Chaos Theory: Chapter 5
Hi, all! Sorry for the wait on this one, but with it being the last chapter, the perfectionist in me reared its ugly head and just couldn't let this go until some parts were justright. Or at least close, lol. This one goes out to
gidget_zb (whether she wants it or not--ha!), who's got me absolutely psyched for all things past, present, and future of Perverse, as well as whatever else her plot bunnies cook up. Anyone insane enough to have NOT read any of the Perverse-verse: forget about this... go! now! and read!
Surrender
He had caught her mid-word, forced her to swallow the rest-a gentle flutter of muscles, like the ripple of water in a barely-disturbed glass. This is what it was to have been doused in toxic waste or bitten by some radioactive insect-instant superpowers, hyper-aware of everything: sound, movement, the feel of her-all traveling in vibrations to the base of his spine and spreading out in waves of heat. Cuddy was half-a-step behind him, motionless but for her arm twitching reflexively in his grasp.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Some alien life-force (stronger than even his own stubbornness) had invaded his brain and taken momentary control, convinced him that this was the one and only surefire way to shut her up.
It really was that simple.
A breath-his or hers (or maybe both). He couldn’t tell, and at the moment, it all amounted to the same thing. Then it was all humid heat and no sound and Cuddy pressed tight against him, the hand he didn’t still have pinned wandering up to frame his face, fingers on fire. And when she came to life, rising up on her toes, there was such a ferocity there it was as though their conversation had barely skipped a beat. With one last surge of brainpower, he tried to remind himself that he hated her, that she had somehow bewitched him, that all this was nothing but proof that he was absolutely, without a doubt, certifiably insane, but-
Oh, fuck, yes….
This was war-explosions and fire and evasive maneuvers: everything but the trenches, because there was nowhere to run, nothing to hide that she wouldn’t discover. Not that he wanted to get away-suspected (no knew now-good God, somewhere that had to be illegal) Cuddy felt the same way. She wasn’t going to yield to him, at least not without first doing everything in her power to assert her dominance. And that thought alone (not to mention whatever her tongue was currently doing to his) was enough to drain all the blood from his head and pump it straight to more useful places.
He had forgotten just how good this (she) could be.
It felt like floating, but with friction, and a rush like wind, and everything humming-things that didn’t even make sense but did at the same time. He had initiated, so it fit that Cuddy was the one to decide when it came to an end, his cheek suddenly cold as her hand left it, sliding down his neck and coming to rest on his chest. She began to push against him just as he took her lower lip gently between his teeth, and the split-second, barely-there sound that came from her was something like a whimper and a moan knotted hastily together so that one tangled into the other and back again.
Everything was suddenly clear as crystal: the woman was trying to kill him.
Cuddy took a step back and stretched out her arm-an effort to put some distance between them, though she didn’t move her hand (but if she hadn’t noticed, he sure as hell wasn’t going to remind her). He would be branded for life-he was sure of it-the unique waves and whorls of each of her fingertips burning straight through the cotton of his t-shirt and imprinting on the skin below. A mark of ownership, maybe, a show of his own stupidity for not wearing flame-retardant clothes when he had known full well that they would, at some point, have found themselves in the same room (he would have made sure of it); but-most importantly-evidence when the police found his body, the medical examiner still scratching his head even after the autopsy had been performed. He wouldn’t be able to blame them when inconclusive was all that appeared under ‘Cause of Death’-death by succubus simply wasn’t all that common in this day and age.
Because, really, there were three options at this point: his racing heart would finally give out, she would suck his soul straight through his chest, or that look he’d caught a glimpse of meant he was about to take a stiletto to the temple and straight through to the brain. However it happened, chances were good that he only had three seconds to live.
