Author's Notes: Thanks to HouseBroken, menolly-au, huddyholic, Patricia Dubose, 90, dmarchi, Temo, Sydney, red blood, liskner, Huddyphoric, Neelie2009, faboosh, lurker, Jane Q. Doe, tuckp3, and lin12344 for taking the time to read and review! It means a lot to me.
Disclaimer: If I owned it, Lucas would have died in a fire a long time ago. Clearly, it's not mine.
Gift of Screws
Chapter Six: Drowning
By Duckie Nicks
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson
Since Rachel had started school, Cuddy had had the displeasure of sitting through many a dance recital. And each time, without fail, she'd thanked God that the school had had the policy of letting parents leave after each round of atrocious performances. From the school's perspective, they could use the time it took for the parents to leave to change the decorations on the stage and set up different camera angles for the overpriced DVDs they sold after the fact. There was no doubt in her mind that this small allowance was more than paid for in the excessive tuition Rachel's school charged, but Cuddy had never minded that.
And right now, in this particular moment, she knew that she had never been more grateful to pay for the privilege of walking out after Rachel's dancing.
Well, dancing was clearly too generous a word for what these children were doing. Though they'd all started out as dancers, though Rachel had started the fight with one of the kids in the class, as the seconds had ticked by, other students had joined in on the action. A blue bird and a cardinal were pecking at each other with the beaks on their headpieces; a Canadian goose was punching some other boy in the testicles, and there were others fighting as well.
Absolutely no one was dancing.
And when the curtain was promptly dropped in mid-song, there was no applause.
Except for House.
He, thoroughly entertained by the fight that had broken out, sat next to her clapping as enthusiastically as she'd ever seen him.
Her own hands immediately grabbing at his, she told him in a threatening voice, "Stop that."
Uncharacteristically, he obeyed, silently letting her lead him out of the auditorium. But once they were back in the cafeteria, he told her, "If I had known these things would be like the W.W.E, I –"
"This isn't funny," Cuddy interrupted angrily. He might have thought this was all very entertaining, but she knew better. She knew that that fight would lead to every parent in the school blaming her personally for ruining the stupid recital and, more than likely, a meeting with the principal.
"Sure, it is."
She gave him a dark look. "What part of me having to walk out of here with the stench of shame is amusing to –"
"Shame?" he asked in surprise. "You sleep with me. What shame could you possibly have left?" When she elbowed him in the ribs at the remark, he hastily added, "Well, at least we know where Rachel gets her violent side from."
"Fine," Cuddy snapped, throwing her hands in the air. "Since you're so amused, you can go backstage and grab her and deal with all of those angry parents."
That stopped House in his tracks. Literally ceasing to move in the middle of the hallway, he forced her to stop as well and turn around. His eyes filled with dismay, he told her, "I'm not going back there."
She smirked, hands on her hips. "And why not?"
"I'm not her father, and –"
"We're so aware," she interrupted.
"And," he repeated, accentuating the word to show his annoyance. "They're not going to let her go with some stranger."
Briefly Cuddy's eyes roved over his form. Conceding the point, she admitted, "Well, you do seem like the type."
"And when they think I'm interested in doing some diddling, they're going to call you. And then you're going to have to go back and admit that you actually know me," he pointed out.
Nodding her head, she replied, "Well admitting that I know you is rather embarrassing."
"That's cute, sugar tits, but I'm thinking it's going to be much more humiliating to admit that you wanted me to pick Mowgli up, so you could avoid being called a bad parent."
There was no arguing that point. She wanted to, but Cuddy knew that she couldn't, because he was right… unfortunately.
"Fine," she mumbled as she began to dig through her purse for her keys. Finally finding them, she handed them to House. "I will get Rachel. You go get the car." He nodded his head in agreement, but she was quick to add, "Don't you dare think about leaving me here in this hell hole."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"And don't call me sugar tits," she hissed under her breath.
He didn't have a chance to respond before she'd walked away. But not really feeling the fight they seemed to be on the verge of having, he didn't exactly mind that she left.
He did mind having to wade through the freshly iced and snow-covered parking lot, but even then, navigating through that was way better than hoards of children and their anal retentive parents.
That thought was confirmed when he pulled the car up to the curb in front of an angry Cuddy minutes later. For him, the time away from her had been tense; the fear of falling or twisting his leg had made getting the car a rather nerve wracking experience. But in the end, he'd been okay, using the hoods and trunks of everyone else's vehicles to aid his balance, and his torment had come to an end the second he got into the car.
Yet it was very clear that Cuddy's had just begun.
When he pulled up next to her, Rachel pressed to her side, Cuddy looked absolutely livid.
How could she not be though? When she'd left House to go get her daughter, she'd known precisely what she was getting into – screaming little children and angry parents all pointing a finger at Rachel (and by extension at Cuddy's parenting). But actually being in it had been much more difficult than Cuddy had imagined.
The second she'd stepped into the big room that housed all of the non-performing children she had felt the tension. Granted, it hadn't, at that point, been directed at her; most of the kids and parents who had been complaining or picking up their children hadn't known she was the mother of the unruly blue jay. But naturally Cuddy had known that that would need to change if she wanted to leave with Rachel.
And so it had been with reluctance that Cuddy had ventured further into the room. Her steps as tentative as she'd been able to make them, by the time she'd found Rachel, the children's ire towards one another had died down; in fact, no longer arguing, they'd been apologizing to one another. Sure, it had been in that terse sort of way that could only mean that the dance instructor had forced them to. But at least it had meant that Cuddy wouldn't need to take Rachel around to apologize to each child in the most painstaking manner.
