Hi everyone!
Here's the third installment in the First Times series.
It's set after "Simple Explanation" (season 5). Circumstance: Kutner's death. Motive: comfort. First move: … uhm, I let you be the judge of that!
I want to thank every one of you for their kind reviews, and also those of you who added this story into their lists of favorites. I'm also very grateful for the thousands of people who have visited this story since I first posted it here. I wish I could hear from you all, lol! :D
A special, very dedicated thanks to my girl RochelleRene who beta-d the first two chapters with patience… Thanks to Z, the ginger gizmo, too, whose bullying, shrieking demands are certainly part of the reasons why I keep kicking myself in the butt to find the time to write, even if I deny it most of the times…
Now, on to the new chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it!
** YOU'RE GONNA BE OKAY **
First Times series #3
He doesn't register the knock on his door the first time. Or maybe, it's just because he'd rather not hear it and pretend there's no one there. The second time it starts echoing in the room, it becomes impossible to ignore it as the insistent rasp on the wooden door practically screams stubborn impatience and he knows whoever's waiting in that fucking hallway for him to open won't give up.
He stands up, pushing himself off of the couch with a wince and drags his limping body to the entry of his apartment, clutching his thigh with his hand. He swings the door open, and leans against the doorjamb, an angry glare on his face, ready to bark a protest against the unwelcomed disturbance. But then, he ends up face to face with her.
"House," she starts reeling off quite instantly, not leaving him enough time to react. "I… err… I came to see how you were."
Her voice is dripping concern and empathy, but it unnerves him less than the fact that everything in her perfect, tidy body painfully contrasts with his scruffy, miserable self. He doesn't want to see her, or more precisely, doesn't want her to see him. Not like that. And definitely not tonight, of all nights.
"Go away," he grumbles resolutely, pushing the door shut.
She places her palm against it swiftly and pushes back forcefully before he has time to close it. She's seen the bloodshot eyes and the livid face. She tries not to make too much of a big deal out of it. Truth is, she kind of expected that. But now that she has confirmation, there's no way she's going to leave him alone.
"House, let me in," she says. And it's not a request.
He sighs, annoyed, but still releases his grasp and lets go of the door, leaving it ajar before turning on his heel to pace back inside. He's barefoot, and wears a creased, black tee-shirt and a white and blue striped PJs pants.
Cuddy stands at the threshold for a short while longer, takes a deep breath, bracing herself for the upcoming, predictable scornfulness, and finally enters. She closes the door behind her and walks around the couch where House went to sit down again. She stands, facing him, silent, as she takes her surrounding in with a quick scanning glance at the place.
Quite right away, she notices the empty glass near the half full bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. She also doesn't fail to notice the orange plastic bottle next to it that lies uncapped with a few white pills spilling from it. She instantly feels the pang of worry, clutching her heart, as her brain automatically counts the white tablets, seven of them, but she doesn't say anything about it.
"The ceremony was very moving," she says evenly, instead.
"Halleluiah!" House scoffs, grabbing the bottle of bourbon and pouring himself another glass.
He brings the glass to his lips and swallows a large gulp. Then he vaguely gestures toward the coffee table and says: "Help yourself," and she has the brief, disturbing feeling that his invitation includes everything that's lying there: the alcohol, the pills...
"No thanks. I'm not thirsty," she replies, her voice low.
He shrugs and slouches back into the couch, laying his crossed legs atop the coffee table.
"Why didn't you come?"
"Huh? Have you met me?" he spits. "I don't fit in those kinds of parties. My best attempt at faked, dignified empathy wouldn't do it even if I tried. Must be coz I terribly lack practice..."
Her mouth falls agape, and she stares at him in shock for a while.
"House, this isn't a party! It's about friends and family showing grief and supporting each other through a sad ordeal."
"Oh please, Cuddy, don't tell me you're buying that crap. I bet half of the people that showed up there hadn't been in touch with him in years! I'm sure most of them didn't even know what he was doing for a living."
She shakes her head resignedly, feeling helpless at the amount of bitterness behind his cynical logic. And she inwardly scolds herself for thinking that he's probably right just for a fleeting second.
"But you knew him," she insists. "Kutner was your friend."
"No. He was a member of my team!" he corrects.
"But you respected him. And he respected you."
"DID HE?" he suddenly barks. "Is that how you're showing respect nowadays? By shooting a bullet into your brain?"
"House, this is not your fault," she says carefully.
"Duh. Of course, it's not my fault!" he shouts, extravagantly. "I'm not the one who pulled the trigger. He did it to himself. Not me."