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her heart beating so fast that he could see it jumping under her flushed skin, and the impulse to reach out and…. Keep your hands to yourself, Gregory…. (Why, in the name of Satan and all things unholy, did that little voice inside him decide now to make its debut after forty-something years? And sounding alarmingly like his mother?) But it was her eyes-when he finally got around to looking at them-that had him: smoldering, the line between lust and anger dangerously hazy. And he knew then and there why he always went farther out of his way to rile her than anyone else. If this is what he got for giving in to the devil woman, then he’d pay her to take his soul.
It was quiet, too quiet-just breathing and heartbeats, louder than they should have been but still not loud enough. Silence wasn’t something that often came between them, or that which did was crammed with whatever words seemed to best fit (and even those that didn’t so long as something was said). It was what kept the world from falling in around them-patched up the cracks, the vulnerabilities, with clever retorts and teasing.
“Rapid breathing. Flushed skin. Pupils like saucers,” he finally ground out, and the only explanation for the strange pitch of his voice was that he was suddenly coming down with a cold. “Looks like we’ve got some new symptoms.”
“And you think you’re more subtle?” It was the fastest-spreading instant cold in the history of medicine. And that was all that kept him from groaning at the new huskiness in her voice (though when she let her eyes trail down below his waist to make her point, he almost had to admit defeat). But then her hand was gone from his chest, on her hip, and she was continuing, her tone more normal now: almost accusatory, chastising. “Wilson’s seen you staring at my ass. And don’t think I haven’t noticed either. Just because my back is turned-”
“I don’t really know where else you expect me to look when your backside is taking up my entire field of vision.” He leaned lazily back against the exam table, not once taking his eyes from her. “And don’t let Wilson fool you into thinking he’s completely innocent. Should’ve seen him at-”
“Yet he’s not the one who consistently racks up the most sexual harassment complaints every year than the entire rest of the staff combined.”
“I know….” He shook his head sadly and heaved a sigh. “And you’d think something would’ve been done by now. But who wants to be the one to tell the boss her shirts make it really hard to focus?” A beat. Two. They were still close enough so that he had a relatively good view of her cleavage (as good as he could get with that damned shirt in the way). “On work, at least.”
Cuddy shifted, and two questions sprung simultaneously to mind: Had there been any reported deaths by cleavage within U.S. jurisdiction? And all those seemingly innocent times she had moved-for years-had she really been giving him a better view?
Wait-she was talking.
“…amount of time you spend staring at my breasts is far less than the time you’d spend concocting ways to somehow lift or lower less revealing outfits.” She was grinning wryly, twisted to stand beside him, one arm brushing his as she leaned back against the exam table, the other lifting a hand to her forehead, scrubbing her fingers over her eyes. “Give me a little credit: I know how to keep my employees interested in their jobs.”
He smirked at this-the woman had a point and made it well, her argument almost infallible. Of course, ‘employees,’ only referred to him. Not that she didn’t know how to keep the others in top form, but he assumed (hoped) the means were slightly different. Reaching for her almost-forgotten chart, he slid it closer, pretending to study it carefully. There was at least one symptom he could do something about now-the rest would have to wait. “I think I have just the cure for your condition.”
As he shuffled over towards a cabinet and rifled through it, her voice echoed warningly behind him, coaxing a smile. “If you turn around with a package of condoms, House, I swear to God-”
“One thing at a time.” Finding the bottle he wanted, he shook it as he turned back to her, the pills rattling. “Can’t let you use that headache as an excuse later. Gonna have to get creative. And in more than just excuses, if you know what I mean.”
It was teasing, annoying-or so he’d thought. Her expression was cloudy, unreadable for the first time in….
Cuddy’s heels clicked the two steps it took her to meet him-halfway, as they did almost everything-but when her hand reached out, it didn’t take the ibuprofen, and he almost dropped the bottle, fingers clenching at the last second. Instead her palm pressed against the back of his neck, pulling downward, the connection electric but the spark soft. He didn’t know what this was-gratitude, an explanation, some sort of unnecessary apology-but it was gentle and almost sweet, not at all what he was used to from her or anyone else. And it took him all of an instant to decide that he could come to crave this, too, need it, as much as air or sex or even sarcasm. This wasn’t the dominatrix/Dean of Medicine (a product of slightly-twisted reality and his own lonely late-night musings) or the hospital administrator who knew the way into and out of all the building’s tight corners.
