Chapter
Three: Shock to the System
“More,”
House demanded. His voice was low, and to his own way of thinking
perfectly reasonable, but from Cuddy’s expression it was
clear that she disagreed; her smirk in the candlelight held more than a
hint of delight.
“What will you give me for more?” she asked. House groaned. He had both his hands
behind his head, burrowed down under the pillow, gripping the bottom edge of the
headboard.
Cuddy loved the long lean lines of his naked body; the thick silky-dark tufts of fur in the hollows of his armpits, the hard muscles of his ribcage highlighted in the golden glow. A
hint of dampness to his skin added a luster, and she leaned forward, circling his navel
with her tongue, she was amused both at the fur around it, and the frustrated sound
House made when she did so.
“Whatever you WANT—“ he hissed tautly. “Pearls, Lamborghinis, fifty yard line
tickets . . . just—MORE.”
“What’s the magic word?” she purred, having fun. House inwardly grumbled. His body
tensed, and way too much of his focus stood in Cuddy’s hands at the moment. Her slick fingers slid up in a tormenting caress, and the careful twist of her grip drove the air out
of his lungs in a pleasurable chuff.
Torture of the most exquisite kind.
Cuddy lightened her grip and shifted a little, her long legs folded under her as she knelt between House’s spread ones. Busily she slid her oiled fingers along the thickly veined
shaft between them, feeling the heat and pressure just under her delicate touch.
“Pleeeeeeease---“ House drawled reluctantly, his tone mocking even as he throbbed in
her grip. Cuddy loosened her hold and dropped her hands to the heavy furry weight of
his balls, cupping them, lifting the silky heft of them with her fingers.
“That’s a start—“ she told him as she gently stroked the sensitive undersides. House
gritted his teeth and the muscles along his arms tightened in quick response.
“That’s the end. You get ONE ‘please’, She-Beast. After that . . .” came his low, utterly
serious threat. Cuddy nodded in acknowledgement and calmly reached over to the
bottle resting against the outside of his bare hip. Carefully she poured more oil on her
hands, rubbed them together and then wrapped them around his turgid shaft once
again.
“Tell me what feels right . . .” she whispered. Her hands slid in long twists, gliding in a maddening pattern of strokes and House felt his hips rise, moving his body against her
teasing grip. Long delicious caresses, firm and nearly perfect, the pads of Cuddy’s
dainty thumbs stroking the underside . . .
“Faster . . . harder . . . juuuust . . . “ House hissed, his stomach tensing as he drove
himself upward into her grasping hands, sliding in and out of that sinfully sweet
embrace. Cuddy acquiesced, moving her palms with quick, rare skill for a few minutes
more. House panted, and with a hard surge, he came in slow, powerful pulses, the
heavy spatter and thick ribbons of semen spilling over Cuddy’s fingers in pearly bubbles.
He groaned again, deeply; pleasurably.
She smiled, slowing her touch, letting House ride the crest of his climax as she watched,
in awe at the intimate beauty of the man sprawled out on her bed. House’s long frame trembled, and with fascination Cuddy watched his lean flanks ripple; saw the way his
sweat had darkened the fur along his legs and chest. His nipples were tight and hard;
he gave one last pleased shudder and relaxed, utterly spent. Cuddy let her palms wipe through the thick wiry fur at the base of his softening shaft.
“Oooohhhh, you’re HIRED, long-term private gig She-Beast. My own personal
handmaid—“ House rumbled in a deep voice, his eyes closed, a small smile on his
grizzled mouth. Cuddy laughed softly. She rose, and brought a warm wet washcloth
from the bathroom, then carefully wiped House down, cleaning the oil and semen off of
him in gentle strokes. In the light of the candle the long scars on his thigh seemed
deeper; pink-white furrows along the remaining muscle.
She looked up to see House looking at her, his long arms propping up the pillow behind
his head. Sexual exertion had made his hair frizzy and damp at his temples, and his
eyes never left hers. Slowly he reached out and caught her empty hand. With care, he
pulled it to the scars, laying Cuddy’s palm on the center of it.
“Sexual healing,” he intoned, and she shuddered as giggles threatened to bubble out of
her.
“Greg—“
“Do they bother you?” he demanded, his expression still soft, but serious. He kept her
fingers pinned there, firmly but gently. Cuddy’s face twisted a little as conflicting
emotions brushed over it.
“Aesthetically, no. Emotionally . . . yes. They’re my scars as well, to a certain degree.”
House sighed a little, his hand heavy on hers as he looked down. He cleared his throat.
“Your father told me you cried about them.”
She bit her lips; despite her loose hair and nudity Cuddy looked distant and cool, but
that slipped away again by degrees and she softened her touch on his leg, moving her
fingers in a long caress over the puckered flesh.
“Yes I did. Damn it, in medicine, right and easy are hardly ever the same, and your case
was a classic example of that. I didn’t want you to die, but I didn’t want you in chronic
pain either, and what I REALLY didn’t want was for a lawyer to hold me to the letter of
the law while you were lying unconscious in a hospital bed!” she whispered brokenly.
She blinked a few times and went on. “You have no IDEA how many times I’ve replayed
that conversation in my head, thinking of all the alternative things I could have said or
done, if I’d been a rule-breaker like you, Greg. If I’d had the damn balls to honor YOUR
choice . . .”
He squeezed her hand. Not releasing it, he tugged until Cuddy stretched out over him, straddling his good thigh and resting her head on his shoulder, her long hair spilling
across his chest as House wrapped his arms around her.
“I think one of the things I like so much about you, She-Beast, aside from having the
talented fingers of a porn star, is your capacity for regret. Regrets are scars too. And
scars . . .” he prompted softly. Cuddy sighed.
“ . . . Are about courage, yes, I remember. But do regrets ever heal?”
House said nothing.
