lucas. You don't love House. That's why you said it. Wasn't it?

"I don't love you!"

It was cruel, sure, but someone had to teach House that he couldn't keep pushing you around.

One step forward, two steps back.

That was how you describe your relationship with him, almost but not quite. Every genuine, sincere, intimate moment you share is shattered by House's ability of letting you just enough so he could slam the door on your face. It has been that way for so long, House being afraid of being hurt and of hurting others, that is. But his heart breaks anyways and he keeps on shutting you—and anyone else who gives a rat's ass about him—out. So you're sick and tired of it. You want it so neither of you have to be afraid.

You're afraid that a relationship with House will be doomed for emotional hurting (and in his case physical hurting) and you're afraid that no matter how much you give to him, House either won't appreciate it or he won't return any of it. Another part of you is terrified that if you don't at least try being with him you'll have missed out on the best chance of your life. And the biggest, scariest, thought is that he's been the one for you all along and you've just wasted twenty-something years on bickering, hurt feelings, and pointless relationships with men who just couldn't measure up. Nonetheless, you're not something that he can only want once you're "gone".

"I don't love you!"

It had been forceful, dominant, and with no room for an argument. You wonder if he had bought it.

Don't make me say it again, you beg silently. Please Greg.

Instead he glares, nods, and breaks the gaze you two had been sharing. He is pissed and rightfully so but that doesn't make it any easier for you to swallow. You want to tell him that you're sorry for saying it and you're even more sorry for all of the things that led up to the proclamation. But instead of giving you a chance at redemption, House readjusts his hot, hurt gaze and tells you something so cutting, acidic, and honest that it makes you're head spin. He speaks your best-kept secret out loud, for anyone to hear; You only get one destiny, Cuddy.

"I'm done." You try and the world turns upside down. An explosion or crash—something sudden that you missed completely—sends you toppling with him. Both of your bodies jerk and fly as his arm jumps out to catch you while the other works on autopilot to soften the inevitable fall. Instinctively you brace yourself and hold on to him, maybe because you want to protect yourself with his larger frame or because you're too terrified to let him get any further away from you right now. Screaming, you let him roll on top of you so that you can burry your face in his neck and breathe. Then you feel the tears; big, thick tears that make your cheeks heat up. You press a kiss to his neck and listen to his gasps.

"I don't love you!"

Since it's June there is a warmth in the evening air, however, as you rushed into an ambulance everything but your cheeks are freezing.

The only motivation to open your eyes is to see his goddamn grimace imprinted permanently in his scruff. To see him.

You feel the ambulance moving down the bumpy road and the EMTs suffocating the enclosed space. For a moment you wonder if you concentrate hard enough you'll actually be able to visualize him sitting beside you. Instead you just see spots, colorful but disappointing. Something niggles at the back of your brain and it takes a moment to register but once it does your body floods with worry. House had been in the wreckage too. What had happened to him? Was he going to be okay? Was he in another ambulance? In yours?

Desperately, you want to open your eyes but you're much too afraid of what you'll see. So you make motions with your lips and actions with your hands. The EMTs are speaking--you hear voices rise like soap bubbles--and one is asking another if you're deaf because you're using ASL. Two fingers out, thumb tucked in. Connect thumb to fingers, making a circle. Two fingers point up. Thumb over fist. Thumb knuckle under fingernails. Again and again until you hear one of them say his name. H-O-U-S-E. You work extra hard to remember one finger pointed forward, two fingers crossed, thumb knuckle under fingernails, and one finger pointed forward. G-R-E-G. One EMT takes your hand and spells O-K-A-Y.

"I don't love you!"

Your mouth feels awkward and there's a funny taste on your tongue. It's the aftertaste of lies, arguing, and swallowing sobs. You want to vomit.

Now that you're back at the hospital you know that you are safe because this it is full of professionals and it's your second home. Okay, first.

They inform you of what had taken place but you only pick up on somethings; you were unconscious for about five minutes, that you had a grade three concussion from your not-so-smooth landing and that you had been asking for House. By the way, he's perfectly fine and you're relieved to hear this but you won't say it out loud, in fact you won't say anything. You don't know why you won't speak since you're certain that you're still capable of doing so, you just don't. What if you say something awful? What if you keep lying? What if you admit to the truth?

Since the ambulance you've accomplished as much as opening your eyes and you really wish you hadn't. The ER is crowded with nurses, doctors, EMTs, and victims of the catastrophe. There is too much blood and bandaging, there is too much noise and commotion, there is too much crying and hurting. You want to squeeze your eyes shut but then you may never open again so you glue your eyes to the few spots in the room that doesn't make you completely depressed and think about everything but House, Lucas, the wreckage, and the ER that surrounds you. When a nurse interrupts you, trying to get you to speak, you sign letters--since you don't know many words--and remain silent, waiting.

"I don't love you!"

There is someone lying in the bed next to yours but you don't like looking at her because she is how you imagine you must look like.

Bleak. Bloodied. Bilious.

