A/N: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks: as always to NaiveEve for the excellent beta.
-7-
Now this was going to be fun.
Foreman had been to bachelor parties before, been responsible for planning bachelor parties, had gotten totally wrecked at bachelor parties. But he had never been given the task of getting his boss plastered out of his mind...at a bachelor party.
Like his mother always said, there was a first time for everything.
He had volunteered for the designated driver position. No sense tying one on and waking up shit faced and hung over on the morning of a work day. He didn't imagine Chase or Wilson would do an inordinate amount of imbibing either. But House? He was a different story. He was going to get ripped. And damn, he was going to enjoy it.
The plan was that Foreman would pick up House, then swing by Chase's to pick up Chase and Wilson. That would give Foreman the opportunity to be alone with House for a while, which was where the real fun came in. He had a personal wedding gift for his boss. A certain little something that would start the slow slide into inebriation on a nice mellow track.
His BMW purred along the Princeton side streets, taking the corners with ease. He turned up the music, tapping two fingers against the wheel along with Ike and Tina's rendition of "Proud Mary" (oh, yeah, Tina likes to do things nice...and rough). One block ahead was House's apartment building. It was a moderate sized structure in a moderately decent part of town. Foreman wondered why a man prone to such excesses would choose to live surrounded by moderation. But maybe that was the key to his survival.
And there he was, leaning against the wall, twirling his cane from hand to hand like it was a cheerleader's baton. He was damn good with the thing. Could win some kind of 'king o' the gimps' award if he wanted. And he looked...relaxed. Those lines of stress around his eyes had softened. Yeah, he was definitely getting it...daily. Regular sex with a steady, not for hire, partner will do wonders for you. Well, good for him. Maybe he'll be easier to deal with, be less of a moody bastard. "Nah," Foreman discarded the thought. "No way. House was House." He let out a low chuckle as he pulled up to the curb.
"Whatchoo got, señor?" House bellowed. "A piñata for the party boy?"
"Get in the car, House," Foreman called. "Time is a-wastin'."
House pushed himself off the wall and gave his cane one final twirl before joining Foreman in the car. He sank into the rich leather and buckled up. "You've managed to afford a ride like this on what I pay you?"
"I scrape by," Foreman told him, cutting the wheel and heading downtown.
"You doing some pimping on the side?"
Foreman whistled through his teeth. "Haven't touched a drop, and you are in rare form already, I see." He accelerated slightly as he rounded the corner.
"Your tires squealed." House reached over and jabbed a button on the stereo. Immediately the bass deepened to an overwhelming thud, thud, thud, causing the floor to rumble and Foreman's eardrums to pound in time.
With a grunt, Foreman punched the button again, easing the bass down to a listenable level. He threw House a disgruntled look. "What are you talking about?"
"When you took that corner, your tires squealed." Leaning forward again, House scrutinized the tone controls and jacked the treble up.
"What the hell-?" Foreman slapped at House's hand but missed, since House had moved on to a new activity: twisting the air conditioner dial to 'coldest'.
"You're crazy." Foreman's free hand was all over the controls, fingers jabbing buttons, returning the settings to 'normal.' "Leave my damn stuff alone."
House's grin was triumphant, like he'd won the round. "You should pay more attention to your driving instead of what I'm doing." Lifting a brow, he added, "Only a moron takes a turn like you did."
Foreman dared not step into the arena with a scathing response. Not when he had to be in House's presence for the next few hours. Gritting his teeth, he drove on, a few choice profanities playing in his head as he carefully turned the next corner.
"Ve-errrry good." House smirked and applauded.
Tina Turner was belting out "Try A Little Tenderness".
"He beat the shit out of her, you know." House indicated the speaker with a flick of his hand.
"Who?"
"Ike. He used to really do a job on her."
From his peripheral vision, Foreman could see House turn to him, mischief dancing in those eyes..
"You ever hit a woman, Eric?" he asked.
