Chapter Two
III. HOUSE
They touched more often. House (being himself) noticed this, and while the analytical
part of his mind pondered it, weighing the pros and cons of pushing the limits or
randomizing the moments of connection, his physical self stubbornly kept up the degree
of contact, increasing it by small increments whenever possible. It had been a long time
since House had to chide himself mentally for giving in to his baser nature, and the
unfamiliarity of the need annoyed him.
Not enough to stop touching Cuddy, however. A brush of shoulders here, the polite hand pressed to the small of her back to guide her through a door there; little invasions of her
personal space when the opportunity struck. A good part of his pleasure rose from the
warmth radiating off of her; Cuddy had a concentrated aura composed of perfume,
sexuality and shyness and that latter element intrigued House tremendously.
He’d never thought of Cuddy as shy, but he realized that aspect was there; the silently
awkward hint of it apparent when he loomed over her, quietly admiring the sleek lines of
her frame. Sometimes when she looked up at him the unexpected glitter of her blue eyes
caught his, and House would see the shyness there, startling and God help him, arousing.
It didn’t fit. Shy? So not Cuddy. She exuded confidence whether it was justified or not,
and House had never seen her personally impressed by anyone. She fawned over the
famous or rich who came through Princeton-Plainsboro’s doors certainly, but that was
part of the job, and not a personal trait to the Lisa Cuddy that he knew.
It appealed to him, and House felt that it shouldn’t. Demureness wasn’t interesting at
all . . . except when it was showing up in the wrong person. He expected Cameron to be
demure, or his great-aunt Constance. Cuddy on the other hand, was supposed to be
cynical, irritating and hot, in spades. The dichotomy bothered him, and House found
himself wondering about it in his private moments, worrying it the way a dog does a bone.
She could be afraid of me, House thought, and dismissed in nearly the same moment.
That theory was utter crap, because of all the things House knew Cuddy felt about him,
fear had never been on the list. He’d insulted her, bullied her, leered and teased and
annoyed the daylights out of her for years—it didn’t stand to reason that she’d suddenly
become scared of him. At times the woman had been only inches from bitchslapping him
into next week, so she was clearly NOT afraid of him.
She could be preoccupied, came the unhappy consideration. That was a possibility and
an annoying one to boot. Whenever he was with Cuddy, House reasoned, her entire
focus should be on him, period. God knew he worked hard enough to make her day
interesting with his outrageous treatment requests and suggestive comments; the least
she could do would be to pay attention. His last surreptitious survey of her current mail,
both paper and E hadn’t brought any suspicious addresses to mind either, so reluctantly
House had to accept that it was unlikely any outside source was drawing her attention.
She could be tired of me . . . and that idea sent an unexpected pang of pain through him
as he mused on it. The concept that Cuddy didn’t care anymore inflicted a weird hurt that
House wouldn’t define. It was one thing to let his relationship with his Fellows wax and
wane according to his mood, but Cuddy was in the Exalted Circle and as such was
required to stay enthralled with him.
It was a small Circle; only two peasants worshiping one king, but it was all his, House
gloated.
But it seemed unlikely that she’d outgrown him, given her behavior of late. She didn’t
order him out of her office or tell him to get lost in those subtle and not-so subtle ways
she was so good at any more than she usually did. If anything, Cuddy spent more time in
his presence—always with a good reason of course; a valid surface reason.
So why was she reserved? House persisted with himself. Is she sick? Pregnant?
Considering a new job? Dating someone? None of those sat right with him, the latter one
least of all.
He was fairly sure she wasn’t sick, not with her scrupulous attention to diet and exercise;
any woman who passed up the red lollipops in the clinic was a hardliner indeed. Nor was
she pregnant; House kept discreet tabs on Cuddy’s calendar and despite her little code
system he knew perfectly well that a frowny face in red ink meant Midol time.
As for a change of job, well that was remote as well. Ambitious as she was, Cuddy
enjoyed her position as Dean of Medicine. It gave her everything she craved: The
ongoing challenge of difficult decisions, paperwork, power lunches and good media
exposure. And the satisfaction of healing people, he supposed. Somewhere in there, she seemed to care about that aspect too.