However, Cuddy would have had to have been quite foolish to think that she'd be able to get away unscathed, and indeed, in the end, she hadn't been able to get away scot-free. Her daughter having seen her, Rachel had run toward her. "Mommy."
Cuddy had barely enough time to wipe the sweat off of her daughter's brow before the teacher, a lithe woman who made Cuddy herself seem large, had approached the two of them. "You're Rachel's mother?"
What Cuddy had really wanted to say had been something along the lines of "No, she's just saying 'Mommy,' because she has Tourette's." But knowing her luck, there probably would have been someone with Tourette's in the room, and it just hadn't been worth a potential fight. So she'd simply answered, "Yes."
"We need to talk, if you have the time."
Cuddy had nodded her head before looking down at her daughter. "Honey, why don't you go get your coat?" Rachel, clearly knowing when she wasn't wanted, had run off as soon as the suggestion had been uttered.
"I think it would be best if we were to continue this conversation in my office," the teacher had said, gesturing to the little room annexed to the right.
"That's fine." Really, it hadn't been, but what other options did Cuddy really have?
Once they'd entered the small room, the teacher – whose name Cuddy still didn't know – had offered her a seat on a ratty couch. Naturally, the offer had been declined. And with that small amount of politeness out of way, the dance instructor had gone straight to the heart of the matter. "I don't believe that I need to tell you how much time, effort, and funding we spend to put on these productions every season."
Cuddy had smiled as best as she could, all the while knowing that it would look more like a grimace in the end. "No, you don't. I'm well aware that my daughter's behavior was a disruption, and I can assure you that it won't happen again." Her tone had been perfunctory, the kind she normally used when she was talking to donors.
"I hope you're right about that. We already make special accommodations for your daughter and her… health problems."
Truth be told, there hadn't been anything in the woman's choice of words that had been offensive. If anything, they'd been accurate ones; no doubt, the school had had to make accommodations for Rachel's asthma, hypothyroidism, and diabetes, the alternative being that Rachel die on their watch.
But that hadn't been what the teacher had been getting at.
Cuddy had been able to tell.
"You mean she's fat, and that's hard for you."
"Well…" The woman hadn't wanted to say yes, but it had been something she couldn't deny either. "It's just that it's very hard to find costumes that will fit her, and then, even when we do, it's difficult to get through the practices, because the other children say –"
"I see," Cuddy had replied coolly, turning around to open the door to leave.
"Ms. Cuddy, please don't take this the wrong way. All I'm trying to say is that the other children find her to be a distraction, and –"
The glare Cuddy had given her had silenced her immediately.
"This is what's going to happen," Cuddy had told her in a voice that dared her to disagree. "I'm going to take my daughter home now. I will punish her for disrupting the recital. You, on the other hand, will handle any complaints the other parents have – and we both know they will. And when they do complain, you can tell them whatever you want. But you won't be placing the blame at my daughter's feet unless you want me to tell your boss that –"
The other woman had balked at the order. "You can't do that."
"Believe me when I say that I can. I will tell the fool who hired you that you are seemingly incapable of stopping a crowd of five year olds from verbally abusing my daughter, and seeing as how silly you were to even tell me that this happened, much less try to blame it on my daughter, I think your boss will have absolutely no problem believing me," Cuddy had explained.
And that had been the end of the conversation, unless one were to count the way the dance instructor had muttered, "Bitch," as Cuddy had left.
Honestly, Cuddy didn't really mind the insult. When she was younger, it clearly had bothered her, but at this point in her life, if she were to be upset every time someone said that word to her, she would be upset... frequently. And for her own sanity's sake, she knew she couldn't let it bother her.
But in this case, she was upset nonetheless.
Her encounter with Rachel's teacher had been brief, and though Cuddy wasn't angry about the personal insult, she was decidedly not at ease with knowing what she now knew about Rachel's day-to-day life.
As she helped Rachel into the car, Cuddy couldn't help but think about what she'd just learned; the other kids spent their days making fun of her daughter, and the teacher who was supposed to put a stop to all of it resented Rachel for it.
"Are you going to get in or just stand there?" House demanded, interrupting Cuddy's own rather unpleasant thoughts.
Nodding her head, she silently closed Rachel's door and got into the car. As they drove home in silence, Cuddy focused her attention on the snowy scenery outside of her window; though she could feel the occasional glance from House, she had no desire to explain to him what had happened.
Or rather, she did want to tell him, but she didn't want to discuss it in front of Rachel. And even setting that aside, the likelihood that House wouldn't care was too great to make her think that anything other silent rumination was a bad choice.
Besides, when what she wanted was an explanation as to why her daughter seemed incapable of confiding in her, what could House say that would make things any better? What could he do or say?
She wanted reassurance from him, wanted the kind of comfort his intelligence could provide her. But the fact of the matter was he didn't know any more than she did as to why Rachel was so secretive. And that meant that Cuddy's only option was to talk to Rachel herself.
That was all easier said than done though. At the moment, Rachel was sitting in the backseat, her arms folded across her chest. Her lips turned downward into a distinct pout, she was unmistakably angry about being in trouble. In the short time they'd been together, Cuddy hadn't said anything about the recital (and Rachel, clearly knowing that she'd done something bad, hadn't asked), but Rachel knew that she wasn't going to get away with what she'd done. And knowing that some form of punishment was in her near future, she was not going to be interested in confiding in her mother.
As if to prove that point, the second House pulled the car into the driveway and Rachel was freed from the vehicle, she took off running. Neither House nor Cuddy chased after her; he didn't care enough to follow, and she knew that Rachel didn't have anywhere to go. Hell, even if she did, Cuddy knew that Rachel wouldn't get very far.
