Pawns In A Game (2/3)
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.
Previous Parts: Part One
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rachel is the proof this is not a game. When the pressure of a relationship becomes overbearing, he tries to tell himself that they’re just testing this out, having a little fun, seeing what might happen.
Rachel is proof this is a lie.
Cuddy has introduced her to him; she’s allowed him to spend time with her daughter. And if those two things alone don’t spell out the seriousness of the situation, he’s not sure what will. But then, he doesn’t need any more to comprehend what he’s gotten himself into. As much as he likes to lie to himself, he is aware, and completely so, that he is, in fact, lying. His delusions offer him no comfort, no relief.
With every move he makes, he knows that there is no room for error. If he screws up, he will have to fight for forgiveness, to prove that he has earned this place in Cuddy’s life. So too does he understand what success will mean. If this isn’t a passing flirtation with one another, then he’s in this relationship hoping that it will last. And if he succeeds on that front, then his boss becomes his partner and her child becomes more so his own than he would have ever imagined possible.
He does not take that responsibility lightly.
After the dime incident, he has been hesitant to accept said responsibility, of course. Nearly killing Rachel has made him doubtful of his ability to take care of Rachel. He was always afraid, knowing what failure would mean, but after that, he’s even less convinced that he knows what he’s doing. And as such he is reluctant to dabble in affairs involving the child. Above all else, she should be safe, and he’s afraid that that means limiting her exposure to someone as messed up as he is.
At the same time though, he can’t avoid her completely. That would just make Cuddy suspicious and even more doubtful that he could ever blend in to her life. Because of that, he can’t say no; he just can’t, at the moment anyway, allow himself to volunteer for the job of babysitter.
But he does anyway one rainy Saturday morning when Cuddy wakes up with a migraine that renders her useless. Shaky and nauseous she hurries to the bathroom and retches, which is what he wakes up to at four in the morning. He’s quick to force medication down her throat as by his calculation she has only an hour to recover before Rachel starts running around. And for a brief moment, it seems to work.
She pulls away from the toilet long enough for him to take a cool washcloth to her face. The pain eases just long enough for her to thank him for the small paper cup of water he gives her, allowing her to rinse the bile out of her mouth. It’s not his instinct to believe the problem is over, as he carefully sinks to the bathroom floor. With caution then, he allows her to curl up against him, her head resting on his lap. The smell of vomit lingers in the air, and he’s reluctant to let her anywhere near him as a result; the possibility that she will get sick again is strong. But for a second, it seems like things will be okay.
Then in a rush for the toilet, she gets sick again, and the medicine out of her system, he knows she’s going to be out for the rest of the day. Given that she’ll be useless, he’s tempted sorely to call Marina and then leave.
But in truth, he has done that enough. Cuddy has come to anticipate his abandonment, he knows. Selfishness and fear have led him to slip out doors without a glance back when he thinks she’s not looking, and experience has steeled her for betrayal. When she asks him to stay these days, it is little more than an order coupled with as many threats as she can find. If she doesn’t ask, she assumes he will leave. And no matter what, when she looks at him, all he sees is the expectation of his disappearance. Forgiveness is easier wanted than earned.
Rationally House knows that her doubt in him is well founded. Fear kept him from her during her cancer scare, made a joke out of his attempt at sobriety. She needed him there, and he went for the Vicodin instead. One seemingly endless break up and several promises to do better later, they were back together… but the sting of betrayal has lingered for her.
He’s not surprised.
His behavior then was nothing short of disgusting. The addict in him, his inherent selfishness, led him to believe he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but he can see now he nearly lost everything. He left her to face the threat of cancer alone. He caused her to doubt, and if she assumes he’ll head for the door again at any given moment, it’s only a reasonable conclusion she’s come to, based on his actions. But that inspires a resolution of his own; if she doesn’t trust him, he must do whatever it takes to change that. That means if he wants to leave now, he can’t. If he doesn’t want to watch Rachel, he has to do just that. Past mistakes have backed him into a corner, and he needs to find a way out. He needs to make this right, a fact that only furthers his understanding that this isn’t a game.
If only for the way he has begun to treat their relationship, he knows that this is far more serious than he’s let on in the past. And though it scares him to be aware of that, he can no longer deny it either. He has to do what is necessary to be with Cuddy.
The thought is a solemn one, a resolute one, and firm to that fact, he doesn’t allow himself a moment to question what he’s doing. Without hesitation, he gives up on the idea that he’ll be anywhere but here today.
“If you think you can handle it, let’s try to get you back in bed,” he whispers softly. She still cringes at the sound of his voice, noise too much for her pounding head. But she offers no protest when he stands up. When he starts to help her up though, that’s a different story.
“Don’t.”
The next couple of minutes pass stressfully. He knows the only way through this is to have her sleep it off. She can’t stomach the medicine, and he can’t leave her on the bathroom floor all day. Getting her to bed is a priority. But if he jostles her too much, she’ll get sick. Avoiding that though is hardly easy. Every movement she makes seems to turn her a more vibrant shade of green. When standing or walking is too much, she has to stop and lean against him, with her eyes closed and breathing deep. And he has no choice but to let her do this, to patiently wait for her to ride it out. He wants to tell her that it will be okay, that they are that much closer to the bed. But as her migraine progresses, she’ll become increasingly sensitive to noise. Instead of making her feel better, he’ll accomplish the opposite. So he stays quiet and silently helps her forward, and eventually he gets her where she needs to be.
He tucks her into bed and kisses her temple. The act is meant to be one of kindness, but it just makes her groan. He guesses that’s to be expected. Given that she’s still queasy, he waits until she has settled to move; there’s a part of him that itches to uncharacteristically fuss over her, but he resists the urge.
When she’s finally relaxed, he ensures she will stay that way. Gingerly he gets up. To the block the light out, he draws the curtains closed as quietly as he can. Returning to the nightstand, he turns off the baby monitor and pockets both his cell phone and hers.
Now that there are no distractions in the room, he feels comfortable leaving. But he’s not going to stop there. Heading straight for the kitchen, he wants to make sure she’ll have everything she needs for the next while.
A glance at the clock reminds him that Rachel will be awake soon, so he knows he has to work fast. He pulls a sleeve of saltines out and places them on a breakfast tray. Then as he boils water for tea, he pours a glass of seltzer. When he finally has everything in place, a mug of piping hot black and ginger tea freshly brewed, he heads back to the bedroom.
In truth he probably could have waited to do this part. She’s not going to touch any of it for a long time, and the tea will be cold by then. Then again, if he waited, he would have to do all of this and deal with Rachel, which is less than ideal. Better to do one thing at a time, he tells himself.
That becomes exponentially more obvious when he enters the nursery. After taking care of Cuddy, he decides it would be best to sit near Rachel so that he’s right there to grab her before she screams that she’s awake. But the second he pushes past the door, he sees that he is almost too late. Because there Rachel is, one leg swung over the crib’s gate.
Being the handful that she is, she has heard him coming apparently. She knows she’s not supposed to get out of her bed like this. In recent weeks, Cuddy has tried to convince her that it’s time to sleep in a “big girl bed,” but Rachel has resisted the change. At the time, House didn’t understand why she would prefer to be cooped up in her crib, but he gets it now. This just isn’t a bed for her; she treats the thing like a jungle gym too… which she must know she’s not allowed to do. Because she’s not just climbing on the gate when he comes into the room. As though she’s afraid of getting in trouble, she is, as he sees, trying to climb back into the crib.
