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Chapter 6: Transposition
"Did you know your answering machine isn't working?"
"Probably because I unplugged it."
"I tried to call you five times last night."
"We've got to get you a new phone-a-friend. I've got this 900 number – five bucks a minute, but worth every penny."
"I needed to…."
House had just settled comfortably against Wilson's desk and helped himself to half of a homemade turkey sandwich when Cuddy materialized in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glinting fiercely. He had left her not five minutes ago, but she had obviously stopped at her office before coming to hound him – she now wore her suit jacket, the fabric pulling against her curves in all the right places.
Neither the return of the jacket nor her sudden appearance surprised him in the least.
"Miss Scarlet," he accused her teasingly, mouth full of turkey, "you took the secret passage."
"Yes. Straight from the Oncology Lounge," Cuddy answered dryly. "I don't have time for this, House."
"Yet you're still stalking me."
"Only because you won't get any work done unless someone's following you around."
"When are you going to admit that you like the view from behind me?"
He waggled his eyebrows, watching Cuddy's glance jump from him to Wilson, as if to gauge how much the other man knew. Relief flickered across her features when Wilson quickly wiped the smirk off his face, the corners of her frown rising, forehead smoothing. When she spoke again it was with much less force than he would have expected. "Patient. Now."
"Lunch." House took a bite out of his sandwich to emphasize his point.
With a look of determination that he could only attest to seeing on the Discovery Channel in the moments before a snake springs out at its unsuspecting prey, Cuddy crossed the room in three quick strides, snatching the half-eaten sandwich from his hand.
He recoiled as if she had in fact bitten him, barely had time to respond before she stepped swiftly back to the door. "Hey!" Behind him, Wilson chuckled, and House turned at the sound of this betrayal to glare his friend into silence.
"You'll get your lunch after you see your patient."
Taking his weight off the desk and leaning on his cane, he took a few hobbled steps in Cuddy's direction, but she stood her ground. Her eyes were gleaming in triumph, churning into an even more irresistible blue. Distracted, he voiced the first thought that came to him. "You just stole Wilson's sandwich."
"If Wilson wants it, he can come get it." She eyed the gnawed edges of the hard roll and torn slices of turkey with a hint of disgust that he found amusing. "Though I doubt he'll find it very appetizing after you've slobbered all over it."
House turned to Wilson, nodding pointedly in Cuddy's direction, but Wilson merely shook his head, holding his hands up as if to surrender. "She's right. I don't want it."
"Your culinary skills got us into this mess." House jabbed his cane at Wilson and flicked it at the door. "And I'm not going to be the only one led out of here by your sandwich, so move."
No doubt determining that any argument would not be worth the effort, Wilson rolled his eyes and obeyed, walking past Cuddy and through the door without further comment. House took his time crossing the room, faking a stumble in order to brush up against the breast of Cuddy's suit. A grin flickered across her face, fading as her eyes lowered.
Without a word, she led them down the hall.
The boy came out of nowhere, appearing as abruptly as a flash of light but with substance and solidity, zipping in front of Cuddy. She faltered, lurching forward. Instinctively, House reached out to steady her, his outstretched arm nearly clothes-lining Wilson in the process. His hand lingered on her upper arm longer than was necessary, the starched fabric of her jacket rough against his fingers. She didn't seem to notice, one of her hands on the little boy's shoulders, the other still holding the half-eaten sandwich carefully aloft.
"You okay?" she asked the boy softly.
The kid nodded his curly, carrot-topped head, offering a small apologetic smile. House recognized him immediately – the same Spiderman shirt as the day before, the fear in those large, dark eyes.
Reluctantly, House took his hand from Cuddy's arm, and only through the lack of pressure did she seem to detect that his fingers had been upon her at all, her chin dipping toward him as she watched his hand pull away. House bent down to the boy's eye level. "Tell your mommy you need glasses."
