TITLE: His Coy Mistress
5/6
AUTHOR:Maineac
PAIRING: House/Cuddy ( a little) H/W
strong friendship
WARNINGS: Spoiler for No Reason and for the
beginning of Season 3 (the trailers)
SUMMARY: Pain is a strange bedfellow, and it had been his bedfellow and mistress for nearly eight years.
A/N This was originally written as a one-off, but turned into a series of linked short stories set post No Reason.
Part V Three-fer
"Home? Or the hospital?" Cuddy asked as she did up her seat belt. They'd driven straight from the hospital to the dance club in Cuddy's car. If she drove him home, he'd presumably have to take a bus or taxi to work the next day.
"Home," said House. "That's where the bike is—I ran to work today, remember?"
"Right," she said with a smile. How could she have forgotten the spectacle of him in her office, dripping wet? "So you do get to check two things off your list after all. Sweating and dancing. You don't think you're overdoing it?"
"Well, maybe a little," he said with a rueful grimace, running his hand along his right thigh—a familiar gesture she hadn't seen him do for months. "Might have to put off lacrosse for a few days. Unless you're up for a little one-on-one tonight?" He gave her a wolfish grin.
"Grow up, House."
He leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and smiled tiredly. "But seriously," he said, "you have no idea how good it feels to actually sweat again."
She gave him a sidelong look. He was still clad in his T-shirt, the jacket folded in his lap. The man had huge arms—he must do something to work out. But lifting weights wasn't aerobic. There were rumors he used the hydrotherapy pool, too. But that still wouldn't produce a sweat. She'd never really thought about it that way. Of course there were other ways to work up a healthy sweat…Sex, for one.
She thought back to the To Do list. Some items on it were perfectly self-explanatory, like "lacrosse." Or "beating Dr. Aylesman's ass at golf." Ayslesman was a complete prick, hated House's guts, and had been in the middle of being trounced by House during the hospital charity golf tournament six years ago when House had had to withdraw because of a mysterious pain in his leg that ended up with him in the ER. When House had returned to work, after the infarction, Aylesman had gone out of his way to accommodate (read: draw attention to) his "handicap" in a hundred small ways, such as ostentatiously opening doors for him. Once, during a crowded department heads meeting, he'd even stood up and offered House his chair. Cuddy knew it was both humiliating and infuriating for House.
And "shake hands"? It took her a moment to work that one out. She remembered again House's first day back at work after his surgery. Aylesman once more starred in the scenario. A few people had gathered in the lobby to welcome House back. It was a scene he clearly found excruciatingly painful. He was horribly self-conscious about the cane and the limp, and when he first walked in and saw the group there, he froze, and she could tell he would have beaten a retreat if he could have managed it without being seen. Aylesman made that impossible by striding up and saying in a loud voice Welcome back and You look just great. And then he stuck out his right hand. House, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand, and holding his briefcase in his left hand, just stared at the out-thrust hand until Aylesman withdrew it. After that, Cuddy noticed that he regularly ignored the reflexive handshake, unless the person was quick-witted enough to extend a left hand. Even well intended people were shunned, and for a simple reason. Shaking hands required an elaborately choreographed shifting of his weight, his cane, and whatever he was carrying in order to free up his right hand. Yet few people understood the refusal to shake for what it was—House not wanting to draw attention to his handicap. Instead it added to the legend of House as curmudgeon, and was one of the first outward signs of his withdrawal from any kind of human contact.
Okay. So those things she got. But "sex"? And "pizza"? She turned to House. "I know for a fact that you've had both sex and pizza in the last six years," she said. "Why are they on the To Do list?"
"Pizza," House repeated, without opening his eyes. "You know how you usually eat pizza— standing up around the conference table, doing a late-night differential? But you need two hands to eat pizza standing up. Seems stupid to miss something like that, I guess."
Actually it didn't seem at all stupid. Any more stupid than missing raking leaves and shoveling snow and carrying groceries. She said nothing, though, until she had pulled into his street. "I guess I get that, " she said. "But the sex thing? You want to have sex standing up, too?"
He smiled a little and opened his eyes to look at her, although he didn't move his head. "You're a doctor," he said closing his eyes again as the smile faded from his lips. "You should know that Vicodin takes the edge off pain—and also takes the edge off pleasure. Of course I've had sex. But I've always had to choose between great sex that also hurts like hell, or some very unsatisfying middle ground. I've never been a masochist, and I've never been one for middle ground, either, so…" he trailed off. "Talk about your Hobson's choice."
Cuddy pulled up outside his apartment and he got out wordlessly, but as he crossed in front of the car, he seemed to think of something, and came back to the driver's window. Cuddy scrolled it down, and he bent to her level. His eyes were a luminous blue in the street light, and she was pleased to see he was smiling again.
"We could go for a three-fer. Are you sure you don't play lacrosse?" he asked.
"Quite sure." She held out her hand. "Good night, House," she said. And he took her small hand in his warm right hand and shook it.
