A/N-This is just a smutty one-shot (yes…just a one-shot). If you aren't into smutty fics, skip this one. A remarkably Cuddy-ish friend and I were discussing the merits of a well-scheduled (*cough* over-scheduled) life. It made me think of this. Thanks to her for the inspiration. I promise, Newly Renovated will be updated soon. This is my Season 6 fic.
***I don't own the characters of House, MD. This fic includes sexual content.
This story takes place shortly after House's release from Mayfield (I'm completely ignoring Lucas, like I wish Cuddy would have).
-Tuesday-
Cuddy had no idea how he got into her office, but like every other time her locks were changed, he was always right back inside. She could never seem to change anything without his knowledge: the location of her hide-a-key, any of her passwords, her office door lock, her mind.
"Why are you here?" she asked as she hurried in with her brief case, stopping quickly to remove her coat and hang it on the coat rack.
"I was awaiting your guidance, oh fearless leader," he answered from his spot.
He was leaning back in one of the chairs in front of her desk. It looked almost like he had been sleeping, his hands folded over his stomach, feet crossed and perched on the edge of her desk.
"It is easiest to receive guidance from your fearless leader, if you wait until she's here."
Cuddy shoved his feet down off of her desk and walked around to sit in her own chair.
"Did Wilson ask you to babysit me?" House asked, opening his eyes and lifting his head to look at her.
"No," she denied too adamantly, "he mentioned that you were going to be alone while he was at the conference, and did ask if I'd…check in until he came back."
"So you have to come by, fill my water dish and let me out to pee so I don't go on his floor?"
"It's not like that."
"It seems like that."
"He's worried," Cuddy said, lifting her eyes to his and adding more softly, "so am I."
"Don't be."
"Come over tonight, have dinner."
"Me?"
"Oh, come on," she complained, "why not?"
"Because I don't need charity dinners or babysitting."
"It's neither."
"And I make you uncomfortable."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"No. You don't," she said, leaning forward, but then dropping her gaze a bit too quickly.
He nodded with a knowing smirk.
"Fine," she answered, "we haven't spent much time together since you've been back and…"
"It's the 'and' that is probably making you uncomfortable."
"I don't want it to be though. So let's behave like adults...colleagues…maybe even friends. Come have dinner with me tonight."
His fingers were curved over the top of his cane and he rocked it back and forth next to his chair. "Why?"
"Maybe…for fun. And I'll prove to you that I'm not uncomfortable. Or if either of us are, just a little, we can move past all of that."
He paused, hesitantly nodding, studying her body language and facial expressions, "What time?"
"Hang on," Cuddy said as she picked up her phone to look at her planner.
"You don't even know what time you can have dinner without looking at that?"
"I'm a busy woman. How else do you think I keep this place running?" He appeared to be considering a barbed comeback and she added, "How's seven? You aren't going to turn down free food. Are you?"
"Seven," he nodded.
She was more than a little surprised when he actually showed up at a few minutes after seven. Cuddy barely sat down, running around to get things for Rachel, to bring refills and seconds, and, as much as she tried to hide it, she did look a little uncomfortable. He stood to leave right after dinner when she picked up her daughter to put her to bed and Cuddy said, "Don't go. My schedule is a little off tonight because of that meeting, but as soon as I get Rachel down to sleep, we can talk."
"Talk?" he asked uncertainly.
"Or watch a movie. It takes a half hour to get through her routine, and then I'm done for the evening. Come on, don't go."
"Through her routine?"
"Yea," Cuddy replied, "stay. It'll be fun."
When she returned from putting Rachel down to sleep, Cuddy found House on her sofa. "What are you reading?"
"You subscribe to this crap?" he asked. Flipping over the book, he snidely read the title, "'Finding Your Routine: A Guide to Scheduling Away the Chaos.' You don't actually buy this crap, do you?"
"It works. I need some kind of order in my life just to get everything done."
"You reading this book is redundant. You didn't see me sitting around last year reading books about how to swallow prescription painkillers did you? What else are you reading, books on how to get a fat ass and buy low-cut tops? Your whole life is already about order."
"No, it isn't. Not inherently anyway," she said, nodding toward the kitchen. She began cleaning up, and was pleasantly surprised that he was helping. "I live in a world of emergencies and tragedies. I put out figurative fires, deal with the unexpected. I deal with you. Very little in my life is really orderly. This gives me a sense of order in places where I can have it. I have my morning ritual. I need that just to get to work feeling clear headed and ready for my day. I feel off balance all day if I don't get a good start. Then after work, Rachel and I have our schedule, and kids need that kind of structure, it's so good for them. Even after she's in bed, I do my whole wind-down thing."
"How constrictive."
"Constructive."
"Stifling."
"Freeing."
"Freeing? Seriously? Being locked into a set schedule somehow frees you? It's the Shawshank Schedule?"
