A/N-This is a short story (3-4 chapters). It was written to the prompt "Cuddy redecorates the nursery after the episode 'Joy.'" Although the prompt has definite angsty potential, this is a pretty light one. Also, I'll warn those who were hoping for a baby/kid fic, this is not that kinda story.
I still don't own the characters.
-Unfriendly-
House came back, a little tipsy, grudgingly worried and, as always, curious. When he rode by, her home looked mostly dark, but the hint of light that stopped her windows from being completely black called to his attention. Once inside, he saw boxes taped up near the door, ready to be sent away. He found her where he'd expected to, in the pleasantly yellow-painted nursery. She was standing barefoot on the edge of a ladder, one foot firmly planted and one more precariously steadied as her toes hung onto the edge of a rung. There was a partially empty bottle of champagne, freckled with condensation, sitting on the floor near the door.
She wasn't alarmed by the intruder, but he assumed it was because she knew it was him. Who else would trespass in her home at that hour, limping across the creaking floor to pry? She didn't ask how he'd found the key for the back door. She didn't look at him or yell at him; she just kept scraping a putty knife across the wall to remove some sticky substance that was probably the last remaining evidence of a baby-appropriate decoration. She'd changed since he'd left, wearing only a white tank top and running shorts while she worked. He didn't say a word, simply waiting and watching. She certainly wasn't wallowing. If anything, she looked content in her work.
"Maybe this time you've come to gloat?" she suggested, not bitterly. She peered over her shoulder when he didn't answer, and added, sort of unconcernedly, "Or you don't feel like talking, and you've just come to gawk?"
He shifted more of his weight onto his cane as he looked around the room, but he still didn't speak.
"This is getting kinda weird, House, but if you really feel the need to stand there and watch me redecorate, be my guest. It's not like I could stop you," she noted.
He explained, "Your light was on."
"I didn't realize you'd take that as an invitation."
"It's almost three. Your lights are usually off by now. It was unexpected."
She stated, still without any signs of anger, "You chose to come here earlier, you chose when to leave, you chose to come back. It doesn't seem to matter what I want. And you know what I'm going to do about that? I'm going to accept it. The fact that you're choosing to stand here and watch me scrape adhesive off the wall is more of a testament to the state of your life than it is—"
"You chose to open the door for me earlier," he interrupted. "You clearly didn't try to stop me from leaving. You get to choose what happens now. If you want me to go, just tell me to go."
She stopped working again, pausing to look directly at his face, and said, clearly, "I want you to go. I'll see you at work tomorrow."
She was almost disappointed when he left the room, but she could hear him moving around in her kitchen, and a few minutes later he returned with two beers that he'd obviously taken from her fridge. Keeping both beers for himself, he took off his jacket and tossed it aside, leaning back against the wall and sliding down until he was seated on the floor. Legs outstretched, he took one look at her disapproving glare and answered, "You quite recently suggested that I like to negate things. Doesn't it feel good to be right?"
She faintly smiled and shook her head, replying, "In that case, I want you to stay."
He leaned his head back against the wall, implicitly refusing to leave. Glancing up at her, he lifted his brow and asked, "Aren't you going to support my attempt to negate less?" She breathed a laugh, but continued her work.
Cuddy wiped the back of her hand against her forehead, pushing a few slightly damp strands of hair from her face before she grabbed the glass of champagne from the top of the ladder and finished it. "Is your beverage purposefully ironic?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Champagne is traditionally a drink of celebration. The cheery sound of popping corks, the bubbles, the fizzy feeling, you know…hardly the choice for someone recently devastated."
"Then it's not at all ironic. I am celebrating."
"She changed her mind?" House asked, his mouth left slightly open with surprise.
"No. I changed my mind. I've been chasing this dream of normalcy, and I'm just…not normal."
"You had one bad day," he griped.
She paused and then answered, "If you had a patient who came into the clinic who told you she usually feels great, but every time she eats strawberries, she gets a horrible rash followed by nausea and vomiting. What would you tell her to do?"
"See an allergist."
"No. That's what most clinic doctors would say. What would you say?"
"Stop eating strawberries," he admitted. "What's your point, Cuddy?"
