Title: Something a Little Stronger

Plot: Cross posted in various places. This fic is a response to the "Unsatisfying Sex" prompt over on livejournal.

Rating: R for almost depictions of Huddy humping.

Spoilers: Let Them Eat Cake, Joy

Keywords: Vodka, sarcasm, lie

A/N: Arg! Last night got me into a frenzy. I thought I'd write about it. Sorry, this probably won't be happy and full of angst. Oh, this is also my first House fanfic. Mostly, I write X-files or Bones related material, so I am still feeling a bit out of my element. My love for Cuddy wins over everything.

There's a bar two blocks from the hospital but its early December in Jersey and flurries fall from the saturated clouds like rain. She wonders if she should care much about the weather. It's probably below freezing since the icy fragments stick to the withering blades of grass and stack in heaps on the sidewalk. It doesn't seem to matter much in the dull ache she feels. The wind might freeze her completely and finish turning her to ice. She'd rather feel cold than vulnerable and hurt, so she leaves her scarf and toboggan and her coat never moves from the hook.

Chatter, screams, and cries fill her ears as she leaves her sanctuary. She passes them all with anxiety, ready to escape. Her heels click…clack on the marble tiles of the foyer, making her steps sound more like a gait than a simple walk out the door. They part like the Red Sea and deliver her into the wintery world.

In five minutes, she makes it to the hole in the wall and sits at the end of a beaten counter. It's 11 p.m. and only a few sit in the crummy booths. She suspects it is because it's Monday and no one drinks on Mondays. As she swallows a Kamikaze, the liquor coating her throat, she thinks everyone should.

-

"Are you screwing with me?" he asks.

His voice is coated with a thin layer of acid that seems to inject itself in his speech to her. She gathers venom and swings right back.

"Are you screwing with ME?" she shoots, voice laden with sarcasm.

"Depends on your answer."

This takes her aback. Is he admitting something? She thinks she sees something in his eyes but stops herself. She is a pillar. She is stone. She cannot be broken.

Eventually, she yields. The game is played well but cannot go on forever. His cards are higher and she folds.

"Everyone knows this is going somewhere," she concedes in a whisper.

He is a flame, an intriguing light. She suspects her wings will be singed in the fire, but she stands on a cliff and leaps.

"I think we're supposed to kiss now."

For a moment, the world seems vast and open. Possibility does not seem like a thing too ridiculous to hope for-until he touches her. She feels his hand on her, cupping her. It does not move, testing.

'It seemed like the next logical step," he answers after she questions him with a look.

Her eyes grow dark and her body goes rigid. She wonders if he feels that in his hands.

"Really…" she begins. It's flat and angry and probably would sting anyone, if they were not him. "I'm an idiot for being surprised."

She tries to walk away but his hold on her breast stays firm.

"Can you leave these?"

Tears threaten to appear and her throat constricts. She knows she shouldn't feel angry and hurt, but she had secretly hoped he would uncover himself for her if she made the first step. Instead, she feels her wings grow hot and disintegrate.

He lets go and she stares at him a moment before giving up. As she leaves, she wonders if she's left a trail of pebbles behind her.

-

Her office is empty but the lights are on. He hobbles a few steps and peeks out into the clinic. After a quick scan, he turns back, dissatisfied by the end result. Her coat hangs on the rack, scarf and cap tucked inside. She couldn't have gone far…

"Where's Cuddy?" he bellows out into the clinic.

A few nurses look at him and shake their heads. Several patients cough into their kerchiefs and look at him as if he has escaped from the fifth floor psych ward. He growls again and turns back to her office. His hands rake through belongings. All he needs is a hat and a pipe as he searches for clues and sniffs for her scent.

"You Dr. Cuddy?" a voice asks. A man holding a clipboard raises his eyebrows.

"No, and if I start acting or looking like her, euthanize me," House grumbles.

"I have a delivery for her. It's…big," the man states. "I need someone to sign for it."

"Well, I'm here and I'm a someone, so let me see the paper."

The man approaches him and House scribbles his name on the sheet.

"Who makes deliveries this late in the evening anyway," House questions, then shoves the board back to the man.

The delivery guy dodges the query and motions outside of the door. Within moments, guys are filling the office, heaving and grunting as they pull a desk in and sit it along the back wall near the window. House nods to them as they wipe it off and then leave.

He remembers her young face, tiny nose close enough to rest on the top of this piece of furniture as she rummaged through medical books and journals. Her dorm was full of impressionist art and stacks of classical music. She rarely went out except to medical meetings and guest speakers. Yet, he had managed to crash into her in a graduate seminar, her sassy attitude hooking his intrigue immediately.

He runs his hand along the top of her past and knows she might enjoy sitting against the memories. As he walks out, he thinks it is all he can give her.

-

She's five shots and a mixed drink to the wind. The room sways in her view and she anchors herself on the edge of her glass. This was a bad idea, she tells herself silently. Another sits at her side and she doesn't think she can handle any more.

"I hear that drinking is good for fertility," his voice announces.

She jumps and then angrily turns to face him. He has a smug look on his face that irritates her even more.

"Why do you care? And what the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"You weren't in your office."

"Knowing you, you don't need anything anyway. You just came here to beat me down some more. To tell me what a bitch I am and how you would never dream of having a relationship with someone like me."