"No!"
"No? Never? Come on, 'fess up."
Foreman bit his tongue and rolled to a stop at the light. "Okay, once."
House emitted an exaggerated gasp. "What could have precipitated such a heinous act? Did she get chicken grease on your purple 'go to meetin' shirt?"
"I was sixteen. She stole my stash."
"Ah, Eric Foreman...The Early Years."
"She stole my stash and gave it to my brother." Foreman tapped the gas and they rolled on. When he spoke again, his voice had a harder edge. "So maybe she did me a favor..."
Tina hit that final bombastic note and the CD ended. The air from the vents whispered clean and cool. Foreman liked the silence and, since House wasn't bitching, he made no move to change the music.
They were heading deeper into the city. Past the Wal-Marts and the Pizza Huts and the Donut Heavens was a darker, more feral main drag. Here storefronts were either barred, locked and abandoned, or wide open and swelling with locals. Music blared from open windows and boom boxes. Snatches of hip-hop and rhythm and blues melded with a touch of salsa to create a unique soundtrack for the evening's activities. Then there were other, less appealing sounds that ebbed and flowed on the warm spring air: frenetic chatter in English and Spanish, a scream, drunken laughter.
Over there...
A group of kids clambered on a bicycle rack, using it as makeshift monkey bars. Three teenage boys sat on the sidewalk, hunched in a close circle, passing around...something. Guys in their twenties, who could somehow afford top line Nikes and football jerseys, bounced basketballs and strutted their stuff for the ladies.
"Well, it's nice to see your homies being so productive." House nodded at the street fest. "Strutting and dope peddling are art forms, after all."
"These are not my homies."
"Really, now." House's eyes widened with incredulity. "And here I thought you'd come to reminisce, to give me a somewhat...sentimental tour of the ol' homestead."
"Wrong again."
House snapped his fingers and made a gesture of triumph at the roof's interior. "I know."
"You do huh?" Rolling his eyes, Foreman turned down the next street. He drove past abandoned buildings and burnt out storefronts before finally pulling into a small parking lot with room for about twenty cars. The majority of spaces were filled.
"We're off to a soul food barbecue." House inhaled deeply, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. "Can't you just smell the hog fat frying?" Folding his arms, he peered cautiously out the side window. "But this sure ain't the place, Famous Amos. Not a bar-b-cue grill in sight."
"This is the place."
"Oh, yeah? Where are those big black guys, the ones who call y'all 'suh'? You know, they wear those big chef's hats and have the brightest, whitest teeth...
"House, shut up."
The lot was shadow strewn, illuminated by a single flickering streetlamp and the waning light of day. Perfect for a haunted hayride but not a whole lot more. Beyond the lot: a broken heap of a wooden fence and a three story building. A small blue light burned over its door. Not an inviting scene. But Foreman knew beyond that door was a whole mess of what House would consider cool.
"Come on."
"I'll wait here."
"You damn well won't." Foreman pushed open the driver's side door and eased himself out of the car. "Let's go."
He watched House push himself from the BMW. Assuming he would follow, Foreman headed down a ragged path, rife with beer bottles, aluminum cans, plastic food containers and condom wrappers. In a moment, the realization hit him: he was on his merry way alone. Clenching his fists, he kicked up some debris and spun on his heel. There was House, standing by the car, digging the tip of his cane hard into the dirt and gravel.
"House. What the hell-?"
"Okay, I get it," House shouted.
"What?" Patience wasn't Foreman's strongest suit. Another minute of this idiocy and he would start yelling things he wished he hadn't.
"You're kidnapping me."
"Oh, my god..."
"You have every hooker I ever diddled in that sugar shack just waiting to do me for old time's sake."
"If that was the case, there would be a line out the door, making its way past that fence, past the cars and into downtown Princeton." The image of a throng of call girls, filing their nails or primping their hair while waiting for House to do them was priceless. At least they would all have something in common. War stories. "You'd never survive."