"Every time I try to do this, I get hurt. Kids, family, that whole cluster of things in people's personal lives that seems to elude me. I need to accept my strengths and weaknesses. You are fine with being a bachelor. You've accepted that you just aren't in need of the typical family. Acceptance is a healthy thing. Maybe I should learn to enjoy what I have."
"You want the highlight of your day to be sitting at home in the evening, eating pizza and drinking whiskey in nothing but a pair of boxers?"
"Maybe not that exact scenario, but that's the general idea. Embrace the present. Appreciate what I have and respect who I am."
"I, for one, would really enjoy watching you drink whiskey wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, so feel free to stop by and join me, but that's not what you want."
"I do yoga every day, and yet I seem completely unable to find acceptance in the moment and simply be mindful of what is. That's part of it…'being present in the present.' My old instructor used to say that. It's hypocritical not to. I think I feel more at peace with my life tonight than I ever have. I think this is a turning point for me. Can you hand me that bottle?" she asked, pointing to the champagne.
He could have reached it, it was right next to him, and then handed it up to her without moving from his spot, but he saw an unsteadiness in her legs as she went back to work that was probably the result of too little food, complete exhaustion, and a touch of alcohol to top it off. "Ladders and additional alcohol are contraindicated," he explained.
She scowled, dryly replying, "Pretty please may I have my bottle."
"Probably time to quit working for tonight." She didn't listen, carefully filling a hole left behind in that section of wall. She wasn't really interested in taking his advice on the matter. He stood, grabbing the bottle and stepping closer. He waited behind her, holding out the champagne, but when she reached for it, he pulled it away, saying, "You can have it, but you're done playing Renovation Wonder Woman for the night."
"Let me finish this section."
"You want to be a bachelor? I'm your greatest resource, so let me advise. We don't repair walls in the middle of the night because we don't have women nagging us to do it. Time to get down."
She asked, with a knowing tone, "Are you worried about me?"
"Never. This is another area of expertise. You're gonna get a concussion if you keep swinging around on there. They aren't fun."
She didn't come down, so he pinched the fabric at the back of her tank top and pulled down until she stepped off the ladder and onto the floor. He insisted, "We can explore thoughts on bachelorhood with both feet on the ground."
Without moving from the spot, she said, "I don't understand why you came back, but I know why you came here earlier."
"Enlighten me," he answered in a way that would have intimidated most people, but certainly didn't daunt her.
"Because today something happened in my life that wasn't about you. It was supposed to be about me and that baby. You weren't involved. And you couldn't stand that. You hate it when something in my life isn't about you. You mock every choice I've made that involves even the possibility of starting a family. You criticize my choice of cars and you actually followed me to an open house because the place was farther from the hospital. You want everything in my life to revolve around you."
She waited for a fight or denial. His face was crinkled while he thought, but he wasn't quick to answer. "There's a flaw in your theory."
"You don't really care about what I do with my life?" she guessed.
He shook his head, "Sometimes you want me to be involved. You left a newspaper open on your desk with an ad circled when you went to that open house. You put mysterious things on your schedule when you have things you're trying to hide from me…a schedule that you know I will look at. And you made sure I knew about that adoption. You put just enough information out there so it looks like I'm an amazing detective who pries through your life, but you want me to know. You want me to show up. I'm sure you wish it wasn't true, and maybe you're not even doing it consciously, but these are the facts."
"Maybe I do. Sometimes I confuse whatever this is with friendship."
They were stalled, paused at an impasse that seemed annoyingly persistent, so she turned back to the ladder and grabbed some paint samples, asking, "Which color do you think would be best in here? I'm making it a yoga-meditation room, so something calming."
He stared at her for a few extra seconds, turning his head toward the samples before allowing his eyes to follow. He grabbed her wrist, lifting it closer to his eye level so he could see the colors fanned out in her hand, and he pulled one from the bunch and turned it around so she could see it. She examined his choice for a moment before she put it back in the pile with the others, selecting a different color entirely. "I'm going with this one," she stated. "I guess negating must be contagious."
"Why didn't anyone else come here tonight? Why didn't anyone come to the hospital to congratulate you when you thought you were getting a kid?" he asked.
"Like who?"
"Friends, family? Where are they?"
