You guys are beyond amazing. Honestly. Thanks so much to all my readers, especially: Shikabane-Mai, SnowySleigh, csi7, TammySMS, Elliesmeow, Abbeyannmd, abc2, Kate, Forsaken Goddess, coco1116, Calico Star, AR, hahasxybitch, Purejoy.Chik, Leia Arletta, Eleanor J., ButterNJam, sinister scribe, gabiroba, Snivellusly Ozalan, kittyge, Captain Tish, huddytilidie, and SmilinStar.
This might seem a bit long (sorry), but there's a lot of dialogue...
Chapter 13: Cross-Check
She briefly remembered falling off her bike as a child, seven years old and bawling, both knees skinned; slicing her finger with a knife while helping her mother in the kitchen and being demoted to stirring duty, not even allowed near the stove; foolishly falling asleep on the beach during her one and only spring break venture, the top of her bikini untied so the nearly second-degree sunburn on her back, at least, was not interrupted by any embarrassing lines.
Still, all those combined could not equal the white-hot, screaming fire radiating from the slice on her arm.
"Lisa?"
The view behind closed eyelids was a haze of red and blue and the purple of pain that left her mind reeling, reducing all the events of the past ten minutes, hours, years to single sensations and stirring them all together: frustration, rage, the rough tenderness of his fingers, concern, ecstasy, his gently grating voice, a twinge of fear, the taste of his lips….
It shouldn't have surprised her, the way every thought spiraled back to House.
"Hey." The softness his voice had spun only an instant ago was gone, had grown into something more urgent. "Lise." He was shaking her now, gently.
Cuddy lazily opened her eyes to find him taking the scarf from her arm, uncovering a sticky scarlet mess that she didn't recognize as her own skin. "If you showed this much concern for your patients," she mumbled recoiling with a hiss as his fingers brushed too close to the wound.
"I'd say it's less concern and more being sick of you bleeding all over me." His voice was falsely brusque, and she had to admit that he did have a point – teasing, though he may have been – her blood was everywhere.
Wrapping the scarf around her arm, this time so tightly that she saw stars even in the fog behind her closed eyelids, he grumbled something incoherent and angry that she didn't ask him to repeat. His fingertips left her arm and she felt them dance up her side, sliding suddenly under her shirt and taking the flimsy fabric with them.
They slipped against her, rough and sticky with her own congealing blood. It took her a moment to remember to protest. "What do you think you're doing? House?"
"You were favoring your right side."
What on earth he could have been talking about was miles beyond her, until his fingers, so delicate, were suddenly rusty spikes digging excruciatingly into her side. His voice hissed dangerously in her ear. "What the hell else did he do to you?"
She caught his wrist, met his eyes, the fury in them almost slicing through her. "Really, House, it's – "
"Dr. Cuddy? Oh…."
It was a female voice that Cuddy recognized as belonging to one of the nurses, but she couldn't picture the woman's face. With her shirt lifted and House bending close to her naked skin, their position was more than compromising.
"Out!" The door shut with a bang. "What the hell kind of idiots do you hire that they can't last five minutes without you?" House muttered nastily, but the force behind the tone wasn't directed at her. He paused, his voice gentling a shade as he prodded, "Cuddy."
She let the earlier ordeal play out in split-second clips: the door, the blinds, the patient's grip, shouting, the room flying…. "The table edge," she admitted.
"Leapt out and attacked you?" He was back to teasing now, but the venom was still there.
Cuddy sighed. "Not exactly."
House mumbled something of which she only caught the tail-end: "… bastard." Then his hand caught hers, squeezing lightly before letting go and fishing for something in his pocket. "Did you hit your head?"
"Today? No."
Nodding, he stood to retrieve a half-empty bottle of water from her desk. He pressed a pill to her lips, and she took it, gratefully and without question, along with the water he handed her. For once, he returned the rattling Vicodin bottle to his pocket without swallowing any himself. He grumbled something about Wilson, plodding back and forth in front of her, slamming his cane heavily on the ground.
Leaning back on the sofa, she lost sight of him for a moment – though he was right in front of her and she couldn't remember closing her eyes – barely felt his fingers press to the pulse at her throat. Then a hand was under her arm, lifting her, and she stood obediently.
"C'mon." House seemed to wait until he was sure she could stand on her own before leading her forward, a hand ever-ready on her back should she stumble. "If Wilson takes any longer, they'll have to replace more than your carpet."
Wilson appeared in the hallway just as they left her office, but still House did not turn back. He took the tray of supplies in one hand – gauze, a suture kit, antiseptic, clean cloths, and a syringe of anesthesia – the other still on the small of her back. "Bring me an IV and a bag of saline."
"Where are you going?" Wilson asked, watching them breeze past the clinic.
"My office."