"Because I don't even have to think about it. It's very comfortable and familiar. I'm getting stuff done, doing everything I need to do almost automatically."
"You need to live a little."
"A little bit of organization wouldn't kill you," she said, looking up at him while she scrubbed a pan. "I'm not saying you have to plan every single second of your day, it might help you, particularly during a time like this when you're sort of finding your way again. It might really help you transition back into normal life."
His attention disappeared for a few moments, and she wasn't sure if he was thinking or ignoring her while they finished the dishes. "Want to watch a movie?" she offered.
"Is that part of your routine?"
"Not exactly, I'm making an exception for you."
"I'm corrupting you. Your attempt at friendship with me is already leading you down the path to wrinkled office-wear, sexual innuendo and chronic lateness."
She breathed a chuckle, "One night won't kill me."
"Or I've been sent to rescue you," he commented without flourish, "you can't let your life fall into such…unapologetic perfection. Nauseating. Somehow, and I don't know exactly how, I will convince you that this whole routine thing sucks."
She made coffee, and they chatted casually at the kitchen table while they slowly seemed to become more comfortable and then he returned to their previous topic, "So what do you normally do for this goodnight ritual of yours?"
"Why does this bother you so much?" she half giggled as she grew tired.
"I just don't understand how being practically imprisoned by an agenda helps you to feel free. Just thinking about it makes me feel confined, and you…you love it."
"You should try it. You might find things in your life run more smoothly."
"No thanks. I had enough order at Mayfield. What happens on the nights when you don't want to do what you have to do?"
"Certain times, like tonight, I don't follow it. Or if there's an emergency at work, which happens a lot."
"Right, so you give up the rigidity of your schedule…to work. You're wild. Wild and completely imprisoned."
"I'm not actually imprisoned…I visit the world of order voluntarily."
"You still followed it to put your kid to bed. Even tonight."
"Well, yea. That part. But I don't normally sit around, talking at the kitchen table until I go to bed, but I'm here talking to you. After Rachel goes to bed is my free time."
"But it's not actually free."
"It's still time for me."
"So what do you do? Explain to me this freedom that you've found."
"Well, sometimes my job complicates the schedule. I have to be a little flexible. I don't have exact times, but I have sequences. But pretty much every night Rachel and I have dinner. Then we do some activities together-"
"Activities?" he interrupted.
"Learning stuff, playing, bonding. Things like that. Then I give her a bath, read stories and put her to bed."
"And with your wild, free alone-time?"
"Finish up work-"
"How fun," he griped.
"-And then I usually read, do some meditation. Usually, by 10:30 each night, I try to be in the shower and then I get ready for bed."
"You look really good…for an eighty year-old."
Sitting at her kitchen table together, they began to find their old rhythm in their banter.
"Mock all you want, House. You should try it before you judge," she countered.
"You need me to save you from this life of yawn."
"It works for me. You don't want to acknowledge it, but it may be good for you too."
"Of course, because you like to plan and schedule everything. This is just an extension of your overly controlling, completely regimented existence that some…life coach told you was a good idea and you bought his fucking book."
"Want to borrow it?" she teased.
They were arguing, but playfully, flirting their way through the conversation. House stared at the spoons he was trying to balance on salt and pepper shakers and then he added, "You probably have a time slot scheduled to drink a cup of herbal tea or masturbate."
She looked away, only the slightest, but he could see it out of the corner of his eye. He looked up from his spoons suspiciously. Her gaze was quickly returned to his, a bit too eager and looking a bit too defiantly unembarrassed. He doubted her forced cool and nearly shouted his accusation, "Oh my god…you schedule masturbation?"
"No. No!" she said, with a brief and confident flick of her head to cast back her hair.
"You do," he nodded, then his eyes, still wide open, looked just a bit heavier, "just tell me what time and I'll never mention it again."
"I'm sure if something like that was true and you knew about it, there would be a hospital-wide email telling everyone that piece of information. No thank you."
"Every night, huh?"
"Forget it."
"You do it every night?" he was unstoppably in pursuit of very titillating information at that point, and his enthusiasm showed.
"Not every night."
"But most nights?"
"Yes. Most. OK?" she countered, a bit uncomfortably.
"And how long do you schedule? How long do you give yourself for this…indulgence?"
"I don't set a time limit."
"Ballpark. Is this a fun thing or goal-oriented activity?"
She laughed her sexiest laugh and he felt immediately turned on. She didn't answer right away, momentarily tracing the top of her mug with her finger. He was certain she was never going to answer, but she tilted her head to the side and replied, "You know how it is…some days, the journey is about getting to a destination, and some days it's about the journey itself…those days when the drive is as much fun as the place you want to go."
His eyes were open but soft, and he said, "Tell me…about the more leisurely drives."
"Time to talk about something else," she answered assertively, sounding less like the friend who had him over for dinner and more like his boss.
