A/N: This story was a joy to write. I'd like to thank everyone for reading, reviewing and just enjoying the ride.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Beta: Thanks to NaiveEve, my beta extraordinaire!
-16-
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
"Stop. Doing. That." Scowling, Wilson paused in his task and just...glared...
Thump, thump, thump.
...his irritation seeming only to spur House on. Offering up a sickly sweet grin, House arched one brow, raised the tip of his cane two inches above the hardwood again and ...
...thump, thump, thump...
"House, in case you hadn't noticed, 1974 has been and gone. That disco beat is dead." Wilson said.
"Not in my little corner of Studio 54." Thump, thump, thumpa, thump, thump.
"So when does it stop?"
"When you're done," House crowed, "I'm done."
Wilson snorted, deciding it was best to ignore this irritation, this crimp in the fabric of the day. He manufactured a grin and continued playing gentleman's gentleman: straightening the lapels of House's new suit, whisking off any lint that might have had the audacity to land anywhere on House's person, fussing with the red carnation in House's buttonhole.
"What are you doing now?"
"Your carnation was crooked."
"I don't need to wear this damn flower." House's free hand was a claw, drawing ever closer to the scarlet accessory.
Wilson batted the claw away. "House. It's part of your wedding attire. It's just...what you do."
The thumping ceased. "You mean it's what you did."
"That too."
"Ri-ight. Let me clue you in to something important."
"And that would be..."
"Real men don't wear floral arrangements."
"Says the real man with the flower in his lapel." Wilson let out an incredulous laugh.
"Not my idea." House glowered. "I was coerced."
Tilting his head, Wilson fussed with the flower again. "It looks...nice."
"Ah...now I know."
"You know what?" Wilson said.
"You're gay," House proclaimed, shaking a finger in Wilson's face. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," House sang, his voice filling every corner of his apartment.
Wilson chuckled. He gave the lapels one final tug, then stood back to observe his handiwork. "There. I guess that's as good as you're going to get." He folded his arms. "I don't suppose there's any chance you might consider shaving."
House flapped his lips. "Hah! You're lucky I got my hair cut this morning."
"Hmmph, guess you're right."
Brushing a finger lightly over the carnation, House smirked.
"You'll want to use the special cane today," Wilson said.
"You mean...the pimp cane."
Sighing, Wilson cocked his head. "The ebony one with the silver filigree."
"The pimp cane."
"Whatever."
Thump, thump, thump...
"I have the rings." Wilson's focused his gaze somewhere over House's shoulder. He patted the pocket of his suit jacket, then ticked off details on his fingers. "Rings, limo to take the bride and her family to the town hall-"
"You didn't have to spring for that."
"I wanted to," Wilson said. "The thought of Myrna driving her SUV in her wedding dress- to her own wedding-was just not something I could live with."
"She didn't mind."
"Well, I did," Wilson jabbed a forefinger against his chest.
House grunted as he rubbed his chin. "Did you do that thing I asked you to do?"
Wilson looked at him. "What...thing?"
"You didn't do it?" House's face went paste white as his shoulders slumped. "You've got to be fuckin' kid-"
Wilson's lobbed a smug 'gotcha' grin over the net.
"You idiot." House pressed his palm to his forehead, letting out a rush of air through his teeth. "And you say I'm sadistic."
Wilson laughed.
"So you...did do it." House asked with some hesitation. "Right?"
"Of course I did it. How could I forget?"
"You're so intent on rings and limos and keeping your closet door locked."
"I'm not gay."
Fully recovered now, House threw him an exaggerated wink. "It's okay, Jimmy. The world is one big beautiful rainbow. And you and your man love are an important part of it." He leaned forward and in a sotto voice added, "The loveliest, softest, pinkest part."
"Wonderful sentiment, House." Wilson rubbed his cheek, making a valiant attempt to keep his smile at bay. "Put it in a Hallmark card."
They turned as one toward the apartment door.
"Do you realize that the next time you enter this place you will be legally bound to another human being?" Wilson said.
The silence was five down pillows thick, smothering every bit of life energy in the room. From the corner of his eye, Wilson could see House standing motionless, stoically staring at the door. At any moment he might decide to throw off the suit jacket, undo the tie and settle in for an afternoon of Budweisers and TV.