Indeed, she didn't. Rachel ran across the driveway as fast as she could, her little feet and chubby legs moving as quickly as they were physically capable of going. But she wasn't light or quick enough to avoid slipping on the ice that was now very clearly covering the walkway to the front door in a thin sheet.
Tripping over herself, she screamed before belly flopping into the snow next to the front steps.
House, of course, responded with a blasé "Again?"
But Cuddy was not so immune to the sight of her daughter being hurt, and she took off running to get to her child. Eagerly pulling Rachel out of the snow, Cuddy enfolded the little girl in her arms. "Are you all right?
Feet and hands trying to push her away was the answer Cuddy received.
"You need to be careful," Cuddy reminded her daughter in a tone that wasn't so much admonishing as it was soothing.
"Let me go," Rachel whined.
Cuddy went to respond, but House interrupted her; as he slowly made his way up the sidewalk, he loudly, obnoxiously chuckled at the sight of the two Rachel-shaped outlines disturbing the otherwise pristine snow. And when Cuddy glared at him in response, he decided to press her buttons even further by tapping the ground with his cane. "It's getting a little icy. You should stop indulging yourself in the theatre arts and frolicking in toilets and start shoveling."
"Go away," Cuddy responded irritably. Not even giving him a chance to respond, she turned her attention back to Rachel. "Come on," she told her, clasping her daughter's hand tightly in hers. "You need a time out right –"
"No," Rachel argued, trying to pull away from her mother. Her feet losing traction on the slippery ice once more, she began to fall; only Cuddy's grip held her up, and even then, Rachel was still trying to worm her way to freedom.
But Cuddy refused to let go. Instead choosing to tug her daughter toward the front door, she reminded Rachel of what had happened. "Yes. You attacked one of your fellow classmates. You disrupted your recital, and you know better. You know we don't hit people."
"That's right," House piped up as he unlocked the front door. "Hitting is for people who aren't clever enough to craft a decent insult."
Cuddy glared at him.
He could tell that inwardly she wanted to smack him, but they both knew she couldn't. Not that she would anyway, but he knew she would have at least liked to threaten him with it. And when she couldn't, she only had the option of saying through gritted teeth, "You are not helping."
What she seemed to fail to understand was that that had been his point; he hadn't been trying to help (as usual). But almost immediately he had to rectify that belief, because she said, talking to Rachel, "And don't listen to him. He's just trying to make trouble."
As soon as the words had come out, Cuddy was sure that they had been unnecessary. Since when had Rachel ever listened to House? Since when had he hoped that she would?
Knowing the answers to those questions, Cuddy didn't need to consider the matter any further. In the end, he was simply trying to get a rise out of her, and that was all there was to it.
So much for being an understanding partner, she lamented.
"I don't have time for this," she told him, pushing past him, with Rachel in her grip.
Really, Cuddy didn't. House might have wanted her world to revolve around him, but the truth of the matter was that she had more important things to deal with right now; work, House, all of the crap that had happened between Rachel and him this morning – none of that mattered right now. Not even attacking some helpless child, the act for which Rachel was being punished, concerned Cuddy all that much right now.
It mattered, of course, but honestly, Cuddy was more interested in getting this time out over with, so she could talk to Rachel about what her teacher had said.
Rachel, however, didn't seem to share the same sense of urgency.
She wasn't stupid.
Everybody at school thought she was, but she wasn't dumb. She knew what was going to happen. She was going to have to sit on the naughty rug in the hallway and stay there for forever. Okay, maybe it was only five minutes, but that was a really long time! And Rachel knew she hadn't done anything that bad, so really, she shouldn't have to sit there for even a second. And she couldn't exactly tell time, so that made it even worse.
But she couldn't get away.
Her free hand pushed against Mommy as hard as it could, but Mommy had snatched her too tightly. She was holding on like… like….
Rachel tried to come up with a way to finish that thought, but it was hard. Eventually settling for the way, in Sleeping Beauty, Maleficent's jaw (when she was a dragon) made snappy 'cha' sounds, Rachel decided her mother's grip felt like that.
"No!" she screamed, crying loudly.
But Cuddy wasn't having any of it. Not even dignifying her daughter's pleas, she purposefully sat Rachel down on the Persian rug in the middle of the hallway. The carpet hadn't been intended as a place of punishment when Cuddy had purchased it; though the rug didn't predate Rachel's existence (indeed, it had been bought with the intention of helping a then learning-to-walk toddler navigate her way on the traction-less hardwood in the hallway), it had certainly been put to good use.
Rachel had come to despise it, for obvious reasons, but Cuddy had always liked that she could use it as a place to put Rachel for time outs. If only because it offered the little girl absolutely no entertainment whatsoever, Cuddy had found it preferable to anything else.
But as Rachel made one last ditch effort to escape, all of that was about to change.
Quickly, she got up and ran. Her blue ballet-slippered feet sliding on the hardwood floor as though she were a baby once more, she started to fall back again soon after.
This time though, it was not Cuddy or the snow that broke her fall.
Her body crashed with a loud boom into the end table that was right by the front door. The force of the collusion too much for the tiny wooden table to bear, everything on it fell to the floor. The vase of purple flowers broke, water and a few stray leaves flying everywhere. The picture frame with the photo of Rachel as a baby cooing as her mother pressed kisses into her belly was now on the floor as well, completely cracked. And then there was the decorative bowl Cuddy's father had worked painstakingly to bring back from Morocco to give to her.
Shattered.
What had been a beautiful dish hand painted and crafted for her was now nothing more than a collection of misshapen pieces that gave no indication of the bowl's former splendor. Gone were the smooth curves coated in yellows and purples, jagged shards taking their place. Forever ruined were the intricate hands of Fatima, which had been neatly pressed into the freshly worked clay before it had been placed in a kiln. And because of that, destroyed was the possibility of piecing the dish back together.