"What if you don't feel like it?" he persisted.
"I don't have to, House, it's not mandatory. It's just a nice way to end the day, reduce tension. It helps me sleep."
"I have trouble sleeping," he said, wearing a purposefully pathetic expression, "maybe you could help me."
She laughed in spite of herself and replied, "So much for carrying on a conversation like normal adults."
"I'm very much in favor of a more adult conversation," he answered while his eyes found every single dip, curve and line on her body that he could see from her spot at the table.
"OK," she agreed.
His eyes fluttered shut as he sat back in the chair and crossed his arms. She could see the bastard conjuring a mental image of her right before her eyes. He didn't even try to hide it, or attempt to suppress the pleased and excited look on his face. He was calmly waiting to hear more so he could fill in the details in his mind's eye. She felt so empowered, beautiful, sexy and a bit aroused herself, so she was momentarily emboldened, "I like to take a long, hot shower. I like to feel my hands moving over my body, sort of like…foreplay."
His breath stuttered just the slightest, almost unnoticeably, and he nodded, "Keep going."
"And then…I don't know if I should tell you this…"
"You should definitely tell me this."
"Well, this is so embarrassing."
"It's not embarrassing, it's hot. Just tell me," he encouraged, eyes still closed.
"You don't know that it's hot," she answered in her work voice again, "you shouldn't assume it's going to be hot."
"Stop arguing your hotness with me. It's not an arguable theory. It's you. It's you masturbating. It's hot. Keep going."
"Alright," she said hesitantly, leaning closer on the table. "After I get out of the shower-"
"Yea."
"There's this moment where I..." her voice was raspy, the voice of an aroused lover until it turned into the voice of an offended woman, "This moment where I tell you there is no way in hell I am going to tell you anything else."
His eyes shot open, "Why not?"
"It's late."
"Would you tell me if it was earlier? We could start this conversation again in the morning."
"No."
"You know I won't tell a soul."
"Not telling," she smiled.
"Do you use a vibrator?"
"OK, House," she replied, extending all of the fingers on her right hand before she patted the table top, "time to go."
He stood, he was limping backwards, grabbing his cane from the chair next to him, gathering his coat as she was guiding him toward the door. He was still smiling, playful, having fun. "Tell me what time and if you use any toys or you just toy with yourself."
"No," she shook her head stubbornly, standing in the doorway while he stepped onto the porch and turned back to face her.
"Come on. I'll try this overly planned life thing until Wilson comes back."
"You're willing to try living on a schedule in exchange for information about me?"
"Not just information about you. Information about you masturbating."
"Why?" she laughed.
"Do you really want to hear me answer that question?" he asked as his eyes moved over her face and down her neck.
"I'll think about it."
She watched while it looked like he might just say the dirtiest thing that she had ever heard, the sort of thing that would make her mouth open with shock and hands move to her hips with disgust, and then he offered a half smirk, "Thank you for dinner."
"What?"
"Thanks for dinner. It was fun."
"Oh. You're…welcome," she answered as he stared at her for a minute, looking disarmed and a little vulnerable, looks she could not resist. She grasped his chin between her fingers, holding his head still, and reached up to gently kiss his cheek, her soft, delicate lips pressing against his stubbly face. "I had a really good time," she added. "It was fun."
The look remained on his face, a little lost, a little content and maybe even a little bit happy. "Night, Cuddy," he said before he walked away.
She stood beside her own door for a moment after she closed it, feeling uncertain as to why she was feeling the things that she was feeling. While in the shower she remembered the look on his face, she felt powerfully attractive around him sometimes, his attention, his admiration, did make her feel good. His tentativeness, the slightly softer vulnerability evident in him since his return from Mayfield, easily called to the more nurturing aspects of her personality.
She got out of the shower, feeling a little turned on, thinking about him, wondering if perhaps things could be different between them. Without thinking, she picked up her phone and sent a text. A frivolous tease.
House was almost back at Wilson's when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Looking down at the display while he opened the door to the apartment, he saw there was a text from Cuddy.
Cuddy: Around 11:04. Sleep tight.
He stared at his phone for a second while he shut the door and then his head lifted. "Oh my god," he said into the air, looking around for the time even though it was clearly displayed on his phone. He sent a message back.
House: Give me two more minutes. 11:06. Please.
Cuddy giggled when she saw the message on her phone, particularly the 'please.' She just put her phone down on her nightstand and it beeped again almost immediately.
House: Is this a leisurely drive sort of night?
She didn't answer, but heard her phone again after a few seconds.
House: If you aren't answering, does that mean you already started?
A few seconds later, she responded.
Cuddy: No. Good night, House.
House: You could call and give me a play-by-play.
Just before 11:06, one more text came through on her phone.
House: Happy travels.
