7.

one month ago

It was the end of the week, and House was winding down in his office, television on, when Wilson poked his head through the door.

"Hey. Going to Cuddy's thing tonight? Free booze."

"So she won some award. It's not like there are any other nominees - she already knows it. We already know it. They couldn't just mail it to her?"

"Well, this way, people get to make speeches, and say nice things about her and the hospital. And then there's applause, and an open bar and finger food." Wilson shrugged. "That's reason enough for most."

House just waved him off. Yes, he'd been invited, but had never entertained for the slightest moment the notion of attending. He was disappointed Wilson even bothered asking. It showed a distinct lack of attention - Wilson should have known better.

When he told Wilson this, however, he just rolled his eyes and left.

"Yeah I remember that night," Wilson frowned at House in the subdued lighting of the bar. "I was there. You didn't go."

"Yeah, thanks." House raised his eyes to the ceiling, and then raised his glass of scotch to his lips. "It obviously didn't happen at the award thing. It was after that. Cuddy showed up back at the hospital. That's when the fun started."

one month ago

Some hours after Wilson's brief visit, House was crossing the lobby on his way out when he heard a commotion from the direction of Cuddy's office. It was accompanied by the sound of a familiar voice cursing. He and the night clerk on duty at reception exchanged a look. The woman shrugged at him and he hesitated a moment longer before going to investigate.

He just watched for a while as she juggled an open bottle of champagne, a hefty-looking plaque, and her keys - the latter of which she was fumbling with as she tried to unlock the door to her office. All while sporting an evening dress that didn't leave things to the imagination so much as send the imagination into overdrive.

"Did you know," she said, when she finally looked up and noticed him standing there, "That I've made an exceptional contribution to the image of women in medicine?"

"Keys, though," he said. "They're the real challenge."

She went on, sounding like she was quoting from a brochure. "I also, apparently, demonstrate outstanding commitment, originality and innovation in my field."

"You're very good at what you do."

"Thanks a lot," she glared up at him, blowing an artfully-placed tendril of hair out of her face.

He blinked at her tone. "I actually just paid you a compliment," he pointed out.

"You might have, if you didn't think that 'what I do' is frivolous paper-pushing at best - and at worst, directly impeding the treatment of patients with my fascist, money-grubbing ways."

"And you're so good at it. They even gave you a shiny plaque."

"Yeah, hold this will you?" she thrust it at him, and returned to her struggle with the lock.

"Can't I hold the bottle instead?"

"No, I'm keeping that." She let out a relieved sigh as she finally managed to get the door open, and he trailed after her as she made her way inside.

"Dr Cuddy, drunk and disorderly in her own hospital," he observed. "What will people say?"

"Hey, it's my party. I will drink if I want to."

"I thought your party was at some ritzy hotel downtown."

"I brought the party with me."

"Yeah, I got that," he rolled his eyes and dumped the heavy lump of wood and metal in the centre of her desk. "Isn't it time good little girls were in bed?"

"I had to come back here first - I think I forgot something."

"You think?"

She looked disgruntled for a moment. "Well I can't remember anymore. I know there was something I had to do..." She threw up her hands. "Oh, like I won't be in here over the weekend anyway. God forbid I make it through two days when there isn't some disaster that no one else in this place could possibly handle except me. And don't you look at me - it's usually your fault."

He smiled faintly, amused at Cuddy's ramblings. "I'm not looking at anything. Except your neckline."

She looked down at herself. "Some dress, huh? Not at all a waste of six hundred dollars."

"Six hundred dollars and you couldn't even fit some underwear on under there?"

"How do you know what I've got on under here?" she said coyly.

"I'm a good guesser. Though I'd be happy to make a more thorough investigation," he raised his eyebrows at her suggestively.

Apparently the flirting was sitting well with the champagne, because she just smiled and settled herself back against the edge of the desk. Then she gestured at him with the bottle. "I'll share. If," she pulled it back in towards her chest, "you ask nicely."

He reached over and grabbed it off her. "I don't do nice," he growled, making her laugh as he took a swig. He made a face after swallowing. "You can't get drunk off this stuff. No one can, except supermodels and bridesmaids. And you, apparently."

"I'm not drunk," she protested, taking the champagne back and hugging it protectively. "I'm just a little... festive."

"Right." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I know you've got a secret stash around here somewhere." He moved behind her desk and she twisted around to watch him as he started opening drawers.

"I'm not pathetic enough to hide alcohol in my office. I'm not you."

"Please. We're doctors. It's what we do." He brandished the bottle of single malt he'd just located behind a stack of spare envelopes. "Pathetic, did you say?"

"That was a gift."

"Nice," he said, eyebrows raised as he read the label. "Share the wealth, Cuddy. We're not all well-connected, bigwig execs with people throwing high-priced liquor at us all the time."

She was just staring at him suspiciously. "You already knew that was there, didn't you? Do you have any concept of privacy at all? Is there anywhere you haven't snooped?" Her words lost some of their weight as she ended with a giggle.

And the very fact that he was in the presence of a tipsy, giggling Cuddy meant he wasn't going anywhere. There was potentially years worth of ammunition on offer here.

That and the bottle of eighteen year old scotch he'd just cracked the seal on.