It was just… Cuddy, without any other strings or labels attached-someone he almost couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen. (Before that big tennis match, perhaps, all jitters and nerves in that so-short-it-should-be-illegal skirt… after a long and loud frat party when the stars and darkness seemed to stretch forever in a half-drunken haze… or maybe even….)
All this must’ve been a split-second, because he hadn’t even had the time to open his mouth to hers when the door opened with a loud bang, issuing in the noise from the hall outside. The hospital could function without them, apparently (and by them, he clearly meant her)-or maybe not, which was why everything seemed so ridiculously noisy.
Cuddy jumped; he didn’t, watching her nervously step back and smooth her lab coat, cheeks a shade of pink that he was beginning to like even better on her than she-devil red. And it was hopeless pretending, unless whoever stood there was blind, a complete moron, or an easy-to-fool three-year-old. No matter who it was or which category they fell under, House wasn’t about to discriminate: death would be instantaneous but still incredibly painful. He was halfway convinced that he could kill with his glare alone.
“Didn’t anyone teach you to knock?” he growled.
“Didn’t anyone teach you the right way to please a lady?” came the quick response. “Because those pills aren’t gonna do it.”
Brenda. Damn. His imagined death glare wasn’t going to cut it-he’d tried before, numerous times. Her frown was hard, almost dangerous, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t counter it. Brenda blinked (Ha! He’d won-even if she hadn’t known their staring had escalated into a full-on competition) and shifted her focus to Cuddy, her gaze softening considerably. Both women watched each other, neither saying a word, though Brenda nodded after a moment and House thought he saw her smile (enough of an oddity in itself to have its own circus sideshow).
Turning away, face instantly fierce, her voice boomed at some poor soul behind her, “Dr. Cuddy’s not in here, you idiot! Learn to read the damn log!”
The door slammed and Cuddy sighed, running a hand through her hair. House could see the beginnings of This was such a mistake starting to form on her features (again), lifted his cane onto his shoulder, twiddling it while holding out the bottle of ibuprofen-a peace offering. “Want me to head her off? Take her out before this hits the gossip ring? Probably too late to stop it from spreading through the clinic, but I can re-spark that rumor about your sex change operation for some damage control….”
“Thoughtful, but no.” Cuddy smiled softly, popping the top off the ibuprofen. “She won’t tell.”
Women. It was best to just accept and not question.
But so long as that was taken care of…. “Now remind me: what was it we were just discussing?”
Cuddy dry-swallowed two tablets-a woman after his own heart-moved to place the bottle back in its rightful place in the cabinet. “You getting back to clinic duty,” she answered over her shoulder.
House smirked, tongue in his cheek. “You should say it like that more often.”
“I’m serious.”
Oh, yes, he could see that-hand on her hip and everything. He could also still feel the press of her mouth against his, hear that soft sound she had made: hunger and need and oh God yes….
“So am I. It’s much more convincing than you trying to reverse-psychologize me by fake handing-off patients. I know all your dirty tricks, woman.”
She arched an eyebrow as if to say he didn’t know the half of it, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to test those waters, treacherous and shark-infested though they may be. “You’ll be in this clinic, seeing patients, until that waiting room is empty. I don’t care how long it takes.”
“Jeeeeez!” A much kinder exclamation than the one he’d been thinking. “You’d think doing the boss would-”
“I don’t know where you were just now, but whoever or whatever you were doing, it wasn’t me.”
“You’d think making out with the boss,” he amended, and she rolled her eyes but couldn’t argue, “would score you a few extra perks.”