"Clinic's closer."
"My office has a better atmosphere," House shot back, wheeling around so swiftly that the supplies on the tray rattled, the gauze rolling to the floor. "Any more questions, officer, or are we free to go?"
Wilson held up his hands in defeat, his gaze jumping from House's glare to where his arm was slung protectively, instinctively around Cuddy's waist. He stooped to retrieve the gauze before turning and heading back to the clinic.
Cuddy watched him go, felt House push her gently forward. "I don't need an IV."
"Sure," he agreed briskly. "Rapid pulse, ghostlike pigmentation, and skin that's cool to the touch. All perfectly normal."
"House. Be serious."
And he was, almost frighteningly so, as he stopped and met her eyes. "Don't think I won't sedate you if you refuse to cooperate."
She couldn't help the amusement that spread across her face even as he continued to glare at her ferociously: she didn't doubt him for a second.
House had pulled a comfortable chair up to his desk, and Cuddy rested her head against its back, watching him warily. She had let him start without protest – he was a brilliant doctor, after all – but he was working so slowly and carefully that she was beginning to have second thoughts. "When's the last time you did this?"
"Relax," he answered, without looking up, wrapping the thread around the needle driver once again. "It's like riding a bike."
She raised an eyebrow. "That expression loses its credence coming from someone who couldn't actually get back up on the bike."
"You're insulting me again," he stated matter-of-factly, hands stilling as he flicked his eyes up to hers, grinning. "Nice." The door opened and Wilson entered, holding a bag of saline and a needle, IV pole in tow. "About damn time."
"You're doing sutures?" Wilson asked, staring at them in disbelief.
"If I loop this around here," House deliberated, leaning back as if to admire his handiwork, "I think I can make something pornographic. What d'you think?"
Wilson peered over his shoulder. "Nice…. And no. But if you veer this way…. "
"Don't give him any ideas," Cuddy interrupted tiredly. The Vicodin was beginning to kick in, dulling her aching body and her senses. The numbing fog was lovely after such stabbing agony, and she was beginning to think that in a few moments, she would understand House's dependence on the drug completely. She eyed the stitches he had already done; he was watching her with a smirk. "And don't even think about it."
House shrugged and went back to his work, nodding at Wilson. "Set her up."
The expression on Wilson's face was priceless: performing a medical procedure on his boss was clearly not something he found appealing. He took a step back. "Me?"
"Unless you have an IV fairy in your pocket. C'mon, sticking Cuddy with something long and hard has been one of your fantasies since – "
"It's not true," Wilson interrupted, reddening, hurriedly prepping Cuddy's left arm for the IV.
"That's what he pays his therapist to convince him."
Wilson pretended he hadn't heard, tightening a constricting band around her upper arm. "I ran into Foreman on the way up here. Test was positive for syphilis. He's starting the patient on penicillin – "
House snorted in disgust. "After you're finished with that, go tell him he's fired."
" – as a precaution, but Chase found your rash and is – "
"Ow…" Cuddy murmured – Wilson had stuck her with the needle, missing the vein and pulling out. House looked up at her soft admittance of pain, shooting Wilson a glare.
" – sorry – already hooking him up to corticosteroids and an immunosuppressant."
"And Foreman's ass is saved by the man from the land down under."
"And it looks like you've actually got a lupus diagnosis," Wilson replied. Cuddy winced as House was about to secure another stitch, causing Wilson to flinch in turn and mutter another, "sorry," flustered. "Missed the vein. Again."
"For crying out loud. Give me that." House placed his tools down on the desk and grabbed the needle from Wilson, sticking Cuddy's vein with one quick jab and flicking the knob on the IV. "You should head down to the ER for some practice. I'm sure there are some first years there who can show you a thing or two."
Obviously embarrassed and apologetic, Wilson ignored him, turning instead to Cuddy. "How're you doing?"
"Better," she answered, softly. Maybe not physically – the answer to that would have been something more along the lines of like death warmed over, or one of a thousand other clichés that still wouldn't have done the pain justice.
Yet with House so aggressively – sweetly, in his own way – taking such thorough and protective care of her, physical feeling didn't seem to matter. She caught House's eyes on her, his look relaying that he didn't for one second believe that she was any better at all, and she had to look away before his blatant scrutiny forced verbal admittance.
"Hey. Wilson. I wasn't kidding."
Wilson watched them, seemed to catch on quickly. "Fine. Call me if he becomes too much of an ass," he offered on his way out the door.
Relaxing, Cuddy examined House as the silent seconds passed. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set, and it was oddly thrilling to be the focal point of such painstaking concentration, especially when it was laced with a concern he had never wasted on any of his patients. That element wasn't necessary, of course – from a medical perspective, he could perform his job just as well otherwise. But its hushed, shadowy presence transformed the scientifically methodical act of sewing stitches into something more akin to a kiss – a series of them: up her arm, careful and lingering, deliciously slow.
