Pawns In A Game (1/3)
Title: Pawns In A Game
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Cuddy, House, some Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note: This was written for help_lisa. This auction was won by liacuddles, who wanted a fic where House and Cuddy discover that they have the same hobby. Some things may be a little AU, based on the contradictions in the actual canon. I should also say that this fic alternates between two timelines, one that follows House/Cuddy from college to the infarction and one that mostly follows the arc of the series. Hopefully things aren't too confusing.
Warning: This piece contains spoilers through "Bombshells" as well as sexual situations. If that bothers you, please don't read.
Summary: Sometimes their lives seemed defined by the games they played and the ones they didn't.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
“You’re supposed to be downstairs,” Cuddy admonishes as she pushes her way into his office.
“We’re a little busy.” House doesn’t bother looking up as he pulls a waxy card from its container. He’s guessing he’s just making her pissier, but he’s truthfully far more interested in seeing if Foreman gets the green wedge than hearing her talk about the medical crisis going on downstairs.
“You’re playing a board game. That’s not busy.”
House ignores her, though he knows she’s now standing in front of his desk. Instead he asks Foreman, “Your question is: ‘What African animal’s name is made up of the letters n, g, and u?’” Finally he looks up at Cuddy. “This is important,” he tells her. “When Chase loses, they’ll -”
“No,” she interrupts, irritation infused in the word. She’s mad enough that her own agitation makes her louder than Chase’s attempts at a denial.
House is amused, not deterred in the least. “Sorry,” he tells her good-naturedly. “That’s not the right answer. Close. But there’s no u or g in that, so I guess you weren’t really close at all.”
His humor is not shared with her. “No.”
“Pretty sure I’m right about that.”
“No, I mean I’m not playing. And neither are you.”
“We’ll get right on that.” He focuses his attention back on Foreman. “You gonna answer or…?” He lets the thought hang in the air in the hopes of prompting a response. Unfortunately the others in the room have yet to realize that Cuddy’s not much of a threat (no matter how often he insists), so he’s not all that surprised Foreman stays silent.
“Well, I guess you got your answer,” House says with defeat, looking at her once more. Chase and Foreman don’t need any more motivation. Sensing his loss, they’re quick to get to their feet. They don’t run out of the room, perhaps out of a sense for their own pride. But there’s no hesitation on their part either, and it’s clear who they’ve chosen to obey in this instance.
The second they leave, she’s smiling smugly. “Now it’s your turn.”
“You forget. I’m not as easy as the others.”
“Oh, I think that’s impossible to forget.”
“Then you understand why I need incentive to leave.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “This is your job. That’s the incentive you have.”
“That’s it?” He frowns. “Sounds kinda boring.”
“It’s not my job to entertain you.”
“And yet you’re wearing that top.”
“It is your job to -”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
The challenge is an unspoken one, and she doesn’t need an explanation. He likes that about her.
“Gnu,” she says almost immediately. “That’s the answer to the question.”
“Well of course it is. You can see the back of the card.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Sorry. Judges have already ruled: you cheated.”
They are at the point where it would be reasonable for her to say that he has to work regardless. He’s not saying he would listen, but it would fair for her to at least attempt to end the game right now.
Instead she tells him, “Get a new card.”
He doesn’t, his fingers toying with the glossy index card in his hands. She has to know, he thinks, that this won’t work; he’s not going to get up and do what she wants just because she’s answered a question correctly. He decides to point that out.
“You think I’m going to do what you want just because -”
“I think everyone else you would play with is doing their job.”
“Not you.”
She doesn’t deny it. “I’m your only option. And I’m smarter than you, which means I’m going to beat you.”
“No, you’re not, and no, you won’t.”
She is undeterred. “And when I beat you, you’re not going to want to play anymore, because you’re a child. And then you’ll have no choice but to go to work.”
“It’s that simple, is it?” Slowly he clears off the board, setting Chase and Foreman’s pieces to the side. As he dumps the wedges out of his own wheel, House says, “You’re gonna win and ruin my fun? You think that’s what’s going to happen?” He grabs a playing piece for her. “You realize this isn’t the children’s version, yeah?”
“I’ll even let you go first.” She grins as she takes a seat across from him.
There is no hesitation on her part, no reluctance to waste time playing with him. That fact should come as a surprise, given how often they find themselves at one another’s throats. But he is hardly in shock.
Competition is part and parcel for them. Collaboration and implicit trust are necessary to their working relationship, obviously so. But those elements have little pull on either of them.
It’s nice - maybe; he doesn’t believe that with any certainty. Yet that warmth fails to capture his attention for any substantial period of time. Because, while he has no desire to make her an enemy, the fact is she will never be a friend. She’s too pretty for that, knows too well how to stir within him heady need he has no capacity to satiate - and knows that she has that effect on him. The ruthlessness with which she flaunts that in his face comes too naturally, as his penchant for returning the favor. And for that reason, there will never be friendship between them. The need to conquer is simply too strong for them both, which is why he’s not surprised to see her in front of him now.
They might be getting ready to start a game, but this is a game they’ve been playing for years. It might be a start, but it’s hardly the beginning for them.
He glances at her and uncharacteristically smiles. That knowledge in his head, he says confidently, “You’re going to lose.”
As always though, she is undeterred. The possibility of defeat has never stopped either of them from this, from circling one another both eagerly and without intention of ever doing anything. He understands that it should be no different now. But he finds himself impressed anyway when she remains unmoved.
Assured as ever, she throws back at him, “We’ll see.”
He knows though, more than anyone else, that she’s most confident right before she loses.
After all, they’ve done this before.
He doesn’t doubt they’ll do it again.
*************************
The first time he sees her, she’s sauntering across the college lawn. She’s nipping at a professor’s heels, her lips moving quickly as she talks. House is too far away to hear what she’s saying, and to be honest, he doesn’t really care. It’s warm out, sunny, and contentment has made him lazy. Questions, if only for a moment, do not plague him, as he sits underneath a tree with an apple in his hand.
The fruit is almost too sour to consume, he thinks as his gaze lingers on her. Juice dribbling down his fingers, he barely notices the mess. He’s too busy trying not to choke when she bends down to tie her shoe and he catches sight of her taut ass stuffed into tight denim.
By the time he can breathe again, she’s gone.
The second time he sees her is at one of the school events, a hoedown, which he has tracked her down to. For a brief moment, by her asking, he’s dancing with her. But his tongue is effectively tied; the alcohol he’s imbibed earlier (and jokes about hoedowns he’s thinking of) keeps him uncharacteristically silent. And when the song is over, she moves on to someone clean-shaven and burly, muscles snug in a varsity jacket. He quickly forgets about the wisp of an encounter and moves on with his life. Someone that hot shouldn’t be touched, he tells himself. After that, he doesn’t think about her again.
But she does not disappear from his life.
The next time he sees her is actually more like the sixth or seventh time, probably, he’s been in the same room with her. By sheer chance, he gets to endocrinology class early and is there to watch her come in. She bends down to grab the pencil she’s dropped, and he recognizes the ass he stared at a couple weeks ago. In that moment, he feels like an idiot - for not associating her face (or her breasts) with the backside he’s refused to think about since the hoedown.
Mentally he decides to rectify that mistake by memorizing every feature of her, so that he’ll remember from now on. But that just makes him feel like an even bigger ass, because he’s taking the effort to remember someone he may as well forget. He’s not looking for a relationship and certainly not one with a random idiot in his class. He’s wasting his time, and he doesn’t even understand why.
Not that that stops him.
Identified ridiculousness should have him listening to the guest lecturer, an older man whose body looks and probably smells like it died a long time ago. But the fossil doesn’t fuel his imagination like the hot girl does. Endocrinology is little more than memorization and guessing anyway, so House doesn’t think he’s missing much. He can make up the former later and the latter requires no learning at all. And in any case, none of it is interesting. It doesn’t make him pour over textbooks or journal articles for more information any more than the topic of the digestive system does (though he has done both). Hot Girl is just fundamentally more fascinating, and for that reason, he can’t turn away.
Quickly he discovers that she’s desperate to appear smart. She likes to ask questions, offer answers and corrections to the old coot as if to show everyone that she’s the smartest person in the room. She’s not, of course, as House is obviously in the same room as she is, and he has no doubt that he’s more intelligent than she is. But it’s possible she’s in the top twenty percent.
It’s definite that she’s the only one who cares about the subject that much. She looks young, too young to be in medical school like most of the room who view this class as nothing more than a prerequisite. She’s taking this class by choice then. Frankly, House suspects it’d be off-putting - to everyone around her - if she weren’t so damn beautiful.