Even if she were to find each and every piece to the bowl, there would be no hiding the fact that it had been broken. The swirling pattern in each hand – each hand being unique – would make it impossible to hide the cracks. In other words…
The bowl was ruined.
Later on, way after the fact, Cuddy would reflect on the mishap as just that – a mishap. But in the moment, she felt completely betrayed, as though Rachel had intentionally done it.
Her eyes instinctively looked toward House for some sort of support, but he was nowhere to be found. He'd completely disappeared, which meant that Cuddy had no choice but to handle this as best as she could. And in this case, that meant unceremoniously leading Rachel back to the Persian rug and setting her on it. "Don't even think about moving," she said in a low, dangerous tone.
Almost instantly, Cuddy wondered if she'd gone too far. Rachel's eyes wide with fear and guilt, she started to cry, and that made Cuddy feel awful for even considering using the voice that she had.
But at the same time, she knew that Rachel needed to be punished for what she'd done earlier, and more importantly Cuddy herself needed time to cool off. So she simply walked away instead of trying to rectify the situation at that moment.
She could deal with that later.
What she wouldn't put off any longer was cleaning up the foyer. Grabbing a broom and dustpan, she returned to the scene of the crime. From this short distance, it was impossible to miss Rachel's sobbing coming from down the hallway. But it was equally impossible to feel all that guilty as Cuddy began to sweep up the shattered remains of her childhood.
Maybe that was too dramatic.
No, admittedly, it was overly dramatic.
When her father had purchased the bowl in Morocco, she hadn't exactly been a child, and at the end of the day, it was a dish she hardly looked at these days anyways, so it shouldn't have mattered that Rachel had accidentally knocked it over.
But it did, and because of that, it didn't really matter that it shouldn't.
There was just no changing how it felt to Cuddy.
And really, why should she feel bad for being upset over something her father gave her being destroyed? Why shouldn't she be angry that one of the last relics she had from a time when her father had loved her so completely was now gone?
Feeling her throat thicken with emotion, Cuddy stopped asking herself questions that only seemed to accentuate her displeasure right now. Instead forcing herself to thoughtlessly clean up the mess, she was surprised by how easy it was to sweep away something that had had so much emotional weight with her.
But it was an incredibly easy task, no matter how much it hurt to have to throw the broken shards away.
As she walked back to the kitchen, the dustpan filled with broken glass and the beginnings of tears in her eyes, she resolutely ignored Rachel's sobbing plea, "Mama!"
Even if Cuddy had felt in her heart to go to her daughter, she wouldn't have. It hadn't been five minutes, which meant that Rachel was still technically in a time out.
House didn't seem to understand that though.
As Cuddy, preparing to tip the dustpan into the trash, stood over the garbage can, House strode into the kitchen with a complaint on his tongue. "You gonna shut that up?"
She didn't respond to the provocative question. Instead, she told him in a dull voice, "Roberto is taking his citizenship test this morning. When I gave him the time off, he agreed to come afterward to shovel the drive and sidewalks if it were snowing." Her gaze on the broken shards in her hands, she added, "If you can't wait that long, I'll call the boy down the street with the sign that says he'll 'rape' your leaves for ten dollars an hour and see if he'll do it."
House smirked. That sign really was the best. But he could tell that Cuddy wasn't nearly as amused as he was. "Whatever," he said dismissively. "I'm getting used to the sight of Rachel belly flopping into the snow anyway."
"Of course."
Well, that just confirmed it, he thought; she was upset. She was too listless to be anything but.
As he reached for an apple, he asked her, "You gonna tell me what's wrong?"
Finally glancing over at him, she had a nervous smile on her face. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine – great."
"You're lying," he said knowingly, taking a bite out of the fruit in his hand.
"Then take that as a sign that I don't want to talk about it."
He took a few steps closer to her. "Since when have I done that?"
He was joking for the most part, but Cuddy didn't react one way or the other. Neither amused nor offended, she just ignored him and focused her gaze on the full dustpan in her hand. And he knew that if he couldn't even provoke a fight with her, if he couldn't even hold her attention for more than a few seconds, something was really getting to her.
Proving that point, she didn't even react to him when he moved to stand next to her and took a loud, obnoxious bite of apple.
Inwardly he scoffed in response. If she really didn't want to make him curious, she was doing her best to make him absolutely interested in what was going on. Truly, she couldn't have done anything else to pique his interest more.
And maybe that was the reason he took pity on her; she wasn't an opponent worthy of his machinations. She wasn't a challenge at all, and that just made him feel as though he should… cheer her up.
It was an odd feeling to be sure. He loved Cuddy – a lot – but he wasn't usually in the business of making her feel better.
Okay, that sounded all wrong, but it was kind of the truth. She was a confident woman, and she didn't need him to tell her that things were okay. Even when she did want that reassurance, she took offense to the very idea of him – or anyone – trying to make her feel better. And because of that, he'd learned from years of experience that "cheering her up" was the last thing she wanted in most situations.
So too had he learned how to do just that without being so overt as to make her angry.
Watching her as she dumped the contents of the dustpan in the trash, he asked her as though he were curious, "What would you do if I said I was into water sports?"
That got her attention, her head turning to look at him. One of her eyebrows raised, she asked, "Really?"
He took another bite of the apple. As he chewed, he said, "Maybe." He swallowed. "What would you do?"
Immediately Cuddy shrugged, as though it weren't even a question for her. "I'm a doctor. I do your clinic duty for you half the time, and I have a five year old who has a thirty percent chance of making it through the night dry. My life is one long golden shower."