Her fingers tighten on the waiting glass and her eyes bore in to him. She knows he is scrutinizing her slurred words, but she finds it the least of her problems. The close proximity of him makes her nervous and she just wants to get away.

"Can I get you anything man?" the bartender asks.

"I'll have everything she's had up until now," House answers.

Maybe he is trying to outdo her again. Or meet her and then destroy her. Everything feels fuzzy and awkward. She's too busy wrapped in thoughts to notice when he drains his glasses and then slams them on the table. In fact, she doesn't even remember the contents of her own glass, sitting empty within her grasp.

"You, have had a great deal of liquor," he chides.

She stands and wobbles slightly. For a minute, she thinks about cracking a joke about how she probably looks like him in the way she is walking. She lets it rise and fall in her and she begins to stumble toward the door.

It's too much to hope for, that he will become glued to the seat and immobile. She feels him behind her as the sharp, cold wind ruffles the brown curls of her hair.

"What is your defect," he finally waves frantically behind her.

She spins around sharply and slams into his chest, knocking his balance off. Purposely, she lets her chest touch his in a gesture to remind him what he could have had without a fight. He chose to ruin it, just like he does everything.

"My DEFECT is that I am not broken or sick, so there is nothing for you to fix in me. That is why you aren't interested."

It comes out matter of fact and she is proud of herself for letting him know that she will be fine without him. The only thing she doesn't admit is when she will be okay. Knowing there is nothing left to say, she begins to walk again.

The rest of the trip to her office is a blur, only aware of him shuffling behind her. This sends her blood pressure up and the alcohol robs her of everything. Her last drink was a straight Grey Goose and she can still taste it in the back of her throat.

Her door slams and she jumps back. It has to be after one by now. No one is in the clinic, save for a few stragglers. He stands in front of her and it's too close. Her feet unsteadily tread backward. This isn't a conversation she should be having with the both of them intoxicated. Or her at least.

"I'm not going to apologize because I make no excuses for myself or anything I do. And you are wrong. You walk around here with this 'Screw you' attitude, thinking it will frighten your peons into submission. It's a defense mechanism you use to keep people away, even though you are desperate for someone to show they care. I don't listen to you because I am a better doctor than you and know what is in the best interest of my patients."

"Why not write all of that on an eval next time? It seems to be where you formally address your issues with me."

"You infuriate me beyond belief and most of the time, I wish you would just leave me alone. Except then…" he trails off for a moment. He fidgets then looks her in the eyes. "I have no idea what to do when it comes to you."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"I don't know," he whispers.

Then his mouth is on her and between the liquor and his lips, she steps in the déjà vu puddles. It feels so much like a few months ago when he came to her apartment and kissed her in the void of losing Joy.

She fights him at first and tries to shove him away, her fists in tight balls pounding into his chest. He grips her more firmly and brings her in to him.

Why must everything be a blur between them?

She can tell that while his lips glide along hers, he is still holding back. She knows he is waiting for her. Her resolve caves again and she begins to taste him. House is rough and callous, but she feels comfort in these things.

Her ass hits the edge of the desk that was not there when she left. At this time, it doesn't even matter. She doesn't want to be the one to keep this up and encourage it but she does.

She spins and he falls onto the top of the counter, her following him down. They kiss and breathe heavily between every action. His hands trace her hips roughly and she feels the fabric on her skirt begin to inch up. Despite the cold, she hadn't worn anything under her clothing. The week had been filled with banter and heat and she knew they were reaching the point of no return. This was not the scenario she had imagined though.

Her fingers fumble with his belt, feeling sticky against the leather. She is anything but deft at this point, but the buttons and zipper followed in succession. A moan escapes her as one of his hand's slide into her shirt and removes a breast, the other riding high on her naked thigh.

"I probably shouldn't be doing this," she gasps out as her hand goes to touch him.

He jumps at the sensation and she watches as his eyes roll backward and then close. Irony seems to flow freely and she rubs him along his length. His head reaches to the nipple of the escaped breast and she bites her lip to stifle a moan. It feels good, his mouth against her flesh and her own against his.

"I'm sor…" he begins.

Her ear sits near his lips as her chest runs across the expanse of his. Fingers still rest on her, caressing and kneading. She waits and works on licking along his carotid artery.

"What were you going to say?" she smiles and she straddles him farther, pushing her skirt the rest of the way up.

He shakes his head and pulls her to him for another kiss. Whatever words he had been meaning to speak are lost to her. She was right before. He will never break his wall. Midway through the kiss, she subtlety tries to inch her skirt back to its original position and calm her breathing.

Suddenly, she stands, leaving him lying in a pant on her desk. Stepping away, she sees how ridiculous that he looks with legs dangling off the edge. She probably looks pitiful herself, hair mussed and face flushed.

"Is it me, or did the air just go out of the balloon?" House complains.

"I'm not doing this. Not like this. I've told you what I want."

His hands cover his eyes and his breath comes out in huffs. The rug from beneath them is gone again.

"You know I never do anything you want," he moans.

"So with this, it is no different?"

"Why should it be?"

He is a master of deflection and running. She could see that he wanted to tell her the truth but he was stubbornly holding on to it with all of his might.

"You are right. It shouldn't," she lies for him. Grabbing her coat and things, she turns off the lamplight and leaves him on the desk in the dark. Stepping out in the cold air, she takes in heavy breath and exhales.

Tonight, he will not follow her. She will not submit to him. They will both be miserable until they figure out where they belonged.