The last thing he needs is for Rachel to hurt herself, so he moves to stand behind her in case she falls. “What are you doing?” he asks in a voice he makes intentionally light. “You know you’re not supposed to get out of -”
“In,” she insists, sitting down in her crib as though she wasn’t just trying to get out.
“Uh huh.”
He reaches in to pick her up. As soon as he’s got a hold of her, she announces, “I pooped.”
She doesn’t need to say it. It’s obvious to him the instant she is in his arms. Cuddy likes to claim the kid is potty trained, and he guesses Rachel is. She’s trained to crap her pants accidentally only when he’s responsible for taking care of her.
He grimaces. “Of course you did.” His disgust only makes her smile.
By the time he’s finished changing her, she’s giggling at him with such earnest that it makes him wonder what kind of person it is Cuddy is raising Rachel to be.
Of course he’s probably not helping matters. After breakfast, he lets her watch TV. Or rather he lets her watch TV with him. Since Peep And The Big Wide World doesn’t interest him, she’s being entertained by something obviously inappropriate.
“That’s Jenny,” he explains, knowing - hoping - Rachel won’t pick up on anything he’s saying. “Chuck, who’s now her step-brother, sort of, tried to rape her in the series premiere. You’d think the writers would remember that before having her dad marry Chuck’s former-step-mother-turned guardian or before having Jenny lose her virginity to him. But you would be wrong.”
Rachel just stares at the television in interest. He concedes then that if anything goes wrong with the kid as a person, he’s more the cause than Cuddy. But he’s not sure what to do about that. He’d feel as though he would be overstepping his boundaries if he started to decide what was in Rachel’s best interests. Surely, she shouldn’t be watching CW programming (no living creature should). But to tell her no, to censor his words, tastes in television, or anything else… he’s not comfortable with that. He’s not her father, and it’s not his place to act like one. Just the idea that his relationship with Cuddy is headed that way is enough to make him feel sick.
It doesn’t help that the last time he really tried to tell Rachel what to do, she ate money and made his life hell. He’s involved himself in getting her into a good school, he supposes. But the success of clicker training aside, his efforts were a failure all around. That was just confirmation that he has no business involving himself in this little girl’s childhood. But he’s not willing to give up his relationship with Cuddy in order to protect the kid.
He pushes onward to be with Cuddy, to give himself the happiness and love he wants though hasn’t earned. Eventually this will come to a head; a choice will have to be made. For now though, he’s content to act as though this is leading nowhere, as though nothing will go wrong with this act. He’s just being a good boyfriend, a last minute babysitter.
It’s a struggle not to overthink it.
That said, the day goes unusually smoothly. When she gets bored of watching TV, Rachel plays with her dolls quietly at House’s feet. She eats what he makes her for lunch, goes down easily at naptime, and is, much to his astonishment, empty of change, magnets, lint, sand, and anything else that might seem edible to a child her age.
Better still, after he leaves Rachel, he goes to take a shower, and Cuddy is… improving. She’s not one hundred percent, of course, but she’s sitting up, drinking the tea that has gone cold.
“Think you can swallow a pill?” If she’s conscious, he doesn’t want to lose the opportunity to get medicine inside her. Most likely coming to the same conclusion, she tiredly nods her head. Once he’s handed her another dose of the drugs she threw up earlier, he can’t help but joke, “And I didn’t even make a blow job joke.”
Her smile is weak. “That must have been tough for you.”
“You have no idea,” he says, helping her back to bed.
Illness has her fast asleep in no time, and he leaves her to shower.
The hot water feels good against his tired body and aching thigh. The heat eases the pain he can’t escape, and slowly he starts to relax. So too though does the warmth surrounding him bring to the surface the effects of being awoken so early. Sleepy he would like nothing more than to use Rachel’s naptime as his own. But before he even has a chance to lie down, Rachel is shouting his name.
Part of him hopes, foolishly, that she’ll give up if he doesn’t come right away and go back to sleep. Naturally though that doesn’t happen. She just gets louder.
It’s loud enough that the noise wakes Cuddy with a groan.
“Wuh?” Eyes closed she turns her head in his direction. She groans again as she realizes what’s going on and then offers weakly, “Want me to -”
“No. You rest.”
There’s no time for reluctance. If he hesitates, she’ll force herself to get up. So he hurries to Rachel once more.
The situation steadily goes downhill from there. Her short nap and his non-existent one create a bad combination. She’s awake enough to want to play but too tired to find satisfaction in anything. He’s sleepy and busy resenting the urge to be short-tempered to put all his focus on finding something fun to do. He just wants to set Rachel up with something so he can sleep. Nothing seems to work though.
She won’t sit still to watch television - not even the stupid cartoons she’s fond of. Every time he tries, she whines, fights him off, and runs away as quickly as she can go.
The same thing happens when he tries to get her to color or play with her dolls. She’s cranky and unwilling to even try to have fun.
Reading to her works in silencing her for five minutes. Then she’s trying to shove the book closed.
“Sweetie, I can’t read if you do that,” he says, trying to be nice.
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t want you to read no more.”
Given their moods, he doesn’t bother to keep reading. It’s not like he’s dying to find out what happens anyway. All the while knowing he’s running out of options, he lets her hop off his lap.
Leaning back in the rocking chair in her room, he asks, “What do you want to do?” He’s trying to keep his irritation at bay. He really is. It’s clear he’s not succeeding. “We’re running out of options.”
She sways back and forth out of boredom. In a singsong voice, she says, “I don’t know.”
“Want to play with your Barbies?”
“Nope.”
“Watch some more Peep?”
“Uh uh.”
He thinks. “Um… how about you color in your coloring book?”
“No! I wanna play a game,” she says with a stomp of her foot.
He’s relieved that they’re getting somewhere. “What kind of a game?” Secretly he hopes it’s hide and go seek. He could make her go hide. And if he were to have an unusually difficult time seeking her, well, that would be all right, wouldn’t it?
Her answer, however, is a frustrating, “I don’t know.”
“Hide and go seek?” he suggests outright. There’s no harm in not being subtle.
“No.”
“Okay. How about we play the napping game?” Rachel, having never heard of such a thing, seems slightly intrigued. “You and I go to sleep and whoever stays in bed the longest -”
“No,” she says sharply, her eyes narrowed on him like she understands what he’s trying to do.
He looks at her carefully. No, he thinks. He has no idea what kind of person she’ll grow up to be. But one thing he’ll say for certain is that she won’t be a fool. Whatever she’ll be, unfortunately for him today, she’s not stupid.
******************
He notices the dog-eared pamphlet peeking out from between two books on one of the shelves in her dorm room. The first day he was there, he memorized the layout as best he could so that he might notice when something changed. Others might have called that obsessive; he just wanted to be able to torment her to the best of his abilities.
The new addition capturing his curiosity, he doesn’t bother to hide his interest as he heads straight for the bookshelf. Cuddy must assume he’s getting one of the texts to help with their homework, because she doesn’t even notice what he’s doing until he says judgingly, “Rock climbing?”
