Title: Hit and Miss
Rating: T for one f-bomb
Spoilers: Through Season 5's "Joy"
Prompt: Five times House almost kissed Cuddy and one he did
Miss 1
Michigan 198-
Ann Arbor pulses with life again, bodies spilling in and out of buildings as the fall term begins. All around are the co-eds, the blonds, brunettes, and red heads. The sun beats down on all of the students and a breeze cools the sweat beginning to bead on the back of his neck like raindrops. He stands in the middle of the crowd and doesn't move, just feels the life roam at his sides.
It only takes a few minutes for one of the bodies to crash into his, making him lose balance. He sees her heading toward the pavement but thrusts out his hand and grabs her before she ends up splattered on the ground. His breath comes out ragged and he frowns down to the mass of hair below him.
"You should watch where you are going," he scolds and then heaves the figure to stand on her feet.
"And you shouldn't be standing in the middle of the sidewalk on the first day of class," she answers, brushing the strands from her eyes.
The scowl on his face disappears as he now sees the visage of a lovely young brunette standing in front of him. In the sunlight, her eyes look almost charcoal gray and she bends to pick up the books and papers that are littered about her feet.
"And do you think if I had any intention of going to class, I would be here?" he smiles, piling a paper on top of the growing mound of collegiate material in her hands.
She works quickly and nervously to gather her items and stands back up as he picks up the last book and leafs through the pages, as if he doesn't know it already from cover to cover. She stands with her lips pursed and a furrow in her brow as he stops and hands it back to her. He thinks he hears the flimsy cover of Gray's Anatomy rip, but he can't be too sure.
"Greg House," he announces, extending a hand.
Her hand begins to meet his but she looks down at her watch and re-affixes her hand beneath her book stack.
"Oh my God, I am late," she moans and slams past him.
"That could be a problem. Might want to get that checked out," he calls after her.
She doesn't turn around and all he sees is the blur of a tiny body disappearing into the distance.
He hears her before he really sees her as she slides coolly into the seat beside him. In fact, the air chemistry around him changes and shifts which causes him to look for the culprit to the sweet smell on his nose. Beside him, she is poised and collected, looking nothing like the girl in the crosswalk.
"Ah, sidewalk girl. I remember you with fondness," he says, leaning back in his chair.
"Oh yeah?" she smiles.
"Yeah. I could totally see down your shirt when you stooped to pick up your books. It was a good first day of school," he grins.
"You are a cretin" she says with disgust and turns away from him.
"You learn fast," House nods, shoving his Ray Bans down over his eyes.
Months have passed since he saw her and four semesters have come and gone since the infamous first day of class incident. Now it's another fall term and he is actually in class on the first day. Funny how life changes and moves.
The professor enters the room and scrawls Endocrinology almost illegibly on the chalk board. She's got her pencil to her paper already, mimicking the words on her own sheet. He glances over and sees a schedule sticking from under her legal pad,"Lisa Cuddy" written in the corner. A name to the face, he thinks and smiles inwardly.
"Aren't you going to take notes?" she whispers harshly, when she sees him still leaning back with his sunglasses over his eyes and feet propped on the seat in front of him.
"Who needs to? I bet I can still come out of this class with a higher grade than you without taking notes. In the end, all you will get will be carpal tunnel and crushed pride."
It begins, the twenty year rivalry, with two words from her lips. "You're on."
The semester ends and he hasn't taken a single note and she doesn't have carpal tunnel. Somewhere between the hours, he had managed to convince her that he needed a tutor. This lead to study sessions and verbal quizzes and he got to catch peeks at her immaculately written notes for the course.
Now, she's standing in the doorway of his dorm room holding out a piece of paper with her grade. An "A," as if he expected anything less. He hands her his grade of a "B" with mock regret. She gloats a bit and laughs, which he has come to love because it is rare and she is lovely when she does it.
"So this means I've won. What's my reward?" she asks him as he scoots a little closer to her.
His hand touches her shoulder and traces the cool skin of her arm. He doesn't move his eyes from her. Her own screw shut and she lets oxygen escape her slowly. She's been a fixture beside him the last four months and he wants nothing more than to kiss the sassy lips he is always so close to. He lifts her chin with his fingers and for what seems like an eternity, they just stare at one another, neither ready to concede and look away.
"Well?" she whispers against him.
They are inches apart and it would be so easy to close the gap between them. He leans in and her eyes flutter close again. His hand roams from her shoulder, past the weight of her breast and stomach. In the end, he lets his hand rest firmly in hers. What starts out as a breath away from a kiss ends with a disappointing hand shake. He can see the loss on her face skim across and then fade. She's already putting up a wall.