"What's your point?"
"I'm not making a point, I'm asking a question. You didn't call anyone? Your parents didn't want to come see the kid they could potentially spoil? And then after you found out you weren't getting her, you were alone, miserable…no one offered to come here and commiserate? And now you're celebrating this turning point in your life and your newfound acceptance, and still you're alone."
"But I'm not alone," she answered.
"Which clearly doesn't disprove my earlier point. You want me to be involved."
She broke their stare, shrugging disinterestedly. "I'm doing fine."
"Completely redecorating the room to destroy the evidence that you almost had your own squirming blanketful of need is evidence that you're doing fine?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yup," she decisively answered.
She left the room, flicking off the light even though he was still standing there. When he followed a few seconds later, she was already sitting in her living room, watching TV. He stood in the opening to the living room while he flipped coins in his mind to decide if he should stay or go. Literally one foot was in her living room and one was in the foyer. Staying could be dangerous or fun or enlightening. Leaving would be safe and lonely. Both options carried the distinct possibility of second-guessing the path chosen. Ultimately he turned toward the door without a word, deciding that he better make it home before exhaustion won. He unlocked the door and began to open it when something pushed it shut again. He saw Cuddy's hand on the door and his eyes followed her hand up her arm as he turned toward her. "I thought I should head home," he stated.
"You've been drinking. And if you wreck your bike, I'll feel like shit."
"It's not your responsibility."
"But I'll feel like shit anyway. Stay here tonight."
He turned, the two of them again almost intolerably close. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that you sleep it off on my sofa. I'm asking you to do that. For me." He seemed to already be mentally walking out the door, so she played a higher card. "I don't feel like losing you today, too."
She wasn't asking or pleading, she was demanding, and for some reason he preferred that. He reengaged the lock on the door to show his agreement and offered a quick shrug of acceptance. He sat on one end of the sofa and she yanked a blanket off the back of her chair and tossed it at him. Throwing his jacket back on the floor and kicking off his sneakers, he glanced over at her and asked, "You're also sleeping it off on your sofa? Might get crowded."
"I'm watching the rest of this show, and then I'm going to my room. Think you can handle the crowd until then?"
He ignored the question, pressing his back into a comfy spot in the cushions and lifting his feet onto the ottoman. Cuddy wasn't even able to stay awake until the next commercial. She was softly snoring, curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her. House thought about getting up and going, actually turning to look in the direction of the door, but he was just as tired and the thought of putting his shoes back on and riding home was tedious at best. He reached behind his head and found a light switch on the wall, darkening the room except for the flickering television.
He closed his eyes to allow sleep to come, but his thigh muscle was wringing the relaxation from his body with each angry thump. It had only been two hours since his last Vicodin which, like all of his Vicodins as of late, was taken too soon after the previous one. There seemed to be no choice though, so he sat up and used his cane to hook his jacket and bring it closer. Sitting back after he grabbed his bottle, he started to open it when he saw Cuddy shift a little. For some reason he didn't want her to see him take one, probably because he wanted to avoid what he guessed was an inevitable conversation about his intake as of late.
She settled again, and he opened the bottle as quietly as he could and swallowed the pill. Keeping the bottle in his hand so he wouldn't have to find it again when he woke in two or three more hours, he tried to sleep. A sudden slap on his arm made him lift his head, and he saw Cuddy's hand slung over his wrist. Her hand was palm up, so she wasn't really holding onto him, her hand was merely prevented from falling onto the sofa because his arm was in the way.
Staring at it didn't do him any good because she wasn't awake to know the contact was unwelcome. His instincts to pull away kicked in, but just before he actually extricated himself from her, he changed his mind. His head rested again against the back of the sofa, but his eyes remained open as he fixated on that touch. It was as accidental and unconscious as possible, and it wasn't even remotely sexual, but the touch was intimate. Her hand on his arm became the momentary focus of his entire mind. Every other possible thought was supplanted by his need to think about something that to most people would be completely inconsequential.
He wondered why touching her had to be so problematic. He wondered why he didn't dislike it more. He wondered if her claim that she had hit a turning point was evidence that the person who had always seemed to have everything under control was finally snapping. He wondered if the entire night would be lost to this spiral of thought, and then he fell asleep.
