Bricks and Beams, Part 1/4
TITLE: "Bricks and Beams" (1/4)
AUTHOR: Meredith (
entropy_comix)
RATING: PG-13 for language and the fact that Tony's mind is constantly in the gutter.
WORD COUNT: About 2600.
GENRE: Lulz, and Tony/Cuddy.
SUMMARY: Tony needs a doctor, and PPTH needs the money for at least 10 new MRI machines annually.
DISCLAIMER: Just for fun. I don't own anything.
NOTES: Thanks to
spoggly for reading this as it was copy/pasted in 5-10 sentence increments on IM, and for harrassing me to finish it.
SPOILERS: Takes place after the Iron Man movie and after the season finale of House, but so far absolutely nothing specific.
“This is obviously a trap,” said House, as the glass door to Cuddy’s office swished shut behind him. “But I couldn’t resist.”
“Oh?” Cuddy snapped the cap on her pen and looked up. “What makes you say that?”
“A big screen TV?” He grinned like a spoiled child.
An annoying.
Spoiled.
Child.
“52 inches. Flatscreen. You will be able to see each and every bubble in Brock’s club soda, from the comfort of your office.” She glanced down at the papers on her desk, skimming the top paragraph of a performance review, not actually reading it, but trying her best to look distracted. She did this to make House feel like she was much too busy to put up with his bullshit today.
Of course, she was too busy everyday, and Cuddy firmly suspected that it was only through some kind of horrible existential conspiracy that he always managed to entrench himself so firmly in the center of everyone’s universe.
“So what’s the catch?”
She shook a piece of white cardstock loose from a stack of medical journals and handed it to him. It was an invitation.
“No,” he said resolutely, scanning the thick black printing on the invitation. “I don’t do fundraisers, unless there’s gambling involved. Or strippers. Preferably both.”
“No is not an option for you. I am offering you a giant TV,” she reminded him, keeping her voice as even as possible. If Cuddy leaned back far enough, the desk felt more like a throne. She crossed her legs imperiously and imagined having House carted off for a swift beheading. King Solomon. Ha. She wished.
“How about I just do those annoying clinic hours?” He leaned forward casually, both hands on his cane, and shrugged.
“You are going to be doing clinic hours for me for the rest of your life. If, god forbid, you were to infect the world with children, they would owe me clinic hours. That will not help you get a TV.”
“And this will?” He held up the invitation.
“Despite the fact that you are an immeasurable pain in my ass, I keep you at this hospital because you bring in money. Money comes from fundraisers and benefits. This is a big event, and I want you there, House. In a tux. And behaved.”
“Oh, I love this part.” House leaned forward slightly, leering at her. “Is this where you threaten me for misbehaving? Will there be whips involved?”
Cuddy’s hand clamped forcefully around her coffee mug. It was cold to the touch, about an inch of bitter sludge and crystallized sugar sloshing around in the bottom, and a rather poor substitute for House’s neck.
“Your very own giant television, House. The fundraiser is on Friday night. I need an answer by the end of the day.”
He looked pensive. “Open bar?”
“Of course.”
“Then yes.” He tucked in invitation in his jacket pocket and hobbled towards the door, looking immensely pleased with himself.
Cuddy waited until he was out of sight before releasing her coffee cup.
000
Pepper and Happy were in Cabo.
They were together in Cabo, actually, on a three week paid vacation. Pepper had a diamond-much larger than Happy should be able to afford on his regular salary-glittering on her finger, and Tony had to keep reminding himself that Happy was a nice guy.
And his friend.
Well, close enough anyway.
His employee.
If Tony Stark couldn’t have everything, then it was probably a fair assumption that no one could. However, he did have an enormous office, and a glass of whiskey, which was enough for now.
The woman serving as Pepper’s temporary replacement was perfectly adequate but she was definitely not Pepper and for that reason Tony found her perfectly awful. He sent away three girls until he started missing appointments and finally had to settle for a strawberry blonde with a fairly nice sized rack.
He hated settling.
He watched the last sliver of ice waste away into nothing in his glass. He downed the remainder of his watered-down whiskey in a quick gulp and slouched in his chair, shifting his weight from leg to leg so that he rotated in slow, half circles.
“Rebecca?”
His temporary secretary slipped quickly through the glass door and began talking in a fast, breathless voice. “Your plane leaves at 4 today, Mr. Stark, and when you arrive at Newark Liberty International Airport a car will be waiting for you at--”
“That's great, sweetie,” he interrupted. “I actually just need some more ice.” He held up his empty glass expectantly. For a moment he thought she might look angry. She looked perplexed for a moment, but mostly, she just looked nervous and eager to please.
