A/N:
I know I gush about it every time, but it really floors me to see that people are still interested in this story. I can't thank you guys enough for your dedication and loyalty, and for the effort you put into leaving such lovely reviews.
hugs
LII - Glow
Conversing with his team in the conference room, House turns to see Cuddy in his office.
"No more lunch time booty calls," he yells to her, "I'm married now!"
"House," she says, moving to the adjoining door, "may I speak to you for a moment, it's important."
"Go ahead – shoot."
"Alone," she clarifies with a raised eyebrow.
Her expression is somewhat solemn and it intrigues him.
He turns back to the three doctors seated around the glass table.
"Class dismissed," he says, "do an MRI on the kid, and Forman you talk to the mom."
Chase, Forman and Cameron collect their various files and papers and leave the room, marching in an orderly line like good soldiers.
Cuddy enters the room and stands before House.
"Do you have any idea where your wife is?" she asks.
"No," he replies, "why is it that everyone seems to think I have a tracking device on her?"
Cuddy sighs as he presses a thumb under his chin and peers at the ceiling in mock contemplation.
"Actually," he says, "maybe that's not such a bad idea."
"Lee hasn't turned up to work, and she hasn't answered the numerous phone calls the reception staff have made to her cell phone," Cuddy says, pursing her lips.
House narrows his eyes at her, worry settling across his brow in the form of deep creases.
"When was the last time you saw her?" she asks.
"This morning," he says, finding no further place for humour, "she was still in bed when I left. She usually leaves about an hour after I do."
"Is there anything she had planned for today, any..?" Cuddy is interrupted as House rushes past her into his office.
"House…" she inquires, following him into the room.
He collects his cell phone, wallet and keys and drops them into his knapsack, before slinging it over his shoulder and striding past Cuddy once more – through the main entrance to his office.
………
"Lee," he calls, once inside the front door of their apartment.
All is quiet. He notices her car keys and cell phone still in their place – on the side table by the door. The dog waggles his tail in greeting but doesn't budge from his place on the sofa amongst the cushions.
House drops his knapsack and quickly makes his way toward the bedroom.
"Lee!" he calls, louder this time.
He approaches the door to the bedroom and she emerges, almost colliding with him.
She squints at him and rubs a hand across her brow. She is still wearing her pyjamas – a little ivory lace cotton camisole and matching shorts.
Her skin is paler than usual – a ghostly white and by the expression on her face she appears to be disoriented.
"Why aren't you at work?" he asks, "everyone has been trying to contact you."
"Hmph," she mumbles quietly, "I was… sleeping."
She furrows her brow and clutches the door frame to steady herself.
"You didn't get up after I left for work?" he enquires.
She shakes her head slowly before dropping it forward, leaning heavily on the archway for support.
"I guess not," she mutters, blinking.
Her hand slips from the door frame and she jolts forward, leaning closer and closer to the floor.
"Whoa," he exclaims, quickly discarding his cane and slipping his arms under hers.
Her body is now draped limply against his, her eyes closed and her mouth slack as her face is pressed into the material of his shirt.
With much effort, he is able to squat and hook one of his arms under her knees. He tips her back, so that the majority of her weight is pressed to his chest and he slings one of her arms over his shoulder.
Gripping the door frame with one hand, and keeping a secure hold of her with the other, he stands, grunting as every one of his muscles protest.
Despite her light weight and petite frame, each step towards the bed is agony – a searing pain emanating from his thigh.
He stumbles into the bedroom and slumps onto the mattress, heaving her forward and catching his breath before gently rearranging her amongst the bedsheets.
He turns his hand over and presses it to her forehead, checking her body temperature – feeling her skin burning against his.
The jingle of the dog's collar can be heard as he rushes through the door and leaps up onto the bed, whimpering as he settles in beside Lee's resting body.
"Oh, now you're concerned," House says, eyeing the mutt with a certain contempt, "so much for the stories about super dogs rescuing their owners from peril!"
The dog watches him with big brown eyes.
"You suck!" he chastises, "get out."
He points to the door and the dog follows his instructions, jumping from the bed and slinking out of the room.
