A/N: Hey, it's Sharky again! I know that I shouldn't start ANOTHER fic when I haven't finished my first one…but this is actually just a collection of Huddy drabbles/one-shots (probably all AU) that I will add to whenever I have a little idea that's not worth expanding. I call it drama but it's random. Some angsty, some romance-y, some…euh, who knows. So, as always, please tell me what you think, and ideas are always welcome!
Spaghetti
6.00 PM on the dot.
Time to go, House thought, putting on his coat. He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder and trekked to the elevator.
While waiting, House suddenly realised that he was hungry.
Well, no wonder; he usually leaves at 5.00 PM.
Wonder what's for dinner, he thought idly, pressing the button to go down to the main floor.
In truth, House wasn't actually going home.
He was going to Cuddy's.
They were still pretty new, so he didn't want to risk calling her place 'home' just yet.
But still, things had been great so far. He couldn't complain about anything, really. And at this point in his life, he wasn't looking for a fling. He tried to push it out of his head, but couldn't help but think that he and Cuddy were more or less permanent.
Maybe we'll call for take away, House thought, stepping out of the elevator.
But as he passed by Cuddy's office, he saw that she wasn't inside.
Which meant only one thing:
Cuddy was cooking dinner for them tonight.
He wouldn't admit it, but House was looking forward to dinner cooked by Cuddy.
Although not a five-star chef like Wilson tried to be, Cuddy knew her way around a kitchen like she knew her way around a hospital. Or around him , for that matter.
And sometimes, you just need a home-cooked meal.
House secretly hoped that they would be having spaghetti tonight.
He would openly admit that spaghetti was his favourite kind of pasta. But he was not so keen on admitting the reason why anymore.
It's not to say that dinner with Cuddy wasn't always nice; actually, it was about as much fun as dinner with Wilson, with the added bonus of Cuddy being his girlfriend.
They talked, bantered, and flirted; sometimes they'd eat in the living room and he'd make her watch a hockey match or monster truck rally on the television with him.
But when they had spaghetti , dinner was significantly different.
Instead of sitting in the dining room or in front of the TV, they'd sit together at the small table in the kitchen. It was a little cramped, admittedly, but it was cozy and they'd talk in almost-whispers just because.
They'd always have red wine with dinner and at sometime during the meal, his hand would creep over and accidentally land on hers and stay there. Not that she minded.
Just because he thoroughly enjoyed this experience, it didn't mean he was a romantic, or at least, that's what House told himself as he mounted his motorcycle and pulled out of the car park.
He sped off in the direction of Cuddy's house. Enjoying an experience that could be classified as 'romantic' didn't mean that he was romantic, right? Of course not.
He continues to tell himself this, all the way to Cuddy's house.
He parks his bike and makes his way to her front door.
He opens the door with his key, the one Cuddy gave him willingly.
As he hangs his coat on the rack, he can see Cuddy moving about in the kitchen, and he can already smell dinner cooking.
House smiles.
It's spaghetti.