She looks up in surprise at the sound of his voice. When she sees the pamphlet in his hand, she rolls her eyes. “Someone handed me one at the student union. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“The whitening of the spine says you’ve been opening it frequently though. Means you’re thinking about it.”
“So what? Why does it matter if I’m interested in -”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just surprised. I would think your sport of choice involves you going down, not up.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “My knees got tired.”
House has to suppress his smile. “Well, you’re not gonna find any relief climbing this mud pile,” he says, tossing the brochure back down on the bookshelf. “It sucks.”
“You’ve climbed it,” she deduces with some measure of shock. She’s watched him play lacrosse, but apparently there’s still some part of her that’s reluctant to see anything remotely athletic about him.
He nods his head. “Once. Where it wasn’t muddy, the rock was chossy, which will be particularly problematic if your thighs go thundering up those hills.”
She ignores the insult though her demeanor comes across as strained. She wants to seem conversational when she speaks, but her irritation isn’t completely hidden. “As much as it pleases you to assume I have the abilities of a blow up doll -”
“Don’t you?”
“I have rock climbed before.”
“Really?” He’s not so much doubtful as lazily curious. Or really, it’s not so much curiosity as it is a reluctance to do the work they’ve been tasked to do. “Based on the texture of your skin on -”
“Why are you paying attention to that?”
“Soft hands. Not even a bruise on your shins or knees. You might run around a track, but there’s nothing about you that suggests you like getting dirty,” he explains.
“My father used to take us on hikes whenever we were on vacation. I like the view.” Her own explanation is curt, without any emotion whatsoever.
He hates that he finds this intriguing. She should bore him by now. Yet the more time he spends with her, the more he wants to - which he can’t stand. Even more unbearable is the fact that this byproduct of their encounters is entirely unintentional. At no point has she tried to be interesting. For whatever reason he hangs on every word, but this hasn’t ever been her goal.
The temptation to bang his head against a wall hits him hard. Nevertheless he hears himself asking, “How’s your rope work?” She doesn’t say she’s inexperienced, but the look on her face tells him that she is. And then much to his chagrin, he’s offering, “Well, if you’re serious about going, you’re going to need to be good at that. I guess I can -”
“You want to come with me?” she asks with an amused scoff.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I was going to say I could give you some tips, so you don’t fall off the cliff and die.”
“Oh.” She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. “Okay.”
“But it is interesting that you thought I was offering -”
“Don’t read into it, House.”
“No?” He contemplates doing just that, his mind toying with the idea. If she believed he was interested in going with her, if said belief didn’t immediately create disgust, then it means something, he thinks. But then… what’s the point of him considering that? If she doesn’t like him, then any attention paid to the idea makes it seem like he’s the one who’s interested. And if she does like him, then House, who certainly does not like her, has no reason to excavate that fact from her. Digging for an admittance would mean he could hold it over her head, sure. But then he would also have to deal with the consequences of that knowledge, and he’s not in the mood for that. Besides, he’s, for whatever reason, ready to offer to take her, just as she wanted. If wanting him to come is a sign of something bigger, surely his acquiescence means far worse.
“Fine,” he says, knowing that no good can come from pursuing the subject. “I’ll take you.” His tone makes it sound like he’s doing her a favor; he tells himself that he is. “And don’t read into that,” he tells her haughtily.
It takes her a moment to reply, “No.”
“No?” He scowls in dismay. “You’re going to assume it means something - after I purposely refrained from doing the same thing to -”
“No, I mean no, you don’t need to take me,” she says with agitation.
Her rejection is keen. Looking at her, he can tell that it’s also honest. She’s not trying to hide a desire for him to tag along; she really doesn’t want him to go.
Immediately he begins to wonder if he’s misjudged the situation.
Then she explains, “You admitted you’ve done it once. That hardly makes you an expert.”
“I’ve done that area once,” he admits. “But I’ve been rock climbing since I was teenager.” Her doubt galls him. “And I’m pretty damn good at it too.”
She seems almost amused by his offense, soft smile lazily tugging at the corners of her lips. She picks up a pen and lets it wind through her fingers. “Did I upset you?” The pleasure in her voice is unmistakable but thankfully wanes quickly. “Well, I didn’t mean to. I’m just surprised you and I have something in common.”
It’s not hard for him to read between the lines.
“We have plenty in common,” he counters. “A class, interest in the same profession and the way your ass looks in those jeans.” She rolls her eyes, and he continues. “You’re not surprised we have something in common, even if it is something most wouldn’t assume two med students would be interested in. You’re surprised that I might be good at something you’re not. You’re surprised that I might be better -”
“In order for that to be true, I would have to believe that years of alleged practice have paid off in any way.”
“You don’t?”
She shrugged. “I have no reason to doubt, but I also have no reason to be jealous.”
“We’ll see about that.” It is a declaration. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she is doubting his capabilities. And right now what he wants more than anything is to prove her wrong, to take her to the top of that cliff and then force her to concede that she was wrong to doubt him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that because you think I’m lying, I have to prove otherwise.”
“You really don’t.”
But her protestations get her nowhere. That Sunday he picks her up at six a.m. to take her rock climbing. He anticipates a fight to get her to go along with him, but she’s ready, dark curls barely contained in a ponytail and perfect breasts tragically hidden beneath a Michigan sweatshirt.
“Don’t be so disappointed,” she tells him.
He can only say, “Let’s go.”
They’re quiet in the car. She keeps her attention on a thick book in her lap, which she’s been reading for their project for a week now; every once in a while, she’ll bite her lip in thought or offer him a tidbit of information that he’s supposed to find interesting. But it’s rare that he responds, and any attempt at conversation dies almost as quickly as it begins.
He’s not complaining though. The hour-long drive passes easily enough and without issue. Perhaps on its own, the trip would bore him. Including her, however, keeps his mind occupied. Simply put, the current state of things surprises and confuses him. This may be a hobby they surprisingly have in common (and who would have guessed that?). But there has been no attempt on either of their parts to bond. They have both maintained a lack of interest in any kind of friendship. When they’re together, he talks about her body, and she focuses on the work in front of them. That’s it. Half the time (okay, more than half) they aren’t even remotely kind to one another. He thinks she’s an idiot, and she knows he’s an ass, and they work together well but without any delusions as to how they feel about each other. And yet…
They’re getting along.
The silence between them is easy and friendly.
It confounds him quite frankly, and in her silence, he finds mental stimulation in trying to explain how all of this has come to be. They’ve never wanted to like one another, but somehow… they’re acting like they do.
He tries his best to come up with an explanation but can’t. And when they’re finally standing at the base of the cliff, all thought over the matter ceases. No doubt his mind will return to that line of thought later, but for now, his attention shifts to the jagged rock in front of them.
It’s actually quite beautiful, he thinks. The sky is perfectly blue with clouds rounder and bigger than Cuddy’s ass, which he believes is truly saying something. Grass dots the face of the cliff, frequent footsteps etching a thick slash of brown through the ground. The lack of rain recently has removed the mud he remembers so vividly from the first time he was here, and for that, he’s grateful.
Not that that makes what they are about to do any easier, of course.
Cuddy leans down to retie her shoes, which gives him time to eye the stone he’s planning to top. Standing at the base of the mountainous area, he is no longer as sure as he was in her dorm room. Memories erode his confidence, the last time he went rock climbing with someone else suddenly hitting him at full force.