She lay back in bed, a little flushed, feeling a bit guilty for the teasing text she had sent, but still swept up in the thought of the two of them flirting. Covers pulled up snugly, her fingers slid down her body, she was only wearing a night shirt, and her fingers instantly met skin under the shirt. Her hand covered and cupped against her mound and her fingertips met traces of wetness that were evident even from the negligible contact. Casually opening her legs, she let her fingers slide along her slit, just enjoying the sensation and building a layer of pleasure on top of the foundation of arousal that was already present. Then she thought of House, which was not all that uncommon, she often thought of him at times like that, but she wondered if maybe he really did stumble quickly into his room after her text. He did seem unbelievably interested in what she was doing, and for her, the thought that something about her could arouse someone to that point was in itself arousing.
She wondered if he was in his bed or in his shower, if he was just playing with her mind or if he was jerking off and actually thinking of her. Then she found herself wanting him to think of her. She wondered if he was picturing her breasts smashed against his chest or imagining her sucking him off or thinking about how it would feel to be inside her.
Distracted by her thoughts, she no longer thought about the progression of her fingers, about the way she'd swirl around her clit and then slide her fingers down until she could slip a finger or two into her heat. Her fingers felt insufficient when she thought of the way he'd feel inside her, it made her feel lonely, made her feel wanting and incomplete. She was so damp and hungry, so wanting and needy and unfulfilled, and then when her fingers slid all along her wet slit, she remembered the feeling of his tongue on her sex, his face along her thighs, his lips sucking softly, and that memory was crystal clear. Her hips began to lift against her hand, her active hand held in place and braced by her free hand. She retraced her memories from years earlier, her mind clicking through the moments she remembered. She flashed to the strangest little piece of memory, his one hand on her ass while he tasted her, lifting her to his face, helping her rock against him even when her pleasure took over and she no longer had the need to continue to move. She heard herself moan softly, consumed by the memory, the feeling of her hands, and the friction caused by her rocking hips and lifting pelvis. Her orgasm swelled and crashed over her, and she rolled on her side and then on her belly to feel the pressure of the warm bed against her front while she moved less urgently against her hands. Her legs were crossed, holding her hand against her body.
After the intensity of the moment passed, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling and mouthed, "Woah."
After Cuddy's text, House went immediately to his shower, pulling his clothes off as quickly as he could while trying to adjust the water and get in the tub. He had no idea why it was so important, but the thought of Cuddy in some way pleasuring herself at the same time that he was, was completely exciting. He braced his hand against the wall of the shower, immediately calling up his memory of her. The images were recorded in his mind like they could have been on 8mm film, sometimes steady, and sometimes blinking to the next piece of clear memory, but the scenes were very much preserved and not a piece of the memory was forgotten from the event. There was one image, one memory that didn't shake or blink, it was one moment, one perfect picture of her face when she came underneath him, and the sound of her voice when she called his name. That one still image, one accompanied by sound, visited more of his fantasies than he'd ever confess to willingly.
Had he not been so lost in the moment, in the thought, in the concept of her fingers slipping gracefully against her body, and the idea that maybe she was thinking of him, he would have been shocked by what he saw. He wasn't just beating off, he wasn't casually stroking his dick in the shower, he was actually fucking his hand while he imagined the woman he wanted more desperately than he could admit. The hot rivulets of water that gathered and poured down his body were a poor substitute for the warmth of her form, and his calloused hands seemed particularly harsh in contrast to his memory of her hands or mouth or the depths of her sex, but his mind carried him beyond those inconvenient realities to a place that was almost like being with her.
He came loudly, without reservation or thought of the fact that his only company was the tight grip of his hand and the hot water that sprayed from the shower head. His chest heaved as his high descended, as caught up and enraptured as if he had actually been having sex, as if she had actually been somewhere between his body and the wall of the shower. He leaned his elbow against the wall while he recovered, his muscles feeling loose and completely at ease and a little bit weak.
-Wednesday-
When Cuddy's alarm went off in the morning, she began the routine that she used every weekday morning. She didn't see House at work for several hours, it was plenty of time to feel guilty for her little bedtime text. In fact, she was feeling horribly guilty. She quickly swung past his office early in the day to make sure he made it into work, and she kept tabs on him during the day, hoping that he was alright. She refused to go talk to him directly, convincing herself that he'd likely behave like he had when they kissed not even a year earlier. She expected him to be defensive, to push, to put space between them, so she decided to keep an eye on him from a distance. She also hoped that, if she waited a day or two, she could invite him to dinner again.
In the afternoon, just after four, she wandered down his hall, hoping to double check that he was still at work and still doing alright, but she didn't see him. She started to walk down toward the room where she thought the team's patient was, but she still didn't see him there either. She got on the elevator, considering her next move when he slid in just before the doors closed. "Good afternoon, Dr. Cuddy."
"Hey. How's your day?" she asked casually.