So if it wasn’t any of the first three, then the possibility of the fourth loomed in his mind,
and House scowled at that. Cuddy dating was anathema to him; her time spent with
some worthless potential sperm donor was her time wasted in not appreciating brilliant diagnoses, or arranging for bail, or talking to irate patients. It was Cuddy’s duty to handle
these things; he spent enough energy arranging his day around creating the appropriate
amount of havoc.
They had a balance to this association of theirs. A quid pro quo with much more quid on
her part, but that was why she pulled in the salary she did, and in any case, House had
already put the kibosh on her dating before—he could do it again, if need be.
VI. CUDDY
They touched more often, and that puzzled Cuddy as much as it quietly delighted her.
House had never been the sort of doctor (or person, she amended to herself) to search
out human contact; nevertheless he was in her personal space on a regular basis,
looming, brushing, and making a point to do so.
She accepted it. House wasn’t stupid, and Cuddy knew she could make him back off with nonverbal cues of a hundred different types, but she let him drift close enough for their
auras to overlap because it felt good. Some inner part of her basked in the attention
because deny it as he did, House was an attractive man. Physically as well as
intellectually he towered over her, and she enjoyed the sensation of his height, his
presence.
And there were all the tiny little signs evident when he did so that he was aware of her on
that physical level too: the widening of his pupils, the slight cock of his head in her
direction, the proprietary moves as he kept pace with her wherever they were. House
could be the most irritating petty tyrant in Princeton-Plainsboro hospital, playing up and
playing off of his peers and subordinates, but when he was with her, the attraction was
evident, Cuddy knew.
She wondered how long it had been building; what had moved him forward out of the
stasis of Stacy? Had it been the Ketamine with its heartbreaking freedom and slow ebb
leaving him to fall back into pain? Had it been the vindictive nightmare of Tritter? In any
case, whatever the case, it was quietly thrilling to see the perimeters of his self-restraint
loosen a bit around her.
People had always talked, but Cuddy hadn’t paid much attention or wasted much time on
it; when you were a successful woman people always talked. House had started as her
bete noir; her crown of thorns, but she knew that the grudging mutual respect the rest of
the world saw was only the surface of a more complicated relationship, and even now the
depths were changing.
He kept . . . showing up. At her front door, at her bedroom window for God’s sake, like
some lovelorn schoolboy trying to woo her with the thin excuse of a case on his lips even
as he ogled her nightgowns. And she played along because despite the lateness of the
hour or the outrageousness of the requests, the pleasure of seeing him there warmed
her in very nonprofessional ways. The fact that he was thinking of her in the darkest
hours, and was drawn to her made Cuddy feel a little hot and breathless at times.
Why can’t he just admit it? Became her inner mantra of frustration. The unspoken, unacknowledged heat between them kept building, day after day, and Cuddy found
herself debating between forcing the issue and holding back. Both ideas had their appeal
and cautions and if Cuddy had learned anything in her long hard climb to power, it was to consider things well.
If I push, he’ll deny, she acknowledged. House was a master at many things, and self-
deception was one. If anything useful had come out of the encounters with Tritter it was
that. For all his vaunted devotion to finding the truth, House left himself on the other side
of the door as much as any man; more so when pain left him hollow and angry.
If I hold back, he’ll settle for the status quo, Cuddy countered with herself. It was true;
House had shifted their status quo to suit his needs, but the holding pattern they were in
could go on indefinitely, she suspected. He was getting just enough of her time and
attention to function, and she laughed at the realization. I’m his emotional Vicodin now.
She’d noted his reactions to her small, fumbling attempts at a life: his cynical support for
her in-vitro attempts; his annoyance with her outings with Wilson. House was in-tune with
her life to an intimate degree whether he wanted to admit it or not, and more so than he
ever did with any of his Fellows, he moved to change things in her life to suit himself.
It was time, she decided, to do the same with his; not on a professional one, but on a far,
far more personal one.