At that point he thought that if he'd had any doubts about her being upset, she would have just confirmed it.
"So," she continued, interrupting his thoughts. "If you want to add your urine to everyone else's, by all means…" She waved a hand over her body but didn't finish the thought, choosing to put away the dustpan and the broom she'd propped up against the trashcan instead.
"Good to know," he told her, his eyes roaming over her form to see if she were feeling slightly uplifted. But noticing the sadness in her face, he knew that he hadn't succeeded. So he kept talking. "You know, I like it when I find out that you're actually kinkier than I thought." Trying to bait her, he added, "I can't wait to tell Wilson."
She didn't say anything in response. In fact, she was clearly trying to leave the room.
Not that he was going to let that happen.
As she started to walk past him, he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said softly. His touch instantly stopping her, she looked at him, the shock clear in her eyes. "Tell me."
Cuddy shook her head once. "There's nothing to tell you."
"Something's bothering you."
At first she thought about fighting him, about denying the whole thing. But she knew how House worked. Denial made him more convinced; pushing him away made him pull more. Anything she would do or say would be met with actions or words of his own to contradict and counteract, and he wouldn't stop until they were both red-faced and furious with one another. So trying to get him to simply back off by using denial seemed like a bad idea, especially if she just wanted to be left alone.
On the other hand, walking away could accomplish that. Giving him nothing to fight would frustrate him in the immediate sense, but it would certainly make him drop the subject faster than he would if she were to fight him. And since five minutes had past, Cuddy had a reason to walk away.
Smiling she told him, "I'd love to stay and discuss this, but I have a time out to finish. So, feel free to concoct some elaborate conspiracy theory, but I'm not playing."
Satisfied with herself, she sauntered away, not caring that he was now clearly annoyed. And for a very brief moment, she was happy – or at least amused by the way her own frustrations had been transferred to him.
But the moment she spotted Rachel, Cuddy remembered everything that had upset her in the first place.
In that particular instant, Rachel was sitting on the floor, her legs tucked underneath her and her coat bunched beside her body. And she was sobbing, her face beet red and shoulders shaking from the effort.
Which wasn't exactly shocking these days. Since around the time Marina had died, Rachel had become increasingly upset at the idea of being punished. As though she were afraid of losing her mother because of her misdeeds, this type of overly emotional behavior wasn't surprising anymore.
Not that it wasn't heartbreaking, of course.
As angry as Cuddy had been over the bowl, it was nothing compared to the way seeing her daughter this upset made her feel now.
Instantly reaching for Rachel, she picked her daughter up before she even had a chance to react to what was happening. Pulling Rachel to her chest, Cuddy murmured in a voice just loud enough to be heard over Rachel's crying, "It's okay. It's over. Mama's here."
Rachel pressed her face into Cuddy's chest, an obvious attempt to get as close to her mother as she could. Her tears staining Cuddy's dress, Rachel whimpered, "I'm sorry."
Cuddy rubbed the little girl's back. Her fingertips moving in soft circles, her nails lightly scratching every so often in the way Rachel liked, Cuddy could feel the tension in her daughter's muscles and the sweat dancing had created seeping into her outfit.
Mentally deciding that a bath was necessary, Cuddy pressed a kiss into her daughter's heated forehead. As she started to walk with Rachel in her arms towards the bathroom, she said, "I know. I know you're sorry."
But even then, even after hearing that, Rachel was still slow to calm down. In fact, it wasn't until she was sitting on the bathroom floor in Cuddy's arms that she started to relax. Whether that was due to the sound of the running bath water or the way Cuddy was rocking her, Cuddy didn't know. But no matter the reason, she was grateful.
"Come on," Cuddy told her gently. "Lets get you out of your costume, so you can get in the tub." Rachel shook her head, rubbing her runny nose against Cuddy's shoulder. "Yeah, come on," she insisted. "You'll feel a lot better after we clean you up."
Rachel was unconvinced but reluctantly pulled away nonetheless. As Cuddy helped her undress, Cuddy prompted her daughter for an explanation. "You want to tell Mommy why you attacked your classmate?"
"She stepped on my toe and kept messing up, so I kicked her."
There was such a blasé tone about her explanation that made Cuddy think that Rachel didn't see a problem in her behavior at all.
"Well, that wasn't very nice," Cuddy responded, helping Rachel into the warm water.
Rachel immediately reached for the rubber ducks on the side of the tub. Dumping them in the water, she shrugged. "She wasn't very good at dancing," she defended herself, taking a purple duck in her hands and promptly pretending to drown it. Ignoring her mother entirely, she made gurgling sounds as though the duck were gasping for air as she smashed the toy into the bottom of the tub.
"And that's a good reason to hurt her?" From the way Rachel tensed, Cuddy could tell that she was listening even though she offered no answer in response. "You know, the way I see it, if you'd just ignored her and kept dancing, no one would have even noticed that she was messing up. But by attacking her, you made everyone pay attention to that and not to how beautifully you were dancing."
Naturally though Rachel only responded to the part she liked about what Cuddy was saying. "You think I did a good job?" She looked at her mother with wide, hopeful eyes.
Cuddy leaned over the lip of the tub to give her daughter a kiss on the cheek. "You were amazing, monkey. But you can't hurt other people; that's not nice… just like it's not nice when your classmates make fun of you in school." It hadn't been the easiest way to transition the conversation, but it was effective nonetheless.
Rachel let go of the duck in her hands. "I guess."
"You know you can tell me anything right? About school or anything else." Cuddy searched her daughter's face for some sort of reassurance.
Rachel nodded her head in response, but that hardly made Cuddy feel better. "Your…" She cleared her throat. "Your dance teacher says that some of the other children aren't very nice to you."
