A/N: As usual, many thanks to Alias424 for being fabulous. She truely rocks. I don't know if I'll be able to post next week with the holidays - I'll try but I am making no gauruntees. Happy Tuesday yall!
The light hurt her eyes – blindingly painful as she stared into it, wondering exactly why the room was suddenly so bright. If she closed her eyes she could see the red shadows imprinted on her vision. She opened them, staring into the light again until the white separated into yellows and blues with the faint edge of red and her eyes watered, but she couldn't stop looking.
"Cuddy."
His voice was not near, but seemed closer than it had in forever – and she turned, searching the bright pool of Crayola-tinted cream for where the sound had come from.
"Why didn't you listen?"
She spun again – her heart racing as she fought to breathe calmly and search. If she could hear him – he must be there. If she could hear him – she reached out blindly, feeling for the walls or the bed, or anything in the never-ending expanse of white – but she saw nothing but ghosts of colors that weren't there, and her hands whispered through the air silently as sobs choked her.
"It's your fault."
She sat down suddenly, staring down at herself, dressed in white and her skin seemed too pale as his voice echoed loudly through her ears. Her cries made no sound and her shoulders shook as she stared around her dazed by the light – no longer wincing from it, but staring straight into it until she looked down at her hands clutching her abdomen and saw a dark green shadow covering her there. She blinked to dispel it, but it refused to go away, and she sat still, watching in horror as the green bled into red – bright and garish against her hands as it spilled out from under her fingers and spread in an ever-widening pool around her.
It should have scared her. Her heart should have been racing but all she could do was sit, silently thankful it wasn't white.
She jerked awake, blinking down at the pale blanket beneath her and gasping as if she had just remembered to draw breath. Her hands were twisted into the fabric, and she sat up, her back protesting as she stared around numbly. The room was dark – shadows cast in every corner – and he was still in bed, looking as though he were asleep – if you ignored the tubes.
"Fuck." She grimaced in pain, rubbing a hand over her face before dragging it through her hair as she watched him. The dream hadn't scared her, per se, but she felt a strange heavy sensation in her chest as she watched the even rise and fall of his chest. It somehow seemed unfair that he got to sleep through all of this. That she was alone.
She glanced at the clock, her internal clock confirming that it really was as late as she thought it was. She sighed and stretched – and that was when she felt the twinge – low in her belly and aching, and she stared at his still form as tears filled her eyes. "Damn it."
She wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into the bed with him and curl up and not move. If she didn't see – if she didn't look – it wouldn't be there, would it? It wouldn't be real until she stood up, picked up her purse and walked into the bathroom and faced reality.
She couldn't do any of that though – because she was Lisa Cuddy. And Lisa Cuddy didn't hide, or run. Not anymore. Sighing, she grasped her purse in her hands and headed to the washroom, wiping a stray tear that had escaped.
She is crying.
In your office.
To you, of all people.
You want to run, you itch to get up – leave, tell her you are not her friend and never will be, but clearly she doesn't have anyone else, and she is sobbing hysterically into her hands and looking at you with pleading eyes.
'Lisa, you know him better than anyone. You can – ' Her breath hitches and you feel the guilt crushing your chest like a lead weight. 'He'll tell you. Wilson won't talk to me – only says he's happier and he thinks it's because of me. Me!' She laughs, and the sound is choking her and you at the same time.
'Stacy I – '
'I know he's seeing someone else. He has to be – he's far away all the time, and he gets this look on his face….' Your guilt is almost suffocating you now, and for the first time ever, you look at her and see yourself. A strong woman broken down by love for this man, and tears fill your eyes too.
'If you feel that way – '
'I can't even ask him! Because if I ask him – it makes it true, Lisa. And God help me, I still don't want to lose him. I still love him even though I think that. It's why you need to find out. Maybe if I knew who it was – if she knew what she was doing – ' And each desperate word is cutting you a little bit deeper until you cross the space between the chair and the couch and hug her, because if she doesn't stop talking, your guilt will bleed across the floor, thick and stagnant between you. 'Does that make me pathetic? Loving him that much?'
You choke back a sob as she clutches you harder, shaking in your arms. 'No,' you finally whisper, and she sags in relief against you. 'No, it doesn't.' It just make you pathetic, for clinging to a hope that would never be realized, because how could he stay with Stacy if he didn't love her just a little bit?
She cries harder and doesn't notice when you join her.
When reality was confirmed and she walked out of the washroom, longing for a cup of coffee and chocolate, and maybe a good drink and just House, she found Cameron instead, with no Chase to stand in between them.
"I uh – " Cameron is standing at the foot of his bed, looking guilty and like she hasn't slept in a while. In short – a lot like what Cuddy had just faced in the mirror, without the bitter disappointment. "I came to apologise." Cameron finally rushed the words out and Cuddy stared for a moment before sinking into the chair she had just left and nodding.
"You care about him. I'm not going to deny him one more person, Cameron." Her voice was thick and felt out of practice, but Cameron seemed to take comfort in it, because she moved closer, slowly edging her way up the side of the bed.