"I figured that was your plan. Death by orgasm overload."
Foreman beckoned with the same two fingers he used to tap along with Tina. "Would you come on? Please?"
House scrutinized the area once more. He took a step forward then stopped to throw Foreman a suspicious glare.
"It's okay. It's safe," Foreman threw his hands in the air. "I promise."
House hesitated before reluctantly pressing on. His sneaker soles crunched along the pebble strewn dirt as he made his way toward Foreman. "So this isn't some elaborate practical joke?"
"No."
"You're not getting back at me for all your years of subservience?"
"No!" Foreman kicked a soda can out of his path One eye was trained surreptitiously on House, making sure he wasn't having too difficult a time with the rough terrain.
"You don't have to watch me. I may be a cripple but I can move." To prove his point, House pushed on, staggering only once before passing Foreman and arriving at the door before him."
"See?" House was winded but still standing.
"Impressive." Foreman knocked on the door twice.
"Speak the word, brother." A voice sounded over a small square speaker above their heads.
"The Illiad According To Marge." Foreman winked at House.
"The Odyssey According To Bart," the voice replied.
"By Homer...Simpson."
"You may pass." The voice boomed.
House's lips curled into a broad grin. He shook his head and let out a loud guffaw as the door swung open.
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Cuddy appointed herself designated driver for Myrna's night out. As much as she would have enjoyed downing a drink or two this evening, she knew remaining sober was for the best. But Cameron? She looked like she could use something more potent than a wine cooler. Ever since her altercation with House, her moods had been inconsistent, swinging from giddiness to despair. She needed the release tonight. Hopefully she and Myrna would put aside the bitchery and be civil to each other. But at the moment, the olive branch didn't look to be forthcoming from either camp.
They sat, stewing in silence in the back of Cuddy's Lexus while Cuddy navigated the car around the corner. The stereo was on, the music low. As usual, Joni Mitchell was warbling about her old man and good omelets and stew. Every lyric, every subtle shade of melody Joni sang was so deeply ingrained, Cuddy could sing them in her sleep. Of course she could. The damn CD had been in the player forever. It accompanied to her to work, on her ride home, making it the soundtrack to her life. Home, work, work, home. Where the hell else did she go? Oh, yes, she did venture out to the supermarket once a week to buy chicken, salad stuff, Diet Coke and ice cream. Such was the exciting life of Lisa Cuddy.
"Come on, girls, brighten up," Cuddy called, checking out her passengers in the rearview. "This is supposed to be a party."
Cameron shifted, twisting her pretty mouth into a pout. She alternately scrutinized her nails and glowered out the window. Her lips moved again, then thinned into a tight pink line. Whatever bleak thoughts were stirring in that noggin would not make it to broadcast today.
Myrna's eyes flicked briefly toward Cameron. She heaved a sigh, shrugged, then offered Cuddy a soft smile.
There was a time a smile like that might have suckered House in. Cuddy recalled when all she had to do to give him some hope for an interesting evening was lift her head, lock in on those panty peeling baby blues...and smile. She lied to herself, pretending she had the advantage over him, denying the powerful effect he wielded over her libido. Giving him his own back was the game she attempted to play: acting the charmer, the seducer. But she couldn't hope to compete because back then he was the master. And by the end of the evening he would have gotten the best of her, stealing out her dorm room afterwards, leaving behind his scent of sweat and sex on her sheets...like a goddamn tomcat.
She glanced in the rearview and couldn't help wonder how it was with Myrna and House. Did she initiate their lovemaking? Did he hold her afterwards? How was sex with Nurse Myrna different than sex with Coed Lisa? A wave of melancholy rose, crested and broke, nearly drowning her; Cuddy inhaled deeply and swallowed against a sob, well aware those answers would never be hers.
