So, when this story first came to me, there was a short version and a long version. The short version finishes somewhere around the end of this chapter, so I suppose that anyone who was hoping for that can just stop reading here. As for the rest of you - the story continues... though whether that's necessarily a good thing remains to be seen.
I apologize for the length again - I know I promised shorter chapters, but I'm hoping you'll forgive me once you get toward the end of this one. A warning, though - things do get a bit heated, so feel free to skip ahead.
Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! Please keep it up - my muse works better when well-fed.
Chapter 4: Breakthrough
Cuddy's sudden directness threw him. Forcing himself into motion in order to buy a few precious seconds for response, he edged up beside her, leaning at arm's length on the other side of the doorway.
Their balance was off tonight, the wit of one sharpening at the moment the other softened. He would have to find just the right comment to convince her of what they both needed – a dare folded into a promise, mixed with enough force to rile her, enough submission to allow her the control she both required and relished, with sufficient truth to leave a subtle undertone, but a dash of innuendo to mask it when the flavor became too strong.
He always did his best to impress her, but now her perfume and proximity aided his cleverness while slowly chipping away at it, so what he finally offered up wasn't what he had wanted to say at all. "For starters, better access to your bathroom. I can try shooting from here, but I'm not making any promises."
"Nice." The word sounded on the end of a sigh. She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows.
Tilting his head, he craned his neck around the doorframe. "Distance probably wouldn't be an issue, but accuracy…."
Tossing her head back at him, she crossed her arms as she moved through the door. "Whatever mess you make, you're cleaning up." She jerked a thumb at the bathroom. "Mop's in the closet."
Smirking, House sidled past her and entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He quietly rummaged through the drawers and cabinets, flushing the toilet and running the tap before selecting a bottle of pills.
Cuddy was standing beside the bed when he returned to her, arms folded and one bare foot on top of the other, both sticking out from the bottom of a pair of well-worn flannel pants. He recognized the colors immediately – blue and gold, with a faded figure on her thigh that must have once been a wolverine.
"Here." He held out the bottle of Tylenol, popping the cap with his thumb.
Without a word, she flicked her eyes up to meet his, gazing at him through her lashes. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, curlier and more unruly than usual, dry now, but she must not have shielded herself from the rain. Somehow she looked paler here than she had in the light of the living room.
He nodded at her left fist, still tucked under her other elbow. "I know you won't take that."
She stretched out her arm and opened her fist, the Vicodin pill moist, leaving a white residue, and he had to suppress the sudden, inexplicable urge to lick the bitter powder from her palm.
"Keep it." He tipped the bottle, two Tylenol falling next to the pill already in her hand. "In case you want to get the party started later." He grinned at her and turned to leave.
"House." Her voice was strangely quiet, stopping him in the doorway, and it was then he knew that there was no way he would leave her alone tonight. "Thank you."
He nodded, shuffling out of the room and to the front door, opening and shutting it. He had been surprised when she hadn't followed him, and was even more so when she didn't come looking for him immediately, checking to make sure he had actually gone. Locking the door, he silently made his way into the living room and hunkered down on the couch.
House suddenly snapped to consciousness, the darkness strange for a moment until he realized that his eyes were still closed. There had been no sound or movement to wake him. He blinked.
"You're still here." Her voice was soft, pitched low, and when the suddenness of it didn't startle him, he knew he had been expecting it, had felt her presence all along.
Turning slightly toward the sound of her voice, he found her shadow perched on an armchair across from him. He rubbed a hand over his face, hoping she would mistake the sleepiness in his voice for his usual gruffness. "And you're still not sleeping through the night."
"You'd find it hard to sleep, too, with someone prowling around your house."
"Bad dreams, Cuddy?" Slipping into taunts and sarcasm was as automatic upon waking as stumbling into the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker. "I'd let you snuggle up with me, but I don't think this couch is up to handling both of us and your giant ass."
"Well, if the weight of your ego hasn't already broken it…." she murmured, and her facial expressions must bend the tone of her voice in ways he'd never recognized before, because he could hear her scowl.
Her chin rested on her knees, a blanket pulled tight over her shoulders. When he shifted onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, he saw she had spread a quilt over him as well. He smiled, his voice softening. "What time is it?"
"I don't know." It was still dark. Nowhere near dawn. The moon and the distant glow of streetlights cast eerie shadows around the room, but somehow it all seemed right.
"Did you sleep at all?"
She shrugged. "An hour. Maybe two."
He eyed her for a moment, his vision fully adjusted to the darkness now. "C'mere."
"Why?" Her tone was more than a little wary, probably not simply from lack of sleep.
"Important doctor stuff. I'm still making the medical decisions, remember?"
"Why don't you come over here?"
"I just woke up," he whined, pulling himself into a sitting position and rubbing his thigh as it protested loudly, the dull ache igniting into full-fledged pain.
His knuckles grazed something warm and solid as he threw off the quilt – her thigh, he soon discovered, turning and finding her suddenly beside him. He tugged her wrist, gently, and she bent obediently, letting him feel the bump on her head with one hand, her pulse jumping under the fingers of the other.
"Your leg hurts," she murmured, and it was at once an explanation and an accusation.
"Your heart rate is 136," he countered, only because something had to be said. "Sit."
Quickly, she snatched her wrist away. "House…."
"Humor me."
Sighing, she settled precariously on the edge of the couch, was so obviously trying not to touch him that the unexpected click of their hipbones was electric, but she hid her surprise well under fatigue and exasperation. "What, House?"
"Resting pulse." He explained, gripping her wrist again, gently but firmly. "Insomnia makes you feisty."