Wilson stared gloomily at the screen, not watching it as he took another sip from his
glass and let the light of the television wash over him. The house was completely dark
except for the glare of the infomercial unveiling the benefits of some orthopedic mattress.
On the hearth rug Oliver lay sleeping, making an odd little whimper every now and then
in his dreams.
Wilson felt like whimpering himself. He’d said goodbye to Emily nearly five hours ago,
and now it was two in the morning. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t even TRIED to sleep knowing
full well any attempt would have been futile. The discussion had drained him, and
Wilson knew he’d gone past the thinking part of the issue, into the feeling part.
The hurting part.
He wished he could talk to House, but in his saner, sober moments of hours earlier
decided against THAT course of action. House was a good friend, but far too brusque
for a conversation as personal as this one. He wouldn’t sneer, but his inability to
understand the situation as it stood would definitely grate—and in an attempt to lighten
the mood the jokes would start. Infertility jokes, conception jokes, paternity jokes—
nothing Wilson really wanted to hear.
He took another gulp of whisky, letting the burn numb its way down his throat and
closed his eyes. In his head he listened again to Emily’s words, pictured her woebegone
face as she’d spoken of tests and cycles and damn it, of love.
“You mean a lot to me James, and that’s the problem. I’d been hoping to count on you
as a friend, but you’re becoming . . .”
“ . . . More than that, yes, I know. Which is odd, because in the entire three years I’ve
known you, why haven’t I heard about THIS?”
“Because talking about babies with a married man didn’t strike me as the best
conversational topic when we had time together. Come on—you were taken, out of
circulation, James. I wasn’t about to lay out my life plans to you!”
“Well maybe you SHOULD have. Honestly, Em, I’d understand all this a lot better if it
wasn’t coming out of left field—“
“All this?”
“Yes, not just the infertility aspect, but the whole . . . attraction between us. It’s always
been there, we both know that-- and now circumstances allow us to . . . follow up on
it—“
“—There’s the added complication of my wanting a baby. I know. But damn it, this is
important to me. I have a stable life and a limited number of fertile years, James Wilson.
Don’t ask me to reconsider my choice here, okay?”
“That’s harsh, Emily. You’re making the bad guy when I don’t deserve it.”
“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just that I didn’t think we’d—you and I would get
close so quickly. I was determined to just be your FRIEND, help you through your
divorce, not make-out with you like a horny teenager.”
“Which I for one, don’t regret for a minute. Look, this is all very complicated and it’s
going to take a while for me to take it all in. You’ve had time to consider what you want;
I’m just coming to grips with it. Maybe we ought to just slow the momentum down.”
“Yes. I agree. We’re grownups, professional colleagues—James, your hand—“
“Sorry. You have nice knees.”
“I’m sure you do too. Okay. We’ll just . . . take some time then. Be . . . professional. You
and I can handle that, right?”
Sitting with Emily at Waffle World Wilson had agreed; now alone in the dark of the early morning he wasn’t so sure. He took another sip.
Kids. He’d thought about them, certainly. Every man did, sooner or later, musing over
the concept of fatherhood in a private moment or two. Wilson knew he liked kids in general—the ones he’d dealt with personally at the hospital had courage, that was for
sure, and an optimism not often found in older patients. His nephew Joshua was pretty
sweet for a five year old, and even the little Bonsu twins who lived one house over had a
giggly charm when they came by to borrow Oliver for a walk.
Kids were fine, in the general scheme of things. But having one of your own---that was
another consideration altogether. The terrifying prospect of being responsible 24/7 for
another LIFE . . . The thought sent a hard tremor through Wilson’s stomach. Oliver was
plenty at the moment, especially right now, with everything unsettled and at loose ends.
Damn it, babies took time and patience and a whole new set of skills. They cried at the slightest provocation, they filled diapers and they were so damned fragile--
Wilson sighed heavily. On the other hand, they were also damned cute. And when they
were clean they smelled nice, and there was just something about a pregnant woman, or
one holding a baby that brought out every protective instinct in him. A quick inborn
impulse to defend and nurture the next generation. And the idea of Emily pregnant . . .
it was shocking how arousing that was. Imagining her rounded and sleek, smiling in a self-satisfied way—
Abruptly Wilson scowled in the darkness, his expression unexpectedly angry. Women
were all alike in that regard. Their own wants first; their own agendas. He’d tried to be supportive and understanding but here and now—it just didn’t seem fair to be losing the
battle of the sexes on ALL fronts. With a tired rub of his head, Wilson set his glass down
and gave into the self-pity he’d been holding off. He slumped on the sofa, all too aware
that the last time he’d been sprawled right here, he hadn’t been alone.
God it had been wonderful. Trying to talk Emily out of her blouse and then her bra;
succeeding with the first but not the latter, laughing in her ear, rubbing their bodies
together gently at first and then with more delightful friction . . . Wilson groaned at the memory and the irony of it all and dropped a pillow over his lumpy lap.
After a while, he slept.
The beach was wide, and seemingly endless, stretching in all directions he looked.
Wilson stood shading his eyes and wondering where he was. Half buried ahead of him
was green army tank. A little beyond that stood a large pink lobster, paint flakes peeling
off of the claws.
Wilson walked forward, past the tank. It was plastic, molded and old, a gigantic version
of the ones he remembered from childhood. Long ago he’d considered a military career,
but medicine called . . . moving carefully, sand sifting into his shoes, he circled the
lobster. It was wooden and he could see bitemarks on the claws, little half moon
indentations of teeth.
With a start he realized he was on Emily’s sand therapy table, standing among a few of
the toys. Panicking, he started running, heading for an edge, but it was slow going
through the shifting grains underfoot.
//I never lost my watch// he heard. Turning, Wilson saw Emily sitting in the sand, her sunglasses on her forehead. Around her were stacks of sandwiches: bologna, cheese,
salami, peanut butter. Confused, Wilson looked at her. She waved at him.