"Fine," he nodded, "but I'm a little lost."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"You lived up to your end…you told me when."
"About that…I am so, so, so sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"Oh you should. Anyway, save the guilt, we have business to attend to. You stood up to your end, so now I'll stick up to mine. I'm willing to try this routine thing."
"OK," she half chuckled, her nerves easing a bit.
"What time is dinner tonight?"
"Tonight?"
"Yes. I'm new at this. You're the expert."
"I am?"
"Yea. So now I'm officially under your wing. I'll spend the next few nights following your schedule and waiting for the rush of freedom that comes from being completely confined. Are we on or what?"
"Yea, we're on," she said with a quick smile. "So you're not…"
"Charming? Brilliant? Completely sexy? I am all of those things."
She smiled, neither confirming nor denying. "Not much going on here at work today. So how's six-thirty?"
"We're on," he said as he exited the elevator, but she remained on for a different floor. The doors were shutting when his cane shot through the space between them to hold them open and he asked, "Was it good for you too?" He saw the shock on her face and the almost instantaneous blush that rose to her cheeks and he added, confidently, "Thought so," before he disappeared.
He showed up at six-forty, only a few minutes late. Their dinner was much like the night before, except, surprisingly, a bit more relaxed. He avoided any blatantly sexual comments, their flirtation was subtle and more romantic than lewd. This time, when Cuddy put Rachel to bed, House did the dishes. Cuddy stared at the empty kitchen counters with disbelief.
She marched into the living room so decisively that he thought maybe she was angry. Just before she took her spot on the sofa she said, "I can't believe you did that. Thank you."
"I didn't want to throw you off schedule. I know you lost valuable hours last night."
"I didn't mind," she answered almost immediately.
"Well, since the dishes are done, you have extra time for work."
"I didn't bring any home. I thought we were…hanging out."
"We are. But, this is the time allotted for work on the schedule. So, I guess we should at least talk about work."
They spoke about work, mostly telling stories and remembering a few moments of greatness, particularly ones that they shared. Later, he reminded her it was time for her to read. He was insistent that they follow her normal schedule, to the point that she was certain he was being an ass, but he picked up a book from her shelf and sat in one corner of the sofa while she sat in the other and they both read.
When it was almost ten, he asked what time she usually meditated. He insisted that they do that as well, since he was a 'man of his word' and had agreed to such an 'insanely over-structured experimental lifestyle.'"
Cuddy dimmed the lights, putting on some soothing environmental sounds that made House sneer and she sat on the floor near the fireplace while the fire he lit shortly before dinner was quickly fading. Cuddy gave some quick instructions, at first hesitantly, but then, when he didn't mock her, more comfortably. He was quiet, but he certainly wasn't meditating. He just watched her. He watched her face in a state of calm, the easy strength of her body, and he found her peace was a little contagious. Maybe he was meditating.
When she was done, she asked how he felt and he replied, his voice low and rough, "Fine."
She sat a cushion away on the sofa and asked, "So, do you feel suffocated by my schedule yet?"
"Not yet. I'm just not sure what to do. You said you like to shower by 10:30. It's," he looked at his watch, "it's 10:25."
"Well…this is the wild portion of my night," she teased, "there are five minutes when I can do…anything I want."
"Anything?" he volleyed back, "I'm terrified by the concept of a few unstructured moments."
Cuddy picked up her phone and took a few seconds to set it, turning the display to him so he could see the timer set on her phone. The seconds and milliseconds were quickly flicking away. "Times a'wasting, House," she teased, "enjoy the freedom while it lasts."
He turned toward her, watching her phone for a second before he looked at her with a blank expression. "OK," he answered.
"Four minutes left," she jokingly taunted.
When he didn't banter back, she was a little confused, and then he reached out with his hand and touched the side of her face. The ends of his fingers curved around the back of her neck and his thumb was along her jawline just below her ear. She looked a little frightened, a little hesitant and quite hopeful. The next few seconds were painfully full of possibility, but he didn't move quickly. She had nothing but time to remove his hand, to get up and walk away, to whisper the simple word 'stop' to him, but she didn't.
He leaned closer, slowly, still without the slightest sense of urgency, so neither could claim the events took them by surprise. She waited for the press of his lips to hers, but found his tongue and upper lip surrounding her bottom lip first. A tiny whimper left her body, a reaction that came so easily from a simple fucking kiss, and she felt him reacting just a bit more devotedly at the sound. As soon as she accepted her whimper, accepted her easy reaction to the feeling of his mouth, her hesitation fell away. There was no other touch but his hand on her face and the places where their mouths met. His head swam just a bit at the feeling of her stuttered breaths and the sensation of her tongue flicking along his lower lip at the first available opportunity.