Wilson silently berated himself, wondering what could have possessed him to throw neon lights around that 'legal bond' fact. It was undoubtedly the worse thing he could have said. Maybe he was a masochist.
"Sorry...mouth is quicker than the brain."
"That may be," House responded, finally. "But you can bet I won't be wearing this damn floral arrangement when Myrna leads me over that threshold."
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Once upon a time, it was the day before graduation. Congratulations were in order for reasons other than the obvious ones. For the latter half of the semester, Lissey had successfully managed to avoid slipping under the spell of Gregory House. She surprised herself by actually keeping the promise she'd made on that idyllic Honolulu beach over winter break. Not that Greg hadn't tried for the occasional panty peeling session. Not that she hadn't been oh, so tempted. But sticking to her guns and bringing out the demon word 'No', when necessary, made this project a success. Lissey wished she could have bottled that look on Greg's face each time he'd been rebuffed. It was...priceless.
Freshly showered, she decided to treat herself to a coffee and muffin from the café downstairs. Her mother and sister would be arriving in a couple of hours. After that, quiet time would be at a premium. At least for the next couple of days.
But the best laid plans sometimes end up discarded and forgotten in the dust...
She tucked her paperback copy of "For Whom the Bell Tolls" into her purse and tried to turn her doorknob. Of course it wouldn't give. Of course when she tried again, the door pushed in and there he was, standing before her in all his lanky, loose limbed glory. Clad in a t-shirt and sweats, he hadn't yet shaved. The messy shock of hair, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and the wild look in those eyes was making something interesting happen in Lissey's nether region.
No. Nonononono.
"Going out?" he asked, moving past her like a cat on the prowl.
"Coffee."
"Oooh," He flopped down on her bed and stretched out, sneakered feet waving back and forth. Grinning beatifically, he placed his hands under the pillow beneath his head and cooed, "In the mood for something strong and hot, are you?"
She sighed. "Don't you have some things to do like maybe...showering and shaving?"
"Hmm, well, paying Lissey a visit was the first thing on my to do list this morning. So congratulations to you."
"Gee, I'm really flattered."
"Of course you are. What woman wouldn't be?" He smirked. "After all."
Against her better judgment, she closed the door. "You really shouldn't be here, Greg." She knew she should be heading down to the café, where the hottest, strongest thing there would be the freshly brewed coffee.
But her feet had other ideas.
He reached a hand to her as she stopped just inches away. "You've been avoiding me." Those blue eyes held her with a look of boyish hurt. "That's not nice."
Now something extremely interesting was roiling in the netherworld.
"Greg, you should really-"
He massaged the empty space beside him. "It's been a long time, Lissey."
She swallowed, then let out a long breath.
"Remember how good it was?"
Yes. She did. And it was.
"One last time," he breathed.
Lissey could almost feel the mattress dip beneath her, could almost feel his long fingers wandering expertly over her nakedness, like she was some concerto he had long ago put to memory. She could feel the arch of her hips, the long even strokes as he moved inside her...
"No." She was surprised how easily the demon word fell from her lips.
He leaned forward, let the back of one hand brush her thigh.
"No." She repeated, closing her eyes.
The mattress squeaked as he rose from the bed and brushed past her. She could smell him: a heady scent of musk, Listerine, something else, some soapy fragrance that was probably fabric softener or laundry detergent. His scent would be on her bed now, in the fibers of her sheet, her pillowcase. It would linger. She would have a hard time sleeping tonight.
But it would be worth it in the long run, she would tell herself many times over the course of graduation weekend.
The door closed and she was alone-
"Dr. Cuddy."
Cuddy looked up from where she sat on one of the twin beds. Myrna stood before her, Cameron by her side. They were in Frannie's hotel room. A professional makeup case lay open on top of the dresser; little pots of glosses, blushes, eye shadows and foundations were lined up alongside tubes of eyeliners, lipsticks and mascaras. It was Cameron's arsenal in the war against the dull and the frowzy.
Myrna's mother and brother had scooted out the minute the women had arrived. Something was wrong here, some dysfunctional thing that Myrna didn't seem to want to talk about. That was okay; she didn't have to. It was her day, after all.