House stands and hobbles back to the doorway, clutching his thigh. Leaning on the door frame, he sinks his hand into the pocket of his blazer and retrieves the plastic vile of Vicodin – quickly popping the lid, shaking two pills out, dropping them into his mouth and swallowing them dry. Replacing the bottle in his pocket, he retrieves his cane and limps down the hall and across the lounge room to a desk by the far wall.
Pulling out drawer after drawer, he finally retrieves a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer before making his way back to the bedroom.
He sits beside her on the mattress and she stirs, opening her eyes and blinking at him.
"Wha…" she starts.
"You passed out," he says, placing the buds of the stethoscope in his ears.
She frowns and moans in distress, attempting to sit up, but he lodges a hand on her shoulder and presses her to the mattress.
"Just stay still for a moment," he says, "I'm going to check you out."
He gets to work – listening to her heart and her pulse with the stethoscope, sliding the cuff of the sphygmomanometer over her slender arm and inflating it – reading the screen with a furrowed brow before deflating and removing it.
After discarding the implements on the bedside table, he offers her a slight smile.
"You've got low blood pressure and a bit of a high temperature," he says.
"What does that mean?" she asks.
"Well they're pretty normal symptoms of pregnancy," he replies, "as the uterus swells, it compresses the arteries in your legs which makes your blood pressure drop and can make you pass out, especially if you stand up suddenly."
"But I feel so tired – like I could sleep forever," she says.
"Well hopefully that's just a side effect of rapidly increasing levels of progesterone – as is the high temperature."
She nods, a thoughtful expression registering on her face.
"If you're that tired, you obviously need the rest," he says, "I'll call in and tell them you've got a virus or something."
"Mmm, ok."
He kisses her forehead and she smiles and settles back against the pillows.
He makes a call to the hospital from the kitchen before returning to the bedroom.
He sits on the edge of the bed and removes his Converse All Star sneakers one by one, tossing them to the opposite side of the room before standing, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and letting them fall to the floor.
"Whatcha doing?" she asks, grinning at him with drowsy eyes.
He loosens the buttons on his blue oxford shirt, shrugging it off so that he stands before her in his boxer-briefs, t-shirt and socks.
"Well I'm already home," he says, "no sense going back to work and then coming back again. Besides, I've never been a 'nine to five' sort of guy."
He sits on the bed again, leaning down to lift his right leg up onto the mattress.
"Good look, huh?" he says, gesturing to his garb.
He slips beneath the blankets with her and she scoots closer to him, giggling as she nudges his sock covered feet with her own bare toes.
"You're so sexy," she teases, chuckling against his shirt, settling into his embrace.
"Shhh," he laughs at her, "I thought you were tired, go back to sleep."
………
When she awakens, she is able to tell that it is late afternoon because the sun has moved over the sky and is now shining past the trees by the side of their townhouse and in through the window, casting mottled shadows over the bedcovers.
House is still sleeping beside her, snoring gently, one hand shoved under his pillow and the other clutching the bed sheets at his waist.
She smiles, sits up and leans over him, dragging a thumb across his cheek, enjoying the raspy sensation of his whiskers against her skin.
She bends to kiss his nose.
His snoring stills and his eyes flick open.
"Hello," she whispers.
"Hi," he croaks.
He blinks and looks around the room. "What time is it?"
"I think it's about four pm," she replies, pushing the covers back and lying down against him.
She slips a hand under his chin, cradling his jaw and her thumb plays over his lips before she leans in to kiss them.
She moans as grinds her body against his.
"Feeling better?" he enquires, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm feeling much better," she replies, "and I'm also feeling rather horny."
He lifts a hand, meaning to press it against her forehead to gauge her temperature, but she snatches his wrist and turns him over so that he lays flat on the mattress. She pins his arm in place while she lifts her leg over his hips, lowering her body to sit straddling his lap.
"Oh," he exclaims in surprise, "ok!"
"You wanna find out how hot I am?" she jokes, grinning at him from above.
She reaches down, grasping the lace hem of her camisole, before crossing her arms in front of herself and lifting it over her head in one swift movement – discarding it on the bed as her dishevelled red hair swishes around her shoulders.
His eyes widen as her bare chest is exposed to him, and she takes both of his hands in her own, lifting them to hold them against her pert breasts.
He squeezes them gently, letting his fingers caress her soft, supple skin and she whimpers.