The smell of blood and sweat feels real once more, the scent trickling in like a phantom in the air. He recalls the sounds of bones hitting the earth, the cries of his friend - the pleas from him for help, for life, for death, for anything that would make the pain go away.
Sometimes House wonders if that - not the buraku - was what made him become a doctor in the end, if it was the helplessness then that has spurred him on since. Maybe it was as much about the freedom purpose creates as it was the freedom being right has. Carrying that boy, he was able to do nothing but hope his strength would last the long hike back to the base. His arms trembled, legs barely able to cope with the extra weight, and the thought of what might happen should he not get them back was inescapable. He had no medical training, no means of aiding the kid’s recovery or ensuring his survival. And looking back at the situation now, he’s not sure there’s a feeling worse than that.
He stands there uncomfortably full with memory. But he doesn’t panic or become afraid of what might happen with Cuddy this time. In the years since he’s done this with someone else, he has grown. He has learned. Recollection makes him uneasy, but he has no reason to let the feeling be known.
If anything, gazing upon the small mountainside, he becomes more confident as to how this will turn out. Most people would only see the rock, the immensity of the task before them. But he does not cower away.
He only sees choreography, chess.
A foot there, hand grabbing onto a small indentation here, rope reliance at this point - the movements are clear, as obvious a path as the road he drove on was.
There are some intricacies, of course. His companion isn’t nearly as tall, doesn’t have the same upper body strength. Then again, she has smaller feet and hands, which gives her access to places he’d never be able to fit in.
His head tilting to the side, he suspects there’s a pussy joke in there somewhere.
“I’m ready,” she interrupts as she stands back up.
He nods his head once but doesn’t say anything. Given the direction his thoughts are headed, it’s probably for the best.
So they silently get started.
As they make their way toward the top, her skill level takes him by surprise. There’s no way she could do this on her own, he realizes. But she’s not completely useless either, which shocks him. Really, her reliance on his guidance isn’t nearly as oppressive as he thought it would be, and, not that he’ll admit it, but the journey is less unbearable than he imagined.
At least, he believes that until they’re three quarters of the way to the top. Up to that point, she is eager to do as he tells her. Not once does she second guess holding onto a crumbling ledge or putting all of her weight on a foot that’s barely got anything beneath it to support her. In fact, for the majority of the journey, she’s not a pain in the ass, amazingly enough.
And then they hit the last portion of the climb.
They’re both sweaty, in need of a cool place to sit and an even colder glass of water. He’s tired but not taking a short cut when he says, “Grab here.”
She hesitates to reach for a small crevice in the cliff side.
He understands her reluctance. There’s barely enough space for her hand, and at this point, he is aware (as no doubt is she) that one wrong move and subsequent fall could end in injury. But he expects her to listen to him as she has throughout the day thus far.
She doesn’t.
“No.”
Her vehemence takes him aback. Until now she’s trusted him, and her decision not to do so now puts him off his game.
“No?” His confusion is obvious, but he doesn’t wait for an explanation. Dangling off the side of a cliff, they are in no position for discussion. “You’ll be fine,” he is quick to add.
She doesn’t reach for it.
“Cuddy.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t.”
Given her feelings, another person would have looked for another path. He doesn’t. He has no doubt that she can reach the ledge he’s pointing towards. He knows he hasn’t miscalculated her abilities.
That can only mean whatever the issue is is something he’s not aware of. Since there’s nothing he can see, the problem has to be one inside of her. Fear is an obvious answer, but it rings false. Surely she wouldn’t have come if she were afraid of heights.
“What’s wrong?” he asks roughly, fed up with speculation even before he’s started.
Her voice quivers slightly. “I can’t reach it.”
“What? Of course you can.”
“No.” As though she doubts herself, she lifts her hand a little. For a second he thinks she’ll go for it. Almost instantly though she pulls back. “No. It’s too far.”
“No, it’s not,” he insists, shaking his head at her behavior. “You’re fine.”
“No, I -”
“No. You can. It’s completely within reach.”
“And if I miss -”
“Nothing will happen.”
And it won’t. They’ve been working side by side the last five feet or so, and he’s right next to her now; even if they didn’t have some precursory safety gear, she’s so close that he would be able to stop her from falling too far.
“You don’t know -”
“Actually I do, because I’m right next to you, and I can see that you can -”
“I can’t.”
“Just -”
“Shut up, House.”
“You -”
“You’re wrong. I can’t do it,” she snaps in a rush of hatred aimed at him. “You are wrong.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Her rage - that’s the only way he can describe it: rage - silences him. Out of place, it gives him pause, makes him realize that he can’t force her to do what he wants as things are. He has to change tactics.
After a moment, he tells her calmly, “All right. Stay where you are. Don’t move.” For whatever reason, his words seem to upset her more.
“Why? What are you going to do?” She’s suspicious of him, her eyes darting back and forth between him and the rock she’s clinging to.
His response is to descend the cliff, his actions swift but calculated. Carefully he gets closer to her, his feet scraping against the work, until he’s eventually right below her.
“House?” Her voice wavers though he thinks that might be a trick of the wind and nothing more.
He talks louder so that she’ll hear him. “Okay. I’m right below you.” He reaches up and presses a hand to the back of her leg. It’s just enough for her to feel, not enough (he hopes) to scare her. “You screw up, I’m here. You fall, I’ll be the one -”
“This is stupid,” she complains.
On that they agree, but he keeps that thought to himself. It won’t help him to say anything negative, not right now anyway. At this point he doesn’t care if they continue onward or abandon the cliff altogether. Either way, he needs to ensure a little cooperation from her if he wants things to move forward.
“I’m right here. All you have to do is reach up and grab the ledge.” She looks up at what she’s supposed to grab, considers it. “Just trust me,” he implores. “I’m right about this. You’re going to be fine.”
She thinks about it some more, then says, “If you’re wrong -”
“I’ll jump to my death to avoid hearing you bitch about how I was wrong,” he finishes.
He knows it’s not the promise of his own death that motivates her. He doesn’t mean it enough for it to be believable. If she moves at all, he guesses it will be because she’s just as sick of the stalemate as he is.
Yet for a moment, all thought of potential motivation seems unnecessary. Her gaze is fixated on the spot in the cliff, but she isn’t doing what he has told her to. Fear or something equally powerful stays her hand, overrides whatever interest she has in rock climbing or in trusting him. He waits for her to do what he wants, but as time stretches on, it seems less likely that she ever will.
If that’s the case, he wonders what his next move must be. They can’t stay like this forever.
Just as he thinks that however, she makes her move. Her body leans into the rock, feet hugging the ledge as best she can to protect herself from the breeze. Fingers outstretched, she reaches up.
She grabs hold of the crevice in the face of the earth.
Not once does she falter.
Not even for a second does it seem like she might fall or be hurt in some way.
He is vindicated.
He is right.
As he climbs back to his original position, he notices the embarrassment on her face. She should be ashamed, he thinks. But that is a thought he doesn’t share - at least not until they reach the top.
Then, when he doesn’t need her cooperation any longer, he feels free to share how he feels. The second they catch their breaths, he’s telling her, “See? I was right.”
She’s hunched over, wiping sweat and dirt off her hands, so he can’t see how his words go over. He assumes not well. And that suspicion is confirmed when she speaks.