"You shouldn't be here." She said it simply, her tone lacking the accusatory sting she might have thrown into it just minutes before.
"You're not gonna tell my mom, are you? I'd be so grounded…."
"Like that'd stop you."
Her body relaxed against his, her arm no longer tense in his hand. And so there was something to be said for this endless banter of theirs, but he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it had become a security blanket large and strong enough to shield them both.
"Hey, just doing my job. I always check up on my patients."
"Right. Your bedside manner is inspiring."
He brushed his fingers lightly over her pulse point to remind her that he was there, and it was now or never when she didn't pull away. "I don't seem to remember you complaining about my bedside manner four months ago."
The pause that followed was two breaths too long. He watched the slow tilt of her head, following the slope of her nose to where his fingers grasped her wrist. Her lips curled into what he hoped was a smile, teeth glinting in the soft light that shone in the windows.
"I don't seem to remember there being a bed."
"Fine." He returned her grin, and she was closer to him now, but he hadn't pulled her and couldn't remember her moving. "Exam table. But you're killing the metaphor."
"No need. You've done that already."
"I'd never kill a metaphor," he scoffed. His fingertips traveled up her bare arm, and though his touch made her shiver, she didn't shake him off. "I nurture them all the way from little analogies…."
"Tuesday…" Only two syllables and the new breathiness in her voice already had him on edge. "…Jelly doughnuts and vasculitis."
"Now that one I might've carried a little too far." His hand was at her shoulder now, and it was only a short journey from there to the skin that jumped with every beat of her heart. "But today: your breasts and the produce depar–"
"You've used that already."
"If the shoe fits…."
"Mixing metaphors isn't going to help you any, House."
"Cup size, then."
"A weak save, but I'll allow it."
The words came easily now, quick and meaningless, and he only half heard what came out of his own mouth, let alone hers. He murmured something about her heart rate rising, tugging at her at the same time she leaned towards him, and everything else was heat and his hammering heartbeat and her smooth, strong fingers running over his abs underneath his t-shirt.
Three things were exactly the same as before.
(1) The banter continued, neither allowed more than a few seconds pause before responding to the other, not-so-subtle jabs that almost-but-not-quite dealt with the matter at hand, sidestepping it deftly. (2) Hands, fingers, lips traveled everywhere below the neck. Any contact between both mouths would endanger the endless chatter; in silence, all this might come to have meaning. (3) The verbal battle of wits masked an even more epic battle of wills. Although final release was all that could cap the tension that had been rising steadily for months on end, neither wanted to be the first to succumb to it.
These were the rules; unspoken, but followed nevertheless – nearly to the letter.
He had won before, only by the slightest of margins – and even then only because he had half-cheated, nipping at the nape of her neck, the spot just behind the back of her ear, nearly around to the curve of her jaw. He remembered she had arched against him, and he had been the one to cry out mid-sentence – something about her lack of skills as an administrator and time that could be better spent.
The quilt was long-gone by now, one of them having flung it over the back of the sofa, along with any other articles of clothing that might have hampered wandering hands. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the feel of her against him, surrounding him, and for an instant she looked more fragile than he had ever seen her.
The moment was fleeting, but it had been enough, and he interrupted whatever it was she had been saying. "Cuddy."
There must have been something in the way her name left his mouth – so soft and careful, his hands caressing her in much the same way. Without the austere sterility of the hospital, all the things that had hardly changed were suddenly so different, and it would be so easy to….
"Don't." Her tone was quick and stern. She flashed him a glare as her fingers threaded through his own, the action so opposite her tone and stare that he wasn't sure she was conscious of it. "House. I told you – I'm fine."
"People who are fine generally don't take on the appearance or sleeping patterns of the Count's last midnight snack…."
"Your diagnosis is vampirism?" She chuckled throatily, using the sound to barely conceal a moan. "Who do you think you are – Van Helsing?"
"… or walk straight into doors." God, that laugh alone could kill him. "And no – I'm much cooler. Plus there's no way I'm driving a stake through one of these babies."
She could choose to ignore his last comment, but not the feel of his thumb flicking across her breast, and the delirious way she arched against him was answer enough. "If you hadn't been here, House…."
"Sure, blame it all on me."
"When it's all your fault, it's warranted."
"C'mon, Cuddy…. I've been your fall guy for years." And, oh, if she kept moving like that….
"Give me a break. You've never been blamed for anything that hasn't been your fault."
The flaws in their rules were almost blinding now, and it was so hard to focus on the meaning of words when they held more breath than voice and gasps took the place of punctuation. "Right. Like one guy could've – "
"Don't try to play innocent with me."
"Funny – I didn't think I was."
A second passed, two, and she hadn't jabbed back at him. Her grip on his hand was almost painful. When she finally spoke, the usual hint of exasperation in her voice was just shy of perfect, but it wasn't her tone that caught him.
"Greg…."
And without warning, the tension coiled past the breaking point and released, his senses colliding: the scent of darkness was intoxicating, even more delicious when flaring pinwheels and rockets burst in sudden Technicolor on the tip of his tongue – soap and the lingering effects of her perfume played a soft melody behind the combined clamoring fragrance of their two bodies – his own groan shifting behind closed eyelids, finally caressed by her sudden, swift intake of breath….
He came back to himself as she wilted on top of him, one arm outstretched, her hand resting beside his head on the couch. She still held his hand in hers and he refused to relinquish his grip, forcing her to rest both their fists against her forehead in an effort to hold up her head.
Without a thought, he moved their joined hands so that her head slipped and descended. Her face moved only a few inches closer before she caught herself, but it was enough, and he lifted his neck to close the gap between them, pressing his lips against hers.
When had he ever played by the rules?