"Well?" Cameron asked, beaming, her eyes straying toward Myrna before drifting back to Cuddy.
At the last minute, Myrna had changed her mind and agreed to allow Cameron to fix her makeup and hair. Myrna actually made the call to Cuddy yesterday, asking shyly if both women wouldn't mind doing the honors. Cuddy said she was pretty adept at doing her own 'cosmetic surgery' as she termed it. But Dr. Cameron was the one who was most handy with makeovers and hairstyles. Would that be okay?
Judging by the results, it was more than okay. "House isn't going to know what hit him."
Cuddy shook her head, astonished. "I mean," Cuddy stammered, "not that you weren't always pretty-"
Myrna held up one hand. "-I know...what you mean."
It didn't seem like Cameron had done much, which was the magic of her artistry. Myrna's hair was somewhat straighter now, feathered away from her forehead, allowing more of her face to show. The makeup served to accentuate her most attractive features, bringing out the green of those eyes, the fullness of her lips, while taking the onus off the weak chin and pale complexion. Myrna, it seemed, was a true knockout.
Myrna studied herself in the mirror, then turned toward them. "Thank you both, very much." Tears shimmered in her eyes.
"For God's sake, Myrna, don't cry." Cuddy held up her hands as if to stop the flow.
"Don't worry. It would take a liter of cold cream to ruin it." Cameron plucked a tissue from the box on the dresser and handed it to Myrna. "Water resistant makeup on a woman's wedding day is de rigueur."
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The room looked more suited for a town meeting than a wedding ceremony. A green board covered one wall, flyers announcing community events were tacked to a bulletin board by the door. Cuddy felt steeped in the surreal, like the whole thing was some oddball dream.
But this was no dream.
There was House in the front of the room by the podium, Wilson chattering away beside him. Wilson was the marriage expert, having taken the plunge three times. Naturally he would have a lot to say, a multitude of advice to give. The Justice Of the Peace, clad in a black suit and gold tie reigned from behind the podium. He looked cheerful and relaxed. But the way he rubbed his hands together and checked his watch said he wanted to get this thing underway and over with. Soon.
Cuddy stood by the greenboard, returning the smiles of her colleagues. She recognized House's parents. His mother seemed like a lovely woman. She was chatting with Juanita, wife of the late janitor, Manuel. House's father stood beside them, stiff as a grey statue, looking like he didn't quite know where to put his hands.
Her gaze drifted to House again. The anticipation of becoming a married man seemed to be wearing him down. His shoulders were hunched, his gaze flitting to every corner of the room before landing on Wilson again. G-Man was looking a little green around the gills.
Was House actually going to go through with this? It was the second time that day Cuddy had been assaulted by the thought. Greg House didn't do marriage. The mantra played over and over in her head. But he was here, she reminded herself, and that was...something.
The thirty or so guests milled around, most of them apparently not yet ready to settle into their folding chairs. Cameron strolled through the room, looking like some debutante out on the town as she linked arms with Chase. Foreman was chatting with Nurse Helena, an attractive, buxom thing who worked with Myrna. Foreman was smiling, really smiling, like he was actually glad to be here. Perhaps he would land himself a date...or something close to it, by the end of this day. House's mother had seated herself, and was now engrossed in conversation with Alicia, one of the receptionists at the clinic. His father was on the move, pacing, seeming at once pensive and bored.
Some swarthy looking beast of a man roved around silently, snapping photos. Rather than asking for smiles, he widened his lips as he closed in on his prey, clicking away whether his target mimicked his scary grin or not.
House must have hired him; beast man probably came cheap.
Cuddy sighed, pushed herself away from the wall and was just about to find a seat when the door to the room banged open. She gasped and flinched. Frannie and George nearly stumbled over each other as they made their entrance. They each held a suitcase, which, on Frannie's impatient cue, were dropped by the wall beneath the bulletin board. She glowered at the kid who responded by plugging himself into his iPod. Standing stone faced by their bags, they both checked their watches like they were waiting for a train.