“Yes. You were. Thank you.”
Although he has no intention of dropping the subject, he lets it go for now. Her tone is lethal, and he’s not entirely sure she’ll resist an urge to push him off the cliff right now.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing for her to start moving. “There’s a stream with good water not too far from here. We can walk and get a drink before we head back down.”
She glances back to the spot on the ridge they just appeared over. “Wouldn’t it just be faster to go back down to the car?”
“Forgive me if I’m not in the mood to head down just yet.”
“Fine.”
She must be aware of her mistake, because she follows him in silence. Then when they reach the stream, she tries to placate him - a sure sign of guilt. With a forced smile, she says, “This was a good idea. It’s pretty.”
It is. Only a mile or so away from where they climbed, the stream is small, surrounded by lush trees and the sound of chirping birds. But he can’t find it in himself to be lulled by the peaceful setting. His words aren’t nearly as kind.
“It was. You’ll find that I’m always almost eventually right.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
It almost sounds like a promise, her solemn demeanor giving credence to that idea. With the utmost seriousness, she scoops handfuls of water into her mouth. If she has it in her to fight back, she isn’t. But looking at her, he’s sure his harsh words have done their job. The delicate sound of her slurping and the trickle of water around him leave enough room for his guilt to sneak in in the silence.
He looks away from her. He tells himself he doesn’t have any reason to feel bad, but rational thought does little for him. It’s clear that she has no intention of denying her mistake - something he has pushed her toward. He won’t pretend like that wasn’t what he wanted all along. But in getting it, he feels as though he has been ungracious, hurtful in a way he didn’t need to be.
Well, it’s her own fault, he thinks stubbornly. The least she could have done was come out the gate admitting that she had overreacted. She could have said that he’d been right all along without needing the prompt. Even now, when she has fallen silent, it has been mostly through his force that any mistake on her part has been admitted. Suddenly he doesn’t feel bad anymore. Nevertheless, he is grateful that she finally - finally - accepts that he wasn’t wrong.
For that reason, he decides there’s no point in punishing her any further by lashing out. He has gotten what he wanted. His frustration dissipates with her capitulation, and it would be cruel to force the issue of her screw up any longer.
Sitting on the grass next to her, he wonders why it matters to him anyway. Why does he want her to trust his judgment? Why is her failure to do so so galling? And why, most importantly, does he hesitate now to rub her nose in her mistake? He would never feel bad if this were anyone else.
He comprehends, fears, that the answers to those questions aren’t good ones.
Thus a distraction is necessary.
He takes a few sips of water, hoping that the cool drink will help him clear his mind. But long after he stops feeling parched, the questions bothering him remain.
So he asks one out loud.
In as non-threatening a way as possible, he breaks the silence. “What happened?”
“I don’t know” is her immediate response. The look on her face says she doesn’t, the honesty coming to her naturally, surprisingly enough. “That’s the first time that’s - I don’t know. That’s never happened before.”
She seems convincing enough. Looking at her, he sees that she’s not lying. But then… it’s not a satisfying answer either.
Just as he waits for her to say more, she adds, “I didn’t think I was afraid of heights.” Nervously she dips her hand into the stream. Her fingertips dance atop the softly flowing water. “Maybe I am though. I must have looked down too long.”
That doesn’t ring true to him. If she’s gone rock climbing before (and her skills prove that she has), he knows she’s used to the disorienting terror that instinctively bubbles up within you when you’re looking down. If she’s as experienced as her body says she is, she is capable of suppressing that fear. In the very least, if she weren’t capable of doing that, she would have never considered taking the pamphlet about rock climbing when it had been initially offered to her. Since she did take it, since she was willing to come with him, her so-called fear of heights is really something else.
Distrust in him perhaps?
Possibly. She said she used to go rock climbing with her father; that’s definitely different than going with someone she doesn’t really know. Maybe.
Whatever the reason, she must be afraid House will stumble upon the truth. Surely it’s not a coincidence that she takes off her sweatshirt at that moment. It’s warm out, but by the water, it’s definitely not hot. The heat of their climb has worn off, so if she’s disrobing, there’s a reason - and his body makes that reason obvious.
His gaze and thoughts instantly divert to her cleavage, the way her white tank top clings to her breasts and reveals just a sliver of the pale flesh beneath. No, he thinks, that would not be a choice she made happenstance. But the way her body looks right now dissolves any irritation he might feel about her diversion.
“If you’re so attracted to me,” she says in amusement, drawing his eyes upward once more. “Why don’t you do something about it?”
He blinks. “Such as?”
“You could kiss me,” she suggests nonchalantly.
He looks at her mouth, those sweet lips, for a second. It’s a tempting offer.
He resists.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he throws back. It would be too easy to just give into the attraction. He would like to (maybe), but it would be too simple, would feel like he were accepting defeat. Until she admits that she feels the same way, he alone cannot say those things, act on his desires. He can’t surrender alone - that’s what it comes down to.
But she is equally stubborn. “How do you figure?”
“Oh I’m sorry. Do you always tell men you aren’t attracted to to kiss you?”
She leans in close - his heart thunders at the possibility of what she might do, mind tries to unravel the mystery of her behavior. Will she admit it? Will she kiss him? Is this what she wants? Is he insane for thinking any of this is a good idea?
His eyes start to close. He wants this -
And then she says coyly, “Maybe.”
She’ll never give in before he does. When he opens his eyes, that’s what he sees: determination, stamina.
Just like that, the moment is over. He thinks he might hate her for making this so difficult. On the other hand, she is all the more attractive for being just as pig-headed, just as much of a challenge as he is. He respects that, is drawn to it, even as he despises it.
No matter what though, he won’t give in. He won’t. If she wants this, she’ll have to give in to their chemistry before he does. Until then, he will hold out.
Abruptly he pulls away from her. She won’t admit she wants him today. Knowing that, he is cold to her as he stands.
“Come on. Let’s go home,” he says in a voice that approaches command.
There is no room for disagreement. They got close to taking the next step, but they won’t - not today. They’ve had their fun, and now…
Now it’s time to return to reality.
******************
The lit fireplace and candles cast the room in gloomy shadows. The storm that knocked their power out has calmed to a quiet drizzle, rain pinging against the windowpane. Half empty wine glasses nestled between a barely touched bowl of popcorn and packet of Twizzlers, it all amounts to what should be a romantic evening with Cuddy. Their plans of watching a movie together have been ruined because of a stray tree hitting some power lines nearby, and that alone should have him in a good mood; he got to avoid another one of Owen Wilson’s awful movies (it was, sadly, her pick tonight), which is reason enough to celebrate). And yet the mood in the room is decidedly not romantic, and he’s definitely not happy right now.
In a brief moment of reflection, he realizes that this is all his fault. When the power went out, he could have gotten one of their laptops to finish the movie. He could have suggested they go to bed, an untimely end to their night, yes, but one that surely would have been more fun than this.
Unfortunately, he went with option C: playing a game of Scrabble.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. He had no desire to watch his girlfriend get hot and bothered by Owen Wilson. And since it was a Saturday night, he also had no interest in going to bed at nine; sex would have prolonged sleep for a while, but afterwards, it would still be too early for bed. So why not beat her at a game they both enjoyed playing?