"So you and Cuddy had a little after-hours soiree in her office," Wilson said.

"You went that night. You saw the dress," he replied, as if it explained everything.

"And after you plied her with more alcohol, you... jumped her?" Wilson's voice fairly dripped with disapproval.

He just smiled smugly. "What makes you think I jumped her?"

one month ago

"You know what I like about you?"

He had, he realised, lost control of the situation back around the time she informed him she was a quarter Irish, and could drink him under the table any day. If, indeed, he'd ever had any control here at all.

As it was, he was merely playing along, watching as she prowled around her office, admiring the way she remained not only upright but surprisingly graceful considering she was three sheets to the wind in three inch heels. Not to mention matching her swallow for swallow of the scotch (the champagne bottle long empty) because part-Irish or not, he was after all three times her size and he was a man and he had his pride.

And he couldn't wait to hear what she liked about him.

"Do tell," he prompted.

"I like that you're not intimidated by the fact that I get to tell you what to do all day."

He scoffed. "You mean you try to."

"I mean, some men find women in positions of power over them threatening."

He scoffed some more. "You're too little to threaten anything taller than a toy poodle. Even in those shoes."

"I think I do okay. And you," she said, wandering over towards him and reaching for the scotch that sat on the desk, "are so good at getting into trouble, sometimes I have to wonder whether you don't enjoy getting my attention."

"Yes," he drawled, watching the line of her throat as her head tilted back and she raised the bottle to her lips. "Your banshee impression every time I threaten the peace of your precious hospital - such a turn on."

She set the bottle back down and licked her lips. "Isn't it?"

Then he noticed her hand reaching towards him, and he held still, perplexed by this turn of events, as her fingers trailed up his chest and hooked in the neck of his t-shirt. Next thing he knew, she was tugging him down and then she was kissing him, fast and hot, nothing tentative or timid about it. When she let go of him he straightened up and looked down at her with a silly grin on his face.

"You're coming on to me."

"So? Everyone else seems to, why shouldn't I?"

He thought about it, but couldn't come up with a reason.

"What is it with you and women, House?" she asked.

"It's my irresistible charm."

She shook her head with a laugh. "No, it's not."

He swung his cane a little. "Then it must be my natural grace."

Her smile turned enigmatic. "Maybe." Then she reached behind her for the phone. "I'm calling a cab."

"Just the one?"

"Well I could get you one, too," she offered, before pressing on boldly, "or we could share."

"What makes you think I want to share a cab ride with you?"

"Because of the way you've been looking at me in this dress this whole time. Because of the way you always look at me," she answered him with quiet confidence.

"I'll share, if you ask nicely."

She smirked, and started dialling from memory. "I don't do nice."

He slid his hand across the silky material covering the small of her back, watching her shift a little at the sudden contact. "Lucky for you, then, I'm in a sharing mood," he said.

"Yeah I was real worried there for a minute," she snarked back at him, even as she leaned into his touch, and he couldn't help but grin.

The truth was - and this was a fact he'd always been aware of on some level - when Cuddy wasn't harping on about work-related matters she could actually be fun.

And there was nothing he wanted more right now than a little fun.

"Cuddy."

"Yep."

"Hit on you."

"Yep."

"Now I'm wondering what it is with you and women. All you do is insult them and they throw themselves at you."

"I know it isn't the James Wilson school of puppy-dog eyes, but it works for me."

"Clearly. The fact that she was up to her eyeballs in Dutch courage had nothing to do with it, I suppose?"

"An Irish Jew drinking Scottish whiskey for Dutch courage? Incidental. Especially once the French kissing started."

"Stop being a smart-ass and tell me what happened next."

"How much detail are we talking, because not much happened after that except..."

Wilson made a face. "Nothing Cuddy would kill you for telling me."

"Spoilsport. So then we went to her place, jumped into bed, the end," he summarised. "We never talked about it past the next morning, until a few days ago when she shows up pregnant. Score Greg's little swimmers, one; emergency contraception, zero."

Finished with the retelling, he turned back to his drink to celebrate. But even as he swallowed he could feel eyes on him. He looked over to find Wilson regarding him thoughtfully. House hated it when he did that.

"You can play it up as a meaningless encounter between two lonely drunks all you want," Wilson began, and House winced. He didn't want to hear this, he just knew it. "But the fact is, the circumstances are irrelevant now. You're going to be parents together. I know that hasn't sunk in yet, and fair enough. But you'll figure it out eventually, and when you do, things are going to change."

Somewhere inside, something deep and primal recoiled at the suggestion. No, no, no. He didn't want to think about that. Like he'd told Cuddy - he just wanted to sit here and drink and pretend this thing that he sure as hell never asked for wasn't happening at all.

All enjoyment from thinking back to what happened that night with Cuddy fled as he was dragged inevitably back to reality.

"And here I was so enjoying my cosy little rut," he said. It was a weak comeback but he was well and truly off his game all of a sudden and he suspected Wilson knew it.

Wilson's reaction, though, was to roll his eyes and say, "You know, I don't believe I've congratulated you yet." He clapped House on the shoulder and stuck out his hand. "Way to go, Dad."

House ignored the hand, choosing instead to glower down into his glass. "Shut up," he said, and tossed the remaining scotch back in one long fiery swallow. "Just shut up."