"Congratulations, Lisa Cuddy. It will be the last time you ever beat me," he says quietly.
She grips his hand firmly and just holds, for dear life it seems. She's losing him and she knows it and he has no idea why he is doing the opposite of what he really wants to do. He closes the door in her face smeared with disbelief, sighing heavily on the other side. It's the first time he runs from her. It won't be the last.
Miss 2
Infarction
When he wakes, the world is blurry as his eyes try to adjust to the faint light. Beside him, a fuzzy figure sits next to his bed. The rasp of his voice tries to spit out the word "Stacy" but comes out a just a puff of air.
"Shh, don't try and talk. Just rest," the voice commands.
He feels a straw protrude into his mouth and he is taking in large swallows of water that burn a little as they wash down his throat. Panting, he pushes the cup away after a few gulps and settles back down onto the pillows on his bed. Below the sheets, his leg throbs with overwhelming force.
"I thought I told you not to wake me up until the worst part of the pain was over," he moans and closes his eyes.
Fingers run through his hair, trying to comfort but failing to accomplish their task. His vision stays screwed tight as he feels her move her hand from his hair to the stubble of his cheek. The air around him is filled with the scent of antiseptic, blood, chemicals, and something faint and floral, which he attributes to her.
"You're missing a large part of muscle in your leg so of course it's going to hurt. Would you have had me keep you under until you died of old age?"
Her tone is light and somewhat playful. If he weren't lying in a bed, in pain and miserable, he might find it amusing. Instead, he growls and bats her hand away from his cheek. Only then does he allow himself to look at her.
There are tiny circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. The wiry curls of her hair are fading and becoming ripples and waves with a bit of frizz. She burns her eyes in to him with a sad look, which he hates immediately because it is laced with pity. It is the last thing he expects or wants from her and he feels the heat rising in his face. He is marred beyond repair and she had done it to him.
"Just get out. And keep her away too." He doesn't say Stacy's name and knows that Cuddy understands.
"So this is how you respond? By pushing people away?"
"I said get out!" he yells, trying to point toward the door with force. The motion sends a sharp pain from his leg to his brain it seems.
"I know what you think, that you can't live like this or don't want to. But you chose this route so stop feeling sorry for yourself and work on getting better. You're only missing a muscle and not an entire leg, so don't act juvenile."
She punches his morphine drip, upping the dose and then shoves his chart harshly back on the end of his bed. As she turns to leave, she doesn't even take a second look at him and he is glad. He's already seen too much in her eyes.
Two weeks later, he is standing in the rehabilitation room with crutches digging violently into his armpits. He works to move the leg but the pain still knocks the air from him with some motions. Angrily, he throws one of the metallic objects from under his arm against the wall and curses loudly. The therapist flinches but says nothing about the outburst. Neither does the doctor leaning on the door frame of the room.
He brings his eyes to meet her and then huffs loudly. Her short legs come toward him, making her shoes click on the tile. Her legs are muscular and smooth and it is the only thing he can concentrate on as she comes to stand beside him. She always did have great legs...
"House."
"No, I do not have any more muscles for you to have," he grumbles, hopping over to grab the crutch against the wall. She makes it there before him and hands it to him, which he snatches from her grip resentfully.
"I didn't need help," he spats.
"Of course you do. You're just too proud to admit it," she smiles.
He mocks her smile and takes a seat on one of the tiny plastic chairs. She pulls up one beside him and leans back slightly. For a moment, he lets his eyes wander to the skirt inching up on her legs but loses focus when she starts to speak again.
"How's the leg?" she asks. He can see the concern etched in her features.
"You mean, what's left of it," he answers, bringing a hand to the bandage.
She rolls her eyes and stands, looking down on him admonishingly. Suddenly the lights seem too bright and the room becomes too small as he watches her pace back and forth while shoving her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. She stops in alignment with his body and just stares. Putting his weight on the crutch, he stands and looks her in the eyes.
"You're never going to let me forget this, are you?" It comes out of her mouth in a whisper.
He shakes his head. "Why should I?"
He knows he should feel regret about how he is treating her but anger and pain cover him like a cloud. If only he could reach out and allow himself to touch her because she looks lovely under the too bright lighting and mixed in with all of the scarred and broken. But he is in pieces and she looks firmly whole so he limps away and leaves her in the room with no smudges on her lips or sleeves.