//I never lost my watch// she repeated. The sandwich towers grew higher, getting more elaborate: cheese and bacon, liverwurst, tuna and tomato. Wilson headed towards her.
Emily got to her feet and set her sunglasses on the sandwiches. Wilson reached for her,
but she was blocked from sight now, lost in a maze of sandwiches. Wilson pushed one
stack over and it landed with a meaty thump in the sand.
Emily appeared next to him, looking at her hands. Wilson reached for one. When he
looked at her again she’d turned into Julie.
//The tomato ones are mine.//
Wilson nodded; he didn’t care about the sandwiches, Julie could have them all as far as
he was concerned. Spinning around he looked again for Emily.
She stood off in the distance, wearing the pink dress he remembered from their first
meeting and GOD he wanted her—
So far away. And the sand shifted underfoot as he began walking.
Cuddy looked up in a tiny moment of exasperated affection as House lumbered into her
office. It had been three days since she’d had him over at her house, and she’d done a
good job of keeping out of his way since then. He’d gotten two particularly intriguing
patients, and she’d been working with Hinoshu, so it was a natural sort of separation,
dictated by work and priority. Cuddy liked knowing he was near, but not too near—
House’s husky promise to reciprocate her form of dessert still echoed in her ear, and
she tried not to think about it too often.
Bad enough his hands and kisses distracted her terribly; if he even knew how much his teasing words did—shaking her head, Cuddy grabbed a pen and made an unneeded
notation on a letter before her, ignoring the man in front of her desk.
“Your court jester is finally on a coffee break so I assume I can address the queen—“ he groused, cocking his head. Cuddy took her time looking up. It was a long way up, given
his height, and he blinked with a hint of flirtatiousness.
“Eyes up here, Doctor Cuddy! I need a travel voucher for Foreman. I’m sending him to
San Francisco.”
“Take it up with Accounting, and WHY are you sending him to San Francisco?”
“Gotta yen for Sourdough and alternative lifestyles,” House snapped back, then sighed.
“I need verification about the patient’s last known worksite that isn’t the sort you get over
the phone. Culture samples if possible---“
Cuddy thought carefully. The patient in question had a grab bag of symptoms and the
most alarming ones hinted at a new strain of cholera, but the CDC hadn’t found any . . .
She pushed away from the desk and scooped up the letter. Dimly in the background
came the sound of a page.
“Fine. Edna can get you the voucher in the next few hours. What about your other
patient?”
“Munchausen’s by Proxy.” His face hardened a moment and Cuddy reached out a hand.
It was a mistake; he took it, running his thumb in the center of her palm, caressing it
warmly, making her quiver.
“R-really?”
“R-r-really. Like the stutter, very cute. Little nervous when I do this?” House inquired in a
low voice.
Cuddy tried to tug her hand from his grip but he tightened it and slowly brought her
palm to his mouth. The scrape of House’s bristles tickled and the wet press of his lips in
the center of her hand left her shivering slightly.
“Stop.” She demanded with no strength behind the words. He grinned sardonically.
“I will, when you mean it.”
“I mean it,” she insisted, a little more firmly, tugging her hand again. Reluctantly he let it
go.
“Ah the memories of these talented fingers--Anyway, I need your signature on the
voucher otherwise little Eric doesn’t get to go west.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes. “So go GET the voucher and bring it to me—“
“They won’t take my word for it. You have to come with me,” House admitted with a
scowl, and that made her laugh. Only one clerk in Accounting dealt with Gregory House,
and when Karl was out, nobody else was willing to deal with the head of Diagnostics.
Another page sounded. Cuddy gave a nod. “Fine. Let’s get it done before lunch—I’d
hate you to miss clinic because of the paperwork I’m sure you’d tell me was holding you
back.”
House looked to the ceiling, giving a put-upon sigh. “So cynical yet so sexy.”
“Me?” Cuddy was flattered. He shook his head.
“Me. You’re running a close second though. I know! If you gave up wearing a bra . . .”
“House—“ Cuddy hissed, trying to look angry as they stepped out into the hall. He
rambled on.
“Maybe went with a sort of Art House look, leotards and beret—“
Cuddy stopped suddenly, her expression not amused. She was about to say something
when she froze instead. The page repeated overhead; medical personnel in the hall
looked alarmed.
“Code grey, clinic—“
Both of them froze for a long second.
“Oh God.“ Cuddy turned and darted off, calling back at House. “Get Security NOW—“
She ran, her heels clattering as she moved down the hall swiftly and turned the corner.
House fished out his cell phone and picked up his stride, moving jerkily after Cuddy,
cursing his leg. He jabbed four numbers and shouted into the phone.
“Security, This is Doctor Gregory House--we have an armed person in the clinic. First
floor, East Wing--” He lurched forward, trying to talk and move at the same time. Nurses
and orderlies were rounding up people, herding them into offices and rooms, locking
doors behind them. House saw window blinds closing and increased his speed, ignoring
the flaring pain stabbing his thigh.
“Yes sir, we have people moving that way. Please go to the nearest room or office—“
House heard a gunshot.
Adrenaline flashed through him and he limped faster, blindly turning the corner, cell
phone still in hand. Ahead of him the doors of the clinic stood open, and a pool of blood
was welling on the floor just behind the Admissions desk. Dimly House saw a group of
terrified patients huddled on the waiting area chairs, and a few doctors, Chase and
Cuddy among them, standing stock-still by the desk. He moved again, and everyone
shifted to look at him.
“Hi. Am I late?” he asked into the silence. A hulking man in a dirty UPS uniform swung
around, bringing the automatic into sight. House drew in a breath. The man’s eyes
glittered, and his nose was running.
“Where IS she? I looked on the schedule and I KNOW she works the clinic at LEAST this week. Get her OUT here. NOW!” he bellowed, throwing his ultimatum at his terrified
audience. Chase and House met glances, and House let his shift to the pool of blood
still growing behind the desk.
