Fic: Blissful Ignorance
Summary: House watches as Cuddy dances and makes out with the Marine nephew of a major donor.
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for the
cuddy_fest
Disclaimer: You say disclaimer. I say stating the obvious. Tomato, tomahto.
Blissful Ignorance
She doesn't know.
Cuddy doesn't know that he's sitting here, whisky in hand, thinking about her. Watching her.
She's with that man again. The marine. She had introduced the two of them earlier that night, but already Greg has forgotten his name. He knows the face, though. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget that face.
He'll just call the guy "Marine." It's easier that way. Greg doesn't care about his name, anyway. All he cares about is the fact that Marine is dancing with Cuddy. They haven't danced to a slow song yet, but he knows it's just a matter of time.
A matter of time before that perfectly sculpted body is pressed up against a man that is not Greg.
The thought makes him sick and just a little angry, and he downs another shot of whisky because maybe the pain will lessen a little with beer goggles on. Whisky goggles?
Who the hell cares what they're called.
This one doesn't help, and Greg decides that there's really no reason to get roaring drunk; he'd probably wind up doing something stupid.
The music filtering through the speakers suddenly changes into a slower tune, and still, he watches.
He watches as Marine smiles down at Cuddy in a way that he has absolutely no right to do. He watches them shift into a closer position, breasts brushing chest, thighs sliding against thighs. Her arms go around Marine's neck, and Greg has to set down his empty shot glass
because if he doesn't, he just might shatter it into a million tiny pieces that would bear remarkable resemblance to his heart.
Yes, he's in love with Cuddy.
He's stopped denying the fact to himself a long time ago.
She'll never love him back, though. She tolerates him, is mildly amused at him sometimes, even. Occasionally, they will even have moments where there is understanding and affection in the air, reminiscent of old times when they were younger and closer.
He's always been a bastard, but she's always been there with him, albeit usually keeping him in check and dishing out just as much as she receives. But she's been there.
And now she's not. Now she's with that man.
They've shifted even closer now, and Greg knows what's about to happen.
Cuddy had been looking over Marine's shoulder, but she smiles at something he whispers in her ear, and she's back to making eye contact.
Marine's head lowers a few inches, and Cuddy meets him halfway. Their lips are touching. Marine leans back, looking into her eyes for approval. She gives it.
And then they're kissing again.
Greg's hand is gripping his bar stool so tightly, he's sure that if he looks down, his knuckles will be white and shaking. But he can't tear his eyes away from the couple on the dance floor. It's like watching an accident on the highway. It fills you with horror and worry and disgust, but you can't look away no matter now much you want to.
So his gaze is riveted to the two, no matter how much his stomach churns, no matter how much his brain and his heart shout at him to stop.
Finally, they stop, letting propriety get the best of their hormones. Still, Greg knows that Marine will probably go home with Cuddy tonight, and that thought is enough to make him turn back to the bar. He stares at the bottom of his glass, and the bartender asks him if he would like another.
He accepts, but doesn't drink it. He just lets it sit there in front of him as he looks down, picking it up occasionally and watching the amber liquid swirl around as he manipulates the glass.
Finally, he looks up, only to discover that shiny metal makes an unfortunately precise mirror, and he can see Cuddy and her dance partner making their way to the door. Apparently, the function is almost over. Good. He can leave, too.
He waits, watching Marine place Cuddy's black coat over the seductive, luscious red number she has on. The man's hands linger just a little too long on her shoulders, and now there isn't a doubt in Greg's mind as to where they're going and what they'll do when they get there.
When they are a few steps from the door, Greg stands, intending to make his way in that direction as well. Why stay in this hellish atmosphere any longer than necessary? He doesn't feel like annoying Wilson, and that's the only thing left to do since the sole reason he's here is because she made him come.
Marine is a few steps ahead of Cuddy, about to open the door for her, ever the gentleman. Suddenly, she spins around, finding Greg with shockingly swift accuracy. As their eyes meet, though it's only for a fleeting second -- she doesn't want Marine to see, Greg thinks -- he is sure she knows he's watching. Probably knows that he has been the entire time.