Grabbing her toy once more, she squeezed it hard and explained, "Yeah… sorta. Sometimes. But they do that and then I punches them in the face when nobody's looking."
Though Rachel smiled, Cuddy did not. Her daughter was basically admitting to beating up all the other children in her class; there was nothing to be happy about. "Rachel. We don't hit people." Her voice was stern, angry. "Do you understand me?"
Rachel sighed. "'Kay."
"I mean it. If I hear about you getting into any more fights, you are going to be in a lot of trouble."
Rachel swallowed hard in reaction, apparently knowing that her mother meant business. "Okay."
"Good girl."
But that wasn't the end of the conversation. Rachel's face solemn, she changed the subject. "Are you mad that I breaked your stuff?"
There was only one way to answer the question.
"No," Cuddy said. "Of course not. I know it was accident."
But just because there was only one answer available didn't mean that it sounded convincing coming from her mouth. Without a doubt, there was no sense of persuasion in her voice; no one would have believed her, and just a glance at Rachel told Cuddy that she didn't. Her daughter looked too sad to believe what she was being told.
"Rachel… I'm sad that those things are broken, but I'm not mad."
And that was as close to the truth as she could get. Really, Cuddy wasn't angry with Rachel; there had been no malice, no intention to break any of those things, and Cuddy knew that. But she was upset – not at anyone necessarily but by what had happened.
Unfortunately, Rachel didn't seem to get the difference. And though Cuddy continued to tell her that she didn't blame her through out the bath, it didn't seem to make Rachel feel any less guilty.
As Cuddy pulled Rachel out of the tub, Cuddy made one last attempt. Wrapping her daughter in a towel that made Rachel look like a giant frog, Cuddy told her, "I'm really not angry with you. All right?"
Rachel nodded her head. It might have been unconvincing, of course, but it was still a nod nevertheless. And Cuddy, not really wanting to have to say the words any more, was grateful when Rachel instead asked, "Will you dry my hair?"
"Please?"
"Please," Rachel said in a way that sounded as though asking politely was an incredible hassle for her.
"All right."
In the end though, drying Rachel's long hair was no small task. Her hair wasn't particularly thick, but the way she kept tiredly squirming in Cuddy's lap made it hard to get every last strand dry. And though she said, "Stop moving or I'm going to accidentally hit you with the dryer," Rachel paid no heed… and proceeded to do just that.
As she shifted on her mother's lap, she smacked her forehead into the dryer harshly and immediately began to cry. She wasn't hurt, thankfully, but by the time Cuddy managed to calm Rachel down, the little girl was more than a little exhausted. And the second Cuddy put her down for a nap, she was asleep.
And frankly, by the time that happened, Cuddy herself wanted a nap. Starting with her early morning wake up call to the upcoming investigation looming over her professional career to House hurting Rachel to Rachel hurting that stupid bird to everything else – it had been too much to handle, and Cuddy was simply emotionally exhausted.
But, crawling into the unmade bed, she quickly realized that if sleep were what she wanted, it would be the last thing she got. House barging into the room moments after she'd entered it ensured as much.
Rolling onto her side so that her back was turned to him, she muttered, "Not right now." So naturally he just came closer, crawling on the bed next to her. Sighing, she demanded, "What?"
A warm hand pressed itself to her hip, his body spooning against hers. His breath hot on the back of her neck, he asked her, "Are you really going to make me guess?"
She rolled her eyes, though he couldn't see it. "I have no idea, nor do I want to know, what you're talking about."
"So I guess that's a yes," he mumbled to himself. "All right. Lets try this: the broken glass in the trashcan used to be something important to you, and since you're being secretive and a little insane –"
"I'm not crazy for wanting my things to remain in whole pieces," she interrupted angrily.
He didn't say anything right away, an indication that he was clearly thinking. But then he said, "Hmm. You're really upset. That can only mean that your father gave you whatever the hell broke, and your daddy issues are rearing their ugly head again."
"I don't have daddy issues." She frowned.
"Good," he told her earnestly. He didn't believe her for a second, but he would have liked it if it were the truth. "Because no amount of hand wringing or neuroses is going to change the fact that he died pissed off at you."
Rolling over on the bed angrily so she could face him, she snarled, "Well thank you so much, you son of a bitch, for being so kind in explaining to me how this works."
"I'm not trying to be cruel," he said cautiously as he rubbed a hand along her back.
"No, you're just being an ass as usual." He opened his mouth to respond, but she was too quick for him. "And what is wrong with wanting to keep the things that he gave me when he was –"
"What?" he demanded to know. "When he was unconditionally loving? Because I'm pretty sure that never happened."
She shook her head in disbelief. It never failed to amaze her how insensitive he could be, and it never failed to feel like stupidity on her part for continuing to have a relationship with him.
"I cannot believe you," she snapped, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat. Her hands shook with anger. "I cannot believe that you would –"
"All I'm saying," he said loudly so that she would hear him over her own words. "All I'm saying is that things don't change, because you keep some stupid knickknack you probably haven't paid attention to in years. You don't need that to remember him or to love him."
Knowing that it would pain her to add the next part, he was quieter when he told her, "You think you do, because he never made you think that you alone as you were was enough."
She bristled. Where the hell did he get off anyway?
"Well, thank you so much for the psychoanalysis," she said with a sneer. "I know that when I came in here and told you 'not right now,' I was really hoping for you to –"
"I'm not attacking you," he said with an honesty that didn't stop her from pulling away and sitting up. Her dark curls twisting in odd directions, her eyes just as wild, everything about her screamed that he needed to get to the point as soon as possible. "You didn't do anything wrong. If you're worried about your father's dead spirit being angry…"
He tried not to sound too sarcastic uttering those words, but it was hard to act like there was a serious possibility of her dad's soul roaming around the world. And in the end, when he couldn't be sure he succeeded, he simply continued to talk. "Don't be. He was an idiot when you were a kid. He was a moron when you were an adult."