“Of course Mr. Stark,” she said quickly, snatching up the ice bucket and slipping back through the gleaming glass doors.
Too much mascara. Brown roots peeking out at the top of her scalp. (He was starting to wonder if there were any natural blondes on earth.) Low-cut white blouse. Tight skirt.
Worth a fuck? He watched her retreating back, titling his head slightly.
Weren't they all?
Rebecca returned with the ice. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Stark?”
Tony contemplated sobering up, but quickly decided against it. He then contemplated getting a DUI, but eventually decided against that as well.
“I'll need a driver to take me to the airport.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
He decided 'I could use a blow job' was probably a bit too forward for a temp secretary.
“Nope.” He smiled, noticing with some satisfaction that she blushed slightly as he did so. “Thanks.” She made a hasty retreat. He was starting to wonder if she was allergic to something in his office, for as quickly as she moved in and out of it.
Well he didn't hire her to fuck her.
Because he sure as hell didn't need to pay for sex. Though that was, occasionally, highly entertaining.
He needed a personal assistant. He had places to go, people to see, hands to shake, papers to sign, and expensive booze to drink, and he needed someone to organize all of that for him.
Apparently.
And it wasn't as if Pepper was interested in him anyway. Probably not. Especially considering that she was currently engaged to another man. Who was also his friend. (Ok maybe definitely not.)
So quite probably the only two people in the whole world who would actually care if Tony Stark-not as a celebrity or a paycheck or stock dividend, but the man himself-was going into cardiac arrest in his garage, were far away.
This, ironically, is exactly what Tony was doing in his garage last night at 10:41pm.
It was nothing really, just a tiny glitch in the arc reactor's techno-organic decompressor-an easy fix even-though an extra pair hands would have been useful. And maybe an extra heart, but he was down to just one at the moment.
And, somewhere between the self-surgery, the subsequent heart failure, the hysterical flailing of limbs as he tried to (quite literally) kick start his cardiovascular system, his computer asking very persistently in a drawling English accent if he was “very sure he did not want an ambulance, sir?” and his stubbornly repeated choked out reply of “NO,” he realized that if such a situation was ever going to reoccur, it might possibly be useful to have Pepper around.
But Pepper wouldn't always be around, so perhaps his second best alternative would be...a doctor.
Pepper was preferable because in addition to being well-Pepper-he could trust her. Unconditionally. And that was something very, very difficult to come by in this business. Or at all, for that matter.
So there was that problem. He didn't like hospitals, and he didn't much care for doctors either, and the last doctor that he had found himself liking, or trusting, had bled to death in the Afghan mountains.
And it wasn't as though he was a typical patient. One wrong move with the arc reactor and they would be scraping up tiny charred bits of Tony Stark for a dozen city blocks.
There was S.H.I.E.L.D., of course-they must have doctors. But that brought him back to his first problem. One look in Nick Fury’s single, narrowed eye told him very plainly that Tony was nothing but a set a blue prints to him.
He had a good sense for these things. He was a business man, after all.
Give it a year or two and Fury would have an army of Iron Men, and the skies would be full of Stark Industries weapons.
Again.
S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't need the full schematics to his armor, his arc reactor, or himself-at least not for awhile; and definitely not right now.
So Tony needed a doctor. A good doctor. In fact, he and his money probably deserved the very best doctor, not just for his own well-being, but on behalf of the good, not yet atomized people of anyone-within-a-two-mile-radius-of-Tony-Stark-at-any-given-time.
000
She had her hair professionally done.
It was expensive, of course (about 85 dollars, plus tip), but it was worth it. She could afford it, so why not? It wasn't like she had any one else to spend the money on. No boyfriend, no babies, no pets.
There was a brief time she considered getting a cat-then she read that cats were dangerous to have around babies and decided against it. Then she decided against having the baby, and decided that the cat was a pathetic substitute anyway.
So her house was empty but her dress was expensive and her hair was gorgeous, and what the hell, the manicure looked pretty sharp too.
Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital held its fair share of fundraisers, and as the Dean of Medicine, it was Cuddy's responsibility to firmly associate herself with the words “charming” and “competent” in the minds of all the wealthy donors at every single one of them. That, and assure people that Doctor Gregory House was both a fruitful and stable investment in the hospital's future, though she found the best way to do that was to keep House as far away from the donors as possible.