Their mouths sealed together as their kiss deepened, a strange combination of slow exploration and desperate longing. She waited for his hands to move, to pull her body against his, for his hands to roughly grab her ass and show his desire, but they just kissed. There was no other touch, no feeling of his thumbs against her nipples or his ribs under her fingertips or his hands surrounding her hips.
The entire four remaining minutes elapsed and Cuddy's phone beeped when the counter reached zero. She didn't want him to leave, she dropped the phone without silencing the alarm and both of her hands went to his face. She was increasing the depth and pace of the kiss. His thumb caressed her jawline but it was still the only place where he touched her, his fingers tickling softly along her neck, and he slowly backed away. It was clear from his expression that he didn't want to, but he did. He picked up her phone from her lap, his fingers touching the tops of her thighs where the phone fell. "Sorry," he said with sincerity, holding the phone up so she could read the display, "you're two minutes behind schedule."
"House," she answered, prepared to tell him that schedules be damned.
"See you tomorrow."
He stood to leave, offering a little smile before he left her home and disappeared into his car.
-Thursday-
The next morning, she wondered again when she would see him, and already made plans to keep an eye on him from afar, but he was waiting for her in the parking garage. The two of them walked side-by-side to the elevator. "So tonight…," she began.
"Tonight. What time?"
"So you like it? You like the routine?" she asked, her voice half teasing and half flirting. "If you're coming back again, I can only assume it's because…you're enjoying the routine."
"Initially I thought that too," he replied, "but my favorite part of the routine wasn't the routine part. It was the four minutes of free play…and the two minutes after that…the two minutes of your regularly scheduled time I stole."
"Tonight. Six-thirty," she answered, smiling.
As they walked through the main doors to the hospital she took a few steps toward her office, but looked back and said, "You're right…about those few minutes of free time." He smirked, knowingly, preparing a response, and then she interrupted his thoughts, "Have nice day."
That night he never made it over for dinner, but he did call. His case had become more urgent, the patient was not doing well, so they agreed to try dinner again the next day. Cuddy was surprised exactly how much she missed him being there. At 10:23 there was a soft tapping on her door. She answered, dressed in her casual, after work clothing, finding exactly who she expected to find on the other side.
She stepped back, gesturing for him to enter, "Finish your case?"
"I think so. Waiting to see how he responds to treatment," he answered while he shut the door.
"You hungry?" she offered in an oddly familiar way that sort of stunned him.
Stunned or not, he reacted, calmly leaning his shoulder against the wall next to where she was. "I realized that you might have a few free minutes around this time."
She nodded, "I do."
"I didn't want to leave you alone with so many unstructured minutes. Dealing with unstructured time is a specialty of mine."
Leaning down a little closer, he nudged her nose with his and then waited, watching her. She moved toward him, lifting to allow their lips to meet for a few seconds. When they parted she explained, "It's good you're here, I was desperately trying to figure out what to do."
He watched her, patiently allowing the scene to unfold. He could see the questions flying through her mind. He made the drive over and stopped in to visit, he was certainly flirting and he still looked like he was going to kiss her again, but what she wanted was for him to slam her up against the wall or drag her into her bedroom, she wanted some sort of powerful display of passion that was not forthcoming.
And then he kissed her again.
There was no slamming of bodies, but it was the same, devoted, toe-curling kiss from the night before. She heard that same fucking whimper-like sound come from deep within her body, but this time, it broke his cool. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her flush against his body. She sighed when they parted just enough to breathe, "Thank god."
As he heard the words, he pulled her even closer because her reaction chipped away at his carefully controlled response. The kiss became needier, rougher, more raw, and then when they broke again, he said calmly, while he looked at his watch, "I gotta go, are we good for tomorrow or do you have other plans?"
"We're good for tomorrow," she answered, "you don't have to go."
"I don't want to mess up your schedule," he replied with one more soft kiss. "I'm learning from your masterful time management skills."
She was so frustrated, confused and turned on that she wanted to scream. If the responsibilities of motherhood did not demand that she remain in her home, she would have followed him back to Wilson's apartment or even the hospital and demanded answers to the million questions she had. Of course there were two problems with that, primarily, she did have a child that she needed to stay home with, and secondly, even if she could get to him and force him to answer her questions, she wasn't even really sure what her questions were.
Violating her own ritual even in his absence, she dropped into bed before her shower, she grabbed her vibrator from her nightstand and removed as little clothing as possible to get the job done. She couldn't hear past her rapid heartbeat, through the whooshing sounds in her mind, and she definitely couldn't concentrate with the persistently nagging twinge between her legs. She sighed the moment that she could feel the vibrations of the toy against her body, but there was no desire for a leisurely journey, she just needed to come so she could figure out what in the hell she was going to do.
Her attempts to respond to the need he created were soon obviously known to be insufficient, because even after coming she still ached for him. While she showered she felt that tension build again, felt the thudding pulse of her nerves when she would move, felt the slipperiness of her aroused response to him continue to taunt her in spite of the moments she took to find relief. After another hour of nearly fruitless thought and consideration, her exhausted mind finally found a fitful sleep.