House sort of wanted her to come to him to discuss bachelorhood. He watched her as much as possible while still keeping his distance because he was truly suspicious that she had hit a breaking point. She seemed good though. She wasn't any different at work. She showed up a couple of times after work to have a drink or two with him and Wilson, but she never stayed long or said much.
He even showed up at her place occasionally. One day she came home and found him sitting on the floor of the former nursery, evening the edges with a tiny paint brush. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"I needed something to do that didn't involve thinking so I could finally think," he answered while he kept working.
She didn't respond, but changed her clothes and returned to continue her work on the room. He sat there for hours, exchanging only a few necessary words before he stood, leaving his painting supplies on the floor and returning to the hospital.
The following Saturday he showed up on her doorstep shortly after he woke up. He'd seen an appointment on her calendar that simply said "Austin" for ten that morning. House managed to make it to her place at a few minutes after ten. Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door opened and he was face to face with a man he could only assume was Austin. The man didn't stay, nodding politely at House before continuing to his scooter. House watched disapprovingly while Austin strapped a bag onto the vehicle and carefully placed a shiny silver helmet over his thick blond hair before he took off. House watched the scooter disappear down the street as he heard Cuddy ask, "You coming in?"
House turned, tapping the bottom of his cane against his leg and asking, "Who's that? And why was he here before his appointment?"
She waved House inside, no longer surprised by either his presence or his knowledge of her life. "Oh, come on, your deductive skills are better than that."
"A personal trainer?"
"Yoga instructor."
"And he came an hour earlier than you had on your calendar? Just to mess me up? I'm flattered. Are you having sex with him?"
"What?" she scoffed.
"Oh, come on," he mimicked her earlier words, "your language comprehension skills are better than that."
"I understand the question, I'm just not sure why you think you can ask it."
"I'm not sure why you think I'd suddenly limit myself to questions I can ask. I'm just a friend looking out for another friend."
"You'd ask Wilson the same question?"
"Oh, I can guarantee if I saw that guy leaving Wilson's apartment, I'd definitely be asking some questions."
"I'd consider it," she admitted.
"You did see that he wears a mirrored helmet and rides a pale green scooter, right?"
"He's secure. Nothing wrong with that. I'm only saying that he's a potential option. I'm not interested in a relationship with him, so he's safe. He's somewhat attractive. There's an appointment book at his office that links him to me, so if he is a serial killer and he decides to bound and torture me until my untimely death, at least the police will be able to investigate and figure out who was at my home before it happened. Wiser than picking up a guy at a bar."
House stared, wide eyed, concerned and slightly taken aback. "Seriously?"
"I thought you'd appreciate the practicality."
"There are other practical options. If you're going to have a meaningless hookup, you could do better."
Cuddy asked confrontationally, "Have any suggestions?" She stepped closer, waiting right before him as she laid the challenge.
He pondered it, sensing the trap there before him. His indecision morphed into a blank expression, and then in one sudden movement he leaned down to her like he was going to kiss her. She backed up just a little, but her retreat was obvious, and so was his victory. She'd retreated more out of surprise than disinterest, but it was too late. She came back to her original spot, not advancing their closeness at all, but making a firm decision not to back away again. He came closer, so close that the tips of his stubble scratched her cheek but she never really felt his skin against hers. He moved his lips to her ear and whispered, "Called it." He pulled back, standing tall, watching her face as it flushed. "I'm not the only one who's all talk."
He sidestepped her and walked down the hall, leaving her momentarily alone in her spot. "Finishing up in here soon?" he called out from inside the redecorated room.
She turned in his direction, shaking her head as she tried to decode what had just happened. "I hope so," she replied as she began to walk toward his voice.
Nearly a week later he was snooping in her office. He had an excuse to be there, as he often did. He'd taken a photo of the new, higher coffee prices in the cafeteria, and also pictures of the new brand of coffee they were selling that he hated. At that point nearly everything annoyed him because his leg had kept him up for the last two nights, and the coffee felt like one more irritation in a long line of irritations.
