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Which Way Is Up?
Inside Out
House woke up, lying down in a comfortable position. He knew something was wrong when he actually felt well-rested. His fingers curled around scratchy, sterile sheets, and he cracked an eye open.
He was in a hospital bed. Crap, he thought. He'd probably OD'd on Vicodin and now everyone wouldn't let him out of their sight. Wilson would be sure it had something to do with Cuddy (or the lack thereof) and he'd be in the psych ward for weeks.
He groaned at the thought.
Something touched his leg. "House?"
It was her.
He closed his eyes again. Stupid drug-induced hallucinations. His mind was tricking him, teasing him.
He felt the bed dip slightly at the addition of weight, and soft fingers rubbed his wrist.
"Are you awake?"
No. He was dreaming. An all-too-real conjuration of someone he dearly missed. He peeked another eye open.
Kutner, Thirteen, and Taub were all sitting on the bed opposite him. How cute. Cuddy appeared to be sitting on his bed. Wilson and Foreman were there too, leaning against the wall.
"Foreman!" He barked, figuring he was the most trustworthy.
"Yes?" Foreman stepped forward, his expression relaxed in relief. House didn't know why he would be relieved, with Cuddy dead and all.
Unless she wasn't. "How many people are in this room?" He used his forearms to push himself into a sitting position, staring at Cuddy.
"What kind of game…" Wilson stepped forward, mirroring Foreman. He placed a hand against House's bed. "Wait." He narrowed his eyes at House. "How many people do you see?"
House didn't answer. He was too busy peering at Cuddy. Usually hallucinations had some sort of a tell, but he couldn't find anything wrong with this one.
"What do you see?" Cuddy's fingers stopped moving against his skin and she frowned in worry.
He lifted his wrist and examined it. "I see dead people." And apparently, he felt them too. Maybe the traumatic experience had left him temporarily schizo.
"Are they talking to you?" Kutner asked.
"Yes. She's talking to me." He looked back to Cuddy. "It's incredibly life-like," he gasped in mock amazement and reached out to touch Cuddy's cheek.
"Cuddy?" Wilson stepped to the side of House's bed.
"House." Cuddy scooted uncomfortably. "I'm not dead."
"Can you guys see her too?" House poked her.
She stood up. "Are you kidding?"
"Why would you think that Cuddy's dead?" Wilson asked.
That was interesting. At least House wasn't totally crazy. Sure, he thought he saw Cuddy die, but at least he wasn't seeing dead people. Still, he wasn't convinced. "I saw you die." He watched her carefully.
"You've been unconscious since Brandon hit you!" She looked up to the ceiling and pursed her lips. She was remembering it, every painful detail. He could see the worry in her wrinkled face. Some days, he noticed that she looked more tired and older than the days before, and knew he was the cause of it.
"It was a dream," Thirteen piped up. "Or something like it."
"Yeah," Taub agreed. "The damage to your parietal lobe could have caused a distorted sense of reality."
"I felt it," House knew. He looked down at his hands, remembering the blood flowing freely between them.
The thought was lost as Cuddy's fingers weaved through his. "Do you feel this?"
"Yes." He did. And he would much rather believe in this reality than the other. He tugged on her until she sat back down. She looked real, but his inner pessimism made him doubt the physical evidence. He felt like as soon as he was thankful and relieved, she would be gone from him again. He needed to keep his distance, just until he was sure.
Foreman pushed Wilson out of the way to shine his bright flashlight into House's eyes. "You should be fine, but this dreaming of death stuff is out of the ordinary. I'm scheduling an MRI, just in case."
"I don't need an MRI." He tried to sit up all the way, but being upright made his head throb and he had to lie back down.
"Take it easy," Cuddy scolded. She slid one of her hands to the back of his head, the other still intertwined with his. She gently brought his head back down. "Rest, please." When she leaned forward, he caught an eyeful of cleavage.
Now that he could believe.
