Chapter
Three
House
guided Cuddy back to her office, keeping an eye on her as they
traveled without
speaking. She ignored him, but the tight set of her shoulders
and the little
waggle of her bottom amused House; the clear dichotomy of her
personality
magnified in that by whatever she was taking. He herded her
towards the clinic
and found the first room empty; courteously House gestured
her in before him,
taking one last quick leer at her rounded bottom before
following her in and
locking the door.
Cuddy turned and braced one hip against the exam table as she crossed
her
arms.
House leaned against the door, making no move to come closer as
he
studied her
from head to foot. After a few second she blinked, feeling
acutely
self-conscious. “What?”
“Just weighing my options here. The UA with a full tox screen
would probably
get back faster, but a blood panel would be more accurate for the
precise
chemical in your system. Why did you kiss
voice.
Cuddy looked smug. “I didn’t kiss
care anyway? It’s not as if he’s going to take
it seriously.”
“Semantics—you kissed the Chief of Oncology AND my
best friend, and I
DON’T
care but I’m curious as to your motive. He’s not
your type.” As he
spoke, House
fished out a specimen bottle from the cabinet under the sink
and neatly labeled
it before handing it to Cuddy. She made a face, reluctantly
taking it
from him.
For a second she studied his printing.
“Urgent: full toxicology screen/all pertinent panels Patient
T. Ramp, C/O
Diagnostics G. House—subtle. Tell me how you REALLY feel,
Greg.”
“You need a pseudonym—unless you’d LIKE
me to put it under your real
name. Won’t
that start the gossip mill a-churning, especially when the
report
comes back
with some interesting chemical breakdowns.”
Cuddy clenched the bottle more tightly in her fist, scowling fiercely.
“There’s
nothing there.”
“Beg to differ—you’re talking at the
local expert in pharmaceutical fun,
remember? I’m thinking opiate—are you in pain?
Where were you this
morning?”
House asked softly, watching her. It was hard not to reach out
a
hand to steady
Cuddy; she was listing a little to the right. She tossed the
specimen container
from one hand to the other, her catches a little clumsy.
“I went to the dentist, if you must know. Had a filling
replaced because the
old
one fell out after I chewed on my toast this morning. No big deal, I
didn’t
even
take Novocain because I knew I needed to be clear for the meeting
this
afternoon . . . “ she trailed off, closing her eyes for a
moment. “Is it warm
in
here?”
“Feel free to take your clothes off,” House
murmured, “So, no Novocain—are
you
sure?”
“Yeasss. I specifically requested not to be numbed out, and
I’m not,” Cuddy
replied, her patience wearing thin. House leaned closer and caught her
chin in
his grip, tipping her face up and squeezing. Her mouth opened and he
leaned
down to sniff her breath.
“Nitrous oxide?”
“No gas. Believe it or not, some of us can get by on over the
counter pain
killers, House,” she commented. He hunched his shoulders a
little at that, and
Cuddy laughed, tossing her head back. “Sorry, that one was
below the belt, I
know.”
“Laugh it up, Lisa Chuckles, but I know I’m looking
at something that doesn’t
make sense. Even if you didn’t have anything injected or
inhaled, you’ve still
got something in your system that’s making you slightly
loopy.”
“Loopy? I feel fine. Better than fine, in fact—good
enough to dance with Jimmy
and I could have done it aaallll night loooooonnng,
Greg—“ she drawled out in
a
sultry tease as she leaned closer. The hot gleam in her eyes startled
him,
and
House froze for a moment. Cuddy rubbed noses with him, purring a
little,
then
pulled back. “So I’ll let you have the UA, but no
blood this time, and when
you
get back a clean panel, you’re going to do four more hours
this week in
clinic.”
“And when I’m right?” he
couldn’t help but ask; his own gaze a bright,
merciless blue. Cuddy’s smile broadened and she cocked her
head.
“In the impossible event that you, the great and powerful
Greg House are right,
well . . . . what do you want?” she asked in a tone loaded
with no limits now,
a clearly provocative question. It was like her voice in his fantasies
of her;
the
one in his restless erotic dreams that left him either aching or wet in
the
morning.
“Oooh I could want quite a bit,” came his honest
reply. “Most of it in direct
violation of sexual harassment laws and decency standards here at
PPTH.
How are
you at pole dancing?”
Instead of making a face or storming off, Cuddy pursed her pretty mouth
and
seemed to consider the question. She dropped her gaze and looked down
at
her
feet a moment. “Depends on the pole.”
House let his gaze drop too, focusing on the little green plastic
container in
Cuddy’s grasp and feeling slightly breathless. He was used to
angry Cuddy
and
exasperated Cuddy; he’d seen her hurting and preoccupied and
tired, but
this
new blatantly flirtatious Cuddy was a force to be reckoned with. It
was
clearly
a symptom too, but dangerously intriguing.
He gestured with his chin to the cup. “Hit me with your best
shot, and we’ll
see
who ends up on the losing side of this proposition, Doctor
Partypants.”
Cuddy shook her head slightly and headed for the adjoining bathroom,
locking
the door behind her with a loud click. House waited, wondering if Cuddy
might
have paruresis; normally that would be a safe bet for a woman as
uptight—
The sounds from the other side of the door made it clear she
didn’t and House
wondered if this too, was because of the drugs. When Cuddy emerged
a
moment later,
she scowled at him.
“I wasn’t expecting to hand deliver
anything.”
“Let’s just chalk it up to my scrupulous dedication
to the case,” House
replied.