They touched more often. House (being himself) noticed this, and while the analytical
part of his mind pondered it, weighing the pros and cons of pushing the limits or
randomizing the moments of connection, his physical self stubbornly kept up the degree
of contact, increasing it by small increments whenever possible. It had been a long time
since House had to chide himself mentally for giving in to his baser nature, and the
unfamiliarity of the need annoyed him.
Not enough to stop touching Cuddy, however. A brush of shoulders here, the polite hand pressed to the small of her back to guide her through a door there; little invasions of her
personal space when the opportunity struck. A good part of his pleasure rose from the
warmth radiating off of her; Cuddy had a concentrated aura composed of perfume,
sexuality and shyness and that latter element intrigued House tremendously.
He’d never thought of Cuddy as shy, but he realized that aspect was there; the silently
awkward hint of it apparent when he loomed over her, quietly admiring the sleek lines of
her frame. Sometimes when she looked up at him the unexpected glitter of her blue eyes
caught his, and House would see the shyness there, startling and God help him, arousing.
It didn’t fit. Shy? So not Cuddy. She exuded confidence whether it was justified or not,
and House had never seen her personally impressed by anyone. She fawned over the
famous or rich who came through Princeton-Plainsboro’s doors certainly, but that was
part of the job, and not a personal trait to the Lisa Cuddy that he knew.
It appealed to him, and House felt that it shouldn’t. Demureness wasn’t interesting at
all . . . except when it was showing up in the wrong person. He expected Cameron to be
demure, or his great-aunt Constance. Cuddy on the other hand, was supposed to be
cynical, irritating and hot, in spades. The dichotomy bothered him, and House found
himself wondering about it in his private moments, worrying it the way a dog does a bone.
She could be afraid of me, House thought, and dismissed in nearly the same moment.
That theory was utter crap, because of all the things House knew Cuddy felt about him,
fear had never been on the list. He’d insulted her, bullied her, leered and teased and
annoyed the daylights out of her for years—it didn’t stand to reason that she’d suddenly
become scared of him. At times the woman had been only inches from bitchslapping him
into next week, so she was clearly NOT afraid of him.
She could be preoccupied, came the unhappy consideration. That was a possibility and
an annoying one to boot. Whenever he was with Cuddy, House reasoned, her entire
focus should be on him, period. God knew he worked hard enough to make her day
interesting with his outrageous treatment requests and suggestive comments; the least
she could do would be to pay attention. His last surreptitious survey of her current mail,
both paper and E hadn’t brought any suspicious addresses to mind either, so reluctantly
House had to accept that it was unlikely any outside source was drawing her attention.
She could be tired of me . . . and that idea sent an unexpected pang of pain through him
as he mused on it. The concept that Cuddy didn’t care anymore inflicted a weird hurt that
House wouldn’t define. It was one thing to let his relationship with his Fellows wax and
wane according to his mood, but Cuddy was in the Exalted Circle and as such was
required to stay enthralled with him.
It was a small Circle; only two peasants worshiping one king, but it was all his, House
gloated.
But it seemed unlikely that she’d outgrown him, given her behavior of late. She didn’t
order him out of her office or tell him to get lost in those subtle and not-so subtle ways
she was so good at any more than she usually did. If anything, Cuddy spent more time in
his presence—always with a good reason of course; a valid surface reason.
So why was she reserved? House persisted with himself. Is she sick? Pregnant?
Considering a new job? Dating someone? None of those sat right with him, the latter one
least of all.
He was fairly sure she wasn’t sick, not with her scrupulous attention to diet and exercise;
any woman who passed up the red lollipops in the clinic was a hardliner indeed. Nor was
she pregnant; House kept discreet tabs on Cuddy’s calendar and despite her little code
system he knew perfectly well that a frowny face in red ink meant Midol time.
As for a change of job, well that was remote as well. Ambitious as she was, Cuddy
enjoyed her position as Dean of Medicine. It gave her everything she craved: The
ongoing challenge of difficult decisions, paperwork, power lunches and good media
exposure. And the satisfaction of healing people, he supposed. Somewhere in there, she seemed to care about that aspect too.