But that is nothing more than a theory. What he knows, after listening to her for a few minutes, to be fact is that she really isn’t an idiot. She’s desperate to seem smart, because she feels she has something to prove, not because she actually does.
In the end, he’s not sure how intelligent she is, but Hot Girl at least notices his attention on her. She’s not completely oblivious to how she comes off.
He thought he was being discrete; he wasn’t trying to get caught. But he has failed, because the second the class is over, she heads straight for him. Other students file out behind her. Every once in a while, one passes and shoots her a dirty look; she’s kept them five minutes late with her incessant chatter, so it’s understandable. Her focus is solely on him though.
His stomach flip flops as she approaches him. She’s too gorgeous not to inspire a reaction from him. That’s what he tells himself anyway - that his biology is simply responding to hers.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It’s harder to believe that though when she’s standing right in front of him.
She looks at him with steely eyes. “It’s Lisa Cuddy,” she says as though she’s correcting him. It makes no sense, but he feels himself being drawn in anyway. “In case you were wondering if there was a name attached to the breasts you’ve been staring at for the last three hours.”
He purposely stares at her tits, her perfect perky rack. There are so many things, he thinks, that he’d like to do to those luscious puppies. But with the way she’s glaring at him, he knows he has to play it cool.
“Odd name,” he comments. “But all right.” He points at her breasts. “Which one’s Cuddy? The left one, right?”
She smirks. Not at all put off by his behavior, she surprises him.
“Wanna know what my ass is called?” she asks in a voice that’s just too quiet for the professor, who’s standing at the front of the classroom and talking to the guest lecturer, to hear.
“Hmm….” House scratches his chin like he’s trying to guess. “Yes please.”
“Let’s try: you wish.”
He isn’t hurt by the rejection. She’s hot, but it’s not like he wants to date her. One night he could get down for, especially if she went down, but he’s not so invested in the idea that she’s hurting him like she thinks.
“This class has been in session for three weeks. We meet twice a week for three hours, which means we just finished our sixth time - a full thirty-six hours into it, and I just noticed you today,” he points out bluntly. “It’s not I wish, but the other way around clearly if you’re so quick to believe that I want you. You’re eager for male attention, which is why you’re here, why you’re entering a male-dominated field with a bra that pushes your breasts up that much.”
She glances down at her top, probably out of fear that she’s shown too much. He’s tempted to tell her that’s not possible but doesn’t.
Instead he says, “Nothing to be ashamed of.” He’s being patronizing and enjoying it. “Everyone’s father buys them fake tits to -”
“They’re real, and I -”
“Let me guess. This is the part where you say you’re not desperate for attention. And yet you felt the need to point out that your rack is real, because -”
“You arrogantly believe you know everything, and it’s about time someone told you otherwise.”
“Based on every test I’ve ever taken, there does seem to be quite a bit of proof that I am, in fact, knowledgeable on a great deal.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I know your reputation, House.”
He loves the fact that she’s heard of him but doesn’t consider why.
“Then what’s your point?” He’s impatient.
“I’m not impressed, and I’m not interested.”
“Fine. But I’m still gonna check you out.”
She flicks a hand through the air like it’s not a big deal. “By all means, you do that. And as you do, maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so focused on me and not the class.”
“The class is boring.”
She readjusts her bag on her shoulder. It’s clear she’s had enough of the conversation. “If you say so.” She starts to walk away.
Quickly he calls after her. “This isn’t about you.”
She waves him off. “Of course not.” Without saying it, she’s accusing him of lying.
Her disbelief only makes him want to prove her wrong. He doesn’t care what she thinks, but for whatever reason, he wants it to be obvious that she has no idea what she’s talking about.
His intentions don’t get him far.
Now that she’s presented herself as a bit of a challenge, he discovers that she enthralls him. Somehow she keeps popping up where he is, and he knows this, because every time he notices her.
He’s working at the bookstore, and she’s browsing the racks. She goes to buy something, and he’s fumbling to charge her properly for the pencils she’s trying to purchase. He’s leaving class, and she’s right there. He pretends not to see, but it’s obvious he does. He picks up a girl at a bar, and she’s outside, trying to use her fake I.D. to get in.
No matter what he does, Laura? No. Leslie? No. Lindsay? That’s not right. Whatever-her-name-is - Cuddy is right there.
When he catches sight of her after lacrosse practice, he’s reached his limit. She’s paying no attention to him, unfortunately. She’s stretching her legs, probably getting ready for a run around the track that rings the lacrosse field. Her focus is on everything but him, which makes his predicament that much worse. He’s the only one who has paid any attention to these chance meetings, which makes it seem like he cares.
He doesn’t, he reminds himself, but it definitely doesn’t look like that.
Approaching her, he understands that this will make it harder to convince her to go away.
“Stalking me?” he asks, lacrosse stick slung over his shoulders. She looks over to him, takes in his sweaty appearance. His gray shirt clings to him, allows her to get a good view of his body, well defined and tanned thanks to his love of the sport. Her gaze is approving though she tries to hide it, and he hates that that pleases him. “Show up everywhere I am so I start to notice you. Then when I get sick of you and say something, it looks like I wanted you all along. A little ridiculous, don’t you think?”
She straightens her spine, stretches her neck with a small smile. “The idea that I would do that is ridiculous.”
“I know what game you’re playing, Cuddy -”
“You remembered my name.”
“What?” He pauses. She’s right. “I thought that was the name of your -”
“You know what it’s my -”
“What I know is that you really do need to stop following me around,” he says, cutting her off.
“I wasn’t following you.”
“Your breasts say that’s a lie.” She doesn’t understand so he explains, “This is the part where you say you’re just here for a run, but that would be a lie. If you were a runner, you would know that the repetitive bouncing of your sweater puppies,” he says, ogling her. “Will lead to chapped nipples, possibly even bleeding ones without a sports bra. Which you’re currently not wearing. And since I don’t take you as one who’s into cruelty to animals or cracked nipples -”
“The bra is built into the shirt.”
That makes sense, but he’s not really interested in logic. He just needs to make it seem like she’s here for him and no other reason.
“Then this is a new habit. You don’t have a noticeable tan, something you would have if you ran outside -”
“Which would make sense since I normally run on the inside track. Since it’s under construction -”
“Then there’s the matter of your ass,” he points out.
“My ass?”
“It’s too big.”
She smiles like she’s calling his bluff. “There’s nothing wrong with my ass.”
“No,” he agrees. “But if you were a runner, a regular runner, it would be smaller.”
“Or I just have a big ass. I would ask you to consider that possibility, but I’m sure you’ve done plenty of thinking about that part of my body.”
He shrugs, doesn’t deny it. “I guess we’ll see.” He motions for her to get started. “Go on.”
She doesn’t move. “You’re going to watch me run?”
“I have to make sure you’re telling the truth. If you’re really a runner, you’ll be able to do a mile in -”
“This is a little pathetic, even for you. Maybe you should just admit that you like me.”
His response is immediate. “I don’t like you.”
“Okay. Then you better get your stop watch ready.”
He ignores the challenge in her voice, ignores the much louder one shouting inside that this is stupid. Inwardly House concedes the obviousness of the ruse, but he defends it. He doesn’t want her, but he has his reasons, and he will see it through - if only because walking away now would give him away.
And in the end, he learns, as she takes long strides along the track: she really is a runner. She isn’t here for him, and that fact doesn’t disappoint him, because he doesn’t like her.
But his eyes trained on her, he sure doesn’t mind watching her run.
He sighs, fearing this hasn’t gone the way he’d liked.
*************************
“You’re supposed to be recuperating, easing into this.”
She responds to his presence with disapproval, and he thinks that post-ketamine life isn’t all that different than life before it. Which is why he couldn’t help but approach her the second he saw her.
He’d come to the park for a jog, for the first real measure of his recovery. Soap operas and prank calling Wilson in the middle of the night had been entertaining for only so long. Today had been no different. Since returning to work wasn't an option, House had decided he'd waited long enough to see how much function he still had in the leg. Choosing the park for its soft grass and well-worn running paths, he was a little surprised to see Cuddy here. He knew she still ran after all these years; why wouldn't she? But part of him had hoped to do this in secret, without a witness in the event of failure.
Truth be told, he's committed himself to the inevitability of diminished capacity and a recurrence of pain. He can walk without assistance now, but he prepares himself for a time when he reaches for his cane again. He feels no pain, but it's been a part of him for so long that he imagines that he's living on borrowed time, the aching beast temporarily pacified but ready to strike at any moment.