Well… that’s not how things are turning out. He sees that now. At first, when he started to lose, he tried to distract her by making all of his words sexual. She knew what he was doing; he wouldn’t insult her intelligence by pretending otherwise. Yet she tolerated his antics and even went so far as to laugh at some of the slang he was putting on the board one wooden tile at a time.
He understands now why.
All of those four letter words were entertaining, not distracting. She’s played just as well with his strategy in place. Instead of closing the gap, he has efficiently widened it. And of course, just as he’s about to do some serious damage by getting a triple word score with the phrase, “with squirrel,” she protests.
“That’s not a word.”
“Sure it is.” It’s not. “Means pregnant.”
She sets her glass of wine down roughly, cabernet dangerously sloshing close to the rim. Her agitation prevents her from noticing.
“It does not,” she says in a high and mighty tone - like there’s nothing worse than cheating at Scrabble. Their relationship has made them a team against the outside world, but it has done nothing to remove the inherent competitiveness between them.
He reaches for a piece of licorice sitting nearby. As he plucks the candy red strand from the plastic bag, he deflects. Mouth full, he says, “You’ve had more wine than I thought if you think that’s true.”
She’s unmoved. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to believe that ‘with squirrel’ means -”
“But it does.”
“Even if that were true and you know it’s not, it’s two words.”
“That didn’t bother you when I spelled out, ‘eat -‘”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not.”
“House. I’ve let you cheat for half the game, and you’re still losing. You might cut the amount you’re losing by, but until you play the game seriously, I’m going to continue to kick your ass.” She tosses her hands up in defeat. “So if you want to keep screwing around, by all means, cheat. It doesn’t bother me a bit.”
She’s too at ease for him to write it off as a bluff. She really doesn’t care, and considering she’ll still be up fifty points even if he adds squirrel to her with, that’s not hard to understand why. The best he can do is narrow the gap, not close it, and after this, what will he do? He’ll be stuck with writing variations of ass for the rest of the game.
“Well?” she interrupts impatiently. “Are you going to make a move or not?”
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.
Previous Parts: Part One
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rachel is the proof this is not a game. When the pressure of a relationship becomes overbearing, he tries to tell himself that they’re just testing this out, having a little fun, seeing what might happen.
Rachel is proof this is a lie.
Cuddy has introduced her to him; she’s allowed him to spend time with her daughter. And if those two things alone don’t spell out the seriousness of the situation, he’s not sure what will. But then, he doesn’t need any more to comprehend what he’s gotten himself into. As much as he likes to lie to himself, he is aware, and completely so, that he is, in fact, lying. His delusions offer him no comfort, no relief.
With every move he makes, he knows that there is no room for error. If he screws up, he will have to fight for forgiveness, to prove that he has earned this place in Cuddy’s life. So too does he understand what success will mean. If this isn’t a passing flirtation with one another, then he’s in this relationship hoping that it will last. And if he succeeds on that front, then his boss becomes his partner and her child becomes more so his own than he would have ever imagined possible.
He does not take that responsibility lightly.
After the dime incident, he has been hesitant to accept said responsibility, of course. Nearly killing Rachel has made him doubtful of his ability to take care of Rachel. He was always afraid, knowing what failure would mean, but after that, he’s even less convinced that he knows what he’s doing. And as such he is reluctant to dabble in affairs involving the child. Above all else, she should be safe, and he’s afraid that that means limiting her exposure to someone as messed up as he is.
At the same time though, he can’t avoid her completely. That would just make Cuddy suspicious and even more doubtful that he could ever blend in to her life. Because of that, he can’t say no; he just can’t, at the moment anyway, allow himself to volunteer for the job of babysitter.
But he does anyway one rainy Saturday morning when Cuddy wakes up with a migraine that renders her useless. Shaky and nauseous she hurries to the bathroom and retches, which is what he wakes up to at four in the morning. He’s quick to force medication down her throat as by his calculation she has only an hour to recover before Rachel starts running around. And for a brief moment, it seems to work.
She pulls away from the toilet long enough for him to take a cool washcloth to her face. The pain eases just long enough for her to thank him for the small paper cup of water he gives her, allowing her to rinse the bile out of her mouth. It’s not his instinct to believe the problem is over, as he carefully sinks to the bathroom floor. With caution then, he allows her to curl up against him, her head resting on his lap. The smell of vomit lingers in the air, and he’s reluctant to let her anywhere near him as a result; the possibility that she will get sick again is strong. But for a second, it seems like things will be okay.
Then in a rush for the toilet, she gets sick again, and the medicine out of her system, he knows she’s going to be out for the rest of the day. Given that she’ll be useless, he’s tempted sorely to call Marina and then leave.
But in truth, he has done that enough. Cuddy has come to anticipate his abandonment, he knows. Selfishness and fear have led him to slip out doors without a glance back when he thinks she’s not looking, and experience has steeled her for betrayal. When she asks him to stay these days, it is little more than an order coupled with as many threats as she can find. If she doesn’t ask, she assumes he will leave. And no matter what, when she looks at him, all he sees is the expectation of his disappearance. Forgiveness is easier wanted than earned.
Rationally House knows that her doubt in him is well founded. Fear kept him from her during her cancer scare, made a joke out of his attempt at sobriety. She needed him there, and he went for the Vicodin instead. One seemingly endless break up and several promises to do better later, they were back together… but the sting of betrayal has lingered for her.
He’s not surprised.
His behavior then was nothing short of disgusting. The addict in him, his inherent selfishness, led him to believe he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but he can see now he nearly lost everything. He left her to face the threat of cancer alone. He caused her to doubt, and if she assumes he’ll head for the door again at any given moment, it’s only a reasonable conclusion she’s come to, based on his actions. But that inspires a resolution of his own; if she doesn’t trust him, he must do whatever it takes to change that. That means if he wants to leave now, he can’t. If he doesn’t want to watch Rachel, he has to do just that. Past mistakes have backed him into a corner, and he needs to find a way out. He needs to make this right, a fact that only furthers his understanding that this isn’t a game.
If only for the way he has begun to treat their relationship, he knows that this is far more serious than he’s let on in the past. And though it scares him to be aware of that, he can no longer deny it either. He has to do what is necessary to be with Cuddy.
The thought is a solemn one, a resolute one, and firm to that fact, he doesn’t allow himself a moment to question what he’s doing. Without hesitation, he gives up on the idea that he’ll be anywhere but here today.
“If you think you can handle it, let’s try to get you back in bed,” he whispers softly. She still cringes at the sound of his voice, noise too much for her pounding head. But she offers no protest when he stands up. When he starts to help her up though, that’s a different story.
“Don’t.”
The next couple of minutes pass stressfully. He knows the only way through this is to have her sleep it off. She can’t stomach the medicine, and he can’t leave her on the bathroom floor all day. Getting her to bed is a priority. But if he jostles her too much, she’ll get sick. Avoiding that though is hardly easy. Every movement she makes seems to turn her a more vibrant shade of green. When standing or walking is too much, she has to stop and lean against him, with her eyes closed and breathing deep. And he has no choice but to let her do this, to patiently wait for her to ride it out. He wants to tell her that it will be okay, that they are that much closer to the bed. But as her migraine progresses, she’ll become increasingly sensitive to noise. Instead of making her feel better, he’ll accomplish the opposite. So he stays quiet and silently helps her forward, and eventually he gets her where she needs to be.