The room had quieted considerably. Cuddy eased into a seat on the aisle. From the corner of her eye she spied Myrna just outside the door. She paced, seemingly agitated. Her eyes were wide and a little frantic.
Frannie and George had begun sniping. Their banter was hushed but vitriolic. Cuddy caught the occasional profanity flying like a poison dart from the kid's mouth.
The 'discussion' was becoming louder, more heated...
...and Cuddy wasn't the only one who'd noticed.
Most of the guests had taken their seats. A quiet murmur filled the room. All eyes had fallen on the pair by the wall.
Then...
"Don't!" Wilson had a hand on House's shoulder. "Let me do this."
House's knuckles were white against the silver head of that black cane. His fingers pressed down and in, grinding the tip of the cane against the tan carpet. His thumb tapped the smooth wood in time to some stressful, inner rhythm. He took one lurching step toward the pair, his jaw working, his lips moving to whatever crude meanderings were going on in that head.
"House."
"Let me go." House's voice was soft, hoarse...
...livid.
"Stay. Here," Wilson said. "For Myrna. Please."
"I want them out."
"Let me handle this."
An uneasy silence fell over the room. Occasionally a chair would shift, someone would cough. Everyone was waiting. The Justice of the Peace checked his watch and threw a few uneasy smiles around. Behind the podium and the Justice, Juanita retrieved a violin from its case. House grimaced.
By the wall, Wilson leaned over and spoke softly into Frannie's ear. Her brow furrowed as she shook her head. He whispered again, this time gesturing toward the few chairs still available. She pouted, wrapped her arms around her skinny frame and flapped her lips. The kid was oblivious, bopping his head to whatever was pouring from those earbuds.
They're ruining the day, Cuddy realized, her gaze falling on House again. One of his hands twirled that cane in a wide languid circle; he was watching the proceedings like a cobra, waiting for the right moment to strike.
It would only be a matter of time before everything simply...imploded.
You have to do something...
Donning her most practiced administrative grin, Cuddy rose and made her way toward the podium.
"Sit," House barked.
But Cuddy kept that smile going and sidled up next to him. "Calm. Down," she hissed in his ear. "I need to talk to you."
"So talk."
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, continuing to plead with the stubborn woman. Not a good sign. The boy, in the meantime, eased himself down to the floor, then stretched his legs out in front of him.
Make yourself friggin' at home. It's only your sister's wedding.
"House." Cuddy licked her lips, then spoke again, her voice low and even. "Look how beautiful your bride is."
House set a hand on his hip and rolled his eyes. "Don't start..."
"Look over by the door." She gripped his shoulder and shook him. "Your bride."
He turned his head, narrowed his eyes and...froze.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
His mouth opened...but nothing came out, no snide comment, no opinionated diatribe. It was...refreshing. He seemed truly astonished. Cuddy gave Cameron a lot of credit. Who knew all it took to silence House was a bit of face paint expertly applied to his bride-to-be?
And guess what?" Cuddy said softly, "that beauty is marrying you today. At least that's the plan."
"I...know."
"And nobody else matters. Not me or your team or Myrna's annoying family or any of these people here today," Cuddy told him slowly. "It's just you...and her. You are the ones who count. Don't let anyone take this day away from her House. Look at her." She shook his shoulder again. "Look at your bride."
A hint of a smile played on his lips as he gazed at the woman waiting by the door. That smile made Cuddy feel a whole lot better; the ache in her gut gradually fading into the blue.
Like a maestro with a magic baton, she gestured at Juanita to start the music, then made tracks for Wilson. He was still pleading with the bride's ridiculous excuse for a mother, which was futile; it was like flogging a dead horse. Let Frannie stay against the wall, like the outsider she had strived to become.
"Come on, Dr. Wilson," Cuddy touched his shoulder as a scratchy rendition of the wedding march began to play. "You have something more important to do."
He gave Frannie one last regretful look before accompanying Cuddy to where Myrna waited. She was restless, smoothing her dress, touching her hair. Her eyes were filled with anxiety and excitement. Wilson nodded, straightening his shoulders, offering his arm.
"Ready?" he whispered.
In response, Myrna slipped her arm through his. She managed a small smile before shifting her gaze to the man waiting for her at the front of the room.