That was not going to be possible tonight.
For some reason (she still suspected some kind of horrible conspiracy) the wealthiest person ever to show interest in donating to PPTH had written to her directly, specifically requesting a meeting with the world famous doctor House at the benefit. Or at least, his secretary had written in his behalf, but the end result was the same-mandatory attendance for her most interpersonally inept employee at the social event of the season.
Oh, joy.
Cuddy dearly wished she could simply lead any curious donors quietly down the hall to House's office and let them observe him through the large glass windows like a primate in a zoo-House could peacefully play his video games and Cuddy wouldn't have to spend her entire evening spinning damage control on the sarcastic stream of bile that poured continuously from House's mouth.
PPTH did have a decently sized banquet hall, but apparently the size wasn't quite decent enough to hold all of the people who were willing to pay 600 dollars a plate to gawk at their celebrity guest, so the hospital had been forced to rent space in a much larger venue a few miles down the road.
It took a lot of planning, a lot of paper work, and a lot of ass-kissing to pull off a good benefit-especially on Cuddy's part. But even though she had to serve tirelessly as the hostess to a giant party for a surprisingly ungrateful inanimate institution, she got to eat a 600 dollar steak for free, wear an expensive, sexy dress, and even though she had to sit in close proximity to House, she also got to spend the entire night sitting at a table with one of the wealthiest single men on this earth.
By 9pm, about two hundred people were already seated in the hall, chattering amicably, while a fair number of latecomers filtered in through the doors. The band in the corner played some very forgettable music, and Cuddy hoped that the intensity with which she was watching the door was not too obvious to the people around her. (House-who was currently preoccupied by his determination to reach the bar as quickly as was possible for a man with only one good leg.)
He was slightly late, but seemed utterly unperturbed by this fact as he entered the room. (Fashionably late maybe? Was it tasteful to be late to a benefit your company was sponsoring?) As he neared the table, he waved away a harried looking blond woman that had been following closely behind him and took a moment to smooth down the front of a very expensive looking tux.
“And...you are gorgeous. I really hope that you are Dr. Cuddy.” He flashed her an absolutely serene smile and held out his hand.
“I guess you're in luck.” She took his hand and smiled in return. “Mr. Stark.”
Charming.
000
There were very few pictures of Doctor Gregory House online.
Tony knew this because a few weeks ago, he had ordered a briefing package on several dozen of the best doctors in the western world, complete with various highlights from articles and lectures. Unlike his camera-hungry colleagues, the only picture of House in any kind of wide circulation was shot of him as a college freshmen, standing in the back row of the John Hopkins University track team.
There were approximately six other very important people at the table with himself and the unexpectedly attractive Doctor Lisa Cuddy that Tony could not give a flying fuck about if you paid him. It just so happened that he was paying them, so remembering their names was not high on his list of priorities.
At the current moment, he wanted two things. Firstly, he wanted a scotch. (Possibly several). Secondly, he wanted to talk to Doctor House, which was really the reason behind all this bullshit anyway. (He tried to weasel out of attending fundraisers, benefits, and award shows in person whenever possibly.) Thirdly, he wanted to tear Doctor Cuddy's dress off, but that might have to wait.
Ok, three things.
000
As the evening's first 10 minutes of small talk obligatory drew on, Cuddy struggled internally with a very difficult decision. Would House be more offensive or less offensive when drunk?
Probably more. No-definitely more. (Not that 'inhibited' or 'uninhibited' were words in House's vocabulary.)
So would the devastatingly handsome, wealthy donor be more or less amused by House while he was drunk? Too soon to tell. And he had specifically requested that House be there, so obviously, for some unfathomable reason, he eventually intended to talk to the bastard.
A delicate balance would have to be struck. House seemed to have decided to spend his evening leaning on the bar counter, which at the very least gave Cuddy a chance to come up with some kind of strategy.
She subtlety flagged down a waitress, but to her dismay, Stark waved her away as she approached the table. He stood up.
“Can I get you a drink, Dr. Cuddy?”
Why. Why did he want to go to the bar. House was at the bar. Of course, he probably knew that. What with the world renowned genius level IQ and all.
Fuck.
“I'll have a...vodka martini.”
For a brief moment, Stark gave her a strangely calculating look. “Extra olives?”
“Sure...” she said, throwing him her best charming smile, her hands folded neatly together on the tabletop. She watched as he turned and headed toward the bar, preemptively mourning the loss of 20 million dollars.