“Who is the she you mean? And while we’re getting her, we need to treat whoever is
bleeding . . .”
The UPS man sized House up and moved over to him, gun pointing towards his stubbly
chin.
“Some stupid nurse wouldn’t TALK to me, uppity bitch. Just like Tina. I’m looking for Tina Morosco so you get her DOWN here now.”
“Whoah, whoah hold on, Brown—you need to see Tina, we’ll get you Tina—“ House
offered. Cuddy growled.
“Hey YOU! Put the gun down.”
“Don’t MOVE!” the UPS man snarled, swinging his attention back to Cuddy. She glared
at him. Outside the clinic doors the thunder of security grew louder. With brazenness,
Cuddy slowly began to walk to the Admissions desk.
“There are armed guards out there, the police have been notified and in a moment
they’re going to be lobbing tear gas in here. Meanwhile there’s an innocent woman
bleeding to DEATH behind the desk! This is MY hospital you motherfucker, and you shot
one of MY people! If you think I’m going to let you get away with that, think AGAIN.”
“Shut UP!” The man shouted at Cuddy. She barely blinked.
“Make me—“ the taunt was punctuated by another gunshot and instantly a bright blotch
of red blossomed on the right side of Cuddy’s suit. Her eyes widened and she swayed.
House growled.
With a vicious uppercut swing of his cane he hit the gunman on the side of the face with
the wood; it was a powerful hit, with a lot of strength behind it. The man went down and another bullet fired out, shattering the clinic door behind House. The momentum of the
swing and impact of hitting the man put House off-balance and he fought to stay up, but
his thigh gave out. He fell to the linoleum, cane clattering beside him.
Chase and one of the other doctors had the man pinned; the gun had skittered under
the glass coffee table. House yelled as someone stepped on his hand; for long minutes confusion reigned and finally he felt someone turning him over, looking into his face.
“You’re not shot . . .” Chase asked carefully. House shook his head and looked around. Security had the man in cuffs, and others were herding the waiting room crowd to one
side of the clinic. He struggled to sit up, feeling the dull ache of fear deep inside.
“Cuddy?”
“They’re coming for her now; they’ll take her to the ER. She’s been shot. I don’t know
how badly. The nurse is in worse shape though—she took one to the throat. Think you
can stand?”
House nodded, taking Chase’s hand and letting himself be hauled to his feet. His body
ached, his thigh most of all, and House noticed his hand was bleeding from a fresh
scrape. Wordlessly Chase handed him his cane and slipped a shoulder under the taller
man’s arm, supporting him.
House dozed. He’d learned how to slump in a chair and catch a little rest; most doctors
knew the basics, but House had it down to an art. Part of it was practice, part of it was stubbornness and part of it was being drugged to the gills. THAT certainly kept the body relaxed. He let his head hang back and sprawled his legs out, being careful to brace the
bad one against the wheels of the bed in front of him.
The room was private, and already a few baskets and vases of flowers were on the
counters, the color and scent making the rest of the hospital room seem bland in the semi-darkness. The little bleeps of the monitors broke through the soft hiss of the air conditioning, and periodically the sound of his own snoring woke House up. He checked
the woman in the bed, trying to keep a professional eye on her.
This time she stirred, and House glanced at his watch: 3:37 AM. He waited until Cuddy’s
eyes opened and she blinked a little, her brows drawing together.
“Ggggggggreg?”
“Well THAT was sexy. Shhhh, or you’ll blow our affair,” he rumbled, leaning forward and
taking her wrist. Absently he checked her pulse as he gave it a squeeze. A little slow,
but steady. He shifted his gaze to her face, carefully noting her pallor. She licked her dry
lips.
“I feel . . . like crap.”
“You look it, too, She-Beast. Still, you’re alive and ready to fight another day. Even have
a souvenir—“ He held up the little plastic bag from the nightstand and the slightly bloody
bullet in it gleamed. Cuddy gave a whimper.
“Damn. I DID get shot, didn’t I?”
“Yep. And here’s a little hint for the next time we’re in a code grey—do NOT call an
armed man hopped up on PCP a quote motherfucker, unquote. It DOES tend to piss
them off, even if it’s true.”
“W-water?”
“Only enough to wet your mouth—“ he cautioned, dipping a napkin in a cup and
dabbing her lips. Cuddy opened her mouth, nibbling at the wetness and he pulled it
back. “Can’t do more. You took a good hit in the upper tract, small intestine. Khan got
you stitched up pretty quick and now you’ve got another six hours before we can get you
on fluids.”
“Jill?”
House frowned a moment. “Touch and go. Not only did she get a big hole in her carotid,
she damn near bled out. She’s up in IC.”
Cuddy focused on House’s bandaged hand and she tried to touch it, her gesture clumsy because of the IV line.
“What . . .”
“It’s nothing.” He murmured, and yet he let her cool little grasp slide into his. “I faw down
go boom. Not as dramatically as YOU of course, but—“
“You hit him,” Cuddy blinked, trying to focus her thoughts. “I remember that. You hit
him with your cane--”
“--And ended up on the floor like a cheap throw rug.” He finished with a snort. “Think I
can file Workman’s Comp?”
Cuddy laughed, but weakly, and tensed, curling a little to her right. House sighed again.
He leaned closer, pretending to check her eyes and his breath brushed against her face.
“Okay, here’s one of the big rules. You are NOT going to do this again, got that? You’re
a doctor, NOT a member of a SWAT team or a hostage negotiator, She-Beast. And much
as you think of this hospital as your baby, I personally draw the line at you dying for it.
It’s pretty clear to me that you need someone to point that out to you on some sort of a
regular basis, and I have some free time in my day planner. We’ll pencil in a session or
two—“ he trailed off as Cuddy’s lower lip quivered. She clumsily brought her fingers up
to his stubbly chin.