Minutes ago, he forced himself to approach the woman he's known for so long, understanding that avoiding her would only guarantee in some karmic way that she noticed him eventually and came to him. And House is slightly bitter about that. Fearing that something will go wrong, he doesn't want witnesses, most particularly witnesses that know him. Part of him would rather suffer defeat alone or as alone as he can be, if only to avoid any resultant pity. Yet by the same token, he is a little relieved to have someone there when - not if - things go wrong. She has seen him in every state imaginable. He has been spared, he realizes, no indignity in front of her, not really, and if failure is the guaranteed outcome, perhaps there are worse things than having her there with him.
He doesn't tell her that.
Instead he says, "And I did that. Recuperated, eased myself into several different women, recuperated some more, and -”
"So it's safe to say that you'll be returning to work soon, because you need money."
“At least I can pay someone to have sex with -“
“That’s supposed to be insulting to me, right? Not to you?”
He’s got a quip on the tip of his tongue. The insult is right there for him to use, but then he has a thought. He suddenly realizes that he is enjoying this; for the first time in years, he’s getting ready for a run. She’s standing across from him with her hair pulled back and body ensconced deliciously in spandex, as it has no doubt been many times over the years. Nothing has changed for her. Nothing has even really changed for them, but everything has for him personally, because there is a chance now that he might be able to join her. The electric thought jolts him into silence instantly.
At that moment he understands that he can stay here and talk to her, or he can go. He can do what they always do - insult and evade and go back and forth. Or he can test just how much his body is ready to handle. He can do something new, something different.
The choice for him is an obvious one.
“Yeah,” he says dismissively. “You’re right. My bad. See ya.”
She grabs onto his blue t-shirt before he has a chance to take off. He looks down to where she has a hold of him. He would be amused if she weren’t so annoying, he thinks. Gaze flashing back to her, he makes sure she notices the irritation in his eyes.
"Don't push yourself."
"I'm not." She looks at him doubtfully. "I'm not. I'm just seeing how effective all of this was. Given that most of this is your work, I'm not that confident, so you don't have to worry."
"House, it's only been -”
"It's been long enough."
He sounds, even to his own ears, more determined than usual. He guesses he is, and maybe that's why Cuddy relents, lets go his sleeve.
"Go slowly," she orders, as though she's in control of any of this. "If -”
"I'll stop if it hurts. I know. I'll be fine, Mommy. And if I'm not, luckily for me, you're right here."
She scoffs. Fingers tucking her iPod's headphones into her ears, she tells him, "I'm not wasting my time hovering over you. If you're going to do this, you can deal with the consequences all on your own."
"Good to know."
Without warning, he takes off in the opposite direction she seemed to have been interested in heading in. He’s not hoping she will follow as he starts jogging. He’s too busy looking down at his feet, as though staring at his steps will make them that much surer. Naturally, House expects her to follow - and she doesn’t disappoint, the sound of her shoes scuffing along the ground proof of her predictability. But there is no part of him that secretly hopes she will tag along for his jog.
Especially when it becomes clear that his body is not ready for this.
His leg doesn’t hurt, not like it did anyway. But his muscles are unprepared for the sudden burst of movement. They are unpracticed, and he can feel that almost immediately. Within a couple minutes, he can feel his lungs struggling to take in enough air. He’s starting to sweat, and his knees burn, the fire spreading down through his calves and shins. His ankles quake each time he makes contact with the ground.
He’s not worried that he’ll fall, not because of that anyway. Nonetheless, it is a reminder that he is not a young man anymore.
That’s okay. At the moment, it doesn’t exactly feel like a good thing, but he forces himself to remember that things could be much worse. The past several years, he couldn’t even make it this far, he tells himself. This doesn’t feel like much; he’s not even three minutes in, and he wants to stop, and that feels like failure, because he refuses to let himself think too optimistically. For his own protection, he keeps in the back of his mind the possibility that this will all end abruptly. But at the same time, what he’s doing right now is a success, no matter how temporary, even if it doesn’t feel like that.
And it really doesn’t feel like that when he hits the four-minute mark and has to stop. He’s been jogging slowly in the hopes of avoiding the need to quit so soon. But he’s so unprepared for the exercise that he has no choice but to immediately come to a halt.
Wheezing, he hunches over, hands on his knees. For a brief second, he smiles even as he tries desperately to catch his breath. But the instant Cuddy’s hand is on his back, the grin disappears.
He doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s concerned. He doesn’t need to see her to understand that she isn’t out of breath, isn’t sweating. He just knows that’s the case, and suddenly his small victory feels like anything but. It’s not a win if she’s bested him.
“I’m fine,” he tells her breathlessly before she’s even had a chance to ask how he is.
“I told you this was a bad idea.” Apparently, concern takes a back seat to reminding him that she was right. “You can’t -”
“I’m fine.” He straightens back up to reiterate the point.
“You need to sit down.”
“I really don’t.”
She tucks her fingers into the crook of his elbow. His gaze instantly slides to the point of contact and then to her face. As predicted, she isn’t sweating; she doesn’t even look like she’s slightly warmed up.
“Can you walk?” she asks, clearly ignoring everything he’s just said. She must assume that the answer is yes, because she starts to tug on him. “Come on.”
Weariness makes him compliant. Under normal circumstances, he knows that wouldn’t be the case. He wouldn’t behave because of exhaustion. The opposite would more likely be true. But right now, knowing she won’t listen - knowing she won’t leave him alone until she’s had her way - forces him into acquiescence.
Secretly, he can admit that the bench she’s leading him to is probably a good idea. As his heart rate drops, his body slowly relaxes one more. But it’s still in the realm of possibilities that something might happen with his thigh, that the exhaustion he’s feeling might make him light headed. He’ll never tell her that though.
Visibly irritated, he lets himself be pulled in the direction she wants.
When they get to the bench, she instructs, “Sit down.”
“What do you think is about to happen?” he asks curiously, knowing her train of thought because he has considered the same list of possibilities already. He sits anyway.
As she joins him on the rickety bench, she doesn’t answer the question. “You have to give it time.”
“I know.”
“Then why -”
“Because I wanted to see what would happen.”
Their eyes briefly catch sight of one another, the look of her exasperation impossible to miss. But just as quickly as their gazes meet, they turn to the scenery in the park - the trees, a squirrel gathering nuts across the path. Anything that takes his attention away from her is welcome at that moment. It's not that he's afraid of what she might say, quite the opposite; he knows exactly what she's going to say. Maybe not the precise words, but he knows she's going to take the moment to be... nice to him, and he's not interested in anything that will even remotely approach a heart-to-heart.
"I know you want the ketamine to have worked," she says, each word cautiously chosen.
"Of course I do." He is dismissive, unimpressed by her stating the obvious. He starts to speak again, but she is faster at getting her words out.
"But when you push yourself like this -”
"It did work."
That gives her pause. "You don't feel any pain right now?"
“Oh I have considerable pain from this conversation. But from my leg? No.”
Cuddy is incredulous. “Then why did you stop?”
“Because,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “The last time I went running, I wasn’t missing a chunk of my thigh muscle; Cameron was becoming a woman, and you actually had sex.” He looks at her in spite of his previous choices. “So you put that tiny brain of yours to work and tell me why I stopped.”
“You didn’t feel any pain,” she says. She’s obviously choosing to ignore the insult and instead looking for clarity. “The ketamine’s -”
“Working? Yeah.”
Her face turns smug with victory. Lips pursed together, she barely suppresses her gleeful smile. Not at all coy, she doesn’t understand - or at least doesn’t care - that her happiness is almost enough to make him wish the ketamine would fail.
It really is almost enough. Right now, he guesses she’s being bearable. But the longer the treatment works, the more she will become convinced that she has single handedly saved him. She’ll believe that she has done him a favor, and then any time they’re arguing, she’ll hold that over his head. And of course, he prefers that to the alternative. That doesn’t make it any less annoying though.
“Oh stop,” he nearly whines, like that will work.
“I’m not doing anything.” But it’s clear she knows she is.
“What do you want from me? You want me to thank you? Is that what it’s going to take to get you to be slightly less irritating?” There is a bite to the words, but he’s not as angry as he could be - as he will be if this continues. Mostly he just sounds put out by the situation… because he is.
He doesn’t like the idea of being beholden to Cuddy for anything.