"I know you hate the fact that you didn't see it coming. That maybe, you even feel responsible for not being able to prevent it but-"
"I'm not responsible for anything. That moron was just too much of a coward to deal with his shitty life."
"Don't say that."
"Why? Life is shit, Cuddy. For everyone. But not all of them conveniently take the easy way out. Kutner was no more miserable than any other."
"He was an orphan. Maybe he was feeling alone," she offers softly.
"And that's the excuse you've got for him?" he replies angrily. "News flash: Being an orphan doesn't necessarily always suck. Not when you're adopted by parents who actually love you, anyway."
She bits her lip and averts her eyes, unable to deal with the intensity of the hurt she can read in his gaze.
"He was a good doctor," he says resentfully after a beat. "At least, he could have become a decent one," he amends, with a softer voice. "And he just… he just threw that away. Just like that."
"People just… commit suicide, sometimes. As inexplicable and infuriating as it might feel for the ones who stay, it just… happens. There's no explanation, no one to blame."
"Yeah. There's no one to blame but the idiot who offed himself," he says with disdain.
She sighs. She knows he's hurt, and that angry deflection has always been one of his strongest defense mechanisms. She shouldn't be surprised, especially when she knows, more than anyone else, the intensity of the helpless lie it tries to hide. Kutner was not like any doctor. He was a bit of a rough diamond, full of that beginner's clumsiness at times, but she knows House saw potential in him. Kutner was unconventional and challenging, just like him. He pushed boundaries, just like him. She, too, can't deny the pain it caused her to hear that he was dead. So young. Such a waste, she'd thought then. And it went far beyond that simple, administrative extra paperwork she'd have to deal with to find a decent replacement, all the while knowing that House would be a pain in the ass about it because he hates change and, no matter how hard he tries to pretend the opposite, it's just in his nature to refuse to acknowledge that life goes on and that, sometimes, there's nothing he can do about it.
He drinks again, his face impassive, and it saddens her to see him so emotionally locked-in, wallowing in that typical, lonely misery of his that he so stubbornly refuses to share. She'd want to take his pain away. She'd want to be more than just that person, who checks on him to make sure he doesn't push the limits too far. But, most of all, she'd want him to feel that she hasn't come because she pities him, that it's so much more… that she couldn't help it… that she just had to be here…
"Did you eat something?" she suddenly asks, glancing toward the kitchen.
"Bah," he grumbles throatily. He holds his glass up and flashes a cynical smile at her. "Golden nectar to warm my empty stomach!" he declares solemnly. "And a few peanuts to add something solid… Now wait!" He points at the coffee table. "Oh my God, these white, little things aren't peanuts? Oops!"
Cuddy rolls her eyes and takes a deep, heavy breath.
"House!" she scolds. "How many Vicodin have you taken?"
"You mean today or in the last three hours? Coz then, the answer is significantly different. Not necessarily in the way you think it is, by the way-"
The raw, uncensored honesty he always displays with her when it comes to confess the depth of his vices has always baffled her. He undeniably trusts her, she knows it, but then why doesn't he let more of his vulnerability show through to her? Why does he always have to be so guarded, hiding behind provoking, sometimes crude comments meant to shock her, test her limits, as if he needed to keep her at a safe distance when all she wishes is for him to let her in… just a little.
"That's it! I don't want to know how many pills you've taken, but you've had enough for tonight," she suddenly declares with a steady voice, leaning down to collect the tablets and put them back into the bottle. She swiftly puts the cap on and slides the bottle in her skirt's front pocket.
"Hey, go get your own prescription if you want some of these!" he half-protests. "They're mine. You can't have them!"
He plays the outraged card with a little more exaggerated force than necessary but, eventually, he doesn't resist. He lets her. He's always let her. Fix the boundaries, challenge him not to trespass them, that's how it is between them, and the reason why he's always taken her bait. He wouldn't allow any other one to say 'no' or 'enough' to him without it driving him completely mad. But with her, it's different. It doesn't bother him. She can take his pills if she's decided to. In that moment, he knows she's only drawing the line for his sake, and it feels good, somehow, to think that she cares enough for him to do it.
"Drop it, House," she says with a smile, more out of principle than to strictly make a point. "And this," she adds, snatching the glass from him in one hand, and grabbing the bottle of scotch in the other, "is enough for tonight, too. I'm gonna cook something for you."
"Ouch, please, no more torture," he fake-whines, smiling back.
She chuckles lightly, knowing that his remark is meant to tease her about her cooking skills more than it is to protest about the fact that she's confiscated his drink.