She sighed, the sound causing him to glance up, only turning back to his work once he had gauged everything was still all right. "Subtle," she finally ventured, quietly.
"Even an oncologist should know how to put in an IV."
"I meant getting rid of him."
"That's a little narcissistic of you, isn't it?" He mirrored her grin even without having looked up to see it. "Assuming that I want you all to myself."
There was nothing to do to that but smile: old enough to know better than to fall so hopelessly for simple charm, head of a hospital, first in a field that relied on rationality almost more than anything else – yet still blushing as furiously as a schoolgirl.
It was hopeless. And House seemed to notice it, too, though he tried to mask his grin with a determined frown when he caught her looking.
It seemed only an instant before he was reaching for the gauze and wrapping it around her arm. "Seventeen," he stated, though she hadn't voiced the question. He secured the gauze on her arm and stood to check the IV. "He'll be fine."
"Who?"
"The kid. You had that creepy mothering look in your eye."
His hand was suddenly on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she rested her check against his fingers without a thought. "Thank you." He was gone much too quickly, crossed his office to the door of the adjoining conference room. Watching him curiously, she frowned. "House?"
He paused at the door. She thought she saw him smile. "Don't argue," he stated before even giving her anything to argue against. "Stay here."
Then, he was gone. She hadn't realized that his team was next door: they must have been under observation the entire time. House crossed to Cameron first, no doubt grilling her as to why she wasn't still with the boy. Cameron busied herself on the conference room's computer after a moment, and House exchanged a few quick words with Chase and Foreman before leaving the two of them with raised eyebrows and folded arms. Cuddy could feel their furtive glances as she lounged in the chair at House's desk, decided feigned ignorance was her best option.
House's staff was the least of her worries – she could practically feel the entire hospital pulsating with the thrill of salacious gossip. She closed her eyes.
The door opened with a bang. It seemed as if she had done nothing more than blink, but the room had grown dark in House's absence. His form was a shadow; too bulky of one, she realized, and only when he came slowly closer could she see he held the sleeping boy in one arm. "Social worker was a joke, but the kid and I had a little chat and I was able to dig up some dirt."
The look on her face must have been one of bewilderment, because he paused to explain. "Every kid has a specific sugar-to-cooperation ratio. Give Spidey here a few Oreos and he'll tell you anything you want." He sat on the edge of his desk, facing her. Ari rubbed his face sleepily into the crook of House's neck, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs. "Uncle's never touched him – hard as that may be to believe. Mom died a year-and-a-half ago. Kid's dad's the sadist."
"House…" she whispered warningly, just loud enough for him to hear.
"Are you kidding? I could drop the kid and he wouldn't wake up. Dad must've heard his brother was here and came begging for some fast cash. Ran when he didn't get it – some mess with the police – and left the kid outside the hospital. Son of a – "
"House."
He paused, eyes smoldering, and he continued quietly. "Long story short: Uncle Lupus is the only relative. Background's clean, aside from today's episode, but the kid'll need someone else to take care of him until the uncle's cleared." With that, he stood, as if there were nothing more to explain. "Now, let's go. We've got to get you home."
She stood, pulling out her IV and cringing, still trying to make sense of everything he had told her. "You can't just – "
"Why should Social Services go through all the trouble of placing the kid in a home, when we have a licensed foster parent right here?" He reached around awkwardly and pulled some papers out of his back pocket, shoving them at her. "You can find anything on the Internet."
"That doesn't even look like my signature," she finally managed after a moment, frowning.
"This whole document's forged and that's the problem you have with it?"
"How did you know my mother's maiden name?" Her eyes were flying over the form he had handed her. He was almost laughing, which only made her frown more vicious. "And my social security number…? House?"
"I know your bra size, too, but oddly enough that never came up." House took the papers from her, placing them on his desk and then catching her arm, examining the gauze to ensure she hadn't bled through her stitches. "The security report was on your desk. You signed that, too. And you're taking a week off. At least."
"I can't, House. I – "
"You already sent a memo to all department heads. You can't go back on it now." He let go of her arm, reaching around her for his leather jacket. "I'll meet you out by your car. Do you want to run the gauntlet first or should I?"
He was offering her an out, a way to try to displace the rumors for at least a little while longer – as futile as they both knew that would be. When she finally dared to glance up at him, she found his eyes already piercing her.
"I'm tired, Greg. Let's just go."
"Yes, mistress," he answered, his sardonic tone contrasting exquisitely with the way he tenderly draped his jacket over her shoulders.
Never fear, all. The end is in sight: only one chapter to go...
Please let me know what you thought, and thanks again for reading!