The boy blanched, eyes widening when he saw House's familiar face so close to his own, and he tore himself from Cuddy's grasp, running between them and down the hall, sneakers pattering loudly.
"What was that about?" Cuddy asked, frowning as she turned to follow the boy's fleeing form. She brought a hand to her head as if to brush back her hair, instead quickly and gently massaging the hidden bruise at her temple.
"Dr. Gregory House," Wilson answered dryly, "champion of small children everywhere."
"Little Peter Parker needs to work on his spidey-sense and learn to watch where's he's going."
His comment was, of course, in response to Wilson's jab, but he didn't take his eyes from Cuddy. She felt his gaze, eyes sweeping to his, and quickly dropped her arm to her side, nodding once, tightly, to answer the question he hadn't asked, her reply oft-repeated, but still not wholly believed: House – I'm fine….
They continued down the hall without further incident. Cuddy gingerly handed the sandwich to Wilson as they approached the elevator, wiping her hand on her coat. "I have a board meeting. Make sure he sees his patient."
House caught her eye for only a moment before she turned away, but couldn't read her expression. As soon as she was out of sight, he filched the sandwich from Wilson, ready to bite eagerly into it, but pausing open-mouthed. "I don't need a babysitter. Look – " He lifted a leg a few inches off the ground. "Big boy pants now and everything."
"Cuddy seems to think otherwise," Wilson answered as the elevator chimed and the doors opened before them. A small crowd parted to make room, and they stepped inside. "She's upped my pay by ten dollars an hour."
"And I thought that was for all those sexual favors. You know, I heard that – "
"Stop." Wilson waved a hand. "Whatever you're going to add to that, I don't want to hear it." There was a rustle of unspoken disappointment behind them. Wilson didn't speak again until they had gotten off the elevator and started down the hall, his tone too-obviously conversational. "What's going on with Cuddy, anyway?"
"You seriously think there's anything on this planet that could answer that question?"
"I assumed – lothario that you like to think you are – that you would claim to know all about the inner workings of the female psyche."
"You're also assuming," House pointed out, popping the last of the coveted sandwich into his mouth and licking his fingers, "that Cuddy's a woman."
"Fine," Wilson retorted. "I'll rephrase the question. What's going on with you and Cuddy? And don't lie to me – you practically mowed me down when she tripped."
They were outside the patient's room. Reaching into his pocket, House popped the top on his Vicodin bottle, quickly swallowing a pill. Despite Foreman's insistence that the patient was alert and agitated, Eli Grant was asleep once again, breathing deeply and evenly. House walked into the room, lowering his voice – if he could follow Cuddy's orders without having to deal with a conscious patient, all the better. "I wouldn't've had to if you weren't too afraid of getting cooties to even touch a girl."
"I know you two have this game you play," Wilson mumbled, following him closely. "The adult version of anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better, but – "
"It's more adult than you think." Looking up from the monitors, House grinned wickedly. "I can cut you in, for a price. Cuddy won't mind."
It took Wilson a moment to answer, and his tone was much more serious than the previous comment warranted. "Be careful, House."
"What – you scared I'm gonna hurt Cuddy's feelings and she'll lash out at you?"
"No. I think you've got yourself hardwired for self-destruct. She – "
House met his friend's gaze, the thought leaping into words before he had a chance to stop it, his voice low and suddenly stern. "She isn't Stacy."
"I was going to say: she's your boss." Wilson took a step back, eyeing him suspiciously. "Are you sure there isn't – "
"So," House interrupted too loudly, but still the patient didn't wake, "Alice still a tiger in the sack or has the cancer started eating away at any of the fun-loving organs yet?"
Wilson sighed. Mission accomplished: conversation closed.
The key didn't turn the way Cuddy had thought it would, the handle clanking awkwardly as she jimmied the key in the lock before it finally gave way. She swung the door open.
What had seemed a faint murmur only moments ago transformed into a wave of scales and chords that flooded the hallway. She thought she recognized the last moments of Bach before the music trilled in an entirely different direction, twisting wildly for a moment before settling on the Rolling Stones.
