Fic: Transference
Title: Transference
Pairing: House/Cuddy, OT3
Rating: T
Warnings: General perversion and naughtiness. Same as usual.
Disclaimer: All work and no fic makes me a very dull girl--i.e., House MD doesn't belong to me.
Spoilers: Very slight spoilers for S6's "Wilson"
Summary: House has company.
A/N: The song mentioned is "You Don't Know Me" by Mr. Ray Charles.
Special thanks to my amazing beta, avidreadergirl. Without her, all typos and wordiness would be possible.
Transference
It’s a kind of fidelity.
Proof, he tells himself, that he’s capable of loving her.
It’s not an addiction.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, House rubs his already-aching thigh and watches the morning sun fill his window like a light board, illuminating the body beside him. Splayed limbs and twisted sheets. Dark hair that’s lost its curl. The stereo still plays in the living room, stale and out of place as Ray Charles croons you don’t know me through the walls. Her skin is pockmarked and pale.
“Hey…” He reaches out to roughly shake her shoulder. He doesn’t know her name. Not the real one, anyway. “Hey, wake up.”
Cautiously, she opens an eye that isn’t even blue.
“Ride’s over. Time to go.”
“Sure thing.” She pushes a snarl of tangles away from her face-the wrong face-and smiles at him, all warm and friendly. In her business, it doesn’t pay not to be. “We just need to settle up first.”
Turning away, he digs his wallet out of the jeans at his feet. The mattress shifts as she rises onto her knees and shuffles up against him, pressing her breasts into his back. He closes his eyes when she reaches down between his legs and just for a moment it seems possible, the musk of sex and the scratch in her voice, that animal feeling deep in the pit of his belly…
She snatches the wad of cash from his hand, letting loose the wet rattle of a phlegmy cough directly into his ear. “You’re short,” she manages to gasp out between hacks.
He shrugs her off, wiping his ear on his shoulder. “And you need a TB test and an x-ray to check for lung cancer.”
“What are you, a doctor?”
“No, but my roommate plays one on TV.” While she puzzles over his reply, he slides into the wrinkled jeans. The cold denim brushes against his scar, making him shiver. “Be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the ATM. Feel free to wash up while I’m gone.” He gives her directions to the bathroom then pads on bare feet into the kitchen to wait for Wilson. Five, four, three, two…
“Why is there a hooker in my bathtub?” Jimmy asks, coming around the corner. He’s already dressed for work, bright-eyed and bushy-browed, cup of coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other.
House reaches across the island countertop to swipe the mug. “Morning,” he says, grimacing as he takes a swallow. Too sweet.
“That’s okay.” Wilson waves him off when he tries to give back the coffee. “I know where your mouth has been.”
“Speaking of which, you wouldn’t have three hundred dollars I can borrow, would you? Either that or her pimp breaks your leg. I told him you were good for it.”
Wilson sighs and rolls his puppy eyes in disapproval, but he surrenders the money, which is all that really matters. “You owe me.”
“Put it on my tab.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He heads for the door, and House feels cocky, like he’s gotten off easy.
He should’ve known better.
Wilson turns the knob but then stops, standing halfway out into the hall with the door wide open. He tilts his head toward the sound of running water as his lips hint at a rueful smile. “Say goodbye to Lisa for me?”
House looks away and nods.
Say goodbye to Lisa.
If only he could.