"Did that hurt?" he asks, alarmed.
"No it's ok," she says, "they're just a little tender."
"Oh," he smiles widely, "you're so pregnant."
She leans down, pressing her breasts to his chest and catching his open mouth in a kiss. His hands move to her thighs, travelling higher and higher, finally caressing the curve of her buttock under her cotton shorts.
With her hands working between their bodies, she struggles to bunch his t-shirt around his chest so that she may feel her skin against his, all the while kissing and nibbling at his cheeks, chin and throat.
"You're not going to vomit on me are you?" he teases, grinning at her.
She smacks him playfully.
"Don't you want to get laid?" she says, her voice assuming a mock threatening tone.
"Oh yes," he says, taking her arm and pulling her body back against his, "yes I do – very much."
She rolls off of him, keeping a hand on his cheek and guiding his face to hers so that their mouths meet again, while her free hand slips down, groping over his blue boxer shorts.
He moans and flinches as her clumsy groping becomes more decisive and targeted – her palm gently kneading the rising point of his cock through his briefs. She notices a dampness – and breaking the kiss to look down, she spies tiny droplets of his pre-cum seeping through the material, turning it from a light to a dark blue. She smiles – this only rouses her more – makes her hungry.
She feels her mouth generating saliva in anticipation of her feast.
She makes a sudden movement down his body until her face is level with his hips.
Without a moments delay, she tugs his boxer shorts down his thighs and his erection stands straight and proud before her. He shudders and arches off the bed as her hand envelops his cock, fingers wrapping around the base and nestling into the wiry, greying curls. She leans down and flicks her tongue out, immediately swirling it around the pulsing, leaking head.
He writhes beneath her, his movements restricted by the elastic waistband of his boxers around his legs and her hand on his hip.
She places a firm kiss on the end of his cock now, before her lips part around it and she eases the length of him into her hot wet mouth. Her head bobs in his lap as she begins to suck him gently until she feels his fingertips scurrying under her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. He gives her an expression that says he can't hold out for much longer if she is to continue her ministrations and taking this cue, she carefully removes him – her lips dragging over his cock in one final blissful stroke.
He takes hold of her arms and manoeuvres her so that he is able to pin her beneath him on the mattress, and he struggles for a moment, pushing his boxer-briefs down to his knees to free his movements. He tears his shirt over his head, discarding it beside them and bends to catch her mouth in another lascivious kiss, before straightening up and kneeling in front of her.
She is laughing hysterically at him now – kneeling in the centre of the bed – naked except for his socks and his briefs bunched around his knees. He grins, and reaching out to grasp each of her ankles, he drags her body across the bed. He snatches two pillows and gestures for her to lift her hips. She complies with him, hooking her thumbs behind the elastic of her cotton shorts and easing them down her thighs, kicking them from her feet before lowering her back to meet the pillows. With a hand placed on each of her knees, he gently parts her legs and positions himself between them. She is open for him – wet and waiting. Holding his cock, he guides himself into her while she hooks her ankles at his back. She gasps and rolls her hips as he pushes in deep. His head drops back – his eyes shut and there is a low gurgling sound in his throat. Then his head drops forward as he begins to make the first steady thrusts into her – watching himself sliding in and out of her body, over and over – the shaft of his cock glistening, glazed with the cream of her arousal.
"Oh god," he moans, his hands on her hips – his fingers desperately clawing at her skin as he attempts to keep a firm hold while pulling her body back against his.
"Ungh," she manages to mutter, "sssso good."
She arches her back, and he groans because the elevated angle of her hips allows him to slide in deeper.
"Touch me," she purrs, and one of his hands moves from her hip, between their joined bodies and he begins to rub his fingers over her clit in a quick, rough flicking motion.
"Oh yeah," she moans, feeling the searing hot tingling pleasure of the friction from his fingertips, "fuck that's good."
She alternates between making circular hip movements and rocking her pelvis from side to side, meeting each of his thrusts.
He uses his thumb now – kneading her clit and there is enough slipperiness but also enough pressure to trigger her climax.