She knew the tune immediately, smiling in spite of herself as she closed the door softly behind her. Of course House would choose this moment of all moments to remind both of them that you can't always get what you want.
"It's about time," he called over the sound of the piano, not bothering to turn. "I was about to send out the hounds."
"You're a bastard," she answered, approaching him, trying to summon up even an edge of the anger she had originally felt back on her own front porch, but barely finding frustration. "I need my keys back – all of them."
"I left you a spare."
"Your spare won't get me into my house." She let the incriminating metal evidence fall from her outstretched hand onto the keys of the piano. It jumped as he continued to play before clattering to the floor. Neither of them bent to retrieve it.
"You were in that board meeting for a really long time," he finally offered, on the verge of laughter.
"My purse was locked in my closet, House." She had meant it as a reprimand, but weariness transformed it into something more akin to a whine.
"You keep insisting that I need keys to get into everything…."
"You keep saying you don't, but stealing them anyway."
"I might not need them…." He paused, throwing himself into the music for a moment, the notes vibrating in the air. "But you still do."
Her eyes were transfixed on his splayed fingers as they darted skillfully over the black and white piano keys, the fluttering movement and repeating parallel patterns strangely hypnotic. "This isn't a game, House."
"Sure it is. You think you one-up me, I get you back a hundred times better…." As he spoke, she let her gaze jump from his fingers, could only see a fraction of his face from this angle: the corner of his eye twinkling, his mouth tugging into a grin. "You've got nothing on me, Cuddy. You'll own up to it one day."
"I've got plenty on you."
He twisted his head, the locking of their eyes a sudden shock of frigid water – blue on blue, both freezing instantly. The tune had morphed into something different – a practiced paradox: lazy and vivacious, clipped and lingering, poignant and unfeeling. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, yet eerily familiar, and his fingers seemed to have memorized it perfectly.
"In Twister, maybe. But I could so sink your Battleship." He was playing one-handed now, reaching to take a drink from a sweating tumbler that sat on the piano, the ice clinking. He nodded at a second glass that she hadn't noticed was there. "Seltzer. Don't want you to be able to accuse me of trying to get you under the influence."
She didn't reach out to take it, sighing tiredly. "I didn't come for a drink, House. I need my keys."
Maneuvering awkwardly, fingers of one hand still lazily playing the piano, he pulled a key out of his back pocket and tossed it to her with a quick flick of a wrist. The motion surprised her, but she somehow managed to catch it, her keys jangling in an odd rhythm with the notes of the piano as she safely placed it back on the ring with the others.
"Thank you."
Only when his playing faltered did she realize how her voice must have softened. She had stayed at the hospital far later than usual, and exhaustion had long since passed the point where sleep would come easily that night. Having succeeded in wrangling at least one key from him, her mind and body must have decided that it was time to give in, and for the first time since entering his apartment, she felt the persistent, dull ache of her head.
Sighing, she backed slowly away from him.
He must have sensed the sudden increase in distance between them – when had the space of so few inches become so noticeable? – because he stopped playing completely, swiveling and deftly catching her wrist. "Stay."
"House…." She meant to give him a full sentence, to tell him that it was getting late and articulate all the reasons why it would be best for both of them if she left. All she got out was his name.
"Cuddy." The syllables played out on his tongue, curving on the corners of his sudden, soft smile. "You're already here. You're exhausted. It's late."
He was standing now, pulling her closer, and piling one excuse on top of another as haphazardly as a toddler stacking multi-colored, lettered blocks – a sunny A sleeping on its side; grass-green P, backwards; fire-engine W (or M, maybe, standing on its head); leafy L; and a bluebird J placed too close to one side and sending the whole tiny tower toppling….
And there was nothing playful in his tone this time as he gently repeated his command, something in his voice weaving it halfway into a request – as close, she knew, as he'd ever get to asking for anything. "Stay."
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