“Thank you,” he says with agitation. “There. Now you can run along in your tight-enough-to-give-you-a-yeast-infection pants and -”
“This upsets you.” She’s still smiling when she has that realization. “You can’t stand that I -”
“Won’t go away?” he deflects. “That’s true. I readily admit that.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. Perhaps weighing her options, she doesn’t say anything at first. But after a small moment of silence, one of her hands pats his knee.
“Fine.” She eases herself off of the bench. “I will leave you alone.”
“Wonderful.”
But naturally, Cuddy doesn’t leave. She’s still too worried, he thinks bitterly.
“Are you sure -”
“I’m fine.”
“Go home. Relax. You’ll -”
“Be able to outrun you soon enough?” he supplies, knowing that it will push her buttons.
The veins in her neck bulge a little. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it -”
“I plan on running four miles today. I can do more than that if I want. There’s no chance that you’ll ever be able to beat me in a race. You do realize that, right?”
“Maybe not today.” His mind tells him definitely not today. “But there is this little concept called building stamina and -”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says confidently. “I’ll always beat you. I always have.”
He’s not sure what her purpose is. Is she trying to make herself feel better or merely attempting to discourage him from pushing his own body towards fitness? Probably both, he decides. She wouldn’t want him to hurt himself, he thinks snidely, as she has demonstrated several times already. But she is a competitive person by nature, and there’s no way she’ll let him think, even for a moment, that he’s just as capable as she is.
“Funny thing about that is it doesn’t mean that will always be true.”
“Maybe not, but it will be. Now go home before you hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t, won’t - can’t, because he is unable to leave the conversation on that note.
“I want a race.”
She shrugs. “Okay. But it’s not going to be today so -”
“When then?”
“When you’re ready. And don’t force yourself to -”
“You scared?”
“Of how badly you’re going to lose?” she shoots back. “A little bit.”
He smiles and leans back against the bench. “I don’t know. Better start training now if you want a chance at -”
“I am going to beat you.”
“Okay.”
She must decide not to push the matter further, because she backs down at that moment. Calmly she just tells him, “Let me know when you’re ready.”
But that never happens.
Impending competition drives him harder than his body can handle. He ignores the signs as long as he can, pushes her concerns away as quickly as he does his own. Yet reality is something he can only stave off for so long. The soreness in his calf muscles spreads, shifts, moves. The pain slowly begins to intensify, like the smallest trickle of water slipping through the cracks of a rock. And then when one day, when he’s not looking, the weakness he’s overlooked becomes a fact of life once more. A fear he’d ignored in the hopes of keeping it at bay will no longer be ignored, and pain greets him again with icy fingers and the knowledge that they will never be parted past this point. He works so hard to avoid the conclusion he finds himself in, as though denial alone will protect him. But he knows long before the proof ever comes that the ketamine has failed.
They will never have that race.
He is relinquished to the pain, this physical hole the one thing he will never be free of.
*************************
She gets stuck with him for a partner in class. Neither is particularly pleased about this. They were originally paired with other people for lab and for the project due at the end of the semester, but their respective partners hated them and teamed up for a switch behind their backs. Again, neither House nor Cuddy is happy about the change.
His motives are neat, simple: he doesn’t want a lab partner. He doesn’t want to do any of the busy work associated with the class. That’s all it comes down to.
Her reasoning is equally obvious though she never explicitly states it. He makes it clear from the beginning that he has no intention of wasting his time doing any of the work. She is a stickler for following the rules, for doing precisely what is required of her as perfectly as possible. She understands that he will be a hindrance to that, which means she’ll have to work harder to portray the perfection she’s desperately trying to attain. He suspects that that alone would mean little to her. Cuddy feels she has something to prove, and from what he’s seen, she’s never shied away from doing the work necessary. This is a woman who will run miles in a row until she shaves the predetermined amount of seconds off her laps, until she’s satisfied. What would she care about his lack of participation? She wouldn’t.
But House is wise enough to know how these things work. His reputation is that of a genius. People hate him, but they know he’s smarter than all of them. If their project and lab reports are stellar, he and not she will receive the credit. She’ll be written off as someone who rode his coattails, and she doesn’t seem like the type who cares about recognition, but she’s also not the type to love that rumor. She never says anything about it though, just says when he first meets her in her dorm room, “If you’re going to help, help. If you’re going to sit there and mock me, I think we both know you have better uses of your time, and you can leave.”
“Wow. You’d give up that quickly?”
She looks up from the giant wooden desk she’s seated behind. There is an air of authority about her, the oversized furniture making her seem more austere than her lithe body alone would allow on its own. Some day she will do this for a living, he thinks. Power suits her, and there’s no doubt that she’s smart enough to kiss the right asses in order to get ahead quickly.
But there are cracks in the façade. She’s got rubber bands bundled together in balls, paperclips stacked together to form little shapes of people and animals. On the outside, she appears calm, but these knickknacks were created by the hands of someone brimming with energy. Instinctively he relates to this, his own fingers relying on the same physical stimulation while his mind untwines a puzzle. He relates to her, and in that moment, she is no longer a mere object of desire. She is transformed into something far more interesting than an image he can jerk off to.
He doesn’t let on.
It is then that she explains, “We both know you don’t want to do any of this.”
“And you want to do all of it?”
“I want it to be done right,” she insists, pulling out a few textbooks and setting them on her desk.
He’s confused, amused. “You think I don’t know how -”
“As I have told you, I am aware of your reputation,” she says through gritted teeth. “I know that you’re intelligent. I also know that you’re lazy. You have no interest in demonstrating your level of intellect, so assured you are of its existence, which makes you prone to cheating. You haven’t been caught - yet - but it’s only a matter of time before you will be, because you can’t help but believe that you are better than everyone else, so much more clever.”
He sits on the edge of the desk, his fingers gingerly moving the paper clip figurines until they’re doing something lurid. “If you say so,” he tells her, not bothering to confirm or deny her suspicions. “And you think I’d cheat if I were to -”
“If you help, you do it honestly. I don’t care if you screw up your career. But you don’t have the right to do the same with mine.” She is firm. “If you can’t be bothered to do it right, I’ll do it myself. And if all you’re going to do is irritate me, I can do it alone and fill you in later.”
“And I’m supposed to just trust that you’ll do a good job,” he says doubtfully. “You want to do me -”
“I really don’t.”
“But,” he continues, ignoring her entirely. “You don’t like me, and I’m supposed to believe that you won’t try to screw me over?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
She isn't amused. As she lines up highlighters on her desk, she points out, “I have no reason to mess with you.”
“But it would be so fun,” he says sarcastically.
“Then I guess you’re going to have to be a big boy and do the work, aren’t you?”
He would scowl at her condescension, but the truth is she’s right. She’s just interesting enough to have motives he can’t easily deduce. And seeing as how she’s a wild card in this game, he can’t let himself believe that she will do what she must in a way that benefits him as much as it will her. Thus far, she has been unusually immune to his lascivious behavior, and that alone tells him that there’s something in her that’s a little too much like him.
“You’re taking the notes,” he says warningly, like this is what he’s wanted all along.
And that’s how they slowly become… friendly. There is never a friendship between them; remarks about her body, a day of timing her runs, and hours working together only bond them together so much. But those small moments together alone are more than he can handle. The more he is with her, the more he thinks that maybe… it’s okay to be with her. An ease between them develops, even as they hurl insults back and forth like the worst of enemies. And he finds himself breaking all of the rules he didn’t even know he’d made.
He’s starting to like her.
Years afterwards, when he puts that very desk in her office as a peace offering, Wilson comes to him questioningly. If Wilson ever suspected they’d had sex, the gesture seemed to have confirmed it for him.
“This isn’t about what happened between you two… then… right?” As he ages and divorces, Wilson seems to be increasingly self-aware that talking about panty peeling is borderline creepy and has made an effort to stave off the impression that he’s a pervert. Therefore he won’t ask outright (at least not right away) if House had sex with Cuddy on that desk. He’ll just hint until euphemism is overcome with the need for a straight answer.
And no matter what House says, the answer is this: he’s never had sex on the desk… sadly. If she has, he has no desire to know. In the end, his memory of her, sitting at that desk with frizzy hair and pouty lips, unscrambling the medical mystery in front of her, is far more seductive than the curve of her breasts or hips could ever be. Regardless of his wishes, that image has grabbed hold of him, captured his attention in a way he is no longer eager to ignore. Sometimes he wonders - fears - if that's when he realized there was so much more to her than he had initially believed, if that's when he found himself in love with her.