So if it wasn’t any of the first three, then the possibility of the fourth loomed in his mind,
and House scowled at that. Cuddy dating was anathema to him; her time spent with
some worthless potential sperm donor was her time wasted in not appreciating brilliant diagnoses, or arranging for bail, or talking to irate patients. It was Cuddy’s duty to handle
these things; he spent enough energy arranging his day around creating the appropriate
amount of havoc.
They had a balance to this association of theirs. A quid pro quo with much more quid on
her part, but that was why she pulled in the salary she did, and in any case, House had
already put the kibosh on her dating before—he could do it again, if need be.
VI. CUDDY
They touched more often, and that puzzled Cuddy as much as it quietly delighted her.
House had never been the sort of doctor (or person, she amended to herself) to search
out human contact; nevertheless he was in her personal space on a regular basis,
looming, brushing, and making a point to do so.
She accepted it. House wasn’t stupid, and Cuddy knew she could make him back off with nonverbal cues of a hundred different types, but she let him drift close enough for their
auras to overlap because it felt good. Some inner part of her basked in the attention
because deny it as he did, House was an attractive man. Physically as well as
intellectually he towered over her, and she enjoyed the sensation of his height, his
presence.
And there were all the tiny little signs evident when he did so that he was aware of her on
that physical level too: the widening of his pupils, the slight cock of his head in her
direction, the proprietary moves as he kept pace with her wherever they were. House
could be the most irritating petty tyrant in Princeton-Plainsboro hospital, playing up and
playing off of his peers and subordinates, but when he was with her, the attraction was
evident, Cuddy knew.
She wondered how long it had been building; what had moved him forward out of the
stasis of Stacy? Had it been the Ketamine with its heartbreaking freedom and slow ebb
leaving him to fall back into pain? Had it been the vindictive nightmare of Tritter? In any
case, whatever the case, it was quietly thrilling to see the perimeters of his self-restraint
loosen a bit around her.
People had always talked, but Cuddy hadn’t paid much attention or wasted much time on
it; when you were a successful woman people always talked. House had started as her
bete noir; her crown of thorns, but she knew that the grudging mutual respect the rest of
the world saw was only the surface of a more complicated relationship, and even now the
depths were changing.
He kept . . . showing up. At her front door, at her bedroom window for God’s sake, like
some lovelorn schoolboy trying to woo her with the thin excuse of a case on his lips even
as he ogled her nightgowns. And she played along because despite the lateness of the
hour or the outrageousness of the requests, the pleasure of seeing him there warmed
her in very nonprofessional ways. The fact that he was thinking of her in the darkest
hours, and was drawn to her made Cuddy feel a little hot and breathless at times.
Why can’t he just admit it? Became her inner mantra of frustration. The unspoken, unacknowledged heat between them kept building, day after day, and Cuddy found
herself debating between forcing the issue and holding back. Both ideas had their appeal
and cautions and if Cuddy had learned anything in her long hard climb to power, it was to consider things well.
If I push, he’ll deny, she acknowledged. House was a master at many things, and self-
deception was one. If anything useful had come out of the encounters with Tritter it was
that. For all his vaunted devotion to finding the truth, House left himself on the other side
of the door as much as any man; more so when pain left him hollow and angry.
If I hold back, he’ll settle for the status quo, Cuddy countered with herself. It was true;
House had shifted their status quo to suit his needs, but the holding pattern they were in
could go on indefinitely, she suspected. He was getting just enough of her time and
attention to function, and she laughed at the realization. I’m his emotional Vicodin now.
She’d noted his reactions to her small, fumbling attempts at a life: his cynical support for
her in-vitro attempts; his annoyance with her outings with Wilson. House was in-tune with
her life to an intimate degree whether he wanted to admit it or not, and more so than he
ever did with any of his Fellows, he moved to change things in her life to suit himself.
It was time, she decided, to do the same with his; not on a professional one, but on a far,
far more personal one.