Sinking into her seat, Cuddy watched the proceedings, her shoulders slumping with great relief when Gregory House finally said, "I do".
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They swayed together in the center of the dance floor. At House's request, the song of the moment was an instrumental version of "Blame It On the Bossa Nova".
"So how does it feel?" Cuddy asked. She was more than a little tipsy, having downed two Long Island Iced Teas in the span of fifteen minutes.
"Like I'm in prison and warden's tossed the key into the Hudson."
"You're so full of it."
"And you're lit brighter than a full moon over Princeton."
"How poetic." She giggled.
"What can I say? You make a wonderful lush."
"Shucks, I bet you say that to all your inebriated boss ladies."
Myrna was at the buffet table, attempting to fill her plate but getting sidelined by well wishers.
"I don't think she's going to get much to eat today."
"She'll make up for it later," he said with a devilish hitch of his brows.
"You're impossible."
"No, I'm easy." He sniggered. "But you knew that."
The beastman photographer drifted over, grinning his ghastly grin as he snapped their picture.
"Where the hell did you find him?" she asked, eyeing the guy as he snuck up on Chase and Cameron.
"Rehab," House replied.
She blinked, making a concerted effort to keep the room from tilting. Slipping her arms around him, she murmured in his ear. "I'm happy for you, House. Just do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"Don't fuck it up. If you do, I'll get the brunt of it. You'll be even more of a pain in my ass..."
House rested his chin on top of her head. "Yes ma'am. Lissey."
Tears. She could blame them on drunkenness or because weddings always made her cry. A smidgen of truth lived in each of these excuses. But if honesty was in order, she would have to admit she that "Lissey" was the reason for the waterworks. Hearing her med school nickname fall from House's lips after so many years struck her hard.
She leaned her head against his chest as they swayed together for one last dance.
Then she knew...life had changed irrevocably. Nothing would ever be the same.
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Once upon a time a doctor named Gregory married a nurse named Myrna, and the people rejoiced. They ate buffet food, downed a good amount of grog and sang songs of health and good cheer to the bride and groom.
And it was good.
As the party came to a close, the doctor's best friend Jimmy announced that a wonderful surprise was about to be revealed: Gregory had a special present for his bride! The people applauded, oohing and aahing their approval. They were given plastic bottles of soap bubbles, herded outside the restaurant and instructed to wait on the steps.
There was great anticipation as to what the groom's present might be, for Gregory was a known prankster. But perhaps, this time, he was serious. Might the gift be a golden robe? A silver comb? The wedding guests had a wonderful time speculating, for there was nothing so captivating as a mystery. And as they wondered, they raised their wands and blew bubbles in the air, watching them drift off into the cloudless blue sky. The people were as excited and happy as little children.
Suddenly, from some distance down the road came a roar and a clatter. The people paused in their celebration and watched in wonder as two motorcycles rode up and parked just outside the entrance to the restaurant. The drivers removed their helmets and, after hanging them on the bikes' handlebars, walked off down the street without a word.
The cycles gleamed in the afternoon sun, the smaller, sleeker one sparkling brighter than its mate. Along its flank, the word Shadow was emblazoned in trim black script. The other bike, a deep orange Repsol, was somewhat scuffed, a little worn around the edges. Certainly this bike had seen a good portion of these merry roads of Princeton.
After few more moments of chatter, speculation and bubble blowing, the little throng quieted...for the doors to the restaurant had opened and here stood Myrna on the top step. She was clad in a leather jacket and jeans. Her hands trembled as they pressed against her face; it was obvious she could not believe what she was seeing. Gregory stood beside her and whispered in her ear. She then took his arm as they strode down the steps through a forest of bubbles and laughter.
Leaning on his cane, Gregory watched as Myrna ran her hands over her gift, her Shadow. After making certain it was real and solid and not an errant piece of dreamscape, she donned her helmet and boarded the beauty. With an expert flick of her wrist she revved the motor and waited for Gregory to seat himself on his bike.
Only Myrna waved farewell (for Gregory was not the waving type), as they roared off down the road to a chorus of cheers. Sometimes the Shadow took the lead, other times the Honda would sprint forward.
And occasionally they moved along together.
Side by side.