Miss 3
Ketamine
There is a hole in his neck and torso which sends dull aches all the way from his sternum to his cranium. Neither of which he can seem to focus on as he roams the hospital halls, looking for her on his way to her office just in case she is out and about.
His IV stand rattles on the tile of the floor as he peruses the faces of the clinic. He finds her coming out of an exam room, looking too guilty to merely be a coincidence as she sees him walking up to her. She looks like a child whose hand has just been pulled from the proverbial cookie jar and he aims to find out what she has done. The woman is not merely innocent.
His body is his own sanctuary, albeit a sometimes crumbling and non-sturdy foundation. It doesn't take being a doctor to know something is different, something is off. He moves over to her and she takes a small step back, something halfway between retreat.
"What did they do to me?" he growls, brows knitting together.
"What are you talking about?" she feigns ignorance, which he knows pulses nowhere in her body.
"Gillick. My surgeon. What did you have him do? Did he replace my heart with a pig's or something?"
"Hardly," she scoffs in amusement.
"Then WHAT IS IT?"
"Why can't you just take this whole...," she waves her hands around, "leg thing as a good omen?"
"I don't believe in good omens. I believe in dishonest, backwards administrators authorizing things I never agreed to."
"You're walking without a cane. Or anything other aid for that matter. You should be hugging me. We should be dancing in the fucking halls," she grumbles.
His hand goes to his leg to rub, massage, all a phantom gesture because in truth, the limb barely aches. He glances at her and her eyes sparkle as she talks about Germany and percentages. He's watching her and breathing heavily, nostrils flared. His legs are holding him and he wants to kiss her for giving him movement without deterrence. Shouting and berating come from his mouth as he tells her she has no right to save him. Again.
Miss 4
Insensitive
He's on her doorstep, debating on whether or not he should bend down to the flower pot and remove her key. But she's home and on the other side of her door along with the tire man, which causes him to scoff. There's no way Cuddy is interested in that guy and she probably only went out with him for a free meal and to get laid. Not that he blames her, but he feels a twinge of jealousy as he thinks of the two of them together.
It's cold and the snow will probably start falling again soon, so he brings his cane to the door and knocks. The tale-tale patter of her small bare feet sound near the precipice and he inches a little closer to the doorway. It swings open with a whoosh and warm air hits him in the face, momentarily cooling the chill on his skin.
She whines and he sticks the folder out in her direction. Bennett is on call and he even passed him in the corridor, but Bennett is not as fun to deal with nor as remotely attractive as the woman standing before him. She's easy to tolerate because he gets to spend half of the time looking down her shirt when she is speaking.
After so many years, it is a mastered skill and he has learned to pepper their confrontations with sporadic answers, enough to stay up with her in conversation. He knows she knows he does it and if he were a betting and conceded man, he'd even go as far to say that she buys the skimpy tops specifically to torture him. Or to get what she wants from the mostly male staff of hers. He likes to think of it as the first option.
"Oh my God, you're not wearing a bra," he cries when he sees the curve of her breast and just a little more while she is gazing down at the file in her hands, talking about something he already knows it isn't: Thyroid Storm.
"You just met him," he blurts out again.
The folder bends in his grip as she shoves it back into his chest and glares. They both know he isn't standing here for medical reasons, instead coming over to butt into her meager social life.
"I like him. And I like sex. Do I need to stitch a letter on my tops?" she asks him sarcastically.
She goads him with a sweet smile and hair that is tousled, which he finds sexy as hell but silently hopes isn't from sex. He thinks this is her at her absolute best as she argues with him about her blind date and the real reason he is standing on her doorstep. She's saying she's not impressed but he's on another plane because she's so close and, God he can smell her and see down her dress still because she's made no move to even try and cover herself.
For a moment, he thinks about pulling her into him to shut her up and shock her at the same time. Or to send her date with the part to the left and mama's boy demeanor on his way. Nothing happens though and he lets her close the door in his face. He smiles to himself as he makes his way down her walk, knowing nothing new medically, but enjoying the fact that Lube Guy won't be far behind him.
Miss 5
May 2008, "Wilson's Heart"
He's on the dirty ground of the bus. This is painfully obvious by the feel of the surface underneath his shoulders and back.
Her lips are on him but it is only a one way instead of a two way road. There is no giving back to her in this scenario as he hangs somewhere between lucidity and the other side of life. Air goes in, air doesn't go out. At least not yet. It seems like a good time to regret sending his brain into an overload but he has his answer and all he needs is to open his eyes.