Part 2
AUTHOR: Meredith (
entropy_comix)
RATING: PG-13 for language and the fact that Tony's mind is constantly in the gutter.
WORD COUNT: About 2600.
GENRE: Lulz, and Tony/Cuddy.
SUMMARY: Tony needs a doctor, and PPTH needs the money for at least 10 new MRI machines annually.
DISCLAIMER: Just for fun. I don't own anything.
NOTES: Thanks to
spoggly for reading this as it was copy/pasted in 5-10 sentence increments on IM, and for harrassing me to finish it.
SPOILERS: Takes place after the Iron Man movie and after the season finale of House, but so far absolutely nothing specific.
“This is obviously a trap,” said House, as the glass door to Cuddy’s office swished shut behind him. “But I couldn’t resist.”
“Oh?” Cuddy snapped the cap on her pen and looked up. “What makes you say that?”
“A big screen TV?” He grinned like a spoiled child.
An annoying.
Spoiled.
Child.
“52 inches. Flatscreen. You will be able to see each and every bubble in Brock’s club soda, from the comfort of your office.” She glanced down at the papers on her desk, skimming the top paragraph of a performance review, not actually reading it, but trying her best to look distracted. She did this to make House feel like she was much too busy to put up with his bullshit today.
Of course, she was too busy everyday, and Cuddy firmly suspected that it was only through some kind of horrible existential conspiracy that he always managed to entrench himself so firmly in the center of everyone’s universe.
“So what’s the catch?”
She shook a piece of white cardstock loose from a stack of medical journals and handed it to him. It was an invitation.
“No,” he said resolutely, scanning the thick black printing on the invitation. “I don’t do fundraisers, unless there’s gambling involved. Or strippers. Preferably both.”
“No is not an option for you. I am offering you a giant TV,” she reminded him, keeping her voice as even as possible. If Cuddy leaned back far enough, the desk felt more like a throne. She crossed her legs imperiously and imagined having House carted off for a swift beheading. King Solomon. Ha. She wished.
“How about I just do those annoying clinic hours?” He leaned forward casually, both hands on his cane, and shrugged.
“You are going to be doing clinic hours for me for the rest of your life. If, god forbid, you were to infect the world with children, they would owe me clinic hours. That will not help you get a TV.”
“And this will?” He held up the invitation.
“Despite the fact that you are an immeasurable pain in my ass, I keep you at this hospital because you bring in money. Money comes from fundraisers and benefits. This is a big event, and I want you there, House. In a tux. And behaved.”
“Oh, I love this part.” House leaned forward slightly, leering at her. “Is this where you threaten me for misbehaving? Will there be whips involved?”
Cuddy’s hand clamped forcefully around her coffee mug. It was cold to the touch, about an inch of bitter sludge and crystallized sugar sloshing around in the bottom, and a rather poor substitute for House’s neck.
“Your very own giant television, House. The fundraiser is on Friday night. I need an answer by the end of the day.”
He looked pensive. “Open bar?”
“Of course.”
“Then yes.” He tucked in invitation in his jacket pocket and hobbled towards the door, looking immensely pleased with himself.
Cuddy waited until he was out of sight before releasing her coffee cup.
000
Pepper and Happy were in Cabo.
They were together in Cabo, actually, on a three week paid vacation. Pepper had a diamond-much larger than Happy should be able to afford on his regular salary-glittering on her finger, and Tony had to keep reminding himself that Happy was a nice guy.
And his friend.
Well, close enough anyway.
His employee.
If Tony Stark couldn’t have everything, then it was probably a fair assumption that no one could. However, he did have an enormous office, and a glass of whiskey, which was enough for now.
The woman serving as Pepper’s temporary replacement was perfectly adequate but she was definitely not Pepper and for that reason Tony found her perfectly awful. He sent away three girls until he started missing appointments and finally had to settle for a strawberry blonde with a fairly nice sized rack.
He hated settling.
He watched the last sliver of ice waste away into nothing in his glass. He downed the remainder of his watered-down whiskey in a quick gulp and slouched in his chair, shifting his weight from leg to leg so that he rotated in slow, half circles.
“Rebecca?”
His temporary secretary slipped quickly through the glass door and began talking in a fast, breathless voice. “Your plane leaves at 4 today, Mr. Stark, and when you arrive at Newark Liberty International Airport a car will be waiting for you at--”
“That's great, sweetie,” he interrupted. “I actually just need some more ice.” He held up his empty glass expectantly. For a moment he thought she might look angry. She looked perplexed for a moment, but mostly, she just looked nervous and eager to please.