-Friday-
He did not come in to work the next day, half of his team went home to sleep while the other half monitored the patient. The case was solved and from what she could determine, after he left her place he went back to the hospital where he remained until nearly sunup. Part of her was so angry about the fact that he was probably sleeping peacefully without a care in the world.
She left work promptly at five and went directly to Wilson's apartment. Panicking a bit when he didn't immediately answer the door, she grabbed her phone to call, but heard an artificially polite cough behind her. "Hey," she said nervously when she found him behind her.
"It's 5:20," he teased, "is this on the schedule?"
"Today's Friday," she replied, stepping back so he could unlock the door.
"So?"
"So Friday's different. My mom is watching Rachel on Friday nights."
"OK, so what does Friday's amended schedule look like?" he asked, taking a few steps into Wilson's apartment.
Cuddy looked around, casually taking her coat off after he impatiently waved her into the apartment. "Umm…I don't know," she began, looking unbelievably uncertain, "House…," she began then stalled out.
"Oh great," he sighed, "the case was over, I was there all night. The team was monitoring him and he's fine."
"It's not about work," she shook her head.
"Oh," he answered, shifting awkwardly, awaiting what he considered a nearly inevitable shutdown of the flirty little game they had been playing.
"The thing is that this is the first weekend Mom is keeping her. I'm a bit…schedule-less."
He turned, one eyebrow raising while he awaited more information. "Such tragedy," he replied without empathy, "Will you survive?"
She giggled silently for a second before she wrinkled her nose, nodded her head and made a confession, "Well, you were so good at helping me manage those uncertain moments in my day yesterday. I thought…"
His eyes shifted away and back to her, and then he considered it like it was the most arduous task ever put before him. "I guess I could be persuaded to use my ability to cope with free time."
He flopped down onto the sofa after grabbing a pen and an envelope. Flipping the envelope over, he began to draw a graph and what looked like attack plans, and he began to mumble about her predicament like he was going to battle while she walked over and sat on the sofa next to him. His eyes lifted from the drawing and he asked "How much free time are we talking here…I'm good but I'm not that-"
Her lips finally shut him up. He was still holding the pen between his fingers and sat up a bit as he whispered, "I didn't plot this all out yet."
Pushing him back, she slid onto his lap, her knees bracing her weight next to each of his hips. His wrists came to rest on each of her upper thighs but his hands were passively resting. "Stop teasing me," she answered before she tugged his lip between her teeth.
"Me?" he scoffed with disbelief. "I am teasing you?"
"You know you are," she nodded, "showing up and kissing me like that and leaving."
His fingers spread, almost like he was trying to stop them but was unable, and opened flat on her outer thighs. He was softly rubbing along her legs. "What about that text?"
"What text?" she questioned with attempted naïveté.
"You know what text. What did you think my reaction to that was going to be?"
Tracing her fingers along the upper part of his chest she avoided his gaze for a moment and then looked up, almost innocently, "I don't know."
"You do know," he asserted as his fingers lifted her shirt just enough to show the waistline of her slacks and the lower part of her belly. His fingers were exploring the soft skin and toying with the line of fabric that separated what was exposed from what was covered.
"Did you?" she asked, reaching down to the hem of his tee shirt and lifting it to near his mid torso. Her hands were rubbing all along his sides and lower abdomen.
He cleared his throat a little, trying to maintain focus when she shifted back just a bit in his lap. "Did I what?"
"Did you…you know?"
"Sorry, Cuddy, I don't-"
She shook her head with frustration and interrupted, "Did you go home and get yourself off at the same time that I did?"
"Oh that!" he answered with a smirk, his hands moving upward so that they were surrounding her ribs, his thumbs rubbing along the lower swell of her breast.
"Yes. That," she replied, pressing down into his lap a bit more.
He pushed up toward her, unable to stop the reflex or the small groan the resulted from the contact. He nodded quickly, "Of course I did. What did you expect?"
"I don't know what I expected, but the thought was kind of hot." Her breath became unsteady when his thumbs skimmed over her nipples.
"Thinking about you is always hot."
She smiled immediately at the compliment before she pulled his shirt off, and then her own, tired of waiting for him to remove it.
"Relax," he warned, "we aren't allowed to go to the next step for eight more minutes. Check the tentative schedule I drew up."
"You are such an ass. What do you want, you want me to say that schedules and routines and agendas suck?"
He gently pinched both still-covered nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. "That would be a good start."
"I felt so bad about the text," she sighed softly while he continued to touch her, his expression still as close to innocent as he would ever get. "And then you show up and kiss me, just to torment me?"
"Partially. And maybe I felt like kissing you."
"Did you?" she asked, unhooking her bra. The garment only remained in place because his hands still cupped her breasts. "Eight minutes is a long time to wait."