“You’ve got Vicodin on your breath—“ she whispered dreamily just as House bent to kiss
her.
“What will you give me for more?” she asked. House groaned. He had both his hands
behind his head, burrowed down under the pillow, gripping the bottom edge of the
headboard.
Cuddy loved the long lean lines of his naked body; the thick silky-dark tufts of fur in the hollows of his armpits, the hard muscles of his ribcage highlighted in the golden glow. A
hint of dampness to his skin added a luster, and she leaned forward, circling his navel
with her tongue, she was amused both at the fur around it, and the frustrated sound
House made when she did so.
“Whatever you WANT—“ he hissed tautly. “Pearls, Lamborghinis, fifty yard line
tickets . . . just—MORE.”
“What’s the magic word?” she purred, having fun. House inwardly grumbled. His body
tensed, and way too much of his focus stood in Cuddy’s hands at the moment. Her slick fingers slid up in a tormenting caress, and the careful twist of her grip drove the air out
of his lungs in a pleasurable chuff.
Torture of the most exquisite kind.
Cuddy lightened her grip and shifted a little, her long legs folded under her as she knelt between House’s spread ones. Busily she slid her oiled fingers along the thickly veined
shaft between them, feeling the heat and pressure just under her delicate touch.
“Pleeeeeeease---“ House drawled reluctantly, his tone mocking even as he throbbed in
her grip. Cuddy loosened her hold and dropped her hands to the heavy furry weight of
his balls, cupping them, lifting the silky heft of them with her fingers.
“That’s a start—“ she told him as she gently stroked the sensitive undersides. House
gritted his teeth and the muscles along his arms tightened in quick response.
“That’s the end. You get ONE ‘please’, She-Beast. After that . . .” came his low, utterly
serious threat. Cuddy nodded in acknowledgement and calmly reached over to the
bottle resting against the outside of his bare hip. Carefully she poured more oil on her
hands, rubbed them together and then wrapped them around his turgid shaft once
again.
“Tell me what feels right . . .” she whispered. Her hands slid in long twists, gliding in a maddening pattern of strokes and House felt his hips rise, moving his body against her
teasing grip. Long delicious caresses, firm and nearly perfect, the pads of Cuddy’s
dainty thumbs stroking the underside . . .
“Faster . . . harder . . . juuuust . . . “ House hissed, his stomach tensing as he drove
himself upward into her grasping hands, sliding in and out of that sinfully sweet
embrace. Cuddy acquiesced, moving her palms with quick, rare skill for a few minutes
more. House panted, and with a hard surge, he came in slow, powerful pulses, the
heavy spatter and thick ribbons of semen spilling over Cuddy’s fingers in pearly bubbles.
He groaned again, deeply; pleasurably.
She smiled, slowing her touch, letting House ride the crest of his climax as she watched,
in awe at the intimate beauty of the man sprawled out on her bed. House’s long frame trembled, and with fascination Cuddy watched his lean flanks ripple; saw the way his
sweat had darkened the fur along his legs and chest. His nipples were tight and hard;
he gave one last pleased shudder and relaxed, utterly spent. Cuddy let her palms wipe through the thick wiry fur at the base of his softening shaft.
“Oooohhhh, you’re HIRED, long-term private gig She-Beast. My own personal
handmaid—“ House rumbled in a deep voice, his eyes closed, a small smile on his
grizzled mouth. Cuddy laughed softly. She rose, and brought a warm wet washcloth
from the bathroom, then carefully wiped House down, cleaning the oil and semen off of
him in gentle strokes. In the light of the candle the long scars on his thigh seemed
deeper; pink-white furrows along the remaining muscle.
She looked up to see House looking at her, his long arms propping up the pillow behind
his head. Sexual exertion had made his hair frizzy and damp at his temples, and his
eyes never left hers. Slowly he reached out and caught her empty hand. With care, he
pulled it to the scars, laying Cuddy’s palm on the center of it.
“Sexual healing,” he intoned, and she shuddered as giggles threatened to bubble out of
her.
“Greg—“
“Do they bother you?” he demanded, his expression still soft, but serious. He kept her
fingers pinned there, firmly but gently. Cuddy’s face twisted a little as conflicting
emotions brushed over it.
“Aesthetically, no. Emotionally . . . yes. They’re my scars as well, to a certain degree.”
House sighed a little, his hand heavy on hers as he looked down. He cleared his throat.
“Your father told me you cried about them.”
She bit her lips; despite her loose hair and nudity Cuddy looked distant and cool, but
that slipped away again by degrees and she softened her touch on his leg, moving her
fingers in a long caress over the puckered flesh.
“Yes I did. Damn it, in medicine, right and easy are hardly ever the same, and your case
was a classic example of that. I didn’t want you to die, but I didn’t want you in chronic
pain either, and what I REALLY didn’t want was for a lawyer to hold me to the letter of
the law while you were lying unconscious in a hospital bed!” she whispered brokenly.
She blinked a few times and went on. “You have no IDEA how many times I’ve replayed
that conversation in my head, thinking of all the alternative things I could have said or
done, if I’d been a rule-breaker like you, Greg. If I’d had the damn balls to honor YOUR
choice . . .”
He squeezed her hand. Not releasing it, he tugged until Cuddy stretched out over him, straddling his good thigh and resting her head on his shoulder, her long hair spilling
across his chest as House wrapped his arms around her.
“I think one of the things I like so much about you, She-Beast, aside from having the
talented fingers of a porn star, is your capacity for regret. Regrets are scars too. And
scars . . .” he prompted softly. Cuddy sighed.
“ . . . Are about courage, yes, I remember. But do regrets ever heal?”
House said nothing.
***
*** ***
Wilson stared gloomily at the screen, not watching it as he took another sip from his
glass and let the light of the television wash over him. The house was completely dark
except for the glare of the infomercial unveiling the benefits of some orthopedic mattress.