While he sat at her desk reading email, his eyes saw a familiar blond standing outside of Cuddy's office. Looking more carefully to verify the visitor's identity, he felt a sense of anger that neared revulsion as he grabbed his cane, slapped down the lid to Cuddy's computer and charged toward the door. The young woman was talking to Cuddy's secretary and turned nervously when she heard the door swing open.
"What are you doing here?" House asked, hostilely.
"I'm here to see Lisa. I'm Becca," the girl sheepishly said.
"I know who you are. You're the one who gave a baby to Cuddy and then took it back after she made sure you and your kid lived. Convenient timing, wasn't it?"
"That's not what happened," she said, her voice growing whinier as she shied away from the confrontation.
"Why are you here?" he persisted.
"I wanted to thank her—" she began.
"The best way to show your thanks is to go away," he interrupted.
"And I thought maybe she'd like to see how the baby's doing. She's getting big," Becca said, lifting an infant seat to show him.
"Yes. That's absolutely fascinating," he sarcastically jabbed.
"I wanted to say thanks for all of the clothes and things she sent. That was nice. And…"
"And?"
"She told me she could take care of any bills from the hospital."
He scoffed, "So you wanted to come so Cuddy could pay your bill. You should have just said that." He held out his hand and impatiently waved for her to give it to him. When she didn't respond immediately, he ordered, loudly, "Give it to me."
She dug in her diaper bag and produced the envelope. He tugged it out of her hand, opening the folded paper and reading the bill. Cuddy's secretary took advantage of the break in conversation to say, "Dr. Cuddy will be back in a few minutes, if you'd like to take a seat."
"Seventy-eight dollars and fourteen cents?" he asked. "This is the only bill you've gotten?"
"I think so."
"Do you have any idea what your whole bill actually was?"
"I don't know."
"Of course you don't," he sneered. "Well, come on."
"Where are we going?"
"We're going to pay your bill." He turned to the secretary and threatened, "Don't tell Cuddy she was here."
He started limping quickly down the hall as Becca gathered her things and hurriedly followed. House didn't really wait for her to catch up while he went to the billing department. Standing at the window, he reached through and tapped the clerk on the shoulder. She was instantly flustered when she saw who it was. "Please don't reach in here, Dr. House," she corrected.
"This is urgent," he explained. "We have a gigantic medical bill here that must be taken care of." He shoved a credit card in the woman's face, watching her back away before she took it from him.
"Do you need a receipt?" the clerk asked while House reached back through to take the receipt and his card.
He turned to Becca and ordered, "Stay away from Cuddy. She doesn't need you dangling that kid in front of her face. She did you a favor because your actual medical bill would have bankrupted you."
Becca replied, "I know, she's very nice—"
"Nice? Cuddy is nice?" House blurted into the air, and then looked right into Becca's eyes. "The first big decision you made for that baby was the worst mistake of her life. Think about that while she's growing up. That kid would have had everything…good schools, a nice home and a mother who isn't a spineless coward. Congratulations, Mom. I guess it's probably a relief…knowing that you've already committed the biggest screwup of her life before she was a week old. Got that out of the way."
"Dr. House," the clerk admonished, "that's no way to talk to a patient."
A nurse came in from the side, scowling at House as she sweetly escorted Becca away.
"You're going to get fired one of these days," the clerk said, shutting the privacy window. She watched him while she picked up her phone, likely to make a call to Cuddy.
There was little he could do for damage control, and he guessed Cuddy was not going to be pleased with how he'd handled the situation, so he went and met his team in a large supply room in the basement to discuss their case. Within an hour she had found him there. From the stress lines on her face, he knew someone had gone to her. He hoped it wasn't Becca. He wasn't in the mood for talking about it with her though. "I need to speak to you," she said authoritatively to House.
"You want me to help choose a color for your next redecorating project since your meditation room is almost done?" he snidely answered.
House's whole team was interested in this conversation. Only Wilson really knew the two of them were meeting outside of work. Cuddy guessed immediately that House was doing this to silence her, figuring that she'd avoid any personal disclosures in front of employees. Instead she volleyed back, "What do you want to drink tonight? We should celebrate finishing one project before starting the next one."
House flicked the corner of a scan while he tried to figure out why Cuddy was just as willingly outing their weird friendship. "Balvenie. Aged at least seventeen years," he answered.