All she can think about is how hard he is inside her, and she focuses her attention on the relentless punch of his thrusts as she comes – moving against him with a wave like motion of her hips, her inner muscles gripping and rippling around his cock. The pleasure washes over her, making her tingle from head to foot – a sensation so intense but she cannot decide whether it feels hot or cold.
She releases a gasp, a prolonged sigh and he quickens the pace of his thrusts – watching her, staring with such intensity until his movements still, his eyes flick shut and his entire body shudders with the force of his orgasm. She smiles as she feels him spilling inside her and then moments later his chest is pressed against hers, her thighs are at either side of his hips and she is kissing his forehead.
They are moist and hot in each others arms – the bedsheets, their discarded clothing – the entire room smells of their sex.
Sweat, saliva, cum.
He lifts his head to look at her and she traces a finger over the little crease at the bridge of his nose.
"We have to go…" he murmurs, still panting from the exertion.
"Huh?" she questions him.
"Your blood test," he says, "we need to see if your hormone levels are increasing."
………
"You're worried," she says to him as they sit side by side in the waiting room of the clinic.
"What?" he questions her – speaking a little two quickly as he turns his attention from the chart on the wall with the words in red bold letters asking: 'are your vaccinations up to date?'
"About the baby…" she says, "about my pregnancy."
"No," he says, and the tone of his voice is not nearly convincing enough, "it'll be ok."
A woman dressed all in white – white skirt, blouse, stockings and sneakers emerges from the door at the end of the hall.
"House, Lee House," she calls, reading from the chart in her hands.
Lee stands, collecting her handbag from the blue vinyl chair beside her.
House stands with her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"I'm coming in with you," he says.
"I've had many blood tests," she says, "I'll be fine."
"I know," he says, walking beside her down the hall – following the woman in white, guiding her with his hand still firmly gripping her shoulder.
"Not worried, hey?" she teases him.
………
He leans against the far wall, the handle of his cane hooked over his crossed arms, eyebrow raised as watches the woman in white prepare the syringe.
He scrutinises her every move – the way she swabs Lee's skin, the way she tightens the tourniquet, the way she uncaps the needle point, as if he is imagining that he could do the job ten times better.
Lee is the perfect patient, lying still and flat on the examination bed, staring at the ceiling and breathing deeply.
"It says on the chart that you are monitoring your progesterone and HCG levels?" the woman asks, obviously attempting to distract Lee as she pricks the surface of her skin with the needle.
Lee gasps quietly before responding, "yes."
"You're pregnant?! Lovely!" the woman coos, "and just look at you, you're positively glowing!"
House pushes off the wall, propelling himself forward using his cane – the rubber tip and the soles of his Nikes squelching on the linoleum floor.
"Yep," he says, standing beside the woman in white – his lanky frame towering over her and casting an ominous shadow, "but that's because we engaged in a session of vigorous sex just before we came here."
He offers her a grin and she widens her eyes – her cheeks flushing as she draws the needle from Lee's arm.
"Do us a favour and slap a priority notice on the results will ya… Margaret?" he says, leaning in to read the woman's name badge.
She nods quickly, averting her gaze from House and detaching the blood filled tube from the syringe, placing it in a plastic bag with a fluorescent yellow priority notice.
………
It is unspoken, but their shared anxiety is palpable as they wait together in the living room.
Eyeing the silent telephone, he paces restlessly behind the sofa where she sits, flipping through the pages of a trashy magazine. She pauses, her eyes skimming over an article titled: "Can Your Relationship Handle a Baby?"
She hears him sigh, and he stops and leans over her, snatching the magazine from her hands and hurling it across the room so that it lands with a flutter, pages splayed on the floor beside the television.
"Don't read that junk," he says, giving her hair a quick affectionate stroke before resuming his pacing.
Her knee begins to bounce and her hands fiddle with the covers of the sofa cushions. She jolts suddenly as the phone rings but she is paralysed, and he lunges beside her – snatching the hand set.
"Hello?" he speaks into the receiver.
He nods. "Good, good, yes, yes."
He smiles at her, eyes twinkling as he continues to nod and her anxiety dissipates like sunrays cutting through heavy grey rain clouds.
He places the phone back in its cradle, smacks his hands together and rubs them with glee.
"Progesterone and HCG levels steadily increasing," he says, "your body is turning into the perfect little baby incubator!"