“Of course Mr. Stark,” she said quickly, snatching up the ice bucket and slipping back through the gleaming glass doors.
Too much mascara. Brown roots peeking out at the top of her scalp. (He was starting to wonder if there were any natural blondes on earth.) Low-cut white blouse. Tight skirt.
Worth a fuck? He watched her retreating back, titling his head slightly.
Weren't they all?
Rebecca returned with the ice. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Stark?”
Tony contemplated sobering up, but quickly decided against it. He then contemplated getting a DUI, but eventually decided against that as well.
“I'll need a driver to take me to the airport.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
He decided 'I could use a blow job' was probably a bit too forward for a temp secretary.
“Nope.” He smiled, noticing with some satisfaction that she blushed slightly as he did so. “Thanks.” She made a hasty retreat. He was starting to wonder if she was allergic to something in his office, for as quickly as she moved in and out of it.
Well he didn't hire her to fuck her.
Because he sure as hell didn't need to pay for sex. Though that was, occasionally, highly entertaining.
He needed a personal assistant. He had places to go, people to see, hands to shake, papers to sign, and expensive booze to drink, and he needed someone to organize all of that for him.
Apparently.
And it wasn't as if Pepper was interested in him anyway. Probably not. Especially considering that she was currently engaged to another man. Who was also his friend. (Ok maybe definitely not.)
So quite probably the only two people in the whole world who would actually care if Tony Stark-not as a celebrity or a paycheck or stock dividend, but the man himself-was going into cardiac arrest in his garage, were far away.
This, ironically, is exactly what Tony was doing in his garage last night at 10:41pm.
It was nothing really, just a tiny glitch in the arc reactor's techno-organic decompressor-an easy fix even-though an extra pair hands would have been useful. And maybe an extra heart, but he was down to just one at the moment.
And, somewhere between the self-surgery, the subsequent heart failure, the hysterical flailing of limbs as he tried to (quite literally) kick start his cardiovascular system, his computer asking very persistently in a drawling English accent if he was “very sure he did not want an ambulance, sir?” and his stubbornly repeated choked out reply of “NO,” he realized that if such a situation was ever going to reoccur, it might possibly be useful to have Pepper around.
But Pepper wouldn't always be around, so perhaps his second best alternative would be...a doctor.
Pepper was preferable because in addition to being well-Pepper-he could trust her. Unconditionally. And that was something very, very difficult to come by in this business. Or at all, for that matter.
So there was that problem. He didn't like hospitals, and he didn't much care for doctors either, and the last doctor that he had found himself liking, or trusting, had bled to death in the Afghan mountains.
And it wasn't as though he was a typical patient. One wrong move with the arc reactor and they would be scraping up tiny charred bits of Tony Stark for a dozen city blocks.
There was S.H.I.E.L.D., of course-they must have doctors. But that brought him back to his first problem. One look in Nick Fury’s single, narrowed eye told him very plainly that Tony was nothing but a set a blue prints to him.
He had a good sense for these things. He was a business man, after all.
Give it a year or two and Fury would have an army of Iron Men, and the skies would be full of Stark Industries weapons.
Again.
S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't need the full schematics to his armor, his arc reactor, or himself-at least not for awhile; and definitely not right now.
So Tony needed a doctor. A good doctor. In fact, he and his money probably deserved the very best doctor, not just for his own well-being, but on behalf of the good, not yet atomized people of anyone-within-a-two-mile-radius-of-Tony-Stark-at-any-given-time.
000
She had her hair professionally done.
It was expensive, of course (about 85 dollars, plus tip), but it was worth it. She could afford it, so why not? It wasn't like she had any one else to spend the money on. No boyfriend, no babies, no pets.
There was a brief time she considered getting a cat-then she read that cats were dangerous to have around babies and decided against it. Then she decided against having the baby, and decided that the cat was a pathetic substitute anyway.
So her house was empty but her dress was expensive and her hair was gorgeous, and what the hell, the manicure looked pretty sharp too.
Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital held its fair share of fundraisers, and as the Dean of Medicine, it was Cuddy's responsibility to firmly associate herself with the words “charming” and “competent” in the minds of all the wealthy donors at every single one of them. That, and assure people that Doctor Gregory House was both a fruitful and stable investment in the hospital's future, though she found the best way to do that was to keep House as far away from the donors as possible.
