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Chapter 5: Positional Play
Oxygen was already in startlingly short supply, her senses stumbling, and the sudden (literally breathtaking) jolt of his mouth pressed against hers sent her into a spiral from which there was no hope of recovering. His lips were surprisingly soft and careful, would flit away like a hummingbird if she made even the slightest motion to deny him, the pressure barely existent – a phantom-touch, spine-tingling but nowhere near enough. She strained for more, pushing hard against him (converging anywhere, everywhere at once) gasping. His lips curved delightfully into a smile as he took advantage of her open mouth, the fiery tang (bitter-Vicodin-laced, stale-coffee-and-sweet-peppermint that expressed at once his now-soft manner and usually-callous personality) exactly what (she hadn't until that moment realized) she'd been expecting. And his fingers were threading through her curls, his thumb kneading the taut muscles on the back of her neck, his other hand gripping her own so firmly that they had completely bypassed pain and corkscrewed wholly into screaming, sparking pleasure….
She was lulled slowly from a dream-filled sleep by something caressing her cheek so softly that it couldn't have been anything but a summer breeze, whisperingly warm and inviting. Gentle as the touch was, she inwardly cursed it for drawing her further towards consciousness, groaning as she nuzzled further into her pillow. Her pillow chuckled softly, the sound stirring it to motion beneath her, and the unexpected noise and action woke her with a start.
As accustomed as she was to waking alone, the fingers cupping her cheek and the arm snaking around her waist should have been frightening. But the voice that accompanied them was immediately familiar, yet in a way she could never remember having heard it before.
"Whoa there, Lise…."
Her vision finally adjusting to wakefulness and sunlight, she found an intense pair of eyes staring right back at her, so close that her own rumpled appearance was reflected in their depths. Minus the waggling eyebrows and lascivious grin, it was nonetheless Gregory House, wearing nothing but boxers, a few blankets, and a slow, tender smile.
It hadn't been a dream at all.
His thumb ran in tickling, hypnotic circles on her bare skin. "Morning, sleepyhead."
"Hey..." It was all she could muster, and even that one word was dreamily rumbling with sleep. She couldn't help the smile she knew was spreading much too widely across her face, tried to hide it in the blankets, but his hand was quickly under her chin, tipping it upward. Speech was necessary. "What time is it?"
"A little after seven-thirty," he answered, looking almost apologetic for having awakened her, suddenly becoming so purposely serious that she knew a glimmer of his usual sarcasm was returning. "I knew you'd have a conniption if I let you sleep any later, and I can't take your shrieking before I've had my morning coffee."
But it was impossible to take offense or vie for dominance when his hand had crept underneath her t-shirt – his t-shirt, she realized, though she couldn't remember having put it on. The pads of his fingers were drawing lazy designs on her back, the sensation soporific; she was still so tired. "How long were you watching me sleep?"
"I'd say about as long as you were watching me sleep last night," he answered pointedly, his smile curling into a smirk.
"You were in my house." Even as she continued, she knew any defense was hopeless. "On my couch."
"And you're on me on your couch."
She had felt his caresses, been aware of the startling proximity of his eyes to hers, but somehow she hadn't noticed how close they actually were. She was wedged between him and the back of the couch, but he was taking the brunt of her weight, her upper body sprawled across his bare chest, her left leg over his. Instinctively, she pushed against his chest, raising herself off him.
"Hey – not so fast," he chided, tugging her back down to him. "I don't want all the blood rushing back into this side of my body all at once. Pins and needles…." He shuddered, the friction against her delicious.
"House…." His name was automatic – he must have known that – yet she thought she saw him frown, disappointment flaring for only a moment. Then his fingers were on her cheeks again, trailing across her forehead, and was it possible to be driven straight past oblivion with just that slight touch?
"Fever's gone down. How's the head?"
"Better." Every second that passed would make her that much later for work. If only time would stand still for just a few moments….
He crooked her head, brushing her tousled curls away from her face and whistling faintly. "The stories that're gonna come from that…."
"You wouldn't dare." Finally surrendering to reason, she eased herself off him, taking one of the quilts with her, and careful to lift herself over his right thigh. She stood, swaying slightly and bringing a hand to her temple. Her head still ached, she must have hit it yesterday harder than she'd thought.
House sprung to his feet to steady her with more agility than he should have possessed after a night spent on her couch and before his morning Vicodin. If his tight-lipped expression was meant to disguise his worry, it was a miserable failure, but she preferred it that way.
"Stood up too fast." She offered him a smile. "I'm fine. Really."
He looked her up and down, closely and carefully, no doubt searching for any reason to convince her to stay home today, but finally giving in with a single nod. His hand on her elbow was soft and gentle, his thumb rubbing in circles. He wrinkled his nose at her, grimacing, but still not pulling away. "Go shower. You need it."
He pushed her gently, but not before pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth, so quickly and softly that she hadn't registered the gesture until he was already shuffling towards the kitchen. He paused, feeling her gaze, turning back and smiling. "Go. Don't make me follow you in there."
It wasn't much of a threat at all….
Purple, yellow, orange, more purple…. "House." …green. Where the hell were all the red ones? "House." If all those snot-nosed, feverish hellions had taken the last of them again…. "House!"
"Ah ha!" Finally spotting what he had been searching for, House extracted the coveted last red lollipop from the bowl on the clinic's front desk and turned to Foreman, exasperated. "It's much harder to ignore you when you're shouting."
The younger doctor's arms were folded, and he fell in step beside House as he left they clinic. "Yeah? Well if you keep ignoring Eli…."
"Who?" House pulled his face into what he was sure was the picture of confusion, strolling leisurely out of the clinic.