A rush of air burns through his lungs and throat suddenly. He sputters and opens his eyes to one of the most beautiful things he has ever known.
"You idiot. Your heart stopped beating," the blue eyes tell him.
He wants to physically thank her for bringing him back from the other side, smashing her face into his and mixing his air with hers. He sits paralyzed though, fists clenching and un-clenching at his sides as he tries to remember what exactly they were here for. The name "Amber" escapes from him in a pant.
He doesn't remember falling asleep but there are bright fluorescent lights searing his eyeballs and the annoying beep of the heart monitor drumming in his ears. The noise prickles the tubes of his audio canals and sends the sound waves to his head, each jump of the needle creating what feels like a tiny fissure in his skull.
Beyond the ache that throbs enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut and pant in pain, he notices another feeling, a cool softness against his palm. Turning to his left, he sees her deep in slumber, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breaths. The motion lulls him and he becomes lost in the pain and the breathing.
For a long time, he watches her sleep. Odd feelings stir and her presence unnerves him. Surely there is a budget to read or a fellow to chastise for skimping on clinic hours. Instead, she sits perched in the chair beside him with her toes curled over the edge, as if hanging on for dear life. If he were any other man and his brain wasn't aching in its cavity, he might take the time to admire the way her hair spills in her face and halves her eyes that are murky blue beneath the lids. He might watch her breathe and think that time has been good to her and there are barely any etchings of age or time in her features, which still hold a youthful elegance behind the sadness.
He drifts with the dull pulsing in his head, eyes fluttering shut. With her palm pressed into his, she remains a statute at his side.
The Hit
October 2008, "Joy"
She's lost the little tweaker and he doesn't want to care but she looks tired and broken and in pain as she walks out of the double doors, which he knows like a glove. Leaves swirl around her feet with each step and her eyes stay fixed to the pavement in an effort to hide her tears.
This is all about fresh love and aching loss which are things he knows little about since he keeps nothing near him for too long. He wants to tell her that she is his enigma, the only thing still in tact from a jumbled and blurry history. But blurry memories from another life wouldn't help ease her ache, which he wonders why he is trying to cleverly think of to eliminate.
She's wounded and he can smell it all on the trail of air behind her as he goes to leave as well. The injured creature enters her car and speeds away. His eyes watch intently as he stalks the path after her.
He makes circles around her block, concentric and sometimes perfect, but never makes his way down her street. Time passes as he creates loops with the treads of his bike tires. The sun goes from being low in the sky to disappearing completely and being replaced by the moon. Between the setting and rising, he ends up on her doorstep and announces his arrival with the tap of his cane against the wood of her door, never his hand.
She opens it slowly and he notices her eyes look hollow and empty as she lets the door swing open to reveal her disheveled appearance and lounging attire. To his surprise, she lets him enter. He half expects to lose his footing on the floor because of a trail of tears but the only markers of the phantom objects sit in the corners of her eyes. No lines trickle down her cheeks. It's really past that point now, a hour when crying just won't do any good anymore because nothing is left to give.
She would make a great mother because even though she likes to pretend like it, he knows she knows she isn't perfect. This is how all parents should think, he decides. It's all about being selfless and delicately flawed. He wants to tell her not to be a martyr for all the wayward children of the world but settles for telling her she would have done an alright job after all.
Her voice is like the pounding of fists in his ears as he hears the tone go from a dip to a building yell. It's coming and there is nothing he can do about it. Her brows slightly furrow and her eyes grow dark. If anything, he knows the anger of Lisa Cuddy all too well by now.
Nothing exists but the words and them and he's shaking his head, then kissing her. Somewhere in the seconds, her hands have come to his cheeks and roam his back. His own hold her body against him as he tastes the years and anguish on her lips. She's soft but not delicate, and smells like fresh laundry detergent and hair shampoo. It's comforting in its oddness, to be touching her and feeling the foreign reciprocation.
As soon as it begins, it ends and he keeps his eyes closed for fear of opening them to a storm. His hands leave her back and mildly, he misses the warmth in his palms. The retreat begins and she lowers herself from her perch on her toes.
After two decades, it's bitter and raw and nothing like he imagined it would be. He searches her eyes for acceptance and passion but finds only confusion and fruition. The absence of sound becomes deafening after she opens her mouth and fails to fill the air. With a pivot, he leaves her standing, gaping. There are no repeats to accidents that were never supposed to have happened. Miles and miles per hour away, his heart shifts in its cavity and he wonders just exactly what she's done to him.