He tucks her into bed and kisses her temple. The act is meant to be one of kindness, but it just makes her groan. He guesses that’s to be expected. Given that she’s still queasy, he waits until she has settled to move; there’s a part of him that itches to uncharacteristically fuss over her, but he resists the urge.
When she’s finally relaxed, he ensures she will stay that way. Gingerly he gets up. To the block the light out, he draws the curtains closed as quietly as he can. Returning to the nightstand, he turns off the baby monitor and pockets both his cell phone and hers.
Now that there are no distractions in the room, he feels comfortable leaving. But he’s not going to stop there. Heading straight for the kitchen, he wants to make sure she’ll have everything she needs for the next while.
A glance at the clock reminds him that Rachel will be awake soon, so he knows he has to work fast. He pulls a sleeve of saltines out and places them on a breakfast tray. Then as he boils water for tea, he pours a glass of seltzer. When he finally has everything in place, a mug of piping hot black and ginger tea freshly brewed, he heads back to the bedroom.
In truth he probably could have waited to do this part. She’s not going to touch any of it for a long time, and the tea will be cold by then. Then again, if he waited, he would have to do all of this and deal with Rachel, which is less than ideal. Better to do one thing at a time, he tells himself.
That becomes exponentially more obvious when he enters the nursery. After taking care of Cuddy, he decides it would be best to sit near Rachel so that he’s right there to grab her before she screams that she’s awake. But the second he pushes past the door, he sees that he is almost too late. Because there Rachel is, one leg swung over the crib’s gate.
Being the handful that she is, she has heard him coming apparently. She knows she’s not supposed to get out of her bed like this. In recent weeks, Cuddy has tried to convince her that it’s time to sleep in a “big girl bed,” but Rachel has resisted the change. At the time, House didn’t understand why she would prefer to be cooped up in her crib, but he gets it now. This just isn’t a bed for her; she treats the thing like a jungle gym too… which she must know she’s not allowed to do. Because she’s not just climbing on the gate when he comes into the room. As though she’s afraid of getting in trouble, she is, as he sees, trying to climb back into the crib.
The last thing he needs is for Rachel to hurt herself, so he moves to stand behind her in case she falls. “What are you doing?” he asks in a voice he makes intentionally light. “You know you’re not supposed to get out of -”
“In,” she insists, sitting down in her crib as though she wasn’t just trying to get out.
“Uh huh.”
He reaches in to pick her up. As soon as he’s got a hold of her, she announces, “I pooped.”
She doesn’t need to say it. It’s obvious to him the instant she is in his arms. Cuddy likes to claim the kid is potty trained, and he guesses Rachel is. She’s trained to crap her pants accidentally only when he’s responsible for taking care of her.
He grimaces. “Of course you did.” His disgust only makes her smile.
By the time he’s finished changing her, she’s giggling at him with such earnest that it makes him wonder what kind of person it is Cuddy is raising Rachel to be.
Of course he’s probably not helping matters. After breakfast, he lets her watch TV. Or rather he lets her watch TV with him. Since Peep And The Big Wide World doesn’t interest him, she’s being entertained by something obviously inappropriate.
“That’s Jenny,” he explains, knowing - hoping - Rachel won’t pick up on anything he’s saying. “Chuck, who’s now her step-brother, sort of, tried to rape her in the series premiere. You’d think the writers would remember that before having her dad marry Chuck’s former-step-mother-turned guardian or before having Jenny lose her virginity to him. But you would be wrong.”
Rachel just stares at the television in interest. He concedes then that if anything goes wrong with the kid as a person, he’s more the cause than Cuddy. But he’s not sure what to do about that. He’d feel as though he would be overstepping his boundaries if he started to decide what was in Rachel’s best interests. Surely, she shouldn’t be watching CW programming (no living creature should). But to tell her no, to censor his words, tastes in television, or anything else… he’s not comfortable with that. He’s not her father, and it’s not his place to act like one. Just the idea that his relationship with Cuddy is headed that way is enough to make him feel sick.
It doesn’t help that the last time he really tried to tell Rachel what to do, she ate money and made his life hell. He’s involved himself in getting her into a good school, he supposes. But the success of clicker training aside, his efforts were a failure all around. That was just confirmation that he has no business involving himself in this little girl’s childhood. But he’s not willing to give up his relationship with Cuddy in order to protect the kid.
He pushes onward to be with Cuddy, to give himself the happiness and love he wants though hasn’t earned. Eventually this will come to a head; a choice will have to be made. For now though, he’s content to act as though this is leading nowhere, as though nothing will go wrong with this act. He’s just being a good boyfriend, a last minute babysitter.
It’s a struggle not to overthink it.
That said, the day goes unusually smoothly. When she gets bored of watching TV, Rachel plays with her dolls quietly at House’s feet. She eats what he makes her for lunch, goes down easily at naptime, and is, much to his astonishment, empty of change, magnets, lint, sand, and anything else that might seem edible to a child her age.
Better still, after he leaves Rachel, he goes to take a shower, and Cuddy is… improving. She’s not one hundred percent, of course, but she’s sitting up, drinking the tea that has gone cold.
“Think you can swallow a pill?” If she’s conscious, he doesn’t want to lose the opportunity to get medicine inside her. Most likely coming to the same conclusion, she tiredly nods her head. Once he’s handed her another dose of the drugs she threw up earlier, he can’t help but joke, “And I didn’t even make a blow job joke.”
Her smile is weak. “That must have been tough for you.”
“You have no idea,” he says, helping her back to bed.
Illness has her fast asleep in no time, and he leaves her to shower.
The hot water feels good against his tired body and aching thigh. The heat eases the pain he can’t escape, and slowly he starts to relax. So too though does the warmth surrounding him bring to the surface the effects of being awoken so early. Sleepy he would like nothing more than to use Rachel’s naptime as his own. But before he even has a chance to lie down, Rachel is shouting his name.
Part of him hopes, foolishly, that she’ll give up if he doesn’t come right away and go back to sleep. Naturally though that doesn’t happen. She just gets louder.
It’s loud enough that the noise wakes Cuddy with a groan.
“Wuh?” Eyes closed she turns her head in his direction. She groans again as she realizes what’s going on and then offers weakly, “Want me to -”
“No. You rest.”
There’s no time for reluctance. If he hesitates, she’ll force herself to get up. So he hurries to Rachel once more.
The situation steadily goes downhill from there. Her short nap and his non-existent one create a bad combination. She’s awake enough to want to play but too tired to find satisfaction in anything. He’s sleepy and busy resenting the urge to be short-tempered to put all his focus on finding something fun to do. He just wants to set Rachel up with something so he can sleep. Nothing seems to work though.
She won’t sit still to watch television - not even the stupid cartoons she’s fond of. Every time he tries, she whines, fights him off, and runs away as quickly as she can go.
The same thing happens when he tries to get her to color or play with her dolls. She’s cranky and unwilling to even try to have fun.
Reading to her works in silencing her for five minutes. Then she’s trying to shove the book closed.
“Sweetie, I can’t read if you do that,” he says, trying to be nice.
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t want you to read no more.”
Given their moods, he doesn’t bother to keep reading. It’s not like he’s dying to find out what happens anyway. All the while knowing he’s running out of options, he lets her hop off his lap.