Her skin was a much better color now than it had been…when she was dying. He supposed that was a good sign. He could feel the pulse in her hand and it warmed him, almost to smiling. "The world was a gloomy place without you, Cuddy. I really missed your boobs."
She shot him an annoyed look.
"I guess I'm here for the day," he resigned, patting on the bed. He nodded towards the fellows. "You kids can go home. Free day!"
"Clinic," Cuddy ordered.
Trotting off, they all sincerely wished him better health, which scared him. He didn't need another team that actually cared about him. They'd all get fired or quit and then the hiring process would repeat all over again.
Foreman rested his hand on House's headboard. "The bruising on your abdomen worried us, but there seems to be no internal bleeding."
Cuddy squeezed his hand and he realized that their fingers were still twisted together. Awkwardly, he pulled them apart. "Did he hurt you?"
"No." She hung her head and looked down. "He...um...sliced through his own wrists though."
"He's dead?" At least House wouldn't have to kill him.
"He's upstairs." Wilson told them. "Psych is evaluating him. He'll be arrested soon, though."
Cuddy picked at a hangnail and sighed softly.
"Are you sad?!"
She didn't answer.
Unbelievable. The guy beats him up and kills her (well, kind of), and she forgives him. House didn't want to know how it felt to be sympathetic like that. There was a line that most people drew when they stopped feeling sorry for others. Most people drew the line at murderers. "This is ridiculous, Cuddy!"
"You don't know..." she began, "He wanted to die because of me."
She looked up and her eyes met his judgemental stare. He tried to soften his expression, but failed at making her feel less guilty. He changed the subject. "So did you talk to the police?" He'd love if he didn't have to talk to them himself. Ever since the Tritter incident, police tended not to like him.
"Not yet." Cuddy gazed somewhere behind him.
"She hasn't left the room." Wilson said, the inflection in his voice indicating suspicion. He shifted to face Cuddy, also noticing her blank stare. "Lisa. You in there?"
She nodded numbly and blinked.
"Cuddy!" House clapped his hands loudly in front of her face. She barely even flinched. He knew it would be a long time before she was completely okay again. Maybe she'd never get over it. He certainly couldn't get over her death.
Damn it. He kept having to remind himself that she didn't actually die. Although she seemed kind of dead, at least her heart was beating and her lungs were pumping air in and out of her body. But she was lost somewhere, in a memory. He wanted her to be found, so she could smile again. He wanted to release her from the horrifying trap of guilt that her mind created in situations like these. As much as it scared him to be close to her, it was better than being without her. He tried to bring her back to the real world, "Don't you have administrative stuff to do?" Maybe she could bring it back to his room, and sit next to him and file paperwork. He would show her how unnecessary it was.
"No." She looked up. "You're the only administrating stuff that I have to do." She blushed at the implication. "I mean, you're the only problem that I ever have to deal with."
"Freudian slip?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You know I'm always open to you doing me. Administratively, of course. Can I be the dominatrix boss next time though?"
"Wow." Wilson crossed his arms. "That's a bit excessive, even for you."
Foreman shrugged and whispered, "To be fair, Cuddy asked for it."
Cuddy heard him, of course. "Hey!" She smiled to show him that she wasn't actually offended. It wasn't big, but it was enough that House knew he wanted to get her alone. He needed her to be happy for the conversation he had planned.
He'd actually thought about it in his dream, what he'd say to her if she was alive. Now, he figured was that perfect opportunity. He wasn't going to proclaim his love or anything.
But she might. He knew she was scared too, of losing him. With just a little nudge, they could have some sort of relationship.
Oh, and he wanted to kiss her too. "So, Wilson? This is your cue to pretend that you have some labs to run. Take Foreman with you."
Foreman hesitated. "I don't really feel comfortable leaving you alone..."
"Cuddy'll be here," He replied quickly. "She's already demonstrated her ability to not leave my bedside. Although she's not as medically-qualified as one of those nurses, she gives one hell of a blow-job." He smirked at Cuddy, who was holding her hand up to her mouth in horror.