Foreman rolled his eyes, falling into step beside him. "Shortness of breath? Vomiting? PHP?"
"Balding? Huge sideburns? Could stand to lose a few pounds?" House countered, the plastic wrapper crinkling as he tore it from the lollipop with his teeth, sticking the candy in his mouth. "I stopped in this morning. He was asleep."
"He's been awake and asking to see you for four hours. We've been paging you all day."
"Turned it off," he replied nonchalantly, pulling his pager out of his pocket, tossing it into the air and catching it. They were passing Cuddy's office now. She was bent busily over her paperwork, her head resting on one hand. "The constant beeping was getting really annoying."
"He won't even let us in the room anymore unless you – "
"House."
Her voice echoed down the hallway. And there it was – the staccato clip of her heels increasing in volume as she drew nearer; an echo of that morning, when she had first crossed her kitchen after dressing, his back to her as he rifled through her refrigerator.
House stuck his cane out to stop Foreman, nearly tripping him, ignoring the younger doctor's mumbled expletive. "What did you and the rest of the Mouseketeers do this time?"
Foreman's folded arms and no-nonsense look said everything he didn't: you've got to be kidding.
"Oh, like Mommy's never yelled at you," House sneered.
"I'm not her problem child."
Cuddy was upon them now and jabbed House in the chest with one long finger. He took the lollipop from his mouth, staring down at her finger with a raised eyebrow. She removed it quickly. "You haven't been in to see your patient once."
"Who tattled?" House whined, staring angrily Foreman. "Was it Cameron again?" He turned back to Cuddy. She had shed her pink blazer, and her flowered top cut fantastically low, leaving just enough to the imagination. He let his run wild, staring at her brazenly. "If you want me to take an interest in my patients, you shouldn't give me the boring ones."
She must have noticed his line of sight, but paid it no heed. "You haven't had a patient for over two weeks. Boring or not, you needed something to do."
"PHP is genetic – the guy's lived with it forever."
"And you diagnosed it."
"Do I get a gold star?" He asked, batting his eyelashes and simpering sweetly.
Cuddy chuckled wryly, shaking her head. "If I thought a sticker chart would improve your work ethic, I would've hung one in my office years ago."
"A monkey in a lab coat could've diagnosed this guy." He paused for a beat, eying her, weighing his next move. "You did."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but under her frosty exterior, he could detect the slightest hint of amusement. She was enjoying this just as much as he was. Was it even possible that the charged atmosphere – so abruptly filled with electrical energy that he could hear the humming, feel its static pulling at him – wasn't noticeable to anyone but the two of them?
A throat cleared. "We're treating the PHP," Foreman interrupted, watching them both warily, "fever's still present, urine output is decreasing, and he's still vomiting small amounts of blood."
"There's nothing exciting about bloody vomiting," House grumbled.
"Funny." The blue of Cuddy's eyes seared him. "Your patient probably shares your opinion." She turned to Foreman, and, glowering or not, the loss of her eye contact was painful. "Go tell Mr. Grant that Dr. House will be in to see him momentarily."
Foreman nodded, departing obediently. As soon as he was up the stairs and out of sight, Cuddy turned suddenly to House and held out her palm.
The gesture had him at a momentary loss, but he was quick to rebound, feeling around in his pockets before taking the lollipop out of his mouth and holding it out to her. "Only one I've got. Slightly used, but you're welcome to it."
She placed her hand on her hip. "Someone was rifling through my desk yesterday – "
"You really can't trust housekeeping."
" – and arranged all the paperclips into an impressively accurate outline of the female anatomy."
He widened his eyes in exaggerated surprise, making sure to enunciate his words, shouting just a little too loudly. "How awkward!" Heads were turning in their direction, but for most of the hospital staff, this was nothing more than another spat between the Dean of Medicine and famously hot-headed diagnostician. "So you want me to have a chat with Wilson, then?"
"I want the key to my office back, House." She was holding onto her authoritative demeanor phenomenally. Still, she allowed him the smallest of smiles – in slight amusement, mostly, but speaking volumes when coupled with the quick lowering of her eyes, the slight dip of her chin.
"What makes you think I need a key to get into your office?" He let the question hang heavily between them until she peered up at him through her lashes, and in an instant he heeded her unspoken request, quickly changing gears, tone teasing, conversational. "Nice job with the concealer. It almost looks like you got whammed with the candlestick instead of the wrench."
"Because that would hurt less?" she asked dryly, but she was looking at him again, and that was really all that mattered.
"Because the candlestick was the lamest of the Clue weapons," he stated, matter-of-factly. "Guns, knives, pieces of lead pipe, and giant wrenches are just lying around the mansion, and the candlestick's the best Miss Scarlet can come up with?"
"House, if you think you can avoid…."
Her skin was still just a little too pale, her eyes only betraying a slice of the exhaustion he knew was still weighing upon her. Once his caresses had finally lulled her off to sleep last night, she hadn't awakened until morning. But her sleep had been fitful, and he had woken more than once just in time to soothe her back to slumber before consciousness had fully snagged her.
It came without warning, but he was at once filled with the intense urge to touch her, soothe her – rub up against her arm, brush back her hair, kiss her until they were both out of breath. Anything. Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling just perceptibly faster, and he knew she felt it, too. He turned and lumbered down the hall.
"You better be on your way to see your patient, House. I'm not kidding."
"Right after my meeting with Colonel Mustard in the conservatory," he tossed back to her, smiling to himself. "Tactics."
He still had both her keys, and he meant to hold onto them for quite awhile.
Slowly but surely we're getting to the plot - I hope you all don't mind the ride.
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