She walks to the kitchen, decidedly, and after having put the bottle of Bourbon away on a shelf and emptied the glass in the sink, she starts rummaging through the cupboards and fridge to find something decent to cook. Apart from some unappetizing remnants of Chinese noodles in a box and crumbles of half-eaten pizza that must be lying there since days, the only thing relatively safe she finds is some dehydrated preparation for chicken soup.
She fills the kettle with water and waits in front of the stove for it to boil. None of them speak during the whole time. From time to time, she just glances toward the living room to look at him and she can see he's leaned back against the couch's backrest, his head tilted backward, and his eyes closed. She briefly wonders what he's thinking about, what the demons haunting his mind behind those closed eyelids look like.
The kettle starts to whistle and after having poured the preparation into a large mug, she heads back to the living room. He must sense she's here, just in front of him, because he instantly sits up and opens his eyes, staring at her with an intense, undecipherable gaze.
"Here," she says, handing him the mug. "Watch out, it's scalding."
He takes the hot soup from her hands and grimaces as he brings the bowl under his nose. She sits down on the couch next to him and studies him as he takes the first sip, heedful not to burn his throat.
"How does it taste?" she queries.
"Good," he replies honestly, his voice much softer now, as if the simple fact that she's finally sat beside him strangely appeased him.
Some leisure, silent minutes pass by as House drinks his soup. Cuddy drops her shoes on the floor and bends one of her legs at the knee, tucking her foot under her thigh. She only then notices the guitar that's leaned against the armrest behind her.
"You were playing?" she asks.
"No," he answers, bending forward to put the now empty mug on the coffee table. "That bitch is out of tune, and I've tried, in vain, to fix it all evening. I can't get any decent sound out of it."
She thinks that, had he drunk less, he probably would have been able to tune his guitar just fine. She hasn't heard him play often but she knows he's a great musician. She remembers spying on him a few times as he played the piano in the afterhours of the rare fundraising galas he accepted to attend. He seemed so tranquil then, as if the music could transport him to a place where melancholic melodies became oddly soothing, only for him. She slightly shivers as her mind pictures his long fingers running along the black and white keys.
He doesn't elaborate more on the subject of his guitar and, unexpectedly, takes the remote control and turns the TV on. He channel-hops for a short while and flicks to an old black and white classic: Bergman and Bogart, war, foreign countries, and nostalgic melodies, played on a grand piano that brings back memories of happier, faraway times.
"You can stay if you want," he tells her without looking at her and she guesses that it's just his shy, unique way of asking her to.
"Ok."
They watch the end of Casablanca together in silence, seated side by side on his couch. Sometimes she shoots him swift side-glances just to see if he's still awake and some other times, she feels the weight of his scrutinizing gaze on her as her focus is turned toward the TV screen. When the final credits are over, House points the remote control at the screen and turns the TV off.
"Do you feel better?" she asks, turning to the side to look at him.
"Yes. Thank you."
"Need anything? I can get you some aspirin if you want," she proposes.
"No, I'm good," he answers, and he sighs heavily, as if he knew that it means her leaving him alone again is inexorably what's next.
"You sure?" she insists, hesitant, but she still doesn't move.
"Yeah. I didn't take that many Vicodin, you know. Just maybe one or two numbing, extra ones…" His voice trails off and he self-consciously looks down at his thighs.
Numbing. The word echoes in her head and she feels her heart clutch with another pang of sadness for that wrecked, genius man whose life, no matter what she does, seems so fatefully intertwined with hers. She pats his hand with her hand, tentatively, but says nothing. He jerks his head up and looks at her, quizzically.
"I should go," she suddenly says, after a fleeting, silent moment, and she removes her hand off of his. "And you should go to bed."
She stands up quickly before he can answer anything. She bends down to grab her shoes, but he reaches out his hand and says: "Hey Cuddy, will you help a poor cripple walk to his bedroom?" His voice is so unexpectedly devoid of all the previous pretense and deflection, it takes her completely off guard, and she looks down at him with her mouth slightly open in surprise.
"Yes, sure."
She takes his hand in hers and helps him stand up on his feet. He steadies himself and she holds his arm to guide him within the first steps. His limp is heavy, and he instinctively rubs his right thigh with the palm of his hand. When they arrive in his hallway, she wraps her arm around his waist to take some of his weight on her and he leans a little against her shoulders.
They walk inside the bedroom, and he stands by the bedside while she draws the sheets out for him to slide beneath them and he watches her every move with silent gratitude.
When he's tucked in under the quilt, she sits by the edge of the bed and looks at him with a fond gaze.