Continue on to the rest of the fic
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Cuddy, House, some Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note: This was written for help_lisa. This auction was won by liacuddles, who wanted a fic where House and Cuddy discover that they have the same hobby. Some things may be a little AU, based on the contradictions in the actual canon. I should also say that this fic alternates between two timelines, one that follows House/Cuddy from college to the infarction and one that mostly follows the arc of the series. Hopefully things aren't too confusing.
Warning: This piece contains spoilers through "Bombshells" as well as sexual situations. If that bothers you, please don't read.
Summary: Sometimes their lives seemed defined by the games they played and the ones they didn't.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
“You’re supposed to be downstairs,” Cuddy admonishes as she pushes her way into his office.
“We’re a little busy.” House doesn’t bother looking up as he pulls a waxy card from its container. He’s guessing he’s just making her pissier, but he’s truthfully far more interested in seeing if Foreman gets the green wedge than hearing her talk about the medical crisis going on downstairs.
“You’re playing a board game. That’s not busy.”
House ignores her, though he knows she’s now standing in front of his desk. Instead he asks Foreman, “Your question is: ‘What African animal’s name is made up of the letters n, g, and u?’” Finally he looks up at Cuddy. “This is important,” he tells her. “When Chase loses, they’ll -”
“No,” she interrupts, irritation infused in the word. She’s mad enough that her own agitation makes her louder than Chase’s attempts at a denial.
House is amused, not deterred in the least. “Sorry,” he tells her good-naturedly. “That’s not the right answer. Close. But there’s no u or g in that, so I guess you weren’t really close at all.”
His humor is not shared with her. “No.”
“Pretty sure I’m right about that.”
“No, I mean I’m not playing. And neither are you.”
“We’ll get right on that.” He focuses his attention back on Foreman. “You gonna answer or…?” He lets the thought hang in the air in the hopes of prompting a response. Unfortunately the others in the room have yet to realize that Cuddy’s not much of a threat (no matter how often he insists), so he’s not all that surprised Foreman stays silent.
“Well, I guess you got your answer,” House says with defeat, looking at her once more. Chase and Foreman don’t need any more motivation. Sensing his loss, they’re quick to get to their feet. They don’t run out of the room, perhaps out of a sense for their own pride. But there’s no hesitation on their part either, and it’s clear who they’ve chosen to obey in this instance.
The second they leave, she’s smiling smugly. “Now it’s your turn.”
“You forget. I’m not as easy as the others.”
“Oh, I think that’s impossible to forget.”
“Then you understand why I need incentive to leave.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “This is your job. That’s the incentive you have.”
“That’s it?” He frowns. “Sounds kinda boring.”
“It’s not my job to entertain you.”
“And yet you’re wearing that top.”
“It is your job to -”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
The challenge is an unspoken one, and she doesn’t need an explanation. He likes that about her.
“Gnu,” she says almost immediately. “That’s the answer to the question.”
“Well of course it is. You can see the back of the card.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Sorry. Judges have already ruled: you cheated.”
They are at the point where it would be reasonable for her to say that he has to work regardless. He’s not saying he would listen, but it would fair for her to at least attempt to end the game right now.
Instead she tells him, “Get a new card.”
He doesn’t, his fingers toying with the glossy index card in his hands. She has to know, he thinks, that this won’t work; he’s not going to get up and do what she wants just because she’s answered a question correctly. He decides to point that out.
“You think I’m going to do what you want just because -”
“I think everyone else you would play with is doing their job.”
“Not you.”
She doesn’t deny it. “I’m your only option. And I’m smarter than you, which means I’m going to beat you.”
“No, you’re not, and no, you won’t.”
She is undeterred. “And when I beat you, you’re not going to want to play anymore, because you’re a child. And then you’ll have no choice but to go to work.”
“It’s that simple, is it?” Slowly he clears off the board, setting Chase and Foreman’s pieces to the side. As he dumps the wedges out of his own wheel, House says, “You’re gonna win and ruin my fun? You think that’s what’s going to happen?” He grabs a playing piece for her. “You realize this isn’t the children’s version, yeah?”
“I’ll even let you go first.” She grins as she takes a seat across from him.
There is no hesitation on her part, no reluctance to waste time playing with him. That fact should come as a surprise, given how often they find themselves at one another’s throats. But he is hardly in shock.
Competition is part and parcel for them. Collaboration and implicit trust are necessary to their working relationship, obviously so. But those elements have little pull on either of them.
It’s nice - maybe; he doesn’t believe that with any certainty. Yet that warmth fails to capture his attention for any substantial period of time. Because, while he has no desire to make her an enemy, the fact is she will never be a friend. She’s too pretty for that, knows too well how to stir within him heady need he has no capacity to satiate - and knows that she has that effect on him. The ruthlessness with which she flaunts that in his face comes too naturally, as his penchant for returning the favor. And for that reason, there will never be friendship between them. The need to conquer is simply too strong for them both, which is why he’s not surprised to see her in front of him now.
They might be getting ready to start a game, but this is a game they’ve been playing for years. It might be a start, but it’s hardly the beginning for them.
He glances at her and uncharacteristically smiles. That knowledge in his head, he says confidently, “You’re going to lose.”
As always though, she is undeterred. The possibility of defeat has never stopped either of them from this, from circling one another both eagerly and without intention of ever doing anything. He understands that it should be no different now. But he finds himself impressed anyway when she remains unmoved.
Assured as ever, she throws back at him, “We’ll see.”
He knows though, more than anyone else, that she’s most confident right before she loses.
After all, they’ve done this before.
He doesn’t doubt they’ll do it again.
*************************
The first time he sees her, she’s sauntering across the college lawn. She’s nipping at a professor’s heels, her lips moving quickly as she talks. House is too far away to hear what she’s saying, and to be honest, he doesn’t really care. It’s warm out, sunny, and contentment has made him lazy. Questions, if only for a moment, do not plague him, as he sits underneath a tree with an apple in his hand.
The fruit is almost too sour to consume, he thinks as his gaze lingers on her. Juice dribbling down his fingers, he barely notices the mess. He’s too busy trying not to choke when she bends down to tie her shoe and he catches sight of her taut ass stuffed into tight denim.
By the time he can breathe again, she’s gone.
The second time he sees her is at one of the school events, a hoedown, which he has tracked her down to. For a brief moment, by her asking, he’s dancing with her. But his tongue is effectively tied; the alcohol he’s imbibed earlier (and jokes about hoedowns he’s thinking of) keeps him uncharacteristically silent. And when the song is over, she moves on to someone clean-shaven and burly, muscles snug in a varsity jacket. He quickly forgets about the wisp of an encounter and moves on with his life. Someone that hot shouldn’t be touched, he tells himself. After that, he doesn’t think about her again.
But she does not disappear from his life.
The next time he sees her is actually more like the sixth or seventh time, probably, he’s been in the same room with her. By sheer chance, he gets to endocrinology class early and is there to watch her come in. She bends down to grab the pencil she’s dropped, and he recognizes the ass he stared at a couple weeks ago. In that moment, he feels like an idiot - for not associating her face (or her breasts) with the backside he’s refused to think about since the hoedown.
Mentally he decides to rectify that mistake by memorizing every feature of her, so that he’ll remember from now on. But that just makes him feel like an even bigger ass, because he’s taking the effort to remember someone he may as well forget. He’s not looking for a relationship and certainly not one with a random idiot in his class. He’s wasting his time, and he doesn’t even understand why.
Not that that stops him.
Identified ridiculousness should have him listening to the guest lecturer, an older man whose body looks and probably smells like it died a long time ago. But the fossil doesn’t fuel his imagination like the hot girl does. Endocrinology is little more than memorization and guessing anyway, so House doesn’t think he’s missing much. He can make up the former later and the latter requires no learning at all. And in any case, none of it is interesting. It doesn’t make him pour over textbooks or journal articles for more information any more than the topic of the digestive system does (though he has done both). Hot Girl is just fundamentally more fascinating, and for that reason, he can’t turn away.
Quickly he discovers that she’s desperate to appear smart. She likes to ask questions, offer answers and corrections to the old coot as if to show everyone that she’s the smartest person in the room. She’s not, of course, as House is obviously in the same room as she is, and he has no doubt that he’s more intelligent than she is. But it’s possible she’s in the top twenty percent.
It’s definite that she’s the only one who cares about the subject that much. She looks young, too young to be in medical school like most of the room who view this class as nothing more than a prerequisite. She’s taking this class by choice then. Frankly, House suspects it’d be off-putting - to everyone around her - if she weren’t so damn beautiful.