"I know you wouldn't hurt him." Cameron's voice was filled with regret, and Cuddy nodded in response, not speaking. "I was just – he just came in and shot him. No reason – just bam. Twice. And he was smiling..." Cuddy felt a stinging sensation behind her eyes at the girl's words and she nodded again – not really able to speak. It hadn't occurred to her until that moment – what Chase and Cameron and Foreman had witnessed. She made a mental note to have psych talk to them all and listened to Cameron speak. "Then he just left. Just walked out like he hadn't destroyed a life, or three, or seven." Cameron's voice was bewildered and Cuddy still couldn't talk – couldn't access her voice around the image Cameron was painting across the blank canvas in her mind. She just reached out blindly with her free hand and grasped Cameron's tightly, squeezing.
"You've been nice to me. You always have, even when I've been an utter bitch to you. I'm sorry." Cameron was whispering again, and Cuddy glanced over at her with a smile.
"You were in shock – "
"I was jealous," Cameron interjected, and Cuddy closed her mouth with a snap. "I don't know what... exactly is going on with you and House. But I know that you're closer to him than I'll ever be, and I resented it. I resent it." Cameron spoke matter-of-factly, and Cuddy remained silent, allowing her to continue. "I guess – if I really loved him, I'd just want him to be happy. And safe. I need to get on with it."
"Cameron – " Cuddy didn't finish because she really couldn't. What could she say to that that wouldn't simply sound like salt being ground into a too-fresh wound?
"It's alright. I just wanted to say that. I'll be back with Chase tomorrow." She smiled sweetly at Cuddy before turning and disappearing into the darkness without a sound. Cuddy watched her go before blinking and wondering if she had imagined it. But her hand was still warm and the ache was still low in her belly, and she knew she hadn't.
She absent-mindedly slipped her still-warm hand over House's still one and leaned down until her forehead lay against the back of their hands. "Wake up. Now."
She was tired of being alone already.
'Don't worry about it, Cuddy. It's nothing, I'm sure.' Wilson is trying to be soothing, but his current girlfriend, well on the way to becoming wife, is speaking sharply in the background and you know he isn't paying attention.
'Three days, Wilson. I haven't seen him, have you?'
His sigh carries across the phone line and you can practically see him in your mind, head hung and hand on his hip as he shakes his head. 'He probably just had a case, Cuddy. You know how he gets.' You sigh in response, because you do know. You know that when House has a case he can't figure out – a puzzle he can't solve – he forgets everything else. 'Listen, I have to go. I'll let him know you're looking for him if I see him.'
'No!' Your voice is sharp and high as you protest quickly. 'Just – let me know, that's all.'
'You know you are going to have to tell him one of these days, Cuddy.' You let your own head drop as you stare at your bare feet on the tiled floor of your tiny kitchen. Almost at the end of your fellowship, you need a bigger place. Something of your own.
'I don't know what you are talking about, Wilson. You should go – your girlfriend sounds pissed.' You hang up before he can reply and wander into the living room. Sinking onto the sofa you sigh, because you do know what he is talking about. Wilson has this grand idea that you and House are in love. And it's ridiculous – but it's not at the same time. You worry about him. You care more than you should. Guys you date never make it past the second date because he would eviscerate them, or they were just... not him.
You run a hand over your face as you slouch down against the cushions. You should be smarter than this – you are twenty-eight years old. You should be ready to settle down by now, but some small part of you pulls against that thought. You have goals – a career you are willing to do almost anything to have – one that doesn't really go along well with things like commitment and family. Not that that's even what you're thinking about right now. You're only twenty-eight.
The problem is, any of the many times you try to close your eyes and picture being with House – really being with him – it involves two things. Flashes of his hands on your skin as you shiver in reaction to the mere thought, and a definite sense of permanence. You know – you can't explain how, you simply do – that House will be in your life forever. And forever is a long time to change the playing field.
You sigh, and turn on the television to occupy your thoughts, anything to take your mind off of this – and him, and the heavy thoughts that always accompanied him.
When you jerk awake later – you are unsure what time it is – or even what woke you. A moment later, there is heavy knocking on your door, and you stand up, moving over there quickly. When you try to look out the peephole, there is only black, and for a moment your heart speeds up, your mind suddenly occupied with statistics of crime.
'Cuddy. Open up.' His voice startles you and you sigh, undoing the chain and deadbolt, silently cursing him for thinking it was funny to cover the peephole. He stumbles in as you open the door and you discover he was literally leaning on your door, one arm propping him up – and conveniently covering your view – and the other loosely holding a bottle of what smells like whiskey. He falls into you and you put your arms up, automatically bracing yourself for his weight.
'House. What – ' The air is knocked out of you for a moment, and he pushes himself up, one hand on your shoulder as he smiles down at you.
'Sorry bout that. The door opened fast.' His words are slurred slightly and you frown up at him. You have never seen him drunk. You have seen him drink quite a bit in the last two years, you have seen him tipsy – maybe even buzzed. But never like this. He leans heavily on you as you stagger under his weight, leading him to the sofa and dropping him there with a muffled thump. Once free, you return to the open door, closing and locking it tightly.