More silence from the girls, more Joni from the player. Cuddy decided she needed to stock up on about ten CD's worth of good new music. Music with life, some oomph. Maybe some of the younger people at work could clue her in to what was worth buying.
Sometimes she really felt...ancient.
They were cruising uptown, so chi-chi, the part of Princeton filled with cafés, clubs and fashionable restaurants. Cuddy pulled the car into the lot of an establishment called Dimples and cut the motor. Her passengers remained silent and stoic.
A line was forming at the entrance of the place: women of all ages, some clad in skimpy, sparkly dresses, others in miniskirts and low cut blouses, laughed and joked and jostled each other. The few men present were an incongruent part of the mix. They looked like they would have rather been stranded on an ice floe in the Antarctic than hanging out with this excited gaggle of females. The guys seemed lost, milling around, staring at their shoes or the sky or the parking lot.. But the ladies didn't seem to care. They were jiggling, dancing in place, ready to pa-arty.
Cuddy turned and leaned one arm over the back of her seat. "What is up with you guys?" she asked, "Did somebody die?"
"We have reservations," Cameron wrenched off her seatbelt and hitched her bag over her shoulder. "We should go before they give our table away." She left the car, slamming the door behind her and headed toward the entrance.
Cuddy searched Myrna's eyes. "I'm clueless, kiddo."
"You're very kind to have put his evening together, Dr. Cuddy, but," Myrna gave a sorrowful shake of her head. "maybe it's best if I go home."
Myrna. This was the woman House had chosen to marry. God. Each time Cuddy thought the shock had worn off, it came screaming back like a rocket hurtling down from the heavens.
She was not a classic beauty. But there was...something there: a clarity, an openness in her face. Cuddy could see why House had been attracted to her. The woman was that rare breed, an open book who, if she lied, it would be to ward off a hurt rather than to cause one. Of course, Cuddy could be totally wrong, her instincts well off the mark, and Myrna would turn out to be nothing more than a gold digging fiend.
She knew next to nothing about Myrna, except that she had started life at Princeton-Plainsboro as an LPN, then went to classes, studied hard and became an RN. Her work ethic was good. She was never late, never out sick. No one on staff had a bad word to say about her. Not even Nurse Brenda made derogatory remarks about Myrna, and she was usually good for a complaint or two about everyone.
Was Myrna fooling everyone? Was she a charlatan? Was she going to use House, enjoying his comfortable apartment, his money, his status, until she'd had enough? Would she get a lawyer then, go after him for whatever she could get?
Somehow...Cuddy mused, looking into Myrna's hazel eyes, I don't think so.
"What happened with you and Cameron?" Cuddy asked softly.
Myrna played with the hem of her dress and looked away.
"Maybe I can help you through this or maybe I can't," Cuddy said. "But at least give me a chance."
The silence lingered. The throng at the door of Dimples began to press forward.
"She's just having a problem with this whole thing." Myrna's words were heavy weights, one dragging after the other. "She wanted to take me for a makeover, get me all painted and prim." She raised her eyes to meet Cuddy's. "But that's not me, Doctor. It never will be. But she tried to shame me into it. She kind of hurt my feelings, which made me think she was trying to get back at Greg..."
It sounded like something Cameron might stoop to, especially when it came to House.
"I called her earlier today, told her that I would have to turn down her offer." Myrna exhaled slowly, focusing on the queue at the door.
Cuddy followed her gaze and saw Cameron lagging behind, throwing impatient glares at the Lexus.
"I was surprised at the way she lashed out at me," Myrna continued. "Told me I'm a fool, told me I don't have a chance in hell of making this marriage work." Shrugging, she returned her attention to the hem of her dress. "Greg doesn't say much about it, but I can just imagine how she's acting toward him."
Cuddy thought about what she should say. She was beginning to have a grudging admiration for Myrna. The woman was certainly her own person. And in her gentle way, she could probably handle anything House could dish out. Cuddy wished she could spend more time with her. Alone. Discovering more about Myrna might reveal a totally different side of House. But Cameron was out there, shooting virtual daggers at them both.