On the hearth rug Oliver lay sleeping, making an odd little whimper every now and then
in his dreams.
Wilson felt like whimpering himself. He’d said goodbye to Emily nearly five hours ago,
and now it was two in the morning. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t even TRIED to sleep knowing
full well any attempt would have been futile. The discussion had drained him, and
Wilson knew he’d gone past the thinking part of the issue, into the feeling part.
The hurting part.
He wished he could talk to House, but in his saner, sober moments of hours earlier
decided against THAT course of action. House was a good friend, but far too brusque
for a conversation as personal as this one. He wouldn’t sneer, but his inability to
understand the situation as it stood would definitely grate—and in an attempt to lighten
the mood the jokes would start. Infertility jokes, conception jokes, paternity jokes—
nothing Wilson really wanted to hear.
He took another gulp of whisky, letting the burn numb its way down his throat and
closed his eyes. In his head he listened again to Emily’s words, pictured her woebegone
face as she’d spoken of tests and cycles and damn it, of love.
“You mean a lot to me James, and that’s the problem. I’d been hoping to count on you
as a friend, but you’re becoming . . .”
“ . . . More than that, yes, I know. Which is odd, because in the entire three years I’ve
known you, why haven’t I heard about THIS?”
“Because talking about babies with a married man didn’t strike me as the best
conversational topic when we had time together. Come on—you were taken, out of
circulation, James. I wasn’t about to lay out my life plans to you!”
“Well maybe you SHOULD have. Honestly, Em, I’d understand all this a lot better if it
wasn’t coming out of left field—“
“All this?”
“Yes, not just the infertility aspect, but the whole . . . attraction between us. It’s always
been there, we both know that-- and now circumstances allow us to . . . follow up on
it—“
“—There’s the added complication of my wanting a baby. I know. But damn it, this is
important to me. I have a stable life and a limited number of fertile years, James Wilson.
Don’t ask me to reconsider my choice here, okay?”
“That’s harsh, Emily. You’re making the bad guy when I don’t deserve it.”
“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just that I didn’t think we’d—you and I would get
close so quickly. I was determined to just be your FRIEND, help you through your
divorce, not make-out with you like a horny teenager.”
“Which I for one, don’t regret for a minute. Look, this is all very complicated and it’s
going to take a while for me to take it all in. You’ve had time to consider what you want;
I’m just coming to grips with it. Maybe we ought to just slow the momentum down.”
“Yes. I agree. We’re grownups, professional colleagues—James, your hand—“
“Sorry. You have nice knees.”
“I’m sure you do too. Okay. We’ll just . . . take some time then. Be . . . professional. You
and I can handle that, right?”
Sitting with Emily at Waffle World Wilson had agreed; now alone in the dark of the early morning he wasn’t so sure. He took another sip.
Kids. He’d thought about them, certainly. Every man did, sooner or later, musing over
the concept of fatherhood in a private moment or two. Wilson knew he liked kids in general—the ones he’d dealt with personally at the hospital had courage, that was for
sure, and an optimism not often found in older patients. His nephew Joshua was pretty
sweet for a five year old, and even the little Bonsu twins who lived one house over had a
giggly charm when they came by to borrow Oliver for a walk.
Kids were fine, in the general scheme of things. But having one of your own---that was
another consideration altogether. The terrifying prospect of being responsible 24/7 for
another LIFE . . . The thought sent a hard tremor through Wilson’s stomach. Oliver was
plenty at the moment, especially right now, with everything unsettled and at loose ends.
Damn it, babies took time and patience and a whole new set of skills. They cried at the slightest provocation, they filled diapers and they were so damned fragile--
Wilson sighed heavily. On the other hand, they were also damned cute. And when they
were clean they smelled nice, and there was just something about a pregnant woman, or
one holding a baby that brought out every protective instinct in him. A quick inborn
impulse to defend and nurture the next generation. And the idea of Emily pregnant . . .
it was shocking how arousing that was. Imagining her rounded and sleek, smiling in a self-satisfied way—
Abruptly Wilson scowled in the darkness, his expression unexpectedly angry. Women
were all alike in that regard. Their own wants first; their own agendas. He’d tried to be supportive and understanding but here and now—it just didn’t seem fair to be losing the
battle of the sexes on ALL fronts. With a tired rub of his head, Wilson set his glass down
and gave into the self-pity he’d been holding off. He slumped on the sofa, all too aware
that the last time he’d been sprawled right here, he hadn’t been alone.
God it had been wonderful. Trying to talk Emily out of her blouse and then her bra;
succeeding with the first but not the latter, laughing in her ear, rubbing their bodies
together gently at first and then with more delightful friction . . . Wilson groaned at the memory and the irony of it all and dropped a pillow over his lumpy lap.
After a while, he slept.
The beach was wide, and seemingly endless, stretching in all directions he looked.
Wilson stood shading his eyes and wondering where he was. Half buried ahead of him
was green army tank. A little beyond that stood a large pink lobster, paint flakes peeling
off of the claws.
Wilson walked forward, past the tank. It was plastic, molded and old, a gigantic version
of the ones he remembered from childhood. Long ago he’d considered a military career,
but medicine called . . . moving carefully, sand sifting into his shoes, he circled the
lobster. It was wooden and he could see bitemarks on the claws, little half moon
indentations of teeth.
With a start he realized he was on Emily’s sand therapy table, standing among a few of
the toys. Panicking, he started running, heading for an edge, but it was slow going
through the shifting grains underfoot.
//I never lost my watch// he heard. Turning, Wilson saw Emily sitting in the sand, her sunglasses on her forehead. Around her were stacks of sandwiches: bologna, cheese,
salami, peanut butter. Confused, Wilson looked at her. She waved at him.
//I never lost my watch// she repeated. The sandwich towers grew higher, getting more elaborate: cheese and bacon, liverwurst, tuna and tomato. Wilson headed towards her.