"Okay. Now we need to talk about Becca," she told House before turning to his team. "I'm assuming you all have something better to do?"
Thirteen and Taub both looked at House to see what he wanted them to do, both curious about what House had done to make Cuddy so upset. He signaled for them to go, but Kutner stayed, hoping to stay to witness the interaction. "Dr. Kutner?" Cuddy called.
"Yes?" Kutner asked, innocently.
"Apparently I've been too subtle. It's time to leave."
Kutner got up, disappointedly vacating his spot.
"So which one ratted me out?" House asked as he leaned against a shelf full of boxes of gloves.
"Which one? Try five. Five people in the last hour have contacted me about your behavior this morning. You were too hard on her," Cuddy answered.
"She's a pathetic excuse for a mother."
"You don't know that."
"Accepting handouts from the woman she stole a baby from is pretty fucking pathetic," he grumbled.
"She was scared, young, traumatized. So many hormones and emotions, the fear of death and failure and loss. She went through a lot," Cuddy sympathetically replied.
"And those hormones and emotions mean that you're responsible for her medical bills?"
"That was my decision to make."
"Because she needed the money to take care of the kid?"
Cuddy shrugged. "I convinced her to be treated here, and I had enough to pay the negotiated balance. I didn't want to think about it anymore. But it's over now. I saw Becca before she left and I saw her daughter. I didn't feel any connection to that baby. I told you, I am very content with my decision to embrace acceptance."
"You mean your commitment to abnormality?"
"I guess. How much do I owe you? She said you paid her bill."
"The scotch will cover it."
"Come over tonight to pick it up?"
"If I feel like it," he answered dismissively.
He was ridiculously late, even though they hadn't set a specific time. His case kept him at the hospital longer than he'd expected, but he was avoiding Cuddy. When he rode past her place near eleven that night, he decided to keep going and stop at his apartment. He made excuses in his head about why he needed to stay home: his leg hurt, he was tired, and he was irritated by her. Although all of his excuses were true, they weren't the real reason he was avoiding her.
She texted him once around midnight saying only: Do you have any idea how hard it is to find 17 y.o. Balvenie?
Without taking the time to think through his decision, he went back out to his bike and rode to her place. The lights were still on even though it was nearly one in the morning. She was sitting on the floor in her living room. Something chipper was coming from her stereo, and Cuddy's hands were drumming to the beat of the song. She smiled a silly, slow, drunken smile when she saw him. "Hey there, Dr. House," she welcomed. "Your wild-goose-chase single malt scotch is over here." Her hand reached around on the floor until she found a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. "You gonna come get it?"
He took a few steps into the room, sitting down on the sofa on a cushion near her and said, "Is drunkenness part of the whole yoga thing?"
"It is tonight," she grinned.
House looked around, "What would Austin the wonder-yogi think about the fact that you're shitfaced?"
"I really don't care." She shook her head, placing her arm flat on the cushion next to him and leaning her face on her arm. "You'd be so jealous if I had something going on with him."
"That would not be jealousy. That would be pity. "
"Do you like me? You do, don't you? Just a little?"
"If I did anything to give you that impression, I take it back."
"Why do you have to do this?" she groaned.
He reached over for his bottle, surprised that she had managed to get a hold of what he'd asked for so quickly. He opened it and took a swig. It was too nice a beverage to gulp from the bottle, but in that moment, he didn't care. "Do what?" he asked as the drink delightfully warmed its way down his throat.
"Act like you don't like me," she said, her irritation sobering her a little. "I'm not talking romance and everlasting love. I'm just talking about regular, human-to-human like that can occur with people who share common ground and just a little mutual admiration. You defended me. You told her that taking that baby away from me was the worst mistake she could make for her daughter. Three people heard you say that…besides Becca. You tried to keep her away so I didn't have to deal with her. So you did all of that stuff, but you don't even like me? Is that what you want me to believe?"
"Maybe I just wanted to tell her she's an idiot."
Cuddy sighed, resigned to the fact that this sort of conversation would never really be honest and direct between them. "Thank you for trying to protect me from getting hurt. You really are a good…," she stopped, apparently having an internal conversation that she wasn't going to share.