"The fact that he's marrying you is big. To call it a major step in his life is a gross understatement," Cuddy said.
"Marriage is a major step for anyone."
"Yes...but this is different. This is like he's stepping into the daylight after years of hiding in a cave." She emphasized her words by patting her seatback with her palm. "And to those of us who have known him...forever, or over the last few years...his actions are somewhat...suspect. And Cameron, well, she's had this thing for him... "
"Uh...yeah."
"That's her problem. It has nothing to do with you." Tilting her head, Cuddy gave her a small smile. "But you're going to hear people talking, whispering behind your back because this is so...unlike him."
"They can think what they like. She can think what she likes." Myrna returned Cuddy's grin. "See? For the first time since becoming a nurse, I've fallen into something good. Stepped in shit, as they say. It just sort of happened. And it feels right." She emitted a surprised, 'what can you do?' laugh. "It really feels right. I don't know when anything ever felt this right."
"Well, then you're damn lucky."
"I know."
"I hope he realizes how lucky-"
"Don't." Myrna held a palm up, closed her eyes and shook her head. "Don't say it."
"O-kay." Was she superstitious? Was she wary of House being called lucky because of his association with her? Was there a self image problem here?
Myrna blinked her eyes open, and Cuddy could see a shimmer in the left one, a little moist pearl at the rim, a tear.
Cuddy made a great show of unbuckling her seatbelt as she retrieved her grin. "Let's go have a little fun."
"I...think I might just head home, Dr. Cuddy."
"Oh, come on now. You're going to miss The Dudes." Her smile morphed into a wicked, brazen smirk, her voice lowering to a rough whisper. "Five guys with tight buns and perfect pecs."
Myrna's mouth fell open. For the moment, she seemed intrigued.
"You've got to see them shake what their mamas gave 'em. Especially those extraordinary rear ends." Cuddy winked. "Why do you think they call the place Dimples?"
Myrna huffed out a melancholy laugh as she pulled her cell phone from her purse. "I wish I could, Dr. Cuddy. It sounds like an excellent evening of entertainment." She flipped the phone open. "But I can't. Not with Cameron here. I'd just be too stressed, too...uncomfortable. I wouldn't be any fun."
Cuddy wanted to disagree, to tell her that differences should be overlooked for the night. She would have a word with Cameron to set her straight. But Myrna was already talking on the phone, ordering a taxi.
And Cuddy had to admit, she couldn't blame Myrna for wanting to leave.
"Why don't you let me take you home?" Cuddy asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
"No, it's fine." Myrna slipped the phone back into her purse and unbuckled her seatbelt. "They'll be here in ten minutes. You go with Cameron, have a good time." She pushed open the door and let herself out. Her strides were quick and purposeful as she walked toward the curb without looking back.
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The lights were...everywhere, hurtling toward him like miniature suns, surrounding him, warming him. They were perfect round strobes rushing, whooshing past. He thought he might reach out the window to snatch one, to study its texture, embrace its heat. But his hand were so heavy, resting against his thighs. Too much trouble. Much too much...He rolled his head against his shoulders and opened his mouth, letting the wind graze his tongue, his lips.
Oh...my...god, old man. You are so incredibly stoned.
"How you holding up?" Foreman asked.
It was an effort, but House managed to keep his eyes open as he turned his head toward his driver. Foreman's chocolate brown skin reflected the light of those suns better than whitey white skin would. That would be boring. But Foreman's cheeks...they glowed; those candy kiss eyes shone.
Candy kiss eyes. House giggled, picturing Foreman's eyeballs sitting on the dashboard, wrapped in silver foil. A pair of sweet treats. Speaking of sweet treats. He remembered his lollipop. He grabbed it from his shirt pocket and popped it in his mouth.
Like a good boy.