But as for why?
That's one thing Greg is sure she'll never know.
~End
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for the
cuddy_fest
Disclaimer: You say disclaimer. I say stating the obvious. Tomato, tomahto.
Blissful Ignorance
She doesn't know.
Cuddy doesn't know that he's sitting here, whisky in hand, thinking about her. Watching her.
She's with that man again. The marine. She had introduced the two of them earlier that night, but already Greg has forgotten his name. He knows the face, though. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget that face.
He'll just call the guy "Marine." It's easier that way. Greg doesn't care about his name, anyway. All he cares about is the fact that Marine is dancing with Cuddy. They haven't danced to a slow song yet, but he knows it's just a matter of time.
A matter of time before that perfectly sculpted body is pressed up against a man that is not Greg.
The thought makes him sick and just a little angry, and he downs another shot of whisky because maybe the pain will lessen a little with beer goggles on. Whisky goggles?
Who the hell cares what they're called.
This one doesn't help, and Greg decides that there's really no reason to get roaring drunk; he'd probably wind up doing something stupid.
The music filtering through the speakers suddenly changes into a slower tune, and still, he watches.
He watches as Marine smiles down at Cuddy in a way that he has absolutely no right to do. He watches them shift into a closer position, breasts brushing chest, thighs sliding against thighs. Her arms go around Marine's neck, and Greg has to set down his empty shot glass
because if he doesn't, he just might shatter it into a million tiny pieces that would bear remarkable resemblance to his heart.
Yes, he's in love with Cuddy.
He's stopped denying the fact to himself a long time ago.
She'll never love him back, though. She tolerates him, is mildly amused at him sometimes, even. Occasionally, they will even have moments where there is understanding and affection in the air, reminiscent of old times when they were younger and closer.
He's always been a bastard, but she's always been there with him, albeit usually keeping him in check and dishing out just as much as she receives. But she's been there.
And now she's not. Now she's with that man.
They've shifted even closer now, and Greg knows what's about to happen.
Cuddy had been looking over Marine's shoulder, but she smiles at something he whispers in her ear, and she's back to making eye contact.
Marine's head lowers a few inches, and Cuddy meets him halfway. Their lips are touching. Marine leans back, looking into her eyes for approval. She gives it.
And then they're kissing again.
Greg's hand is gripping his bar stool so tightly, he's sure that if he looks down, his knuckles will be white and shaking. But he can't tear his eyes away from the couple on the dance floor. It's like watching an accident on the highway. It fills you with horror and worry and disgust, but you can't look away no matter now much you want to.
So his gaze is riveted to the two, no matter how much his stomach churns, no matter how much his brain and his heart shout at him to stop.
Finally, they stop, letting propriety get the best of their hormones. Still, Greg knows that Marine will probably go home with Cuddy tonight, and that thought is enough to make him turn back to the bar. He stares at the bottom of his glass, and the bartender asks him if he would like another.
He accepts, but doesn't drink it. He just lets it sit there in front of him as he looks down, picking it up occasionally and watching the amber liquid swirl around as he manipulates the glass.
Finally, he looks up, only to discover that shiny metal makes an unfortunately precise mirror, and he can see Cuddy and her dance partner making their way to the door. Apparently, the function is almost over. Good. He can leave, too.
He waits, watching Marine place Cuddy's black coat over the seductive, luscious red number she has on. The man's hands linger just a little too long on her shoulders, and now there isn't a doubt in Greg's mind as to where they're going and what they'll do when they get there.
When they are a few steps from the door, Greg stands, intending to make his way in that direction as well. Why stay in this hellish atmosphere any longer than necessary? He doesn't feel like annoying Wilson, and that's the only thing left to do since the sole reason he's here is because she made him come.
Marine is a few steps ahead of Cuddy, about to open the door for her, ever the gentleman. Suddenly, she spins around, finding Greg with shockingly swift accuracy. As their eyes meet, though it's only for a fleeting second -- she doesn't want Marine to see, Greg thinks -- he is sure she knows he's watching. Probably knows that he has been the entire time.
But as for why?
That's one thing Greg is sure she'll never know.
~End