'House – what is going on? What happened?' You are walking back to him, watching as he shrugs and takes a drink – the bottle is only about a third full, and you find some small part of you praying that it wasn't full to begin with. You sit to the left of him, curling your knees into your chest and watching him.
'Do I need a reason to come see you? I was thinking about you... I do that. So I came here.' His eyes are rimmed with red when he looks at you, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. His head falls against the back of the sofa, and his hand reaches out unsteadily, fingers running through your hair.
'House...'
'Is this what you sleep in? I remember less.' His eyes drop from yours, avoiding your gaze as he takes in your tank top and shorts.
'I was drunk.'
'So am I.' His hand is tracing along your jaw line now, and you move closer to look at him seriously. Your hand is on his arm, and you take the bottle from his unresisting hands, placing it on the floor beside you. When you look back up, he is smiling at you and you place a hand on his face, feeling the scratch of three days worth of stubble there.
'What happened?'
'I couldn't figure it out. I don't know what it was – not even now. They wouldn't let me.'
'Let you what?' Your voice is soft and he blinks up at you owlishly.
'Autopsy.' You sigh in understanding, even as he speaks. It's his thing – if he can't figure out what's wrong with a patient, he always autopsies for the answer. He says it's like losing a game of cards, and then seeing what the other person had.
'Did you speak to the family?'
'They won't change their minds. She was seventy-three – they just want her at rest. Esther.' He speaks softly and you sit up straight, looking at him seriously.
'What were her symptoms?' He looks at you in surprise, and you nod encouragingly.
'She came in with bloody diarrhoea and ataxia. Progressed to kidney failure, then pituitary failure. Then liver failure, a splenicinfarc, respiratory failure and death.' He is speaking in a dull tone, like he is reading this all from a file somewhere in his mind.
'What were you thinking?' Your voice is soft, and you hand is resting on his shoulder.
'A lot of things. All of them wrong.' His voice is dead and you move closer to him on the sofa, pressing yourself against his side. A gesture of comfort – even if it is a small one. 'If they had let me do the damn autopsy...' he trails off, glancing around. 'Did you steal my whiskey?'
'Yes.' You speak in a serious tone, and he smiles oddly in response. 'Was it partial hypopituitarism or panhypopituitarism?' You latch onto the only symptom you can deal with. Hormones.
'Does it matter?' His voice is soft by your ear, his breath tickling the hair there as his hand snakes out around you and presses against your lower back, pushing you closer.
'Yes.' Your voice is breathy and you frown because it doesn't even sound like you.
'Total pituitary failure,' he finally mutters into your hair, and you nod slowly.
'Had to have been masses then.' He nods, he knows this already but he doesn't stop you from talking. 'Blocking the delivery of hormones from the hypothalamus – any other cause would have presented gradually. Loss of growth hormone, then luteinizing –'
'The follicle, then the thyroid – I know all this. Masses could indicate anything, though. Cancer, sclerosis – and I'll never know because I can't find out now.' His face is pressed next to your neck now, and you shiver at the amount of heat spreading from his hand to your skin. Over his shoulder the clock is glaring at you, reminding you that it is almost three in the morning and you have work the next day. You can't seem to find it in you to kick him out, though.
'I'm sorry,' you say softly, and you are. You know – you know that this will haunt him forever. Nothing is worse than unanswered questions – not to him.
He pulls back and looks down at you carefully. His eyes are bright blue – burning with some emotion you can't or won't name. You can smell whiskey on his breath – fiery and sweet. His eyes are locked on yours and you freeze, your heart thundering because it's only now that your mind is finally getting the danger signals here. 'I know.' His voice is softer than yours, barely a whisper but as close to a thanks as you'll ever get. In a minute it doesn't even matter anymore because his hand is wound in your hair almost painfully and his mouth is against yours, rough and sweet all at once. You knew this should never happen, but his tongue was already wrapping around yours and you could feel tiny pulses all the way in your womb and you couldn't stop him now even if you wanted to.
Your hands wrap around his neck tightly as you decide you really don't want to anyway. He is pushing you back, his mouth fighting for control over yours, a fight you are enjoying. Your back hits the sofa and his weight is a welcome relief on top of you, chest against aching breasts and his groin against yours, but nowhere near close enough. You hear moans, but you can't tell if that's you or him. Either way, your hands are fumbling along his back, eager to get under his shirt to his skin and his hand is running down the length of your body in just the way you like and how does he even know that?
When you break away to breathe, his mouth transfers to your ear and the sensitive skin there, and you arch beneath him, pressing your hips up and grinding yourself against him because the sensation makes your skin feel like it's on fire and freezing all at once. You can't even breathe properly anymore – it's hitching noises, raggedly gulping in air and his voice is dark against your skin. 'God, Cuddy...'
