it's strange that words are so inadequate (10millionpeople) wrote,
it's strange that words are so inadequate

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house/cuddy; no man is an island

no man is an island
..........|house m.d.; house/cuddy; pg; He thought that space in between them was only big enough for one, and he was already there.

He’d never been very good with words. Not that kind of words. Not that way.

He spoke on impulse, in discombobulated phrases, like breathing, unlike anything else in this world.

He never thought before he spoke, and his elementary school teachers who tacked posters to peeling-paint walls would have agreed completely (she would have agreed, too).

Those weren’t the kind of words he would usually say.

He said them anyway.


Maybe he’d been alone too long, around people too long, quiet too long, agitated because he was too loud all. The. Time.

All the time, he thought (maybe he was just agitated in general. He thought life was agitated).

Noise was all around him, but he knew she wasn’t the one trying to squeeze herself into that tiny space between the atoms of the silence and the clatter, the good and the bad, the him and the her (or maybe she was).

He thought that space in between them was only big enough for one, and he was already there.


He healed people. That was his job.

He could stop a seizure six hours before a man showed signs. God-like magic radiated from his fingertips; he was Jesus, reincarnated.

He could touch people and heal them, breathe on wounds and make them close.

The medical world had never seen someone so good.

Through everything, (and if you didn’t believe him, he would have shot a sarcastic answer back, but he never would have blamed you) he only wanted to say things to fix things, not split them open again. He wanted his words to fix her, fix himself, fix them.

He wanted to, (he never did).


Maybe it was like one of those TV sitcoms that never lasted longer than two seasons. When fall went by more than once, the life span of every corny comedy show grew thinner and thinner.

His did, too. Theirs did.

He remembered her saying that spring was her favorite season. It’s the age of new life, she’d explain, and he would nod and mumble Spring is when my ex-girlfriend got an abortion, and he’d notice her pretending not to hear him (because sometimes, he thought, she really might not have).

He didn’t have a favorite season. He didn’t have a favorite anything, really; he had something he was really, really good at, and he didn’t need anything else (it wasn’t until later that he realized that he might have needed her, too).


One day, he reached up and opened the space between the two of them, stretched the surface and fit both him and her inside (because he was Jesus, but he didn’t remember Bethlehem). She crawled inside, where he figured she should have been all along.

It worked for a while. Really. But he remembered the day his limbs cracked under the pressure, and she pushed him out of that narrow space.

What he didn’t remember was her trying to hold it open, her calling his name, almost jumping after him when he fell into the now-split atom and everything was engulfed in light.

He’d never been very good with words, and he didn’t even try to say things to fix this, because splitting them open was a default.

Fall went by three times before the sitcom was canceled—a long life for one of its kind.

No words were going to fix this. Not that kind of words. Not that way.
Tags: !fanfiction, ship: hmd: house/cuddy, tv: house
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