He couldn’t have more pointedly stared at the exact perks he had in mind if his eyes had jumped from his head and dived straight into her cleavage (and what a reconnaissance mission that would be). And Cuddy was just too good-straightening up, back arching slightly so she had his full attention, even if it was locked below her neck.
She knew it, too-tone arch, almost playful. “You still want your extra ten dollars a patient or not? All the rules still apply-but right now, that’s the only perk you’re getting.”
That’s what she thought. It was time to turn the tables-he couldn’t have her under the impression that she’d always get to be on top.
“Depends. Is the currency transferrable?”
“Into Canadian or Euros, yes,” Cuddy answered without missing a beat, narrowing her eyes. “Not into what you’re thinking.”
“Gotta admit-it’s much better incentive.” He was still trying for matter-of-fact as he took the few steps forward, sweeping aside half of her lab coat-it was really nothing more than window-dressing, and right now it was obstructing his view. “And it matches your décor.”
She lifted his hand from her coat with two fingers and a look of disdain, letting go and watching it fall to his side. “If this-” Cuddy waved a hand, almost dismissively, encircling them both with the gesture. “-leads to anything-”
“When.” A step towards her. “And sex. Again.”
The images were slightly stuttered, flickering, like a Super-8 film: once too drunk to remember much more than the sloppy urgency and the mesmerizing way her hair had curled around his fingers… then, later, older-damned memorable, but written off as a foolish mistake (and, yes, still involving alcohol, but at least this time it hadn’t come straight from the tap of a keg), and they had sworn that never ever again would they….
“If,” Cuddy stressed, though even she didn’t seem to believe it. “It’s not going to be because of money or some twisted deal or alco…. Are you even listening? House?”
No, not really-her chest heaved when she spoke just like that (quick and self-righteous, a hint of anger).
“Nothing kinky. Got it.”
“House….”
“Cuddy….” He mimicked her tone but softened it with an exaggerated sigh. His hand reached out, snaked under her lab coat and pulled her close beside him-not an embrace, exactly, but near enough-a strangely soft and intimate gesture until his hand took it upon itself to lower, squeezing her ass. “Eight o’clock. Your place or mine?”
gidget_zb (whether she wants it or not--ha!), who's got me absolutely psyched for all things past, present, and future of Perverse, as well as whatever else her plot bunnies cook up. Anyone insane enough to have NOT read any of the Perverse-verse: forget about this... go! now! and read!
Surrender
He had caught her mid-word, forced her to swallow the rest-a gentle flutter of muscles, like the ripple of water in a barely-disturbed glass. This is what it was to have been doused in toxic waste or bitten by some radioactive insect-instant superpowers, hyper-aware of everything: sound, movement, the feel of her-all traveling in vibrations to the base of his spine and spreading out in waves of heat. Cuddy was half-a-step behind him, motionless but for her arm twitching reflexively in his grasp.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Some alien life-force (stronger than even his own stubbornness) had invaded his brain and taken momentary control, convinced him that this was the one and only surefire way to shut her up.
It really was that simple.
A breath-his or hers (or maybe both). He couldn’t tell, and at the moment, it all amounted to the same thing. Then it was all humid heat and no sound and Cuddy pressed tight against him, the hand he didn’t still have pinned wandering up to frame his face, fingers on fire. And when she came to life, rising up on her toes, there was such a ferocity there it was as though their conversation had barely skipped a beat. With one last surge of brainpower, he tried to remind himself that he hated her, that she had somehow bewitched him, that all this was nothing but proof that he was absolutely, without a doubt, certifiably insane, but-
Oh, fuck, yes….
This was war-explosions and fire and evasive maneuvers: everything but the trenches, because there was nowhere to run, nothing to hide that she wouldn’t discover. Not that he wanted to get away-suspected (no knew now-good God, somewhere that had to be illegal) Cuddy felt the same way. She wasn’t going to yield to him, at least not without first doing everything in her power to assert her dominance. And that thought alone (not to mention whatever her tongue was currently doing to his) was enough to drain all the blood from his head and pump it straight to more useful places.