"Probably seven now."
He let go of her breasts long enough to fully remove the bra, but his hands went back to her thighs and then to her hips, holding her in place against him. She could feel by the way he held her hips that he was fighting the urge to cast calm pacing to the side and fuck her without any further thought. He was looking less innocent and more frustrated, even through his attempts to hide it.
"Let's think of ways to waste seven minutes," she suggested, moving forward, putting her breasts right in front of his face.
His arms wrapped around her body and he pulled her closer, resolve dissolving faster than he could even monitor. He grumbled unhappily when she pulled back. Reaching between them, she loosened his belt buckle, casually opening his jeans while she kissed him. When she finally started stroking his length, he was happily relieved for a moment until his expression quickly became almost pained.
"Five more minutes? I'll just…keep doing this until time's up," she suggested.
"You can't do that for the next five minutes," he commented, his voice tight and occasionally hitching. "It would be the sexual equivalent of being completely parched and standing next to a glass of water without taking a sip…for weeks. Torture."
She smiled, "Too bad we're on your schedule today, otherwise you could take a sip."
"You're convincing me that I don't like schedules? I'm the one who already didn't like them," he griped, opening the button and lowering the zipper on her slacks. He unceremoniously shoved his hand into her pants, watching victoriously as she squirmed and gasped from the feeling of his hand. He pulled her hand away from him and put it against to her breast. "I'm gonna be really disappointed if I come in your hand," he argued.
She bit her lip, her brow furrowing under the pleasantness of the stimulation, and he realized after a second that she probably didn't care if she came on his hand because she could be happily coming again a few minutes after that. So he waited until her mouth opened wider, she was gasping, moaning weakly and she sighed, "Oh yea," between sharper breaths as she was finally getting closer to the moment she wanted. And he removed his hand.
She looked disappointed and sad, but he stood her up in front of him and helped her step out of her slacks, which she readily did because her desire remained alongside her frustration. And then he started pulling his jeans from his body. Once they were removed she immediately straddled him. Just before she could sink down onto him, he tried to hold her still again. She could feel him just at her entrance and she practically cried, "No, don't!"
He snickered a bit, he wished he wasn't already so lost and pained with need, because he would have been so arrogant about the whole thing but he had so little control left.
"Don't you want me?" she asked, almost sadly, and he tilted his head, feeling his heart pulled into the game even more than it already was.
"I want you so bad," he confessed, "I just want you to admit that the thought of having sex with me is so much better than sticking to your routine."
"Oh god yes," she nodded and then inhaled loudly as he pulled her down onto him and she added, "I hate schedules." She lifted away and dropped back down onto him, "Routines too. Screw any sort of…time management."
He had no banter left, no reserves of control, no games left to play. They hastily dropped down onto the floor, awkwardly lowering themselves down because the sofa felt like it didn't have enough room for them both. She immediately wrapped her legs around his waist as he was hovering over her, seconds later pushing into her body with no comprehension of a world beyond the two of them. The coffee table was pushed away from them by someone's arm at some point, a glass of water that was on it tipped onto a pile of Wilson's magazines, soaking the pages through and dripping onto the floor. They completely lost sight of the fact that they were in Wilson's apartment, on the floor, spilling water and making a great deal of noise that did not go unnoticed by the neighbors, but they never forgot who they were with for a second.
They didn't manage to break any records for length of time, although in all consideration they actually started that encounter about three days earlier. They did manage, in the midst of pawing hands, rough gropes, and desperate fucking, to come together practically screaming each other's names. Cuddy was sighing and still moaning in a way that left him wondering if he could actually stay hard for days on end, as long as she kept sounding like she did.
She smiled her appreciation until she realized that the loud banging they heard was the downstairs neighbor pounding on his ceiling to make his discontent known. "Sorry," she whispered to House, rolling them so she could rest on top of his frame.
"Don't be sorry. Don't apologize for that."
She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder in a particularly affectionate way that he immediately knew he liked, so he held her closer.
"I got you to agree that routines are dumb," he gloated.
"Shut up," she smirked against his skin.
"Does that mean you're giving them up? You're abandoning fake organized freedom for actual freedom?"
"Not at all."
"But you said-"
"I know what I said."
"So you lied."
"I can promise," she said with cautious thought, "that I will completely ignore all schedules and routines while we are having sex. I'll even completely ignore them every Friday after work until mid-afternoon on Saturday. That is…if you're available to help me during these rudderless hours."
"I'll be happy to rudder you during those hours. What about the rest of the time?"
"Oh, I'll do my best to organize, plan and configure nearly every other hour of the week. Think you can handle it?"
"Has this lesson taught you nothing?" he asked, tightening his arms around her while he buried his smile against the top of her head and sighed. "Guess I'll just keep teaching until you finally get it right."