"I'm a good…?"
"Well, you aren't a friend."
"It's easy to see why you think I should like you," he mockingly countered.
"I didn't mean it like that. 'Friend' is just so…everyone says it. It's so casual. People use 'friend,' 'coworker' and 'acquaintance' interchangeably now. The word doesn't really mean anything. We're more than friends, aren't we? I'm not saying we're a couple or anything, neither of us want a relationship anyway, but to call us 'friends' seems like an understatement, doesn't it?"
"Oh god…you already bought the white dress," he teased.
"It's not like that," she groaned, sighing as she stood and tried to move gracefully to the edge of the sofa.
He stared down and ahead as he thought, rubbing his thigh with one hand and holding the bottle with the other.
Feeling like she needed to say something else before dropping the subject, she added, "You don't have to say anything because I know you like me, no matter what you say. I still appreciate that you defended me today. It was inappropriate, I hope you never, ever behave that way with a patient or former patient again. But on a personal level, I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good. So we aren't friends and we aren't dating, but whatever we are…I'm glad I have you."
She left the room, and he sat there for a while, thinking and swigging his scotch. He figured she went to bed when she'd tired of their conversation, but she returned with a bag of partially crushed pretzel sticks, a bar of expensive chocolate and a hefty plastic bottle of water. Sitting back on the sofa, she snacked on a few pretzel pieces before she held the bag out for him. He shook his head and took another sip of his drink. The room was so silent that he could hear her crunching on the pretzels as her unguarded words awkwardly remained unanswered. He wasn't sure if she sensed how uncomfortable the whole situation was making him, but mercifully she changed the subject. "Come see the room. It's pretty much finished," she said, bumping his arm with the back of an open hand.
She truly had transformed it. It had taken longer than it should have because of her work schedule and the demands of life. Although he'd been there often as the room had changed, he'd watched more than helped. A few times he'd done little things when he needed something to keep his hands busy, but mostly he sat or paced or rambled while she'd worked. The room was pale blue, and tranquilly decorated. A big fountain was in the corner, still in the box, so she could meditate to the sound of babbling water. The transformation of this room meant something to her.
"I think I need a room for relaxation, too. Wanna help me next?" he asked.
"You can use mine, if you want."
"I'm thinking something more suited to my lifestyle. Like an opium den. I'll get some blankets and you bring the opium."
She smiled, laughing tiredly. "Maybe the guys who delivered the fountain know where I can get some." The tension dropped a little, his face relaxing in his own version of a smile, and then she said with a hint of flirtation, "We really do deserve to relax. We both agree…we aren't normal. So what if our relationship, for lack of a better term, doesn't fall into a tidy little category, we should appreciate it for what it is. Have some…fun."
"Fun?"
"Yea. Fun. This weekend, We could go to the Crowne Plaza. You and me. My treat. You have my word that I won't tell a soul. Let's enjoy this friendship…we can be abnormal together, celebrate our freedom."
"Me?"
"Why not?"
"At a hotel?" he questioned.
She leaned closer, her eyes happy and playful, and she seductively whispered words that he knew he'd play in his mind over and over, "I'm tired of doing what I have to do. I'm tired of being good… Come be bad with me."
He didn't answer, considering her suggestion. It was obvious that she was really drunk. He knew that. And he knew he'd probably had a little too much as well. His brain was warning him to retreat, but there was that part of him that simply didn't want to turn her down.
She started to hesitate when he didn't respond, so she backtracked and said, "I put you on the spot. Look, I'll make it really easy for you. Take tonight and think about it. Send me a text tomorrow, a simple 'yes' or 'no.' No questions asked, no explanations. I'm completely exhausted, so I'm going to bed. Feel free to crash on the sofa if you want. I should get a pull-out sofa or a futon or something for the nights you stop over," she said with a warm smile. "Well, I'm beat. Good night."
He remained there for a few minutes, wondering exactly how drunk Cuddy had been to proposition him like that.