She turns her head and you're almost embarrassed to be caught staring, no matter how briefly, at a woman in a similar situation. A mirror because you're too afraid to look at yourself. Her hair is a pretty auburn colour and her eyes look hazel under the fluorescent hospital lights. The cuts and scrapes all over her face and arms make you wonder what she looked like before the bedlam. You wonder if she smiled often because she's frowning right now. Unlike you though, this woman speaks and she's asking for your name and how the disaster affected you.

You want to tell her, for some reason you really, really do but you just blink and try to make her understand. By some random, one in a million chance, the woman nods shortly and speaks to you like you two have been in the middle of a conversation all along. She tells you about how she had been coming back from a night out with friends, how they had been celebrating the friend's recent divorce (the guy was slime), and how it had come out of nowhere. Her voice sounds like it should be chipper and upbeat but right now it sounds heavy and not so attractive. You'd contribute to the conversation but you're voice might crack and you might just spill all your secrets. Instead the curtain slides wide open.

"I don't love you!"

Greg House has a new scrape or two but nothing too bad. He looks just as good as always, just a little more exhausted so you try to smile.

Obviously it didn't work because he has absolutely no reaction and immediately gets to work on the woman beside you; his latest patient.

At first the woman is nervous around House so you nod in encouragement and try to smile. She seems to have caught on to your attempt and relaxes for House who is checking vitals, re-reading charts, and shooting questions right and left. You want him to speak to you. The woman doesn't argue with House or bore him with unimportant things like when she can see her family and if she's going to live or not. She answers his questions and doesn't blink when he makes rude comments, even when they're indirectly directed at you. The woman is the perfect patient.

When House decides that he's done with her, she lies back in her bed and lets him inspect you. She watches your interaction and when he reaches for your hand--squeezing it gently--her hazel eyes close as she mimics the action. You bat your eyes too often but you're doing it to test if he's really there or if this an hallucination. Apologies are ready to leap off your lips but you can't seem to get them out, even when you drop your jaw and he's staring right at you with those goddamn eyes of his. Holding his hand, you sigh and the air that was knotted up in your lungs lets go. The moment is too intimate, House is looking for a way out. You mouth to him two words before letting go of his hand; help me.

"I don't love you!"

It is a common event in a doctor's career to experience death, Hell it is almost a requirement, but that doesn't make it any easier for them.

When, after hours of testing and other procedures that House has asked for, the woman doesn't come back you know it is one of those times.

She is gone, you realize when a nurse comes back with fresh linens and saddened eyes. You want to ask her but you're still not speaking and you're sure that you're wearing down the staff so that they'll just accept your words aren't ready to come out yet. The nurse tells you that Gillian Bourne died earlier this morning--it's currently a little after four in the morning--and that House is on a warpath because he and his team hadn't saved her. Not understanding ASL letters, the nurse offers you a pad of paper and a pen to communicate. You write: get House.

Ten minutes after sending the nurse off with your message, House is limping to your bed, looking worse than most of the victims in the ER. You want to reach out and touch him, make him believe that you know he tried his best, but you don't have the chance before he swings the curtain shuts and hooks his cane on the end of your bed frame. You look shocked but he, as always, doesn't really care. He makes a motion and tells you to "scoot" so that he has room to sit. You comply and he takes in your exhausted form. The first thing he says is that Jeanna--Gillian--is dead and it's all your fault. Your eyebrows shoot up and he says it's because he couldn't concentrate when you were busying dying.

"I don't love you!"

You flashback to that moment--something that you've been doing since you were admitted--and each time it cuts you just a little bit deeper.

House must have forgiven you on some level or else he wouldn't be here, talking to you, acting like everything is normal when it definitely isn't.

He tells you about how you ended up here, how the EMTs were self-righteous assholes who wouldn't let him ride with you so he had to take his bike, and how they missed the diagnosis completely. You pay attention to every fine detail in his verbal language as well as his physical. For a long time it's just you and him sitting and talking about the day (well House talking) until he brings up the argument. Instantly, you want to be sick from your intense guilt. He tells you how he's a bastard and that you're allowed to be mad, he makes you so happy you want to cry.

You spell letters for House for a short while but he quickly tires of it so you begin to write, however he tires of that as well. You sigh and push yourself up in the bed so that you're at a better angle to face him. House cocks an eyebrow. Bastard, always making you feel like you're under a microscope. Leaning forward, you place your hand over the part of his chest that protects his heart and brush your lips against his tentatively. You hear and feel his sigh on your own lips and it motivates you to close the space between your bodies. The kiss is slow and passionate and so much more than you could've anticipated. Eventually you break the bond and use your real voice; "I love you, Greg House."

Author's Note: Not how I wanted the story to end, for it's so cheesy, however I am late for the new episode of Glee that looks fantastic and I didn't want to come back to this since I thought I would lose my inspiration (-_-). So what did you all think? I refuse to believe that Cuddy will die so I made it so that the PotW did and Cuddy survived :D. I hope that this came out as both angsty and uplifting, a weird combo, I know, but whatever :P. Hope everyone enjoys the finale next week!! :D ---