He had forgotten just how good this (she) could be.
It felt like floating, but with friction, and a rush like wind, and everything humming-things that didn’t even make sense but did at the same time. He had initiated, so it fit that Cuddy was the one to decide when it came to an end, his cheek suddenly cold as her hand left it, sliding down his neck and coming to rest on his chest. She began to push against him just as he took her lower lip gently between his teeth, and the split-second, barely-there sound that came from her was something like a whimper and a moan knotted hastily together so that one tangled into the other and back again.
Everything was suddenly clear as crystal: the woman was trying to kill him.
Cuddy took a step back and stretched out her arm-an effort to put some distance between them, though she didn’t move her hand (but if she hadn’t noticed, he sure as hell wasn’t going to remind her). He would be branded for life-he was sure of it-the unique waves and whorls of each of her fingertips burning straight through the cotton of his t-shirt and imprinting on the skin below. A mark of ownership, maybe, a show of his own stupidity for not wearing flame-retardant clothes when he had known full well that they would, at some point, have found themselves in the same room (he would have made sure of it); but-most importantly-evidence when the police found his body, the medical examiner still scratching his head even after the autopsy had been performed. He wouldn’t be able to blame them when inconclusive was all that appeared under ‘Cause of Death’-death by succubus simply wasn’t all that common in this day and age.
Because, really, there were three options at this point: his racing heart would finally give out, she would suck his soul straight through his chest, or that look he’d caught a glimpse of meant he was about to take a stiletto to the temple and straight through to the brain. However it happened, chances were good that he only had three seconds to live.
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her heart beating so fast that he could see it jumping under her flushed skin, and the impulse to reach out and…. Keep your hands to yourself, Gregory…. (Why, in the name of Satan and all things unholy, did that little voice inside him decide now to make its debut after forty-something years? And sounding alarmingly like his mother?) But it was her eyes-when he finally got around to looking at them-that had him: smoldering, the line between lust and anger dangerously hazy. And he knew then and there why he always went farther out of his way to rile her than anyone else. If this is what he got for giving in to the devil woman, then he’d pay her to take his soul.
It was quiet, too quiet-just breathing and heartbeats, louder than they should have been but still not loud enough. Silence wasn’t something that often came between them, or that which did was crammed with whatever words seemed to best fit (and even those that didn’t so long as something was said). It was what kept the world from falling in around them-patched up the cracks, the vulnerabilities, with clever retorts and teasing.
“Rapid breathing. Flushed skin. Pupils like saucers,” he finally ground out, and the only explanation for the strange pitch of his voice was that he was suddenly coming down with a cold. “Looks like we’ve got some new symptoms.”
“And you think you’re more subtle?” It was the fastest-spreading instant cold in the history of medicine. And that was all that kept him from groaning at the new huskiness in her voice (though when she let her eyes trail down below his waist to make her point, he almost had to admit defeat). But then her hand was gone from his chest, on her hip, and she was continuing, her tone more normal now: almost accusatory, chastising. “Wilson’s seen you staring at my ass. And don’t think I haven’t noticed either. Just because my back is turned-”
“I don’t really know where else you expect me to look when your backside is taking up my entire field of vision.” He leaned lazily back against the exam table, not once taking his eyes from her. “And don’t let Wilson fool you into thinking he’s completely innocent. Should’ve seen him at-”
“Yet he’s not the one who consistently racks up the most sexual harassment complaints every year than the entire rest of the staff combined.”
“I know….” He shook his head sadly and heaved a sigh. “And you’d think something would’ve been done by now. But who wants to be the one to tell the boss her shirts make it really hard to focus?” A beat. Two. They were still close enough so that he had a relatively good view of her cleavage (as good as he could get with that damned shirt in the way). “On work, at least.”