When Cuddy woke up the next morning, she remembered their conversation. She immediately felt a little concerned. It wasn't the end of the world if House didn't want to go along to the Plaza with her, but she wasn't sure if he was going to pull away if he felt they were getting too close. As much as she didn't enjoy the possibility of being rejected, she was more concerned with the prospect of losing the personal ground that they'd gained. He didn't answer her all day. As she was packing up her things to go home that evening, she felt her phone vibrate. She smiled as she read a simple message from him: Why not
She texted back: Tomorrow at four. I'll text you the room # when I check in.
Her door swung open two minutes later, and he poked his head into her office. He announced, "Finally you've set up a meeting worth adding to the PPTH meeting scheduler."
"Do not put that in the scheduler," she said calmly and professionally while she slipped her arm into her coat.
"Geez, I hope I can remember if it's not on the official calendar."
She stalled momentarily when she saw House's smile. Not a grin or smirk, but a few seconds where he actually smiled, and he almost seemed shy about it. Offering a smile in return, she replied, "Hopefully."
He woke up at seven the next morning. He was keenly aware that having sex with Cuddy was a risky choice. But, like riding his bike at 90 mph down a freeway, or mixing booze and Vicodin, he was going to do it anyway. Some things were worth the risks that had to be accepted. One nagging thought kept threatening to emerge. Motorcycle accidents, liver failure and overdose were all risks of a distinctly physical nature. Cuddy was an entirely different variety of risk. As much as he tried to justify what he'd agreed to, he knew it was probably a huge mistake. They'd grown a little closer over the past few weeks, and the closer they grew, the stronger the pull between them seemed.
Even as he accepted that he was about to take a huge risk, there was one little thing that bugged him that he simply couldn't ignore: Cuddy's choice to meet him at a hotel.
Initially he didn't think much of it, but as time passed, he started to wonder why she'd decided that was necessary. They'd been spending time in each other's homes, and they both seemed relatively comfortable with that. He finally decided that she must have wanted a hotel as a way to keep things a little less personal. Then he remembered that she'd suggested buying a futon so he'd have a more comfortable spot to sleep when he was at her place. Was she really going to have sex with him at a hotel, but insist that he sleep on a fucking futon if he happened to stay at her place? It seemed clear, she was trying to create rules that would allow sex between them to be more controllable.
He had no problem with impersonal sex, but he knew enough to know that he couldn't have completely impersonal sex with someone he already knew so personally. In truth, they could have pretended to be solely professional associates for much of their working years together, but the last few weeks had proven otherwise. If Cuddy thought they could confine their sexual interactions and the ensuing ramifications within the walls of the Crowne Plaza, he was certain it was better to correct that bad assumption before she discovered the truth after the fact.
He argued, silently, that he was going to point out her error to prevent problems and expose the truth, and not because he didn't want his existence as a man in her life to be limited to a certain time and detached place carefully isolated from the rest of her existence. He flinched at the possible motivation he was trying to ignore, and then scowled at the flinch.
As he finished his second cup of coffee, another thought popped into his head: Why had she chosen that specific hotel? There were tons of hotels in the area. She actually named the hotel immediately, as if she'd planned before talking to him and already had the details worked out. This didn't fit his impression that she'd taken a chance on a drunken whim. The circumstances seemed stranger the more he tried to figure out what was going on, so he called the Plaza. He told them he was Cuddy's assistant and was confirming the reservation.
A clerk, too happily, confirmed, "Yes, of course. We have Dr. Cuddy and one guest in our two-room suite, arriving this afternoon for our Women's Spa Weekend."
House's frown deepened as he asked, "I think that's a mistake. Her guest is male."
"Well," the receptionist jauntily answered, "friends come in all shapes, sizes and genders these days. She must have made special arrangements. I'm sure he'll have a wonderful time."
House hung up, tossing his phone on the coffee table while he considered his mistake. He was pissed that he'd misunderstood her offer, but even more pissed that he'd actually accepted it. They'd become more friendly, definitely closer, but had they actually moved beyond their sexual tension and attraction and simply become buddies? How in the hell had she started to see him like that? He recalled her discussion of their undefinable relationship, and the conversation that he had eagerly ignored was suddenly the one conversation he needed to have. He wasn't just one of the girls that she could take along on a spa weekend! He considered himself nearly unoffendable, but Cuddy had actually offended him. It was time to set the record straight.
There was no way in hell he was going to set foot in that hotel.