VIIII. HOUSE
If he wasn't so angry, he would have savored the sight of Cuddy sitting up, her long hair flyaway and tangled from sleep. Certainly the nightie wasn't doing a lot to hide two of her finest assets either, and it was massively tempting to just keep looking.
However, there were issues at hand—IN hand in fact, and House lightly tossed Cuddy's cell phone from palm to palm as he stared at her. "Call history is a terrific feature, don't you think? Not only stores numbers, but puts a time stamp to them too. A call to Chase, and a call to Wilson, within a minute of each other. Right around your bath time, if memory serves—"
"House—" Cuddy protested, her startled stare shifting into a glare. "Give me my phone."
"Give me an explanation, first."
"I don't owe you anything of the kind. And what are you doing in my home anyway?"
House didn't bother answering that one—he knew as instinctively as Cuddy did that her chance of banning him from her personal sanctuary had come and gone a long time ago, and any attempt now was merely for show. Instead he held her phone up; Exhibit A in his prosecution. "The call to Chase lasted a total of fifteen seconds, and the one to Wilson was slightly longer at forty seconds. What would you be discussing with them after hours and from your tub? Taunting them? Inviting one or both of them for a quickie?"
Cuddy's face flushed, and House felt vindicated that his guess had been correct—she HAD called them from the tub. An unreasonable surge of anger flared up and he tamped it down—no point in getting distracted now.
"Not that it's any of your business House, but both calls were about YOU," she muttered. For a second he paused, taken aback by this new information.
About him?
"Right."
Cuddy slid out of bed and rose up; the action tightened the transparent material over her chest, highlighting her nipples delightfully. House gave himself a few seconds to drink that image in before trying to refocus on her annoyed face.
"I asked Chase if you were still harassing him about the whole Manly Hospital discussion, and thanked Wilson for the damned salad, all right? Wilson mentioned that you were acting weird and we talked a little about your need to sniff things."
She was closer now, less than a foot away; within arm's reach, and the dim light was making that nightgown less of a garment and more of a screen door. House felt more of his concentration shift from the intellectual puzzle of Cuddy's recent actions to more of an immediate hormonal appreciation of her personal topography. He hoped that in the semidarkness she'd never notice his slight agitation.
"Diagnosis relies on information, and information is relayed through all the senses," he countered, trying to keep his voice hard.
"Sniffing a colleague crosses a few boundaries, House. First me, then Wilson—" Cuddy murmured, and House protested, feeling an exasperated need to defend his actions. Cuddy wasn't usually this dense—maybe all that perfumed lotion was fogging her thoughts.
"I didn't sniff Wilson, just his scarf. And there wasn't any perfume on it, so if you did wear it, it wasn't for long. Clearly not a date situation—I'm guessing you borrowed his scarf to protect your hair from drizzle when you both came in this morning."
He waited for her to acknowledge this obvious truth. Cuddy merely stared at him, those big blue eyes of hers boring into him.
"And this bothered you all day, House? Clearly the Diagnostics department hasn't got enough to do. Maybe more clinic hours would help."
"For Chase and Cameron, definitely—it would give them some new locations for nookie. So am I right about the scarf?" he couldn't help but ask. Cuddy smiled. A tiny one; the sort that came on because of a memory.
House faltered a little, and Cuddy stepped closer, tilting her head to look at him. "Stop it," she breathed huskily.
"Stop what?" he shot back, feeling wary, wondering precisely what she was seeing in him.
"Stop . . . seducing me, all right? I can deal with it when we're at work and you get outrageous just to play to the crowd, but right now you're just being . . . cruel."
House paused, his mind shifting once again through all the known data and history, analyzing Cuddy's words through his consciousness. An odd pain flared in him; the intensity left him working his jaw for a moment before he could finally speak.
"I'm not being cruel," he whispered in an oddly hollow tone even to his ears. He shifted, wondering exactly how this conversation had gotten into dangerous territory, and why the sight of Cuddy in moonlight and melancholy was making him throb.
He wanted something. Probably a drink, he lied to himself.
She blinked, and he didn't miss the glitter in her eyes. "The hell you're not," she whispered and turned away from him. House reached out, trying to catch her warm upper arm, but Cuddy had moved faster than he'd realized, and she bumped her book off the nightstand as she pulled away from him.
In a glimpse he caught the image of the photo as it fell; a black and white window onto the past, fluttering to the carpet in a whisper of sound. Cuddy stared at it, frozen. The heat redoubled within the pit of his stomach, and House bent to pick up the photo, stunned.
"Where the hell did you get this?" he asked, suspecting the answer and not really caring, no—the mechanics didn't matter nearly as much as the simple fact that Cuddy had it on her nightstand.
She turned her face away so he couldn't see her eyes, but the waver in her voice filled in what her words didn't say. "Does it matter?"