But that is nothing more than a theory. What he knows, after listening to her for a few minutes, to be fact is that she really isn’t an idiot. She’s desperate to seem smart, because she feels she has something to prove, not because she actually does.
In the end, he’s not sure how intelligent she is, but Hot Girl at least notices his attention on her. She’s not completely oblivious to how she comes off.
He thought he was being discrete; he wasn’t trying to get caught. But he has failed, because the second the class is over, she heads straight for him. Other students file out behind her. Every once in a while, one passes and shoots her a dirty look; she’s kept them five minutes late with her incessant chatter, so it’s understandable. Her focus is solely on him though.
His stomach flip flops as she approaches him. She’s too gorgeous not to inspire a reaction from him. That’s what he tells himself anyway - that his biology is simply responding to hers.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It’s harder to believe that though when she’s standing right in front of him.
She looks at him with steely eyes. “It’s Lisa Cuddy,” she says as though she’s correcting him. It makes no sense, but he feels himself being drawn in anyway. “In case you were wondering if there was a name attached to the breasts you’ve been staring at for the last three hours.”
He purposely stares at her tits, her perfect perky rack. There are so many things, he thinks, that he’d like to do to those luscious puppies. But with the way she’s glaring at him, he knows he has to play it cool.
“Odd name,” he comments. “But all right.” He points at her breasts. “Which one’s Cuddy? The left one, right?”
She smirks. Not at all put off by his behavior, she surprises him.
“Wanna know what my ass is called?” she asks in a voice that’s just too quiet for the professor, who’s standing at the front of the classroom and talking to the guest lecturer, to hear.
“Hmm….” House scratches his chin like he’s trying to guess. “Yes please.”
“Let’s try: you wish.”
He isn’t hurt by the rejection. She’s hot, but it’s not like he wants to date her. One night he could get down for, especially if she went down, but he’s not so invested in the idea that she’s hurting him like she thinks.
“This class has been in session for three weeks. We meet twice a week for three hours, which means we just finished our sixth time - a full thirty-six hours into it, and I just noticed you today,” he points out bluntly. “It’s not I wish, but the other way around clearly if you’re so quick to believe that I want you. You’re eager for male attention, which is why you’re here, why you’re entering a male-dominated field with a bra that pushes your breasts up that much.”
She glances down at her top, probably out of fear that she’s shown too much. He’s tempted to tell her that’s not possible but doesn’t.
Instead he says, “Nothing to be ashamed of.” He’s being patronizing and enjoying it. “Everyone’s father buys them fake tits to -”
“They’re real, and I -”
“Let me guess. This is the part where you say you’re not desperate for attention. And yet you felt the need to point out that your rack is real, because -”
“You arrogantly believe you know everything, and it’s about time someone told you otherwise.”
“Based on every test I’ve ever taken, there does seem to be quite a bit of proof that I am, in fact, knowledgeable on a great deal.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I know your reputation, House.”
He loves the fact that she’s heard of him but doesn’t consider why.
“Then what’s your point?” He’s impatient.
“I’m not impressed, and I’m not interested.”
“Fine. But I’m still gonna check you out.”
She flicks a hand through the air like it’s not a big deal. “By all means, you do that. And as you do, maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so focused on me and not the class.”
“The class is boring.”
She readjusts her bag on her shoulder. It’s clear she’s had enough of the conversation. “If you say so.” She starts to walk away.
Quickly he calls after her. “This isn’t about you.”
She waves him off. “Of course not.” Without saying it, she’s accusing him of lying.
Her disbelief only makes him want to prove her wrong. He doesn’t care what she thinks, but for whatever reason, he wants it to be obvious that she has no idea what she’s talking about.
His intentions don’t get him far.
Now that she’s presented herself as a bit of a challenge, he discovers that she enthralls him. Somehow she keeps popping up where he is, and he knows this, because every time he notices her.
He’s working at the bookstore, and she’s browsing the racks. She goes to buy something, and he’s fumbling to charge her properly for the pencils she’s trying to purchase. He’s leaving class, and she’s right there. He pretends not to see, but it’s obvious he does. He picks up a girl at a bar, and she’s outside, trying to use her fake I.D. to get in.
No matter what he does, Laura? No. Leslie? No. Lindsay? That’s not right. Whatever-her-name-is - Cuddy is right there.
When he catches sight of her after lacrosse practice, he’s reached his limit. She’s paying no attention to him, unfortunately. She’s stretching her legs, probably getting ready for a run around the track that rings the lacrosse field. Her focus is on everything but him, which makes his predicament that much worse. He’s the only one who has paid any attention to these chance meetings, which makes it seem like he cares.
He doesn’t, he reminds himself, but it definitely doesn’t look like that.
Approaching her, he understands that this will make it harder to convince her to go away.
“Stalking me?” he asks, lacrosse stick slung over his shoulders. She looks over to him, takes in his sweaty appearance. His gray shirt clings to him, allows her to get a good view of his body, well defined and tanned thanks to his love of the sport. Her gaze is approving though she tries to hide it, and he hates that that pleases him. “Show up everywhere I am so I start to notice you. Then when I get sick of you and say something, it looks like I wanted you all along. A little ridiculous, don’t you think?”
She straightens her spine, stretches her neck with a small smile. “The idea that I would do that is ridiculous.”
“I know what game you’re playing, Cuddy -”
“You remembered my name.”
“What?” He pauses. She’s right. “I thought that was the name of your -”
“You know what it’s my -”
“What I know is that you really do need to stop following me around,” he says, cutting her off.
“I wasn’t following you.”
“Your breasts say that’s a lie.” She doesn’t understand so he explains, “This is the part where you say you’re just here for a run, but that would be a lie. If you were a runner, you would know that the repetitive bouncing of your sweater puppies,” he says, ogling her. “Will lead to chapped nipples, possibly even bleeding ones without a sports bra. Which you’re currently not wearing. And since I don’t take you as one who’s into cruelty to animals or cracked nipples -”
“The bra is built into the shirt.”
That makes sense, but he’s not really interested in logic. He just needs to make it seem like she’s here for him and no other reason.
“Then this is a new habit. You don’t have a noticeable tan, something you would have if you ran outside -”
“Which would make sense since I normally run on the inside track. Since it’s under construction -”
“Then there’s the matter of your ass,” he points out.
“My ass?”
“It’s too big.”
She smiles like she’s calling his bluff. “There’s nothing wrong with my ass.”
“No,” he agrees. “But if you were a runner, a regular runner, it would be smaller.”
“Or I just have a big ass. I would ask you to consider that possibility, but I’m sure you’ve done plenty of thinking about that part of my body.”
He shrugs, doesn’t deny it. “I guess we’ll see.” He motions for her to get started. “Go on.”
She doesn’t move. “You’re going to watch me run?”
“I have to make sure you’re telling the truth. If you’re really a runner, you’ll be able to do a mile in -”
“This is a little pathetic, even for you. Maybe you should just admit that you like me.”
His response is immediate. “I don’t like you.”
“Okay. Then you better get your stop watch ready.”
He ignores the challenge in her voice, ignores the much louder one shouting inside that this is stupid. Inwardly House concedes the obviousness of the ruse, but he defends it. He doesn’t want her, but he has his reasons, and he will see it through - if only because walking away now would give him away.
And in the end, he learns, as she takes long strides along the track: she really is a runner. She isn’t here for him, and that fact doesn’t disappoint him, because he doesn’t like her.
But his eyes trained on her, he sure doesn’t mind watching her run.
He sighs, fearing this hasn’t gone the way he’d liked.
*************************
“You’re supposed to be recuperating, easing into this.”
She responds to his presence with disapproval, and he thinks that post-ketamine life isn’t all that different than life before it. Which is why he couldn’t help but approach her the second he saw her.
He’d come to the park for a jog, for the first real measure of his recovery. Soap operas and prank calling Wilson in the middle of the night had been entertaining for only so long. Today had been no different. Since returning to work wasn't an option, House had decided he'd waited long enough to see how much function he still had in the leg. Choosing the park for its soft grass and well-worn running paths, he was a little surprised to see Cuddy here. He knew she still ran after all these years; why wouldn't she? But part of him had hoped to do this in secret, without a witness in the event of failure.
Truth be told, he's committed himself to the inevitability of diminished capacity and a recurrence of pain. He can walk without assistance now, but he prepares himself for a time when he reaches for his cane again. He feels no pain, but it's been a part of him for so long that he imagines that he's living on borrowed time, the aching beast temporarily pacified but ready to strike at any moment.
