Mismatch
By Jules
Rating: PG
Synopsis: Totally spoilery. House and Cuddy dance. Cuddy POV. 6.7
A/N: I really can't wait until Monday, so this is just my take on what might happen when House and Cuddy dance. Thanks for reading and reviewing!
"1980s!" Cuddy exclaimed as she spotted him across the dance floor. House was fully garbed in a 1780s coat, waistcoat, an incredibly frilly shirt and tuxedo pants that were hiked up into breeches. He stood out like a sore thumb with his white-powdered wig, annoyingly opposed to protocol and simple instruction, a non-conformist till the very end.
But most nagging to her despite his ridiculous, out-of-place costume, he looked good.
A moment of panic flashed across his face, and she was hard pressed to wonder if it was an honest mistake or if House was just screwing with her. She closed the distance between them, blaming the volume of Van Halen's Hot For Teacher blaring from the Sony speakers.
Forced proximity.
Right. She knew it was her fault, he knew nothing and honestly, she didn't have the heart to tell him that his incessant flirtation was no longer appropriate (not that it ever was), and yet she did nothing to stop the train wreck from happening. She grasped for the railing, holding on until the very second before they were both inevitably thrown off.
He leaned down, invading her space, and his grin spread wide, a fool to no one. "Apostrophe 8-0 is not specific to any century. A roomful of PHDs and no on thunk to question the dress-code."
"Because they all have common sense."
"Maybe. But they don't know your penchant for men in stockings, now do they?" He sashayed a bit, and she couldn't help but grin at his cocky, long-term knowledge.
"How much did you pay to rent those pants?" She brushed her hand across his hip, and she mentally slapped herself as she saw his eyes flicker. She had been so careful, so conscious not to touch him since he came back.
Damn those stockings.
"I got them out of Wilson's suitcase," he said proudly.
She screwed her lips. "That explains his unwitting absence."
"Damn. You should see Wilson do Thriller." He nipped at her exposed shoulder with his pointer and thumb, taking the unspoken permission to touch full speed ahead. "That does limit our dancing partners, now doesn't it?"
"I was aiming for Mr. T before you showed up," she said dryly, trying to veer the conversation back to safer ground.
House eyed the gynecologist from Hartford dressed as Mr. T. "Don't let me stand in your way. I pity the fool that stamps on your dance card."
"Shut up." She pushed his chest, laughing despite herself.
House grinned roguishly, emboldened as he pulled a slip of paper out of his chest pocket. "Damn. Would you look at this? Your card is full, Cuddy."
"What are you talking about? There are no cards! Let me see that." She snatched the paper out of his hand. Her heart pounded as he watched her reaction like a hawk, and that's when she knew: he had planned this. All of this. "House. House. Doctor 'o Love. House. The daddy of my girls—House!"
"What? I got bored in the car," he shrugged, his eyes bright and hopeful.
She swallowed. This was House pursuing her. Actively.
She didn't know whether to be panicked or angry, and she couldn't be excited.
"I'm not dancing with you all night."
"Too bad. Your dance card says—"
"You made this out of Wilson's prescription pad! It doesn't count….and it's not period," she said lamely.
"It's my period. What if I bat my lashes?" He took her hand.
"No."
"Do extra clinic hours."
"….no."
"I'll leave you alone for the rest of the conference." He pulled her closer, lacing his fingers behind her waist. He silently pleaded, pressing her hips gently with his hands.
"For one dance?" She placed her arms on his shoulders. She always forgot how tall he was, but when he held her, she remembered that he was indeed a man. Despite his limp, he led; there was no fight for dominance or control. When he held her, she let him and reveled in being the woman in his arms.
"One dance." He nodded as Cyndi Lauper's voice filled the room.
"You are ridiculous." He pulled her closer, the intimacy of dancing awkward and familiar. She tried not to laugh as a myriad of sensations washed through her. His body was taunt, his hands still and nervous against her waist.
She could feel his heartbeat.
She dared to look up at him, the awkwardness fading into bare longing.
"Yeah. But we're finally dancing," he whispered.
"Oh." The song was already halfway over. There had been no crash; only a tragic, hard fall that she would pretend hadn't happened afterward. She was selfish, and she would steal the moment for as long as it lasted. She leaned closer, letting her chin rest against his chest. She felt his lips in her hair, and she closed her eyes. "Do you remember…."
He pressed his hand against her lower back, and it didn't matter that they were mismatched, dancing in different centuries, never together at the same time. "Yes."