He says your name like it's an indulgence, long and drawn out against your throat and your hands are suddenly frantic in response as his mouth finds yours again. You swallow the words in your throat as he invades you; his skill is breathtaking in this as well. His tongue slides along your mouth, your lip, up and around and back in and you are no longer resisting, not even for fun. Your hand inches under his shirt and finally you are able to press a cool palm against his heated skin, and he gasps in your mouth, tearing his own away. He pulls back, staring down at you for a beat, his eyes so blue you can't see anything else – just the heat in them as it pools over your face and suffocates you pleasantly.
He lowers his head to your neck, pressing small hot, wet kisses there, and you sigh, curling around him as your hand moves up between his shoulder blades. He stills for a moment and you lie in anticipation of his next move, but there isn't one. 'House?' Your voice is low and dark, but his weight becomes heavier on top of you and you know before you crane your neck that he is asleep, his face buried in your skin, inhaling and exhaling softly. 'Fuck.'
You drop your head against the sofa, cursing inwardly and inching out from under him slowly. It takes you almost fifteen minutes but you manage it. The flush of lust is no longer there, and as you pull a blanket off a chair you want to be angry – but you can't seem to dredge it up. You are lucky really, because you wouldn't have been able to stop – and where would that have led? Either you'd sleep together and pretend it never happened, or you would sleep together and keep sleeping together until the friction became too much and you fought one too many times and one of you decided it just wasn't worth it. Either way, it would ruin your friendship – and that's something that you actually cherish.
You press a hand against his forehead, brushing back the hair there as he snores lightly, mouth open. What you need is a bigger barrier – clearly if he touches you, your wall crumbles. You need something bigger. Something more permanent. 'I really am sorry,' you whisper, even though he can't hear you and has no way of knowing what is being decided without him.
You leave your apartment long before he wakes the next day. Your first step out of the door hits the ground in an echoing way, reminiscent of the beginning of a run.
She didn't dream this time – there was no message her subconscious was trying to give her, no underlying meaning , she just slept lightly, body tense and alert for the slightest movement. When she did jerk awake in the pearly pale light of pre-dawn, she didn't know what had woken her at first – but then he shifted again, and she felt her heart burst into movement, a rapid baseline beat to her symphony of thoughts as she grabbed his chart, her hands shaking as she poured some water into a cup.
When his eyes opened, she thought she had never been so happy to see them. Never had she been so delighted to look into his eyes, and remember just how blue they were. He looked at her in confusion, and she shook her head. "Don't talk. Can you sit up a little?" He jerked his head slightly and she lifted the bed before holding the cup to his lips and watching him take a sip. When he had swallowed a few times, she set the glass down and pulled her stethoscope from her neck.
"Are we playing doctor?" His voice was sandpapery, and she grinned just at the sound of it.
"No." She listened to the sounds of his heart and lungs thoughtfully, her eyes on the monitor that was recording his O2 sats. "How's your pain? Do you remember anything?" She grabbed a penlight as she spoke, and he winced away from the bright point of light in the still semi-darkened room.
"Greg House. Doctor. Lisa Cuddy – pain in the ass. Get that thing away from me." His hands pushed weakly against her own, and she stopped for a moment, simply standing there and looking at him gratefully.
"Any pain?" She held her breath, waiting for his answer, and he blinked at her a bit.
"My neck hurts. Did you – " He paused, lifting a hand to the gauze still taped there and frowning. "There was a guy."
"House – "
"He had a gun. What happened to him?" He looked around as though he expected the gunman to be in that very room before his eyes locked on hers. "Not the same," he mumbled to himself, and she frowned. "It was Cameron last time."
"He ran. The police and security cornered him in the parking garage, and he shot himself in the head." She spoke in a soft tone, and he nodded absent-mindedly. She reached down for his hand and squeezed it gently, and he blinked up at her in confusion.
"He's dead? He shot me." His other hand moved down to his side, and she watched him carefully. "It itches. Means the stitches are healing. How long have I been out?"
"Eight days. Almost." She stepped closer when he pulled on her arm until her hips hit the side rail of the bed.
"Did I dream all of it? Swollen tongue guy – what happened to him?"
"I don't know. I passed him off to Princeton Gen. I can call and find out – "
"He's not dead?" She shook her head and watched as his gaze seemed to clear and sharpen. His hand still held hers tightly but she didn't draw attention to it and neither did he. "You and Wilson – " He paused and frowned as she waited. She had known that the dreams would be confusing – and might linger on afterward. "There was yelling. I yelled at you." He met her eyes again, and she smiled reassuringly.
"You always yell at me."
"I was angry because of the Ketamine." His other hand dropped to his thigh automatically, and he looked down in surprise. "The Ketamine. You did it?"
"You asked me to," she whispered, suddenly fearful. Afraid to hear him say if it hurt or not. Terrified that it had all been for nothing.
"I don't feel it." He was muttering, and she glanced over at him in shock.
"Is it numb? A general loss of sensation is normal – " Her hand reached across his lap and he stilled it, his fingers circling her wrist and trapping her there.