At least that he could say convincingly.
"You don't have anything to apologize for."
"Well thank you for the pep talk," she said bitterly, clearly not appreciating the effort he was trying to make.
He sighed and rolled onto his back. He loved Cuddy, but this was precisely the problem with her; no matter how much she wanted someone to comfort her, to tell her that she hadn't done anything wrong, she always refused in the end to accept it. It didn't matter how he approached it or how subtle he tried to be; he would never succeed in making her feel better.
And knowing that, House capitulated. "Fine." He waved her away. "Proceed to mope."
But oddly enough that had the opposite effect on her.
Exhaling loudly, she ran a hand through her messy hair. "No," she said, the lines on her face contracting together as she cringed. Moving back up the bed, she lay her head down on House's chest and admitted, "I'm being crazy."
"A little bit. Yeah."
She groaned in shame, pressing her face briefly into his shirt. "I'm sorry. You're being nice, and –"
"I know," he interrupted, not wanting or needing to hear any more of an apology. "Freaky, isn't it?"
"I don't know how to react."
Putting one hand underneath his head, House said, "Guess I won't do that anymore, since it confuses you so much. From now on," he declared in false proclamation. "I'm just gonna treat you like crap." Thinking about it for a second, he added, "I'm going to take up wife beating. You'll love it."
The smile he got was a small one at best. Devoid of any real joy, it wasn't surprising that she followed it up with an even more depressed, "Why not? Every other demon from Hell has come out to torment me today."
He pressed his chin to his chest so he could look down at her even more. "If the damn thing means that much to you, I'll glue it back together," he offered. He could too, having done it six months ago when he'd accidentally broken it during a rousing game of beer pong with Wilson and a patient's father whom House had suspected of cheating.
But she shook her head. "It's not that." Quickly she rectified that statement. "I mean it's not just that."
House didn't say anything in response, and she knew that he was trying to prompt her to spill it all.
Truth be told though, that was the last thing she wanted to do. As much as part of her would have liked to confide him, the rest of her felt that, as an adult, she shouldn't need someone to make her feel better about her life. She shouldn't need to burden someone else with her problems.
But then again, he'd agreed to celebrate Purim tomorrow night with a bunch of the hospital's board and major donors, which meant that at least that problem would soon be his as well.
Sighing, she told him, "Well, you'll find this out anyway. Roberts in the pharmacy has been working with David Howard in a drug ring. Apparently, Howard's millions of dollars aren't so much the result of an inheritance and successful business as it is the product of selling meth and who knows what else to a bunch of strung out sixteen year olds."
House nodded his head in understanding. "I'm guessing that means the five million dollars you were practically orgasming all over last week aren't yours anymore."
"Yeah. And tomorrow we're having dinner with –"
"Oh that's going to be fun," he said dryly. "I guess I should have as much sex with you as I can now since you're going to be on your knees all night tomorrow until you have lock jaw blowing every board member –"
"Thanks for the support."
She started to sit up, but he stopped her, an arm strategically wrapping around her waist to keep her where she was. "Don't," he told her in a regretful tone.
"They're going to fire me," she confessed. "I don't need you to –"
"They're not going to fire you."
He seemed so sure that she wished that that feeling could be contagious and rub off on her. But as it was, his confidence stayed with him, and she was left with the same amount of unease as she'd started the conversation with. And he must have sensed that, because he continued, "You're not going to be fired. As pissed off as they're going to be, the board knows what you're worth… what you do for the hospital.
"There's going to be an investigation." She shook her head a little. "It's going to cost time and money and –"
"And you've suddenly lost your ability to handle any of that," he finished for her doubtfully. "You got where you were by wearing open-tip bras and white t-shirts on the days they were handing out promotions." She smiled a little, and he took her brief silence to add, "Which you should do, by the way."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Please do. I don't get to see your breasts nearly enough."
Her smile widened. "You see them nearly every day. What more could you possibly want?"
"Right now?" he asked. "Oral sex."
She sat up and eyed him suspiciously. "Did you ransack your private stash of Viagra… again?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you agreed that I get to fuck you anytime I want this weekend, and I plan on making the most of that," he told her honestly. His heated gaze focused on her, he added, "And I'm starting right now."
"But –"
"As of right now, your pussy is mine, and I want a taste. So, on your back and spread your legs," he ordered sternly. She needed something to distract her, and since sex was the easiest way of accomplishing that, he wasn't going to take no for an answer, unless she really insisted.
Cuddy didn't move though. When he'd said oral sex, she hadn't anticipated being the receiver. And to be honest, she wasn't sure she wanted to be. Although she felt a little better about her ability to wade through the mess at work, she was not all that interested in sex right now. In fact, it was the last thing on her mind. But if she were going to have sex anyway, it would have been better from her point of view to be the one on her knees; at least then she wouldn't have to pretend to enjoy it.
"House," she said with a sigh. "I…" Shaking her head, she threw her hands in the air. "Fine." As she did what he'd just instructed, she warned him, "But I doubt you're going to get me off."
"I like a challenge" was all he said in response.
As he parted her thighs with one of his hands, he could see that her panties were damp. The crotch of her underwear was darker than the rest of the fabric and practically glued to her skin. And even from this distance, he could see, thanks to the clingy material, the outline of her pussy.