That was not going to be possible tonight.
For some reason (she still suspected some kind of horrible conspiracy) the wealthiest person ever to show interest in donating to PPTH had written to her directly, specifically requesting a meeting with the world famous doctor House at the benefit. Or at least, his secretary had written in his behalf, but the end result was the same-mandatory attendance for her most interpersonally inept employee at the social event of the season.
Oh, joy.
Cuddy dearly wished she could simply lead any curious donors quietly down the hall to House's office and let them observe him through the large glass windows like a primate in a zoo-House could peacefully play his video games and Cuddy wouldn't have to spend her entire evening spinning damage control on the sarcastic stream of bile that poured continuously from House's mouth.
PPTH did have a decently sized banquet hall, but apparently the size wasn't quite decent enough to hold all of the people who were willing to pay 600 dollars a plate to gawk at their celebrity guest, so the hospital had been forced to rent space in a much larger venue a few miles down the road.
It took a lot of planning, a lot of paper work, and a lot of ass-kissing to pull off a good benefit-especially on Cuddy's part. But even though she had to serve tirelessly as the hostess to a giant party for a surprisingly ungrateful inanimate institution, she got to eat a 600 dollar steak for free, wear an expensive, sexy dress, and even though she had to sit in close proximity to House, she also got to spend the entire night sitting at a table with one of the wealthiest single men on this earth.
By 9pm, about two hundred people were already seated in the hall, chattering amicably, while a fair number of latecomers filtered in through the doors. The band in the corner played some very forgettable music, and Cuddy hoped that the intensity with which she was watching the door was not too obvious to the people around her. (House-who was currently preoccupied by his determination to reach the bar as quickly as was possible for a man with only one good leg.)
He was slightly late, but seemed utterly unperturbed by this fact as he entered the room. (Fashionably late maybe? Was it tasteful to be late to a benefit your company was sponsoring?) As he neared the table, he waved away a harried looking blond woman that had been following closely behind him and took a moment to smooth down the front of a very expensive looking tux.
“And...you are gorgeous. I really hope that you are Dr. Cuddy.” He flashed her an absolutely serene smile and held out his hand.
“I guess you're in luck.” She took his hand and smiled in return. “Mr. Stark.”
Charming.
000
There were very few pictures of Doctor Gregory House online.
Tony knew this because a few weeks ago, he had ordered a briefing package on several dozen of the best doctors in the western world, complete with various highlights from articles and lectures. Unlike his camera-hungry colleagues, the only picture of House in any kind of wide circulation was shot of him as a college freshmen, standing in the back row of the John Hopkins University track team.
There were approximately six other very important people at the table with himself and the unexpectedly attractive Doctor Lisa Cuddy that Tony could not give a flying fuck about if you paid him. It just so happened that he was paying them, so remembering their names was not high on his list of priorities.
At the current moment, he wanted two things. Firstly, he wanted a scotch. (Possibly several). Secondly, he wanted to talk to Doctor House, which was really the reason behind all this bullshit anyway. (He tried to weasel out of attending fundraisers, benefits, and award shows in person whenever possibly.) Thirdly, he wanted to tear Doctor Cuddy's dress off, but that might have to wait.
Ok, three things.
000
As the evening's first 10 minutes of small talk obligatory drew on, Cuddy struggled internally with a very difficult decision. Would House be more offensive or less offensive when drunk?
Probably more. No-definitely more. (Not that 'inhibited' or 'uninhibited' were words in House's vocabulary.)
So would the devastatingly handsome, wealthy donor be more or less amused by House while he was drunk? Too soon to tell. And he had specifically requested that House be there, so obviously, for some unfathomable reason, he eventually intended to talk to the bastard.
A delicate balance would have to be struck. House seemed to have decided to spend his evening leaning on the bar counter, which at the very least gave Cuddy a chance to come up with some kind of strategy.
She subtlety flagged down a waitress, but to her dismay, Stark waved her away as she approached the table. He stood up.
“Can I get you a drink, Dr. Cuddy?”
Why. Why did he want to go to the bar. House was at the bar. Of course, he probably knew that. What with the world renowned genius level IQ and all.
Fuck.
“I'll have a...vodka martini.”
For a brief moment, Stark gave her a strangely calculating look. “Extra olives?”
“Sure...” she said, throwing him her best charming smile, her hands folded neatly together on the tabletop. She watched as he turned and headed toward the bar, preemptively mourning the loss of 20 million dollars.
Part 2