"No. I feel the leg." Her eyes met his and he smiled slightly at her, his breath tickling across her cheek as he inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I don't feel the pain." She smiled widely at him as he pulled her closer to him, resting his forehead against her shoulder. "I don't feel the pain."
Shakespeare is an idiot. Obviously when he said it was better to have loved and lost, he never had the object of said love stare through him like he didn't even exist. You expected this – you thought you were ready but as House is screaming at you, you can't help but think nothing could have prepared you for this.
'You took my fucking life – '
'I saved it.' Your voice is quiet, but you refuse – you absolutely refuse – to apologize.
'I would have been fine – '
'Yes. You might have. Or alternately, you could have been in pain for the rest of your life – '
'And I'm not now?!' He has never yelled at you like this before. 'How could you – you, Cuddy, out of everyone – why you?' He's near tears now and you are wishing Stacy would hurry up and get back so you can spread some of the wrath around, but he has you alone for now.
'Because I'm the only one who couldn't watch you kill yourself.' You are whispering and staring down at him. 'I get that you're never going to forgive me for this – but I told her it was the best option. She listened to me.' It's funny, because the sword you are falling on barely hurts going in. You wonder if you can heal around it –
'If you loved me at all – ' His voice is so bitter it drips along your skin like acid, burning you as you stand there and take it. 'You wouldn't have done this. Stacy didn't know – she didn't fucking know anything. But you did. You did and you were supposed to fight for me, not against me.' He isn't even yelling anymore – he sounds broken and you shiver because in a way, it's worse.
Stacy is outside now, watching anxiously, and you hang his chart back on the bed, leaning down to look him in the eye – one last time. 'I did fight for you.' It's all you can say as he looks at you one last time before staring at the wall behind you like you never even existed in his life before this very second.
You just weren't prepared for the pain.
"What are you doing?" She was holding two cups of coffee and glaring as she asked the question, but she wasn't quite able to keep the smile off her face as she cornered him in the hallway.
"Nine out of ten doctors say walking is good after surgery."
"You need to see the physical therapist," she scolded gently before ducking under his arm and handing him a cup of the coffee she was holding. He took it, still resting his other palm against the wall for a moment before standing straight and dropping the arm around her shoulders.
"Did this morning." He spoke smugly, and she rolled her eyes as they moved slowly down the hall. His pain was still gone. Three days in, and she made another mental mark in her mind, a line next to the other two already there. "She – and don't be jealous, she looks like she could bench-press my entire team – started me on some exercises and said I could walk some."
"She probably meant with a cane," Cuddy muttered, and he laughed slightly.
"Didn't know where it was." They finally reached a bench, and he sank down onto it, balancing his cup carefully. He opened it and took a sip before glancing up at her and patting the seat next to him. "So, did you get fired?"
"No. The board meeting went fine – nary a word about the last week. They almost seemed scared." She spoke thoughtfully before taking a sip of her own coffee.
"Scared? Maybe someone threatened them." House shrugged innocently and she narrowed her eyes at him. 'What?! I said maybe!"
"Anyway," she continued evenly, ignoring his last statement as he leaned back against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him. "You can go home tomorrow. You'll have to come in for PT – but you're going to get eight weeks for recovery – "
"Sweet. Paid vacation," House cheered, and she glared at him before continuing.
"But I fully expect you back not a day over those eight weeks. No excuses – and I'm getting personal reports from your PT – " He rolled his eyes as she spoke, turning to her and opening his mouth.
"House – you're out of your room!" Wilson's tone was cheerful, almost forcefully so, as he strode up to them with a smile.
"Yeah, finally convinced her to take the chains off. I mean, at home is one thing, but in a workplace setting?" Cuddy shot House a glare, and Wilson just stared for a moment before glancing down the busy hall. An awkward silence descended, and House frowned at Wilson. "Normally my jokes go down better than that."
"Well, everything is hardly normal anymore, is it?" Wilson muttered, placing his hands on his hips as he stared at the floor thoughtfully. "It's good to see you out of bed anyway."
"Wilson – I told you not to mention that in public!" House spoke in a scandalized tone, and she rolled her eyes, easing to the edge of the bench and preparing for escape, until his hand clamped on her wrist, pinning her down. "Alright, which of you two is going to clue me in on what the hell happened? Is this like a While You Were Sleeping kind of thing? Oh god, did you two make out?"
She was silent, her hand clenching around her paper cup as Wilson stammered awkwardly. "Did you just admit to watching and paying attention to a romantic comedy?" Wilson was weakly deflecting, and House stared at him, silently waiting for him to break. He wouldn't look to her – because he knew Wilson was the weaker link. "Nothing happened."
"We fought." Cuddy spoke at the same time and House looked over at her in surprise. The best lie was a plausible truth – and he wouldn't give up until he got something. "About your treatment – we fought. I kicked him out."
"For three days," Wilson said to the floor, and House frowned, eyeing them both calculatingly. Finally his fingers on her wrist loosened, and she stood fluidly.
"I have a meeting."