Emily got to her feet and set her sunglasses on the sandwiches. Wilson reached for her,
but she was blocked from sight now, lost in a maze of sandwiches. Wilson pushed one
stack over and it landed with a meaty thump in the sand.
Emily appeared next to him, looking at her hands. Wilson reached for one. When he
looked at her again she’d turned into Julie.
//The tomato ones are mine.//
Wilson nodded; he didn’t care about the sandwiches, Julie could have them all as far as
he was concerned. Spinning around he looked again for Emily.
She stood off in the distance, wearing the pink dress he remembered from their first
meeting and GOD he wanted her—
So far away. And the sand shifted underfoot as he began walking.
***
*** ***
Cuddy looked up in a tiny moment of exasperated affection as House lumbered into her
office. It had been three days since she’d had him over at her house, and she’d done a
good job of keeping out of his way since then. He’d gotten two particularly intriguing
patients, and she’d been working with Hinoshu, so it was a natural sort of separation,
dictated by work and priority. Cuddy liked knowing he was near, but not too near—
House’s husky promise to reciprocate her form of dessert still echoed in her ear, and
she tried not to think about it too often.
Bad enough his hands and kisses distracted her terribly; if he even knew how much his teasing words did—shaking her head, Cuddy grabbed a pen and made an unneeded
notation on a letter before her, ignoring the man in front of her desk.
“Your court jester is finally on a coffee break so I assume I can address the queen—“ he groused, cocking his head. Cuddy took her time looking up. It was a long way up, given
his height, and he blinked with a hint of flirtatiousness.
“Eyes up here, Doctor Cuddy! I need a travel voucher for Foreman. I’m sending him to
San Francisco.”
“Take it up with Accounting, and WHY are you sending him to San Francisco?”
“Gotta yen for Sourdough and alternative lifestyles,” House snapped back, then sighed.
“I need verification about the patient’s last known worksite that isn’t the sort you get over
the phone. Culture samples if possible---“
Cuddy thought carefully. The patient in question had a grab bag of symptoms and the
most alarming ones hinted at a new strain of cholera, but the CDC hadn’t found any . . .
She pushed away from the desk and scooped up the letter. Dimly in the background
came the sound of a page.
“Fine. Edna can get you the voucher in the next few hours. What about your other
patient?”
“Munchausen’s by Proxy.” His face hardened a moment and Cuddy reached out a hand.
It was a mistake; he took it, running his thumb in the center of her palm, caressing it
warmly, making her quiver.
“R-really?”
“R-r-really. Like the stutter, very cute. Little nervous when I do this?” House inquired in a
low voice.
Cuddy tried to tug her hand from his grip but he tightened it and slowly brought her
palm to his mouth. The scrape of House’s bristles tickled and the wet press of his lips in
the center of her hand left her shivering slightly.
“Stop.” She demanded with no strength behind the words. He grinned sardonically.
“I will, when you mean it.”
“I mean it,” she insisted, a little more firmly, tugging her hand again. Reluctantly he let it
go.
“Ah the memories of these talented fingers--Anyway, I need your signature on the
voucher otherwise little Eric doesn’t get to go west.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes. “So go GET the voucher and bring it to me—“
“They won’t take my word for it. You have to come with me,” House admitted with a
scowl, and that made her laugh. Only one clerk in Accounting dealt with Gregory House,
and when Karl was out, nobody else was willing to deal with the head of Diagnostics.
Another page sounded. Cuddy gave a nod. “Fine. Let’s get it done before lunch—I’d
hate you to miss clinic because of the paperwork I’m sure you’d tell me was holding you
back.”
House looked to the ceiling, giving a put-upon sigh. “So cynical yet so sexy.”
“Me?” Cuddy was flattered. He shook his head.
“Me. You’re running a close second though. I know! If you gave up wearing a bra . . .”
“House—“ Cuddy hissed, trying to look angry as they stepped out into the hall. He
rambled on.
“Maybe went with a sort of Art House look, leotards and beret—“
Cuddy stopped suddenly, her expression not amused. She was about to say something
when she froze instead. The page repeated overhead; medical personnel in the hall
looked alarmed.
“Code grey, clinic—“
Both of them froze for a long second.
“Oh God.“ Cuddy turned and darted off, calling back at House. “Get Security NOW—“
She ran, her heels clattering as she moved down the hall swiftly and turned the corner.
House fished out his cell phone and picked up his stride, moving jerkily after Cuddy,
cursing his leg. He jabbed four numbers and shouted into the phone.
“Security, This is Doctor Gregory House--we have an armed person in the clinic. First
floor, East Wing--” He lurched forward, trying to talk and move at the same time. Nurses
and orderlies were rounding up people, herding them into offices and rooms, locking
doors behind them. House saw window blinds closing and increased his speed, ignoring
the flaring pain stabbing his thigh.
“Yes sir, we have people moving that way. Please go to the nearest room or office—“
House heard a gunshot.
Adrenaline flashed through him and he limped faster, blindly turning the corner, cell
phone still in hand. Ahead of him the doors of the clinic stood open, and a pool of blood
was welling on the floor just behind the Admissions desk. Dimly House saw a group of
terrified patients huddled on the waiting area chairs, and a few doctors, Chase and
Cuddy among them, standing stock-still by the desk. He moved again, and everyone
shifted to look at him.
“Hi. Am I late?” he asked into the silence. A hulking man in a dirty UPS uniform swung
around, bringing the automatic into sight. House drew in a breath. The man’s eyes
glittered, and his nose was running.
“Where IS she? I looked on the schedule and I KNOW she works the clinic at LEAST this week. Get her OUT here. NOW!” he bellowed, throwing his ultimatum at his terrified
audience. Chase and House met glances, and House let his shift to the pool of blood
still growing behind the desk.
“Who is the she you mean? And while we’re getting her, we need to treat whoever is
bleeding . . .”