Wilson and Foreman already knew that House was kidding, but Cuddy followed them out the door with a "You know I don't actually..."
They reassured her, and Wilson wished her a "Happy Private Time", much to Foreman's disapproval. She shut the door behind her, and he heard the click of a lock, which made him suspicious.
She surprised him by crawling on to the bed and straddling him, somehow not putting any pressure on his thigh or his stomach. The way her skirt stretched against her skin was so visually appealing that he couldn't take his eyes off of her. He touched her just underneath her skirt. "I'm not entirely sure that you exist." He wanted it to be real, perhaps so badly that he dreamed up a fantasy world in which he screwed Cuddy in a hospital bed.
She kissed him, her tongue roughly stroking into his mouth. He pressed forward, knowing that she liked his stubble scratching against her cheek. She slung her arms loosely around his neck, careful of the sore spot. His fingers traveled farther up her thigh.
"What-" She breathed against his lips. "Whatever you want."
"Okay." He pushed back on her shoulders. "This is a dream."
"I mean it." She pressed her breasts against him.
He looked at her, trying to figure out what was going on. He distracted her with another kiss while his fingers unbuttoned her blouse, making sure to fumble against her skin. A flush of pink across her chest, up her neck, and on her cheeeks. He smiled, "Hot for me?" He had yet to touch her panties, see how wet she was. If he knew for sure that she was aroused, there would be no turning back, and he still needed to figure out exactly why she was doing this.
She stood up, without commenting either way, and unbuttoned the rest of her shirt.
As soon as he caught sight of the lacy blue bra, he had to remind himself that she had a face. His eyes refused to leave her cleavage as he could only think about sucking and licking and touching.
He ignored her proud expression as she adjusted his pillow and straighted the twisted sheets.
"Leave them off," he commanded. Although the hospital gown wasn't flattering at all, at least it hid his scar. He could feel her better this way, more skin-on-skin contact.
She ran her hand up his calf and under his knee. He made room for her to kneel between his legs.
"What hurts?" She asked.
"My leg." As always.
She rubbed him through the thin fabric and rested her head against his shoulder, knowing he felt self-conscious. His hand rose up and cupped her through the bra, stroking against the lace. Warm and heavy and everything he wanted.
He yanked her skirt up and pulled her leg to slide between his. She took her hand off his thigh, unable to rub him in the new position.
He needed to test her, almost confident she was bluffing. Cuddy would never have sex in her own hospital. "I want a blow job," he told her, his voice unwavering.
She paused and kissed him. He knew she could feel the stirrings of his erection on her thigh. "You don't want...me?"
He could understand why she thought he was only kidding about this. (He partially was.) She wanted pleasure and closeness too. But sex after a traumatic experience could never lead to good things. She would get attached, and he'd hurt her. "I want your lips and hands and breasts. And I can't have those things without having you."
"Oh." She sat up and stared at his chest, tapping at it softly.
He held her at the hips, enjoying their fullness. "Door's locked," he reminded her. There was no plausible reason that she would say no. She couldn't go back on her word either.
"Will it make you feel better?"
Why did she ask questions that she already knew the answer to? She was just looking for a reason not to feel disgusted with herself. If she really felt that repulsed by him, then she shouldn't have made that promise. He responded by asking her, "Would it make you feel better if I did more clinic hours?"
"Not really," She ignored the semi-surprised expression on his face and continued, "It would make me feel better if you stopping taking so much Vicodin."
Fantastic. Now he felt bad for misreading her. She really cared about him, as a person, not just as a doctor. "See? It's practically the same thing!" He mocked her; it was the only way he could deflect the emotions that he was feeling. "Except blow jobs actually make me feel physically better, and me not taking Vicodin would only make you feel less worse." It was an awful argument, and started the vicious cycle of him feeling guilty all over again.