Minutes ago, he forced himself to approach the woman he's known for so long, understanding that avoiding her would only guarantee in some karmic way that she noticed him eventually and came to him. And House is slightly bitter about that. Fearing that something will go wrong, he doesn't want witnesses, most particularly witnesses that know him. Part of him would rather suffer defeat alone or as alone as he can be, if only to avoid any resultant pity. Yet by the same token, he is a little relieved to have someone there when - not if - things go wrong. She has seen him in every state imaginable. He has been spared, he realizes, no indignity in front of her, not really, and if failure is the guaranteed outcome, perhaps there are worse things than having her there with him.
He doesn't tell her that.
Instead he says, "And I did that. Recuperated, eased myself into several different women, recuperated some more, and -”
"So it's safe to say that you'll be returning to work soon, because you need money."
“At least I can pay someone to have sex with -“
“That’s supposed to be insulting to me, right? Not to you?”
He’s got a quip on the tip of his tongue. The insult is right there for him to use, but then he has a thought. He suddenly realizes that he is enjoying this; for the first time in years, he’s getting ready for a run. She’s standing across from him with her hair pulled back and body ensconced deliciously in spandex, as it has no doubt been many times over the years. Nothing has changed for her. Nothing has even really changed for them, but everything has for him personally, because there is a chance now that he might be able to join her. The electric thought jolts him into silence instantly.
At that moment he understands that he can stay here and talk to her, or he can go. He can do what they always do - insult and evade and go back and forth. Or he can test just how much his body is ready to handle. He can do something new, something different.
The choice for him is an obvious one.
“Yeah,” he says dismissively. “You’re right. My bad. See ya.”
She grabs onto his blue t-shirt before he has a chance to take off. He looks down to where she has a hold of him. He would be amused if she weren’t so annoying, he thinks. Gaze flashing back to her, he makes sure she notices the irritation in his eyes.
"Don't push yourself."
"I'm not." She looks at him doubtfully. "I'm not. I'm just seeing how effective all of this was. Given that most of this is your work, I'm not that confident, so you don't have to worry."
"House, it's only been -”
"It's been long enough."
He sounds, even to his own ears, more determined than usual. He guesses he is, and maybe that's why Cuddy relents, lets go his sleeve.
"Go slowly," she orders, as though she's in control of any of this. "If -”
"I'll stop if it hurts. I know. I'll be fine, Mommy. And if I'm not, luckily for me, you're right here."
She scoffs. Fingers tucking her iPod's headphones into her ears, she tells him, "I'm not wasting my time hovering over you. If you're going to do this, you can deal with the consequences all on your own."
"Good to know."
Without warning, he takes off in the opposite direction she seemed to have been interested in heading in. He’s not hoping she will follow as he starts jogging. He’s too busy looking down at his feet, as though staring at his steps will make them that much surer. Naturally, House expects her to follow - and she doesn’t disappoint, the sound of her shoes scuffing along the ground proof of her predictability. But there is no part of him that secretly hopes she will tag along for his jog.
Especially when it becomes clear that his body is not ready for this.
His leg doesn’t hurt, not like it did anyway. But his muscles are unprepared for the sudden burst of movement. They are unpracticed, and he can feel that almost immediately. Within a couple minutes, he can feel his lungs struggling to take in enough air. He’s starting to sweat, and his knees burn, the fire spreading down through his calves and shins. His ankles quake each time he makes contact with the ground.
He’s not worried that he’ll fall, not because of that anyway. Nonetheless, it is a reminder that he is not a young man anymore.
That’s okay. At the moment, it doesn’t exactly feel like a good thing, but he forces himself to remember that things could be much worse. The past several years, he couldn’t even make it this far, he tells himself. This doesn’t feel like much; he’s not even three minutes in, and he wants to stop, and that feels like failure, because he refuses to let himself think too optimistically. For his own protection, he keeps in the back of his mind the possibility that this will all end abruptly. But at the same time, what he’s doing right now is a success, no matter how temporary, even if it doesn’t feel like that.
And it really doesn’t feel like that when he hits the four-minute mark and has to stop. He’s been jogging slowly in the hopes of avoiding the need to quit so soon. But he’s so unprepared for the exercise that he has no choice but to immediately come to a halt.
Wheezing, he hunches over, hands on his knees. For a brief second, he smiles even as he tries desperately to catch his breath. But the instant Cuddy’s hand is on his back, the grin disappears.
He doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s concerned. He doesn’t need to see her to understand that she isn’t out of breath, isn’t sweating. He just knows that’s the case, and suddenly his small victory feels like anything but. It’s not a win if she’s bested him.
“I’m fine,” he tells her breathlessly before she’s even had a chance to ask how he is.
“I told you this was a bad idea.” Apparently, concern takes a back seat to reminding him that she was right. “You can’t -”
“I’m fine.” He straightens back up to reiterate the point.
“You need to sit down.”
“I really don’t.”
She tucks her fingers into the crook of his elbow. His gaze instantly slides to the point of contact and then to her face. As predicted, she isn’t sweating; she doesn’t even look like she’s slightly warmed up.
“Can you walk?” she asks, clearly ignoring everything he’s just said. She must assume that the answer is yes, because she starts to tug on him. “Come on.”
Weariness makes him compliant. Under normal circumstances, he knows that wouldn’t be the case. He wouldn’t behave because of exhaustion. The opposite would more likely be true. But right now, knowing she won’t listen - knowing she won’t leave him alone until she’s had her way - forces him into acquiescence.
Secretly, he can admit that the bench she’s leading him to is probably a good idea. As his heart rate drops, his body slowly relaxes one more. But it’s still in the realm of possibilities that something might happen with his thigh, that the exhaustion he’s feeling might make him light headed. He’ll never tell her that though.
Visibly irritated, he lets himself be pulled in the direction she wants.
When they get to the bench, she instructs, “Sit down.”
“What do you think is about to happen?” he asks curiously, knowing her train of thought because he has considered the same list of possibilities already. He sits anyway.
As she joins him on the rickety bench, she doesn’t answer the question. “You have to give it time.”
“I know.”
“Then why -”
“Because I wanted to see what would happen.”
Their eyes briefly catch sight of one another, the look of her exasperation impossible to miss. But just as quickly as their gazes meet, they turn to the scenery in the park - the trees, a squirrel gathering nuts across the path. Anything that takes his attention away from her is welcome at that moment. It's not that he's afraid of what she might say, quite the opposite; he knows exactly what she's going to say. Maybe not the precise words, but he knows she's going to take the moment to be... nice to him, and he's not interested in anything that will even remotely approach a heart-to-heart.
"I know you want the ketamine to have worked," she says, each word cautiously chosen.
"Of course I do." He is dismissive, unimpressed by her stating the obvious. He starts to speak again, but she is faster at getting her words out.
"But when you push yourself like this -”
"It did work."
That gives her pause. "You don't feel any pain right now?"
“Oh I have considerable pain from this conversation. But from my leg? No.”
Cuddy is incredulous. “Then why did you stop?”
“Because,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “The last time I went running, I wasn’t missing a chunk of my thigh muscle; Cameron was becoming a woman, and you actually had sex.” He looks at her in spite of his previous choices. “So you put that tiny brain of yours to work and tell me why I stopped.”
“You didn’t feel any pain,” she says. She’s obviously choosing to ignore the insult and instead looking for clarity. “The ketamine’s -”
“Working? Yeah.”
Her face turns smug with victory. Lips pursed together, she barely suppresses her gleeful smile. Not at all coy, she doesn’t understand - or at least doesn’t care - that her happiness is almost enough to make him wish the ketamine would fail.
It really is almost enough. Right now, he guesses she’s being bearable. But the longer the treatment works, the more she will become convinced that she has single handedly saved him. She’ll believe that she has done him a favor, and then any time they’re arguing, she’ll hold that over his head. And of course, he prefers that to the alternative. That doesn’t make it any less annoying though.
“Oh stop,” he nearly whines, like that will work.
“I’m not doing anything.” But it’s clear she knows she is.
“What do you want from me? You want me to thank you? Is that what it’s going to take to get you to be slightly less irritating?” There is a bite to the words, but he’s not as angry as he could be - as he will be if this continues. Mostly he just sounds put out by the situation… because he is.
He doesn’t like the idea of being beholden to Cuddy for anything.