"I thought – " House paused and fell silent as her eyes met his pleadingly. He seemed to get the message because he simply smiled and finished his coffee. "That's fine – Wilson's way more fun to watch afternoon television with anyway. We can all play together later, right?" He braced his arm against the wall and stood heavily, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet once he gained his balance. "Hey Wilson – wanna race?"
'Cuddy, please save me from him. He thinks I need a hooker.' Wilson is grimacing under the weight of the bags his is carrying as House moseys along behind him, empty-handed.
It's Friday – which this week meant it was their bi-weekly card game – and Wilson was dropping the drinks off in her kitchen as House wandered the room, as usual. He loved the weeks it was at your place, because it gave him free range to rifle through your things. 'I can't say I disagree, Wilson.' You finally respond as he comes out of the kitchen with three beers.
'Ha. Told you, even the resident X is saying do it.' House is laughing as he pulls out his chair and sits, taking a long drink as he does so. You shake your head, heading to your kitchen and quickly throwing chips into a bowl before he can start his usual rant about the lack of food preparation. Of course, his idea of food preparation involves ordering pizza thirty minutes before you and Wilson arrive and hoping Wilson will pay. Which he does, most weeks. You throw the bowl on your table and sit in between him and Wilson.
'You're both crazy. I do not need a hooker.'
'No, you just need to get laid,' you snort, taking a sip and shuffling the cards you left on the table. House and Wilson stare at you for a beat until House grins.
'Offering?' He is trying to shock you – but you have been meeting every two weeks for almost six months now and he has lost the ability to do that. He has also been attempting to sleep with you for the same amount of time – but you have always held him off. He's an absolute bastard who constantly argues with you, the sexual tension was almost unbearable and your mother would hate him. In short – practically your perfect man, which was precisely why you held him at arm's length. It was much too soon for that. Much too soon for him. You weren't ready – yet it was getting harder and harder each time to keep that comfort zone alive and well.
'If you can't afford me single, he definitely can't what with the alimony.' You say dryly. He chuckles as you deal and Wilson rolls his eyes.
'The last thing I need is another relationship,' he mutters as he takes the cards from the table.
'Which is why we're advocating casual sex,' you respond bluntly and he chokes on his beer a bit. 'I know some nice nurses. And by nice, I mean really easy.'
'Wait. How come I don't know these nice nurses?' House speaks in irritation, emptying his bottle as he contemplates his cards.
'Because, I don't help you get laid.' You speak shortly, before taking your cards in one hand – you learned the hard way that they cheat – and going to get a fresh round. House rules – whoever hosts gets the drinks. However, you have thought around that this week, and you kick the full cooler over to the table slowly. Opening it, you take out three more beer and hand them out.
'That's cheating!' House gasps, and then curses. 'I can't believe I never thought of it.'
'Are we playing?' Wilson is impatient – although why you never know. He always loses and should be thankful you never play for money.
'You know – I don't need the nurses' names anyway. If you really wanted to help me get laid though – you could...'
'Shut up, House.' You lay down your cards and the game commences, distracting both of them for a while.
'Would you rather –' House starts and you and Wilson both groan simultaneously. It's one of House's favourite ways to pass the time in between hands, and without fail, he starts in as soon as the third beer is opened.
'It's better than the stories, Cuddy,' Wilson whispers and though you wince, you privately agree. House is a veritable front of useless information – all of which he will share with you should Would You Rather prove unsuccessful. You sigh and nod, and House's eyes turn toward you.
'Would you rather be a widow or a divorcee?'
Wilson adopts a pained expression and you smile at him with sympathy.
'Can't I choose secret option number three? Never get married?' you ask wistfully and House shakes his head at you, taking another drink before dealing the cards.
'That would defeat the purpose of the game. One or the other. Pick.' He deals and then pulls out a cigar which he proceeds to light.
'Widow.' You answer automatically, discarding your cards and taking a nervous drink.
'Huh, really?' Wilson pipes up. 'You'd rather have someone you love die than just leave you?'
'He didn't say they left me. I could leave them, but either way widow is permanent. No loose ends.' House chuckles beside you and your roll your eyes. 'Alright my turn. Wilson, would you rather have sex with another man, or have sex with an animal?' You giggle as you ask and Wilson looks horrified.
'Why do you always ask disturbing questions?' He splutters as House grins at him from across the table.
'Because she's a twisted little puppy. God I love her.' House is joking, of course, but your heartbeat quickens into a one-two beat anyway.
'Well, do I get to choose the animal?' Wilson asks dejectedly and you nod eagerly.
'Of course. If you have a particular affection for say, goats over horses – then by all means...'
'I hate you,' he mutters, taking two more long drinks before sighing. 'I'd do the guy.'
'Are you serious?!' House is almost choking on his beer and you are laughing so hard you can barely open the cooler to get the next round. 'Dude, that is –dude.' House is staring at Wilson with horror. 'DUDE!'
'It's your turn, Wilson.' You pass him a beer with a laugh and he accepts it with a glare.