The UPS man sized House up and moved over to him, gun pointing towards his stubbly
chin.
“Some stupid nurse wouldn’t TALK to me, uppity bitch. Just like Tina. I’m looking for Tina Morosco so you get her DOWN here now.”
“Whoah, whoah hold on, Brown—you need to see Tina, we’ll get you Tina—“ House
offered. Cuddy growled.
“Hey YOU! Put the gun down.”
“Don’t MOVE!” the UPS man snarled, swinging his attention back to Cuddy. She glared
at him. Outside the clinic doors the thunder of security grew louder. With brazenness,
Cuddy slowly began to walk to the Admissions desk.
“There are armed guards out there, the police have been notified and in a moment
they’re going to be lobbing tear gas in here. Meanwhile there’s an innocent woman
bleeding to DEATH behind the desk! This is MY hospital you motherfucker, and you shot
one of MY people! If you think I’m going to let you get away with that, think AGAIN.”
“Shut UP!” The man shouted at Cuddy. She barely blinked.
“Make me—“ the taunt was punctuated by another gunshot and instantly a bright blotch
of red blossomed on the right side of Cuddy’s suit. Her eyes widened and she swayed.
House growled.
With a vicious uppercut swing of his cane he hit the gunman on the side of the face with
the wood; it was a powerful hit, with a lot of strength behind it. The man went down and another bullet fired out, shattering the clinic door behind House. The momentum of the
swing and impact of hitting the man put House off-balance and he fought to stay up, but
his thigh gave out. He fell to the linoleum, cane clattering beside him.
Chase and one of the other doctors had the man pinned; the gun had skittered under
the glass coffee table. House yelled as someone stepped on his hand; for long minutes confusion reigned and finally he felt someone turning him over, looking into his face.
“You’re not shot . . .” Chase asked carefully. House shook his head and looked around. Security had the man in cuffs, and others were herding the waiting room crowd to one
side of the clinic. He struggled to sit up, feeling the dull ache of fear deep inside.
“Cuddy?”
“They’re coming for her now; they’ll take her to the ER. She’s been shot. I don’t know
how badly. The nurse is in worse shape though—she took one to the throat. Think you
can stand?”
House nodded, taking Chase’s hand and letting himself be hauled to his feet. His body
ached, his thigh most of all, and House noticed his hand was bleeding from a fresh
scrape. Wordlessly Chase handed him his cane and slipped a shoulder under the taller
man’s arm, supporting him.
***
*** ***
House dozed. He’d learned how to slump in a chair and catch a little rest; most doctors
knew the basics, but House had it down to an art. Part of it was practice, part of it was stubbornness and part of it was being drugged to the gills. THAT certainly kept the body relaxed. He let his head hang back and sprawled his legs out, being careful to brace the
bad one against the wheels of the bed in front of him.
The room was private, and already a few baskets and vases of flowers were on the
counters, the color and scent making the rest of the hospital room seem bland in the semi-darkness. The little bleeps of the monitors broke through the soft hiss of the air conditioning, and periodically the sound of his own snoring woke House up. He checked
the woman in the bed, trying to keep a professional eye on her.
This time she stirred, and House glanced at his watch: 3:37 AM. He waited until Cuddy’s
eyes opened and she blinked a little, her brows drawing together.
“Ggggggggreg?”
“Well THAT was sexy. Shhhh, or you’ll blow our affair,” he rumbled, leaning forward and
taking her wrist. Absently he checked her pulse as he gave it a squeeze. A little slow,
but steady. He shifted his gaze to her face, carefully noting her pallor. She licked her dry
lips.
“I feel . . . like crap.”
“You look it, too, She-Beast. Still, you’re alive and ready to fight another day. Even have
a souvenir—“ He held up the little plastic bag from the nightstand and the slightly bloody
bullet in it gleamed. Cuddy gave a whimper.
“Damn. I DID get shot, didn’t I?”
“Yep. And here’s a little hint for the next time we’re in a code grey—do NOT call an
armed man hopped up on PCP a quote motherfucker, unquote. It DOES tend to piss
them off, even if it’s true.”
“W-water?”
“Only enough to wet your mouth—“ he cautioned, dipping a napkin in a cup and
dabbing her lips. Cuddy opened her mouth, nibbling at the wetness and he pulled it
back. “Can’t do more. You took a good hit in the upper tract, small intestine. Khan got
you stitched up pretty quick and now you’ve got another six hours before we can get you
on fluids.”
“Jill?”
House frowned a moment. “Touch and go. Not only did she get a big hole in her carotid,
she damn near bled out. She’s up in IC.”
Cuddy focused on House’s bandaged hand and she tried to touch it, her gesture clumsy because of the IV line.
“What . . .”
“It’s nothing.” He murmured, and yet he let her cool little grasp slide into his. “I faw down
go boom. Not as dramatically as YOU of course, but—“
“You hit him,” Cuddy blinked, trying to focus her thoughts. “I remember that. You hit
him with your cane--”
“--And ended up on the floor like a cheap throw rug.” He finished with a snort. “Think I
can file Workman’s Comp?”
Cuddy laughed, but weakly, and tensed, curling a little to her right. House sighed again.
He leaned closer, pretending to check her eyes and his breath brushed against her face.
“Okay, here’s one of the big rules. You are NOT going to do this again, got that? You’re
a doctor, NOT a member of a SWAT team or a hostage negotiator, She-Beast. And much
as you think of this hospital as your baby, I personally draw the line at you dying for it.
It’s pretty clear to me that you need someone to point that out to you on some sort of a
regular basis, and I have some free time in my day planner. We’ll pencil in a session or
two—“ he trailed off as Cuddy’s lower lip quivered. She clumsily brought her fingers up
to his stubbly chin.
“You’ve got Vicodin on your breath—“ she whispered dreamily just as House bent to kiss
her.