“Thank you,” he says with agitation. “There. Now you can run along in your tight-enough-to-give-you-a-yeast-infection pants and -”
“This upsets you.” She’s still smiling when she has that realization. “You can’t stand that I -”
“Won’t go away?” he deflects. “That’s true. I readily admit that.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. Perhaps weighing her options, she doesn’t say anything at first. But after a small moment of silence, one of her hands pats his knee.
“Fine.” She eases herself off of the bench. “I will leave you alone.”
“Wonderful.”
But naturally, Cuddy doesn’t leave. She’s still too worried, he thinks bitterly.
“Are you sure -”
“I’m fine.”
“Go home. Relax. You’ll -”
“Be able to outrun you soon enough?” he supplies, knowing that it will push her buttons.
The veins in her neck bulge a little. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it -”
“I plan on running four miles today. I can do more than that if I want. There’s no chance that you’ll ever be able to beat me in a race. You do realize that, right?”
“Maybe not today.” His mind tells him definitely not today. “But there is this little concept called building stamina and -”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says confidently. “I’ll always beat you. I always have.”
He’s not sure what her purpose is. Is she trying to make herself feel better or merely attempting to discourage him from pushing his own body towards fitness? Probably both, he decides. She wouldn’t want him to hurt himself, he thinks snidely, as she has demonstrated several times already. But she is a competitive person by nature, and there’s no way she’ll let him think, even for a moment, that he’s just as capable as she is.
“Funny thing about that is it doesn’t mean that will always be true.”
“Maybe not, but it will be. Now go home before you hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t, won’t - can’t, because he is unable to leave the conversation on that note.
“I want a race.”
She shrugs. “Okay. But it’s not going to be today so -”
“When then?”
“When you’re ready. And don’t force yourself to -”
“You scared?”
“Of how badly you’re going to lose?” she shoots back. “A little bit.”
He smiles and leans back against the bench. “I don’t know. Better start training now if you want a chance at -”
“I am going to beat you.”
“Okay.”
She must decide not to push the matter further, because she backs down at that moment. Calmly she just tells him, “Let me know when you’re ready.”
But that never happens.
Impending competition drives him harder than his body can handle. He ignores the signs as long as he can, pushes her concerns away as quickly as he does his own. Yet reality is something he can only stave off for so long. The soreness in his calf muscles spreads, shifts, moves. The pain slowly begins to intensify, like the smallest trickle of water slipping through the cracks of a rock. And then when one day, when he’s not looking, the weakness he’s overlooked becomes a fact of life once more. A fear he’d ignored in the hopes of keeping it at bay will no longer be ignored, and pain greets him again with icy fingers and the knowledge that they will never be parted past this point. He works so hard to avoid the conclusion he finds himself in, as though denial alone will protect him. But he knows long before the proof ever comes that the ketamine has failed.
They will never have that race.
He is relinquished to the pain, this physical hole the one thing he will never be free of.
*************************
She gets stuck with him for a partner in class. Neither is particularly pleased about this. They were originally paired with other people for lab and for the project due at the end of the semester, but their respective partners hated them and teamed up for a switch behind their backs. Again, neither House nor Cuddy is happy about the change.
His motives are neat, simple: he doesn’t want a lab partner. He doesn’t want to do any of the busy work associated with the class. That’s all it comes down to.
Her reasoning is equally obvious though she never explicitly states it. He makes it clear from the beginning that he has no intention of wasting his time doing any of the work. She is a stickler for following the rules, for doing precisely what is required of her as perfectly as possible. She understands that he will be a hindrance to that, which means she’ll have to work harder to portray the perfection she’s desperately trying to attain. He suspects that that alone would mean little to her. Cuddy feels she has something to prove, and from what he’s seen, she’s never shied away from doing the work necessary. This is a woman who will run miles in a row until she shaves the predetermined amount of seconds off her laps, until she’s satisfied. What would she care about his lack of participation? She wouldn’t.
But House is wise enough to know how these things work. His reputation is that of a genius. People hate him, but they know he’s smarter than all of them. If their project and lab reports are stellar, he and not she will receive the credit. She’ll be written off as someone who rode his coattails, and she doesn’t seem like the type who cares about recognition, but she’s also not the type to love that rumor. She never says anything about it though, just says when he first meets her in her dorm room, “If you’re going to help, help. If you’re going to sit there and mock me, I think we both know you have better uses of your time, and you can leave.”
“Wow. You’d give up that quickly?”
She looks up from the giant wooden desk she’s seated behind. There is an air of authority about her, the oversized furniture making her seem more austere than her lithe body alone would allow on its own. Some day she will do this for a living, he thinks. Power suits her, and there’s no doubt that she’s smart enough to kiss the right asses in order to get ahead quickly.
But there are cracks in the façade. She’s got rubber bands bundled together in balls, paperclips stacked together to form little shapes of people and animals. On the outside, she appears calm, but these knickknacks were created by the hands of someone brimming with energy. Instinctively he relates to this, his own fingers relying on the same physical stimulation while his mind untwines a puzzle. He relates to her, and in that moment, she is no longer a mere object of desire. She is transformed into something far more interesting than an image he can jerk off to.
He doesn’t let on.
It is then that she explains, “We both know you don’t want to do any of this.”
“And you want to do all of it?”
“I want it to be done right,” she insists, pulling out a few textbooks and setting them on her desk.
He’s confused, amused. “You think I don’t know how -”
“As I have told you, I am aware of your reputation,” she says through gritted teeth. “I know that you’re intelligent. I also know that you’re lazy. You have no interest in demonstrating your level of intellect, so assured you are of its existence, which makes you prone to cheating. You haven’t been caught - yet - but it’s only a matter of time before you will be, because you can’t help but believe that you are better than everyone else, so much more clever.”
He sits on the edge of the desk, his fingers gingerly moving the paper clip figurines until they’re doing something lurid. “If you say so,” he tells her, not bothering to confirm or deny her suspicions. “And you think I’d cheat if I were to -”
“If you help, you do it honestly. I don’t care if you screw up your career. But you don’t have the right to do the same with mine.” She is firm. “If you can’t be bothered to do it right, I’ll do it myself. And if all you’re going to do is irritate me, I can do it alone and fill you in later.”
“And I’m supposed to just trust that you’ll do a good job,” he says doubtfully. “You want to do me -”
“I really don’t.”
“But,” he continues, ignoring her entirely. “You don’t like me, and I’m supposed to believe that you won’t try to screw me over?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
She isn't amused. As she lines up highlighters on her desk, she points out, “I have no reason to mess with you.”
“But it would be so fun,” he says sarcastically.
“Then I guess you’re going to have to be a big boy and do the work, aren’t you?”
He would scowl at her condescension, but the truth is she’s right. She’s just interesting enough to have motives he can’t easily deduce. And seeing as how she’s a wild card in this game, he can’t let himself believe that she will do what she must in a way that benefits him as much as it will her. Thus far, she has been unusually immune to his lascivious behavior, and that alone tells him that there’s something in her that’s a little too much like him.
“You’re taking the notes,” he says warningly, like this is what he’s wanted all along.
And that’s how they slowly become… friendly. There is never a friendship between them; remarks about her body, a day of timing her runs, and hours working together only bond them together so much. But those small moments together alone are more than he can handle. The more he is with her, the more he thinks that maybe… it’s okay to be with her. An ease between them develops, even as they hurl insults back and forth like the worst of enemies. And he finds himself breaking all of the rules he didn’t even know he’d made.
He’s starting to like her.
Years afterwards, when he puts that very desk in her office as a peace offering, Wilson comes to him questioningly. If Wilson ever suspected they’d had sex, the gesture seemed to have confirmed it for him.
“This isn’t about what happened between you two… then… right?” As he ages and divorces, Wilson seems to be increasingly self-aware that talking about panty peeling is borderline creepy and has made an effort to stave off the impression that he’s a pervert. Therefore he won’t ask outright (at least not right away) if House had sex with Cuddy on that desk. He’ll just hint until euphemism is overcome with the need for a straight answer.
And no matter what House says, the answer is this: he’s never had sex on the desk… sadly. If she has, he has no desire to know. In the end, his memory of her, sitting at that desk with frizzy hair and pouty lips, unscrambling the medical mystery in front of her, is far more seductive than the curve of her breasts or hips could ever be. Regardless of his wishes, that image has grabbed hold of him, captured his attention in a way he is no longer eager to ignore. Sometimes he wonders - fears - if that's when he realized there was so much more to her than he had initially believed, if that's when he found himself in love with her.
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