'Fine.' He sighs, turning back to you – an unfair choice since usually you both gang up on House 'Would you rather –'
'Seriously, you'd have sex with the other guy? Cause I've seen some good looking cows...' House interrupts, still hung up on Wilson's answer.
'House.' Wilson is sighing in irritation now and drinking faster. 'I hate this game.'
'This game hates you. I cannot believe you said you'd do the guy.' He shudders dramatically, swallowing half his drink in two long pulls from the bottle. You watch his neck as he does so, eyes tracing the muscles in his throat. 'So you forfeit your right to a turn.'
'I never said I –'
'Boy on boy action gets an automatic demerit,' House snaps and turns to you, his eyes bright. 'Your turn, Cuddles.' You roll your eyes because he knows the nickname irritates you, and you wait. 'Would you rather have sex with another woman or a horse?'
'You're stealing my questions now? Are you that drunk?' You speak with amusement and he rolls his eyes and sighs.
'Clearly the gender and animal in question are different. Totally different question, duh.'
'I'd do the chick,' you answer quickly, and finish off your fourth – or is it fifth? – bottle. The cooler seems too far away to reach, though, and you giggle slightly down at your cards. Who played last?
'See, Wilson – unlike when you pick that answer – her answer makes me want to run out and get a hot girl and a horse and turn the hypothetical into reality.' He stares at you for a beat and then nods down to the cooler. 'We're out.'
' 'stoo far.' You are laughing and Wilson rolls his eyes before reaching down and grabbing more beer.
'You are such a lightweight,' he mutters before placing another open bottle in front of you.
'Am not,' you insist, taking another drink. You could drink his ass under the table any day of the week.
'Are too. You're drunk,' Wilson points out and you sit up, glaring at him.
'Wanna bet? I may be drunk but I can stay drunker-er...' you trail off, unsure of the proper grammar before shrugging. 'Whatever – I can drink you under this table, pansy boy.'
'Are we putting money on it?' House is rubbing his hands together in glee and pulling bills out of his pocket.
'Hey! You said you didn't have any cash earlier...' Wilson is protesting weakly.
'I lied. Alright, I've got two hundred here, can you match?'
Your money is slapped on the table before he can even finish speaking. 'C'mon Wilson – you in or out?' You are taunting him now and he sighs.
'Depends. Is it just between you and me – because I'm fairly sure House could drink us all under the table.' You nod and he reaches for his wallet with a sigh. 'Fine.'
'Rules are – you have to keep pace with each other – which means strategy comes into play – first one to pass out or throw up or need to be taken into emerg loses.' House sits back with a grin and Wilson takes a drink, and so do you.
'And who are you betting on?' Wilson asks, taking another long drink – clearly intent on winning as quickly as possible.
'Cuddy.' Wilson glares at him, but House merely shrugs in response. 'I've drunk with you both for a while now – she gets drunk quick. But I have never seen her pass out or get sick. I've seen you do both – sometimes simultaneously.'
'Are we done with the card game now?' You finish off your bottle in one long drink and Wilson mirrors your actions with a sigh.
'We were playing cards?' House blinks before laughing.
'What about eating? Are there rules for eating?' You are eying the chips as you speak.
'No eating. It's only fair.' Wilson pulls out two more beers and hands one to you. 'If we're not playing cards, can we move to the couch?' You nod – all the better for him to pass out on.
You sit on the floor by the coffee table, and House sits on the floor next to you, leaning against the sofa. Wilson pulls the cooler over before sinking into the sofa. You both drink and he glances at you. 'Why don't you date?'
'I date.' You take another drink and so does he, and you are suddenly aware of House's eyes on you, sharp on your skin.
'We never meet anyone,' Wilson points out and you laugh out loud before taking another sip.
'Because I'm not an idiot. Guys don't like other guys. Guys I date would not like you – you both would not like guys I date. Besides, to meet you they would have to last more than three dates.' You shrug, and Wilson drinks again and so do you. 'None of them ever do.'
House is pulling out three more beers and passing them out. 'Good,' he mutters and you both stare at him for a beat. 'How's Surrey going?'
'Inching closer to retirement every day.' You smirk and take a final drink, finishing off that bottle before opening the next.
'You really think you'll get his job?' Wilson sounds sceptical, but you can forgive him that because he just doesn't know you very well.
'Sure she will. Look at her. She went through ten years of university in eight, and she's whipping his ass already. She's Cuddy.' House shrugs as if that explains everything and you smile at him, because really – it does.
'Yeah, I may be your boss someday if you can avoid getting fired long enough.' You smile and Wilson drinks and so do you.
'Almost enough of a temptation for me to try to rein it in – but you'd hire me back anyway. You couldn't go without staring at my ass every day.'
'Yeah. I stare at your ass all day – sure. I could have sworn it was the other way around,' you mutter and sip thoughtfully, catching Wilson giggling out of the corner of your eye.
'It's mutual assmiration.'