Cuddy shifted, and two questions sprung simultaneously to mind: Had there been any reported deaths by cleavage within U.S. jurisdiction? And all those seemingly innocent times she had moved-for years-had she really been giving him a better view?
Wait-she was talking.
“…amount of time you spend staring at my breasts is far less than the time you’d spend concocting ways to somehow lift or lower less revealing outfits.” She was grinning wryly, twisted to stand beside him, one arm brushing his as she leaned back against the exam table, the other lifting a hand to her forehead, scrubbing her fingers over her eyes. “Give me a little credit: I know how to keep my employees interested in their jobs.”
He smirked at this-the woman had a point and made it well, her argument almost infallible. Of course, ‘employees,’ only referred to him. Not that she didn’t know how to keep the others in top form, but he assumed (hoped) the means were slightly different. Reaching for her almost-forgotten chart, he slid it closer, pretending to study it carefully. There was at least one symptom he could do something about now-the rest would have to wait. “I think I have just the cure for your condition.”
As he shuffled over towards a cabinet and rifled through it, her voice echoed warningly behind him, coaxing a smile. “If you turn around with a package of condoms, House, I swear to God-”
“One thing at a time.” Finding the bottle he wanted, he shook it as he turned back to her, the pills rattling. “Can’t let you use that headache as an excuse later. Gonna have to get creative. And in more than just excuses, if you know what I mean.”
It was teasing, annoying-or so he’d thought. Her expression was cloudy, unreadable for the first time in….
Cuddy’s heels clicked the two steps it took her to meet him-halfway, as they did almost everything-but when her hand reached out, it didn’t take the ibuprofen, and he almost dropped the bottle, fingers clenching at the last second. Instead her palm pressed against the back of his neck, pulling downward, the connection electric but the spark soft. He didn’t know what this was-gratitude, an explanation, some sort of unnecessary apology-but it was gentle and almost sweet, not at all what he was used to from her or anyone else. And it took him all of an instant to decide that he could come to crave this, too, need it, as much as air or sex or even sarcasm. This wasn’t the dominatrix/Dean of Medicine (a product of slightly-twisted reality and his own lonely late-night musings) or the hospital administrator who knew the way into and out of all the building’s tight corners.
It was just… Cuddy, without any other strings or labels attached-someone he almost couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen. (Before that big tennis match, perhaps, all jitters and nerves in that so-short-it-should-be-illegal skirt… after a long and loud frat party when the stars and darkness seemed to stretch forever in a half-drunken haze… or maybe even….)
All this must’ve been a split-second, because he hadn’t even had the time to open his mouth to hers when the door opened with a loud bang, issuing in the noise from the hall outside. The hospital could function without them, apparently (and by them, he clearly meant her)-or maybe not, which was why everything seemed so ridiculously noisy.
Cuddy jumped; he didn’t, watching her nervously step back and smooth her lab coat, cheeks a shade of pink that he was beginning to like even better on her than she-devil red. And it was hopeless pretending, unless whoever stood there was blind, a complete moron, or an easy-to-fool three-year-old. No matter who it was or which category they fell under, House wasn’t about to discriminate: death would be instantaneous but still incredibly painful. He was halfway convinced that he could kill with his glare alone.
“Didn’t anyone teach you to knock?” he growled.
“Didn’t anyone teach you the right way to please a lady?” came the quick response. “Because those pills aren’t gonna do it.”
Brenda. Damn. His imagined death glare wasn’t going to cut it-he’d tried before, numerous times. Her frown was hard, almost dangerous, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t counter it. Brenda blinked (Ha! He’d won-even if she hadn’t known their staring had escalated into a full-on competition) and shifted her focus to Cuddy, her gaze softening considerably. Both women watched each other, neither saying a word, though Brenda nodded after a moment and House thought he saw her smile (enough of an oddity in itself to have its own circus sideshow).
Turning away, face instantly fierce, her voice boomed at some poor soul behind her, “Dr. Cuddy’s not in here, you idiot! Learn to read the damn log!”