Pressing a kiss to her knee, House was prepared to call her a liar. But as he slowly, torturously slid her underwear off of her body, he realized that she wasn't really turned on now; if she were wet at all, it was from the sex they'd had in the bathroom, the majority of the fluid smeared in her panties and along her pussy his own semen.
He shook his head in mock dismay. "Naughty girl. Can't even keep my cum inside you. I should shove your vibrator in you when I'm not using you to keep you nice and full of my semen like I like you."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you do that."
House tossed her underwear at her. The second she caught the damp material in her hands, he ordered, "Lick it. Now."
Smirking, she unraveled the crumpled up piece of clothing so she could see the fabric that had made sitting through Rachel's recital not entirely comfortable. Her gaze focused completely on House, she made a show of it. Her tongue darting out to lick what little bit of his semen was left off her underwear, she took her time. Slowly laving the fabric, she moaned (for his amusement of course) as she tasted the familiar, slightly salty and bitter liquid that was him.
There really wasn't much to clean up, but she was willing to pretend as though it had been a satisfying experience for her. "So good," she purred.
"You're toying with me," he chastised, running a nail down the length of her perineum. And that, although she hadn't wanted to have any sort of sex, began to make her feel that pull inside of her body.
Tossing her underwear to the side, she said, "I'm sorry."
"Liar." But nevertheless, he leaned down and began to press wet kisses to her inner thighs. His stubble scraping her soft flesh, he told her quietly, "But behave and I'll make you come on my tongue."
He didn't need to look at her to know that she was consenting. Her legs parting even more to allow him to get closer was proof enough that she wanted him to do precisely what he was doing. And that made him smile. The feel of the muscles in her thighs contracting with anticipation pleased him too much to pretend he was anything other than happy by her acquiescence.
Lazily, he slid the hand already between her lips upward. His middle finger just grazed her hole, but it was enough to make her gasp. She still wasn't all that wet, but she would get there. Of that he had no doubts.
His mouth making its way to her bare mound, she felt her juices begin to flow when he kissed her there. He wasn't touching her clit or anything like that, but that didn't matter. The tenderness of the act was a reminder of just how much he did love her. His blue eyes momentarily glancing upward to meet her gaze, no words were spoken on his part.
He didn't need to. He was clearly asking for permission, and with a nod of her head, he got it.
Her focus solely on what his mouth was doing, she barely noticed the way her bra suddenly seemed too tight for her to breathe or the way her dress seemed too warm for her heated flesh. In fact, it was all she could do to blink as House licked in one languid stroke his way down to her sex.
His knuckles stroked her outer labia. His tongue laved over her clit once, and when she bucked her hips lightly in response, he told her, "That's my good girl. Getting your pussy all wet for me, even when you didn't really want to."
He licked the entire length of her pussy. His breath feeling so hot, she felt as though her body was on fire, as though what little moisture he was leaving behind in his tongue's wake was being replicated exponentially by her own body. "Yes," she breathed out in pleasure.
"Such an obedient little cunt," he cooed, his tone of voice erasing the sting of the slur. Loudly he inhaled, the air around him pleasantly perfumed by the smell of her sweat, her sex, and the sex they'd had earlier.
Slowly he slipped a finger inside of her. Her internal muscles were warm, her juices flowing freely as though he'd never had to convince her to have sex. "Tell me you want this," he told her.
"I want this," she replied immediately, without shame or hesitation. Whatever reluctance she felt in the other areas of their lives was completely absent now, because she added quickly, emphatically, "I want you."
He rewarded her with another finger. Slowly pumping her, he swept his tongue across her swollen clit. Again, her hips bounced in response. Immediately he pulled his fingers, now lightly coated in her cream, from her. Using his hand to warningly tap the exposed sliver of bottom, he told her, "Don't move."
"But –"
He cut her off with a harsher slap. "No more talking."
She didn't want to obey, but knowing that he wasn't above withholding orgasms from her, she knew she had to. Sighing, she braced herself for his ministrations. Pressing her ass as firmly against the bed as she could, she was determined not to displease him.
"Very good," House rewarded, kissing her mound once more. His mouth lazily wandering toward her weeping hole, she managed to stay still until he straightened out his tongue and pressed it to her opening.
As he penetrated her, she couldn't stop her body from reacting by jerking. It just felt too good, maddeningly so. An apologetic sound escaped her as she broke the rule he had set for her.
And for a brief moment, she was terrified that he would pull out from her.
But instead, he began to move his tongue in and out of her, setting a pace that would quickly, easily bring her now more than eager body to climax.
Of course, that didn't mean he was happy. One of his hands cupping part of her bottom, his thumb running over, though not penetrating, her smaller hole, his other hand punished her by delivering a sharp blow to her mound.
She gasped in pain and pleasure. Part of the spanking hitting her clit, it was all she could do to stop herself from shouting "Yes" loudly.
Her body hot and sweating, her worried mind easing into a haze of pleasure, she keened when he began to massage her clit insistently. And there was no stopping the climax that seized her at that moment. His hands and mouth forcing her over the edge, she practically wailed as he lapped up her juices.
His stubble rubbing warmly against her delicate flesh, she felt that heat spread exponentially through her body. The fire inside of her consuming her totally, she came. Loudly, wantonly, without any regard for anyone or anything other than herself, she felt her entire body spill over the cliff.
Her pussy contracting around his tongue, he continued to fuck her, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from her.
It was the least he could do, given how undeniably stressed she was.
Given how he was going to need to fuck her mouth as hard as he could now, thanks to the show she'd just given him.
Her juices still coating his tongue, when he finally pulled away, he did not miss the dazed smile on her face.
A grin of his own impossible for her to ignore, he said happily, "Okay, my turn."
To be continued