She bit her lip and he thought he could almost see tears shining in her eyes. "I'll do it."
He didn't believe her until she lifted his hospital gown. He grabbed it, holding it to his scar. "What's wrong?"
She sat back on his knees and stared between his thighs. "I thought you didn't care."
"I don't." Why did he always say that? She probably thought he hated her, which was the exact opposite of what he was trying to say. He flexed his calf muscles, and she bounced a little. Her shirt hung open, her hands clutching the top of his legs. He attempted to justify his harsh words, "Since when do you do what I ask you to? Obviously, something's different." He paused and shrugged. "I just thought it might be the victim thing. Maybe I should hit my head more often." He slid his hands over her ass.
She tugged on his gown again. "I said I'd do it."
"You want to?" He didn't know what answer he was looking for.
"Yes." She said firmly, pushing his gown over his hips.
He felt a slightly cool rush of air hit his legs and then her warm hands as she grabbed him. He closed his eyes. Her mouth slipped over him and her lips tightened momentarily.
And then she was gone. Well, her lips were gone. He opened his eyes. She was kneeling again between his legs, her face covered with her hands.
"Was it good for you?" He cracked a smile, thinking it was no big deal.
Her hands slid down and he could see her red face and watery eyes. "Sorry. I'm just going to try again." She leaned back over him.
"What are you doing?" He didn't expect her to do it again. He was partially flaccid anyway. "It's okay."
She gripped him more tightly with her hand, concentrating. She closed her eyes. "It's just been a...hmm...while." She lowered her lips just a little bit, never touching him.
"Cuddy, just stop it." It wasn't that complicated and Cuddy knew how to give a blow job. She was stalling because she didn't want to be touching him. He just didn't know why.
"Damn it, House." She climbed off the bed and started buttoning her shirt.
"What?!" He had no idea what was wrong. "It's not my fault!" He threw the sheets back over his lower body.
"I know." She spat at him. "That's because it's my fault."
He pointed at her. "I knew you felt guilty about that stupid idiot. He was crazy before you met him! How could you possibly blame yourself?"
"It's not that." She realized that she misbuttoned and had to start all over again. When she finished, she moved beside him, without sitting back down on the bed. "You could have died. And I should have done more to stop him." She brushed through her hair and adjusted her skirt. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't take care of you."
"If you'd done anymore, you'd be dead." He rubbed his eyes. "And that is the most horrible, awful..." he paused. "You can't imagine what it was like."
"Yeah, I'm sure it was really bad..." She laughed, despite the moment, and touched his cheek. "I'll be back soon. I'm going to send Wilson in."
"No." He grabbed her arm. "You're much better company. And you're warmer and you have bigger boobs." He wanted her back in his bed. "Stay," he pleaded with his eyes.
She kissed him, sighed, and pulled away. "I have to go think."
"Think here," he implored. "Think with me."
"This isn't a very good environment for thinking," she knew. "I'll be back. I promise. I-" She stopped herself. "Never mind."
She left, and he heard the door shut, and then a loud clutter in the hall.
"Cuddy!" He yelled. She didn't come back.
Oh, he'd really fucked it up this time.
Wilson would know what to do.
A/N: There is sooo much more to this chapter and I just wanted to get it up because I haven't posted for a while.
It's okay, though. Unfortunately, my layout is not going to be OCD anymore.
Umm. I had some diffculties with this chapter. That's why it took so long.
If you are interested, the conversation inside my head was: "Cuddy and House should have sex. No, it's too soon. But they have to. No, they shouldn't, it doesn't fit. But it's Huddy and it actually does fit. No, it does not. It's OOC." And so this chapter came from that conversation.
I think the angst worked out pretty well. It took forever to get what I semi-wanted. Ummm yeah. I really don't want House or Cuddy to be OOC. I'm struggling with that. In effort not to bore you, I'm not going to go into detail. But any advice with that would be appreciated.