Cuddy is alone by the time he arrives, the last echoes of the party dying away even as his motorcycle roars up her street. He comes to her like this often, a thief in the night, set to steal her resolution to hate him tomorrow. His eyes will be wide and clear, deceptive, and she will allow him in despite the hurt he will inevitably present. Because his nearness is enough to ease one pain in the form of another.
She waits for his knock, waits for him.
~*~
She doesn't bother with formalities. Why are you here, why are you late, why didn't you stay away? They know the answer to all of the above, and that is the problem.
Because of you, because of you, because of you.
They both stare into the last of the merlot in her glass, watching the reflection of the dying fire. He is slumped carelessly across from her, his cane propped beside him as though he may need to flee at any moment.
She realizes, belatedly, that his gaze has shifted and his eyes are following a dangerous line along her curves. She can almost feel the caress over her knee, swirling down her calf to her ankle. He surprises her by lifting his cane, tracing the contour of her toes with a nudge. She abandoned her shoes long ago, and she knows he is fascinated by this small vulnerability. She is sufficiently mellowed by the wine not to care if he is planning to exploit it, because she has decided if he doesn't...she will. A decision made at the roar of his bike, the emptiness of her home, the void beside her as she presented her baby to her family. She doesn't need a husband, Rachel doesn't need a father.
But she knows, as she has known nothing else, that like it or not, they will both need House.
~*~
Minutes tick by with mumbled small talk, inane jabs, the soothing timbre of his voice making her drowsy. There is a lull between her gentle recriminations and his half-hearted barbs when she surprises him by standing abruptly. His arm sweeps out instinctively to catch her should she wobble.
"I'm not drunk," she sighs, catching his fingers in hers and tugging. His eyes narrow as he calculates, takes in her still-sharp gaze, tousled hair, creased suit. There is, not surprisingly, a stain that looks suspiciously like baby vomit on her shoulder. He gives to her pressure with surprising ease, and it is he that stumbles into her. He could blame the leg, but that would be a lie. He is intoxicated by the look in her eye. Distant, hungry...calm.
Expectations of this moment have always been inextricably tied with pain, anger or loss. Perhaps even defeat or surrender. Never had he imagined (and yes, he had imagined often) this calm, comfortable acceptance. Acerbic remarks melt on his tongue as she leads him down the dark hallway. He shuffles unevenly, as they are both unwilling to break the tenuous connection of their hands. His left in hers, fingers not twined but touching. Promising.
He is so focused on the end goal, the bedroom at the end of the hall, that he walks into her when she stops quickly, pushing at Rachel's door. His hand reaches around her waist to steady himself, her own hand on the doorjamb. She turns in his embrace, curling her fingers against the back of his neck, nails raking gently into his hair. She tugs him forward. Her touch anchors him and he can't look away from the razor's edge look in her eyes.
"This isn't because of her," She whispers, although Rachel is a sound sleeper. "It's not in spite of her, either."
She stares him down as he registers her words. She is not asking of him something they both know him completely incapable of giving. Not his blessing, his approval or even his acceptance. Her hands continue their trek until with feather-light traces she covers his eyes with her thumbs. The touch of her lips to his is thrilling, and he is blindly following her lead.
When had his presence become enough, he wonders. When had her standards become so impossibly low?
~*~
He is adorably reticent and out of place in her bedroom doorway. He even has the temerity to look abashed, as though completely surprised by her boldness. Somehow her shirt has become unbuttoned (his fingers, she will learn soon, are nimble and gifted) and his gaze is hovering in its usual locale. She doesn't bother to close it, or make any attempt at modesty.
"So. You just want me for my body?" He is almost incredulous, speaking to her breasts.
She knows the joke is meant to break the ice, but there is a part of her that wonders what happened to this man to make him believe that nobody could want him for him. Not everything can be attributed to the leg, no matter what he tried to make the world believe.
"No." His eyes widen and he lists away from her. "And yes. She sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her legs, nodding to the empty space beside her. When the mattress dips under his weight, she continues. "I didn't lie when I said you were a part of my life."
"I know."
"I didn't lie when I said I wanted you here. Nor when I said I didn't want you here."
"Covering the bases."
"So to speak." Silence reigns and she shifts into him, propping herself against his should so she can have the strength for this. It is late, and desire is a distant but insistent buzz. But they can't go forward without this, and if they don't start building up momentum they're just going to fall away. "Everything about you is a contradiction, House. I can't stand you, I can't stand for you not to be here."
They list towards each other, and when it is time for them to back away, they don't.
"Stay."
His face is impassive, save for the muscle ticking in his jaw. "Tonight?"
"For starters."
And then? he thinks, but doesn't ask.
"For as long as we can stand it. Let's start with tonight." She grins when his fingers begin tripping up the ladder of her ribcage, ever closer to what she knows he deems the promised land.
"I don't have time for artifice or small-talk."
"Or blind dates." He chimes helpfully, his attention span already waning and she nods.
"To get to know someone. You don't make room for many people around you, around me. Besides, I already know you." Her nose bumps his gently. "And I like you."
Against her better judgment, rationality, good sense...He can't really believe she's said it. After weeks of games of chicken and a raucous tango of lust and hate, she just lays it between them. A fact, simple and unequivocal.
"And you like me too." Not a question, nor a hint of smugness. Another fact that he can't refute. He is unwilling to sully this moment with a lie.
Her palm flattens against his chest, pressing, and he tumbles beneath her.
He knows, as she hovers above him dangerous and beautiful, that he is not finished falling.
End 1/1