"He didn't even leave a note. Nothing," he suddenly whispers, incredulous.
"I know."
"Maybe something happened. Surely something must have hap-"
"Shh, don't rack your brain over it, House," she coos softly, cupping his cheek with her hand. "There's nothing anyone could have done."
She feels him ever so slightly lean into her touch, so she caresses the side of his face lightly, barely brushing his stubble with the palm of her hand.
"Just try and get some sleep," she tells him with a soft, reassuring voice. "You look like you've been hit by a train."
He turns his face to the side to look at her and plants his big blue eyes into hers. The silence in the room suddenly becomes deafening.
"I have to go," she announces cautiously after a while.
She removes her hand from his face and shifts away from him to stand up. He seizes her wrist and clutches his fingers around it tightly.
"Stay," he whispers pleadingly, with a hint of panic in his voice.
"Hey," she asks, immediately leaning down again and looking at him with concern. "Are you feeling ok?
"Never been better," he huffs, smirking bitterly at her.
She smiles a shy smile and rolls her eyes at the irony of his remark, but she can feel the weight of all the pain he still doesn't confess but keeps for himself instead. She holds out her hand and cups the side of his face again.
"You're going to be ok, House," she tells him, caressing his stubble gently.
"What if I'm not?"
"Give it time. Just get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning." Her hand still cradling his jaw, she leans down to his face with a reassuring smile.
"I really have to go," she says again, just before kissing his cheek softly.
Her lips brush his stubble lightly and she starts straightening up, but he grabs her shoulder and holds her back. She smiles and leans down again to kiss him once more. This time, unintentionally, her lips meet the corner of his lips. His grasp on her shoulder tightens imperceptibly.
She doesn't analyze, she doesn't calculate either, but she can feel his pain and how strongly he must be struggling to hide it from her, so all she really wants in that moment is just to show him that he's not alone, that she cares, and that she understands him. She lays a chaste kiss on his mouth, softly, and there's no other purpose than to bring him solace then. It's just platonic, she tells herself, when her lips touch his lips again. It lasts maybe just a little longer than it should and that small additional fraction of second is enough to suddenly turn the sensation into something different.
Irrepressibly, she feels it radiate inside of her, more distinctively than anything else, and it catches her off guard. She pulls back, and gasps, her eyes, two light-grey orbs wide opened in stunned awe, intensely staring into his eyes. And she instantly deciphers the answer in his gaze. As taken aback as he is, too, it's impossible for her to deny that there's much more behind those intense, blue eyes than just surprise.
It lasts for a fleeting second. It lasts an eternity. She doesn't know. Time doesn't exist anymore in that moment. His pain, her care, all that mess and desolation, all those years spent absorbing each other's misery, pretending, deflecting, it all comes crashing them both in that single moment. And neither of them really wants to fight it.
She leans down again, just as he sits up straight and they kiss again. Only this time, this is no innocent goodbye peck on the lips. It's thirsty and imperious. Their hands on each other follow right after, and she slides her fingers under the hemline of his tee as he deftly undoes the buttons of her shirt. They reluctantly break away from their kiss, but only for a second, enough for Cuddy to pull the tee-shirt past his head as House takes off her shirt and they reconnect instantly.
Their lips find each other again and the sound of their breaths becomes heavier with lust. He strokes her back softly with his large palms and unhooks her bra while she caresses his broad shoulders and tips her head to the side to invite him to kiss her neck. He does and buries his face there, while he gently but demandingly pulls her down to make her lie on the bed next to him.
They discard the rest of their clothes quickly and soon, they both lie naked in each other's embrace, his strapping frame hovering over her almost fragile, petite frame.
They don't speak at all.
They have no words, really, to express the emotions that their bodies, anyway, know infinitely better how to convey. Cuddy parts her thighs and he nestles her hips, positioning the head of his sex against her folds. Before he pushes forward to penetrate her, House props himself up on his forearms and looks down at her with eyes full of dazed wonderment.
She bits her lower lip and swallows back the lump in her throat, overcome by the intensity of his gaze on her. Then he cups her face in his hands, delicately, and rests his forehead against her forehead just before rocking his hips forth slowly until he's completely buried inside her. She closes her eyes, the sensation of him sheathed in the depth of her heat rising from the center of her core to her brain and overwhelming her with a myriad of sensations all at once.
She feels the touch of his lips on her eyelids as his hands on both sides of her head press just a little stronger and she understands his calling. She opens her eyes again and she meets his burning gaze, staring at her, asking her, almost beseechingly, to look at him and not to let go of that connection.