X. CUDDY
Time hung suspended and she realized she wasn't breathing as she waited.
This
Was
It.
The make or break moment, the hinge in the chaos theory, the mad second of this or that, yes or no, a choice in the making, influenced as much as possible, but still House's alone to make. She'd done everything humanly possible to bring them both to this place, this time and setting, and still the outcome wasn't possible to predict.
She held her breath and hoped.
House let his gaze slide over the photo, his mouth a grim line, and when he lifted his eyes again, Cuddy didn't dare look away. She swallowed to try and get rid of the dryness in her mouth and brazenly reached out.
Always better to be assertive with House than to let him know when he had the upper hand.
"This photo isn't yours, and I'll be damned if I give it back to you," he rumbled, his voice stronger now. She closed her eyes in relief, letting her hand drop down. One strap of her nightgown slid off her shoulder; unplanned but perfect for the moment; a tiny taunt.
"House—"
"Oh call me Greg . . . I think if you've seen as much of me as this photo shows then we're on a much more personal basis, aren't we, Lisa."
"Just stop it—it's only a photo, and a damned old one at that."
House flicked his fingers and sent the glossy sailing off in the direction of the hallway, a silent paper bat flittering in the night. "It's evidence, and it turns me on to think you've been keeping it near your bed, clutching it with one hand while the other's been busy . . . laid it on your pillow when you've been on your hands and knees, maybe?"
Cuddy paused a fraction of a second too long, and House smirked, even as more heat throbbed insistently between his thighs. "So what if I have? You're an attractive man; I'm not blind and I'm not without a sex drive, Greg."
"Just poor taste in live partners."
Cuddy swirled on him, eyes blazing, feeling real frustration now rising up along with all the other nameless lonely desires. "That's because I haven't had much of a chance to get laid now, have I? Seems like someone always shows up to make sure I'm left high and dry—someone who'd rather pay for his fucks than admit he's too selfish and too emotionally crippled to take another chance at a relationship!"
"Shut up," House snarled back, stunned at her vitriol, at the way it seared his hypocrisy off the bones of his pride. He snagged her arm, pulling her to him, and she swung her free hand towards his face. In a swift move he dropped his cane and caught her wrist, stopping her before the blow could reach his cheek.
"You're already shut up, Greg, and I'm sick and tired of being your untouchable, untouched plaything!" Cuddy cried back, struggling now, caught and fighting him. House reeled her in, giving way to his body's natural response to her fury, and nuzzled her face taking some comfort in the familiar scent of her; lotion and sweet womanly musk of her skin. The brush of his face against hers seemed to help soothe both of their agitation—somewhat.
Cuddy blinked, stunned at how fast her body tensed and yielded against his, how the trickle of slickness between her thighs and the ache of her nipples left her unsteady now. Greg House had always been a potent being, undeniably male on so many levels, but this basic, primitive one and her response to it was nearly overwhelming.
"You don't get to throw an accusation like that at me and not expect a response now, do you?" House rumbled, lips moving across her cheek, dragging along her skin. "Stop fighting, unless you like it rough . . . "
In reply Cuddy stilled herself, taking a big breath and trying to calm her pounding heartbeat. So close; she felt the iron bar of his erection pressing against the front of her thigh, the overpowering flare of his aura into hers, sending little pleasurable jolts at every point their bodies made contact.
His lips were so hot, burning against her chin, her lower lip . . . she spoke, shifting so her words were half smothered by the closeness of his mouth over hers. "Go. Go unless you really mean this, Greg."
"Shut. Up," he replied, and Cuddy felt the curious lightness of delight flow through her at his mild, deliberate tone. He meant it; he was staying. She shifted, letting a low musical moan rise out of her slender throat as he finally dragged his mouth over hers and kissed her, hard and deep.
They fit, a hard wet blend of teeth and tongues shifting hungrily in a dance of dominance; sloppy and all the more arousing for that. Cuddy kissed back with a headstrong freedom she hadn't felt in years, and when House let her hand go, she slid it up the side of his face, letting the bristles there scratch her palm
House was delicious, a hot tangy blend of bitter malt and sugary red lollipop, and his tongue took slow, deliberate possession of her mouth, taming hers, kiss after kiss after kiss. He put his entire formidable concentration into it, and Cuddy felt her bones dissolve like bicarbonate in water under his ruthless erotic skill.
This was no half-way House, and a distant part of her mind snickered at the pun while the rest of her writhed against him.
Gradually, the need to breathe hit them both at the same time, and House reluctantly gave her palate a last loving swipe before pulling back and trying to focus on her face again. Cuddy closed her eyes and licked her lips, feeling them begin to puff a little.
"You do like it rough . . ."
"No surprise that you do," Cuddy growled back, feeling defensive. House managed a small smirk, a dangerous glitter in his eyes.