'You know what I wish?' Wilson blurts out suddenly and you both turn to look at him in surprise. 'I wish –' he laughs and takes another long swallow, pointedly waiting for you to do the same. He only continues once you've caught up. ' –that you two would just screw and get it over with.'
'Why – would you be willing to watch? Participate – I mean I have heard you're into guys –' House's response is typical, but you are thankful for it, because at times you wish the same thing. The only problem is that it would be too perfect. Scarily perfect and when things are perfect or even close to it – you run.
'Cuddy.' Wilson's voice is sharp and you startle, turning to him. 'You're two –'
'Three.' House speaks over Wilson.
'Three drinks behind.' Wilson takes another drink, and his hand is unsteady. 'Four.'
You sigh, pulling his bottle close to you and eying the different levels. After a moment you take a long drink, before pulling back and measuring the bottles again. They are even. You are aware that you are drunk – but it's like a blurry buzzing inside your brain. And your hands are steady – unlike Wilson's.
'Shit.' Wilson breaths out as you finish the bottle and he blinks slowly. 'Aren't you drunk?'
'Oh, she's drunk.' House is suddenly sitting up beside you, too close for comfort. 'Look at her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. Pupils are slow to react – she is trashed.' His eyes are tracing your face and you flush more under the heat of his gaze. Your eyes meet his and time seems to slow down for a moment. You are unable to move even the slightest bit under the weight of his eyes and you can only look back.
A muffled snore comes from the sofa and you both turn in surprise. Wilson has fallen over, passed out – nearly empty bottle still in his hand. 'So how do we split the money?' you ask House, who has turned his face back toward you. 'I say 70/30. I'm the one drunk off my ass, after all.'
'No way.50/50. I did the mental math to bet on you.' He is standing and pulling Wilson up until he is lying down fully on the sofa. You push yourself up as well, grabbing a blanket from the chair and draping it over him.
'60/40.' You speak in a whisper as you stand next to him.
'So am I sleeping with you tonight?' House is gazing down at Wilson and you turn in surprise, tripping in the process. His hands steady you, tight on your shoulders and you are suddenly reminded of a similar stance, years ago on a sidewalk.
'You could go home.'
'He's my ride.' House shrugs, and he's pushing you along, half carrying you, half helping you stand. When you fall on your bed, you are convulsing with laughter and he is shaking his head. 'You really are drunk.' He's muttering, and you nod before undoing your jeans and shoving them off you. He stills by the foot of the bed, and you throw your shirt off too.
'Close your mouth,' you mutter, sliding under the covers. 'My bikini is more indecent than this.'
'Hey – you want to go to the beach some time?' he automatically offers and you laugh. He lies down with you – but he is on top of the covers and still dressed. He is not nearly as drunk as you.
'Sure.' You sigh, and roll over toward him. 'That can't be comfortable,' you point out, staring at his clothes, and he laughs.
'Stop it. You are way too drunk.'
'You are way too moral.' And then you do laugh – because it's so far from true – and yet so true all at once. It makes no sense – but not much about him does. You pout, hoping he'll change his mind – because even if you would regret sleeping with him tomorrow, it is right now, not tomorrow. And right now, you'd really like the feel of his skin hot on yours.
'You can't seduce me. You can barely string three words together.' He is smiling in the dark, and you lean closer to him, laying your head on his shoulder and listening to his heartbeat under your ear.
'I did stalk you,' you whisper, and his chuckle reverberates through his chest under your ear. You feel suddenly lax and comfortable – you never want to move from this spot and his arm wraps around your shoulders as he pulls you closer. You sigh deeply, smelling musk and spice, and close your eyes with a smile.
'I know,' he whispers back, his lips brushing against your hair, you think, but all you can do is smile – a corner of your mouth barely twitching as sleep is descending on you heavy and warm. 'I'll return the favour someday.'
She somehow wasn't surprised when she found him in her office later that evening, resting on her sofa in a pool of cream light provided by the tall lamp there. The contents of her garbage was strewn across her coffee table, and she sank down with a sigh. He didn't talk, just reached over and grasped her arm, pulling her until she was pressed next to him. He wrapped and arm around her, and she buried her face by his neck, breathing deeply.
"There's seven cups of coffee in here. You hate decaf." He finally broke the silence with an observation and she felt her throat tighten as she nodded. "It didn't take." It wasn't a question and she felt no need to respond as he turned her head so that it was laying on his shoulder. "We'll try again."
"We will. Just not right now," she pointed out calmly. "You need recovery time."
"Sorry about your trash."
"No you're not." She smiled against his shoulder and he shrugged, causing her to need to adjust her position.
"No, I'm not. You'd think you'd have learned to dump your crap elsewhere by now."
"It's how we communicate." He laughed slightly at her words and silence descended once more, comfortable and warm around them – like a down-filled atmosphere, tickling her softly. She felt the exhaustion of the last two weeks settle down on her heavily, and her eyes grew heavy in the warmth of the dark room.
"How about you spring me early? We can go home tonight." She smiled at his choice of words before nodding and sitting up, struggling because of his arm, still wrapped around her.
"We can both get some sleep."