She touches the side of his cheek softly and trails her fingers along his jawline and he takes a deep, quivering breath, while his eyes, piercing into her, grow wider and darker with desire. Then he pushes himself higher above her with his hands and bends his head down to claim her breasts with his mouth. The contact of his lips on her sensitive skin sends shivers through her spine and she arches her chest upward to meet his caresses as he kisses her with delicate attention, sucking her nipples softly and licking her hard, rosy peaks with his tongue.
The grasp of her arms around his waist tightens and she winds her legs around his thighs, as he trails his way back up with kisses, finding her face again and tasting the sweet pulp of her lips with his lips. Then, slowly, cautiously, almost tentatively, House begins to move inside her.
And they make love.
None of them wants to risk defining what it is, but there's no denying the truth. Even though, tonight, she knows that he's probably more broken and needy than he usually is. Even though she's scared to acknowledge all the reasons, bad reasons, why she still wants to be the one for him, now, who will give him that, there's much more than just two bodies seeking comfort in each other's arms in that instant.
There's longing, and years of silent yearning, hopes, pain and common losses, regretful disillusions, mistakes, and the pride that fed their denial, there's half a life of unsaid expectations, lies and deflections, and yet tonight, while their bodies slowly undulate within that million-year-old dance that melts their sweats together, they don't want to put a label on it. They're just too afraid it might break the spell.
Somehow, Cuddy knows that House is probably the one who craves that blissful, careless abandon more, that he's the one who needs to forget and lose himself in the feeling the most. Still, as he keeps swaying his hips leisurely, going in and out of her, again and again, she feels like she's the one he's protecting from the horrors of reality.
His back-and-forth movements are as steady and unchanging as an ocean's tide and it rocks her, waves after waves, inescapably carrying her elsewhere, where nothing, outside of the tender care of his focus on her, exists anymore.
He's so large and strong under her touch, it feels like being sheltered under a safe haven where nothing bad can happen. And in the way his sad, beautiful eyes are staring at her, she can see that what he's taking from her then is the assurance that nothing hurts, even if the intensity of that gaze also tells her that he's still painfully aware that the soothing illusion will only linger briefly.
His hands caress her body, almost adoringly, from the length of her outer thighs to the luscious curves of her hips, and the firmness of her belly, the frailty of her shoulders, her face, her breasts, and while he's stroking her, she presses her legs harder against his hips, and arches her back higher to offer herself better to him.
House searches for her hand along her side and when he finds it, he laces his fingers with hers and finally lets go of her eyes to bury his face in her neck. His thrusts become mightier, and he starts panting against her pulse point when suddenly, just as she feels his muscles tense everywhere in his body, right before the release of orgasm is about to pervade him, she feels dampness against her skin. She knows why and, as the salty bead burns her and rolls down her neck and into her collarbone, she can't help but squeeze him tighter against her, forcefully, because she wants him to know it's ok and that's she's here, for him.
They come almost at the same moment, House just a little before her, but still, he doesn't deny her pleasure and carries on, in spite of the jolts that shakes his body, until she follows after him and starts trembling in his arms. He freezes when their shivers subside and collapses on top of her, kissing her one last time on the lips softly. Then he pulls out of her and rolls to the side and she stays beside him, immobile, not daring to move or speak, not wanting to break the silence.
After a while, he stretches one arm out to the side toward her and she tentatively slides inside it. He instantly wraps it around her shoulder, pressing her tight against his chest and nuzzling her hair, his breath even and peaceful.
He falls asleep a few moments after. She can feel it when the force of his grasp around her slowly relaxes. She takes a deep breath and cuddles up against him just a little longer, prolonging for herself the soothing sensation of his body, quiet and serene beside her.
Then reluctantly, she carefully extricates herself from his embrace and gets up. She tip-toes to the bathroom and quickly cleans herself then returns to the bedroom and picks up her clothes on the floor. She gets dressed in silence, and just before leaving, she goes by the bedside and leans down to him.
She doesn't kiss him. She just listens to him breathe and then she gently brushes his stubble with her hand. In the living room, she finds her shoes, next to the couch and puts them on. She looks around her, sighs, and then heads to the door.
It's the middle of the night when she exits his apartment and, as she clicks the door shut, heedful not to make too much noise, she briefly wonders if he'll remember what happened the next day.
But then, as an oddly unsettling feeling pervades her, she tries to convince herself it's probably better if he doesn't.
** THE END **
PS: that 'first time' is my fictional explanation for the fact that House would have desperately wanted Cuddy to be his savior more than anyone else at the end of season 5... :P