The door slammed and Cuddy sighed, running a hand through her hair. House could see the beginnings of This was such a mistake starting to form on her features (again), lifted his cane onto his shoulder, twiddling it while holding out the bottle of ibuprofen-a peace offering. “Want me to head her off? Take her out before this hits the gossip ring? Probably too late to stop it from spreading through the clinic, but I can re-spark that rumor about your sex change operation for some damage control….”
“Thoughtful, but no.” Cuddy smiled softly, popping the top off the ibuprofen. “She won’t tell.”
Women. It was best to just accept and not question.
But so long as that was taken care of…. “Now remind me: what was it we were just discussing?”
Cuddy dry-swallowed two tablets-a woman after his own heart-moved to place the bottle back in its rightful place in the cabinet. “You getting back to clinic duty,” she answered over her shoulder.
House smirked, tongue in his cheek. “You should say it like that more often.”
“I’m serious.”
Oh, yes, he could see that-hand on her hip and everything. He could also still feel the press of her mouth against his, hear that soft sound she had made: hunger and need and oh God yes….
“So am I. It’s much more convincing than you trying to reverse-psychologize me by fake handing-off patients. I know all your dirty tricks, woman.”
She arched an eyebrow as if to say he didn’t know the half of it, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to test those waters, treacherous and shark-infested though they may be. “You’ll be in this clinic, seeing patients, until that waiting room is empty. I don’t care how long it takes.”
“Jeeeeez!” A much kinder exclamation than the one he’d been thinking. “You’d think doing the boss would-”
“I don’t know where you were just now, but whoever or whatever you were doing, it wasn’t me.”
“You’d think making out with the boss,” he amended, and she rolled her eyes but couldn’t argue, “would score you a few extra perks.”
He couldn’t have more pointedly stared at the exact perks he had in mind if his eyes had jumped from his head and dived straight into her cleavage (and what a reconnaissance mission that would be). And Cuddy was just too good-straightening up, back arching slightly so she had his full attention, even if it was locked below her neck.
She knew it, too-tone arch, almost playful. “You still want your extra ten dollars a patient or not? All the rules still apply-but right now, that’s the only perk you’re getting.”
That’s what she thought. It was time to turn the tables-he couldn’t have her under the impression that she’d always get to be on top.
“Depends. Is the currency transferrable?”
“Into Canadian or Euros, yes,” Cuddy answered without missing a beat, narrowing her eyes. “Not into what you’re thinking.”
“Gotta admit-it’s much better incentive.” He was still trying for matter-of-fact as he took the few steps forward, sweeping aside half of her lab coat-it was really nothing more than window-dressing, and right now it was obstructing his view. “And it matches your décor.”
She lifted his hand from her coat with two fingers and a look of disdain, letting go and watching it fall to his side. “If this-” Cuddy waved a hand, almost dismissively, encircling them both with the gesture. “-leads to anything-”
“When.” A step towards her. “And sex. Again.”
The images were slightly stuttered, flickering, like a Super-8 film: once too drunk to remember much more than the sloppy urgency and the mesmerizing way her hair had curled around his fingers… then, later, older-damned memorable, but written off as a foolish mistake (and, yes, still involving alcohol, but at least this time it hadn’t come straight from the tap of a keg), and they had sworn that never ever again would they….
“If,” Cuddy stressed, though even she didn’t seem to believe it. “It’s not going to be because of money or some twisted deal or alco…. Are you even listening? House?”
No, not really-her chest heaved when she spoke just like that (quick and self-righteous, a hint of anger).
“Nothing kinky. Got it.”
“House….”
“Cuddy….” He mimicked her tone but softened it with an exaggerated sigh. His hand reached out, snaked under her lab coat and pulled her close beside him-not an embrace, exactly, but near enough-a strangely soft and intimate gesture until his hand took it upon itself to lower, squeezing her ass. “Eight o’clock. Your place or mine?”