“Why did you take your bra off, by the way? Not that
I don’t
appreciate the
bounce in your step and all.”
“God you’re irritating,” Cuddy brushed by
him and out the exam room door.
She
didn’t look to see if he was following as she made her way
back to her
office.
Gritting her teeth made her new filing ache again, and absently
Cuddy
fished in
her purse for the bottle of Tompkin’s ibuprofen, shaking
another one
out and
swallowing it dry. It tasted awful, and she pulled out one of her
bottles
of
water from her stash in her bottom desk drawer, washing away
the
aftertaste.
Diagnosticians were simply a pain in the ass, she decided. Most
medical
specialists had some strain of prima donna to them; that was a given,
but
House
took medical evaluation and analysis to new levels of irritation
above
and
beyond his own personality. The audacity of HIM accusing her of
taking
drugs!
She’d never done drugs—well, not any more than any
other Med student,
Cuddy
mentally amended to herself. The days of No-Doz for
all-nighters,
washed down
with coffee; the Sominex to repair the sleep cycle; an
occasional joint back in
the day, when it was your ticket to a varied social
life . . . thank God she’d
passed on the cocaine fad of the Eighties. Cuddy
had worked enough in the ER
back then to know exactly how stupid that shit
made people. Not the drug itself
too often, but the actions and consequences afterwards.
Coke might have been the hit of the party, she remembered, but there
was
always
a morning after.
Sighing, Cuddy leaned back and allowed herself a moment to remember.
God,
the
Eighties. Back then she’d done the Jane Fonda workouts, and
run for
miles, just
the way Jim Fixx had. She’d dutifully chugged lecithin and
yogurt,
done her
hair big and wore the world’s shiniest lip gloss. She still
had her leg warmers
in a bureau drawer somewhere, along with a few black rubber
bracelets. Cuddy
smiled more deeply, and closed her eyes.
Dancing with Jimmy—THAT was Eighties. Given the way the man
moved, he’d
probably shaken his booty to Hall and Oates a few times. The image of
pretty
boy James Wilson with his hair gelled, and his coat sleeves pushed up
on his
forearms made her chuckle. Oh yeah. He might have been a preppy, but
she
could
just picture him in his sweet puppy geekiness, mooning after
Daryl
Hannah or
Molly Ringwald.
Cuddy giggled more loudly now. Who would House have had the hots for
in
the
Eighties? Brooke Shields? Early sleazy Madonna, or maybe Bo
Derek
more likely,
she decided. Yeah, House was the sort to rank his hotties by
how
many
pictorials she’d done. The thought not only continued to
amuse her, but
it
brought forth the image of House dancing around in his
boxers—like Tom
Cruise
in that really old movie . . . God, what was it called?
Oh yeah, Risky Business. That certainly fit House to a damned T.
Cuddy
sighed,
wondering if his claims of patronizing prostitutes were true. It would
be
like
him to compartmentalize sex, divorcing it from affection. She
couldn’t see
him
cruising street corners though—he probably knew some service
to call.
That
would be more his style, ordering up some hooker the way he’d
put in a
call for
pizza. The thought should have depressed her, but it
didn’t.
Somewhere deep
between her thighs came a naughty flare of arousal.
Oh yeah, sex with House. He’d be fun to tease; it would be
such a power rush
to
work him up to a frenzy and see all his vaunted intellect take a back
seat to
good old-fashioned lust. Abruptly Cuddy gave a sigh and shifted in the
chair a
little, realizing she was turned on more than she wanted to admit.
She’d
thought of doing House before—she had fantasies, she was
normal—but this
was not
her normal Tuesday mindset. She should be looking over the policy
committee
meeting notes, not thinking about blowing Greg House until he
groaned her name
and lost his load--
“I’m soooo horny,” Cuddy said out loud,
and the slurred sound of her words
echoed
off the walls. She opened her eyes and looked around, her
cheeks
hot; thank God
nobody heard her. Carefully she pushed herself up out of the
chair and took a
few wobbly steps to the sofa, dropping onto it, grateful to be
able to lie
down.
For just a few minutes, yeah. Just taking a quick nap.
Cuddy stretched out, her skirt giving ground as she lifted her hands
over her
head and sighed deeply, closing her eyes once more.
Policy committee. Needed to focus on policy. Not House. House in his
boxers
could wait until later. House in his boxers. Or out of them . . . God
knew he
was hung, if rumor and discreet peeking were both accurate.
No. Focus! Keep on the job! She warned herself, shifting her hips a
little as
the pang of arousal throbbed through her again. Stop thinking about . .
. IT.
Not the time for mentally undressing the Head of Diagnostics
and
contemplating
the meat cane--
Cuddy chortled. Damn—the meat cane. Hell of a line; too bad
she’d never get
the
chance to use it--unbidden she writhed a little more, whimpering a bit.
“Am I interrupting nap time?” came a low voice.
Startled, she blearily opened
her eyes to see House staring from her office doorway. He stepped in
and
closed
it behind himself, never taking his eyes from her. Cuddy
propped
herself up on
one elbow and looked him over.
Damn—there it was, too. The big MC! She giggled. House
lurched over.
“Cuddy--“
“I HAVE to know, Greg. This is really, really important,
okay?” Cuddy throatily
whispered. House bent down awkwardly, his concentration focused on
her
dilated
gaze; her long thighs now exposed; her unexpectedly . . . naughty . .
.
smile.
The woman was totally looped, he realized.
“Back in the Eighties, Greg. Who the hell did you used to
whack off to?”