Leaning back in the rocking chair in her room, he asks, “What do you want to do?” He’s trying to keep his irritation at bay. He really is. It’s clear he’s not succeeding. “We’re running out of options.”
She sways back and forth out of boredom. In a singsong voice, she says, “I don’t know.”
“Want to play with your Barbies?”
“Nope.”
“Watch some more Peep?”
“Uh uh.”
He thinks. “Um… how about you color in your coloring book?”
“No! I wanna play a game,” she says with a stomp of her foot.
He’s relieved that they’re getting somewhere. “What kind of a game?” Secretly he hopes it’s hide and go seek. He could make her go hide. And if he were to have an unusually difficult time seeking her, well, that would be all right, wouldn’t it?
Her answer, however, is a frustrating, “I don’t know.”
“Hide and go seek?” he suggests outright. There’s no harm in not being subtle.
“No.”
“Okay. How about we play the napping game?” Rachel, having never heard of such a thing, seems slightly intrigued. “You and I go to sleep and whoever stays in bed the longest -”
“No,” she says sharply, her eyes narrowed on him like she understands what he’s trying to do.
He looks at her carefully. No, he thinks. He has no idea what kind of person she’ll grow up to be. But one thing he’ll say for certain is that she won’t be a fool. Whatever she’ll be, unfortunately for him today, she’s not stupid.
******************
He notices the dog-eared pamphlet peeking out from between two books on one of the shelves in her dorm room. The first day he was there, he memorized the layout as best he could so that he might notice when something changed. Others might have called that obsessive; he just wanted to be able to torment her to the best of his abilities.
The new addition capturing his curiosity, he doesn’t bother to hide his interest as he heads straight for the bookshelf. Cuddy must assume he’s getting one of the texts to help with their homework, because she doesn’t even notice what he’s doing until he says judgingly, “Rock climbing?”
She looks up in surprise at the sound of his voice. When she sees the pamphlet in his hand, she rolls her eyes. “Someone handed me one at the student union. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“The whitening of the spine says you’ve been opening it frequently though. Means you’re thinking about it.”
“So what? Why does it matter if I’m interested in -”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just surprised. I would think your sport of choice involves you going down, not up.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “My knees got tired.”
House has to suppress his smile. “Well, you’re not gonna find any relief climbing this mud pile,” he says, tossing the brochure back down on the bookshelf. “It sucks.”
“You’ve climbed it,” she deduces with some measure of shock. She’s watched him play lacrosse, but apparently there’s still some part of her that’s reluctant to see anything remotely athletic about him.
He nods his head. “Once. Where it wasn’t muddy, the rock was chossy, which will be particularly problematic if your thighs go thundering up those hills.”
She ignores the insult though her demeanor comes across as strained. She wants to seem conversational when she speaks, but her irritation isn’t completely hidden. “As much as it pleases you to assume I have the abilities of a blow up doll -”
“Don’t you?”
“I have rock climbed before.”
“Really?” He’s not so much doubtful as lazily curious. Or really, it’s not so much curiosity as it is a reluctance to do the work they’ve been tasked to do. “Based on the texture of your skin on -”
“Why are you paying attention to that?”
“Soft hands. Not even a bruise on your shins or knees. You might run around a track, but there’s nothing about you that suggests you like getting dirty,” he explains.
“My father used to take us on hikes whenever we were on vacation. I like the view.” Her own explanation is curt, without any emotion whatsoever.
He hates that he finds this intriguing. She should bore him by now. Yet the more time he spends with her, the more he wants to - which he can’t stand. Even more unbearable is the fact that this byproduct of their encounters is entirely unintentional. At no point has she tried to be interesting. For whatever reason he hangs on every word, but this hasn’t ever been her goal.
The temptation to bang his head against a wall hits him hard. Nevertheless he hears himself asking, “How’s your rope work?” She doesn’t say she’s inexperienced, but the look on her face tells him that she is. And then much to his chagrin, he’s offering, “Well, if you’re serious about going, you’re going to need to be good at that. I guess I can -”
“You want to come with me?” she asks with an amused scoff.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I was going to say I could give you some tips, so you don’t fall off the cliff and die.”
“Oh.” She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. “Okay.”
“But it is interesting that you thought I was offering -”
“Don’t read into it, House.”
“No?” He contemplates doing just that, his mind toying with the idea. If she believed he was interested in going with her, if said belief didn’t immediately create disgust, then it means something, he thinks. But then… what’s the point of him considering that? If she doesn’t like him, then any attention paid to the idea makes it seem like he’s the one who’s interested. And if she does like him, then House, who certainly does not like her, has no reason to excavate that fact from her. Digging for an admittance would mean he could hold it over her head, sure. But then he would also have to deal with the consequences of that knowledge, and he’s not in the mood for that. Besides, he’s, for whatever reason, ready to offer to take her, just as she wanted. If wanting him to come is a sign of something bigger, surely his acquiescence means far worse.
“Fine,” he says, knowing that no good can come from pursuing the subject. “I’ll take you.” His tone makes it sound like he’s doing her a favor; he tells himself that he is. “And don’t read into that,” he tells her haughtily.
It takes her a moment to reply, “No.”
“No?” He scowls in dismay. “You’re going to assume it means something - after I purposely refrained from doing the same thing to -”
“No, I mean no, you don’t need to take me,” she says with agitation.
Her rejection is keen. Looking at her, he can tell that it’s also honest. She’s not trying to hide a desire for him to tag along; she really doesn’t want him to go.
Immediately he begins to wonder if he’s misjudged the situation.
Then she explains, “You admitted you’ve done it once. That hardly makes you an expert.”
“I’ve done that area once,” he admits. “But I’ve been rock climbing since I was teenager.” Her doubt galls him. “And I’m pretty damn good at it too.”
She seems almost amused by his offense, soft smile lazily tugging at the corners of her lips. She picks up a pen and lets it wind through her fingers. “Did I upset you?” The pleasure in her voice is unmistakable but thankfully wanes quickly. “Well, I didn’t mean to. I’m just surprised you and I have something in common.”
It’s not hard for him to read between the lines.
“We have plenty in common,” he counters. “A class, interest in the same profession and the way your ass looks in those jeans.” She rolls her eyes, and he continues. “You’re not surprised we have something in common, even if it is something most wouldn’t assume two med students would be interested in. You’re surprised that I might be good at something you’re not. You’re surprised that I might be better -”
“In order for that to be true, I would have to believe that years of alleged practice have paid off in any way.”
“You don’t?”
She shrugged. “I have no reason to doubt, but I also have no reason to be jealous.”
“We’ll see about that.” It is a declaration. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she is doubting his capabilities. And right now what he wants more than anything is to prove her wrong, to take her to the top of that cliff and then force her to concede that she was wrong to doubt him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that because you think I’m lying, I have to prove otherwise.”
“You really don’t.”
But her protestations get her nowhere. That Sunday he picks her up at six a.m. to take her rock climbing. He anticipates a fight to get her to go along with him, but she’s ready, dark curls barely contained in a ponytail and perfect breasts tragically hidden beneath a Michigan sweatshirt.
“Don’t be so disappointed,” she tells him.
He can only say, “Let’s go.”
They’re quiet in the car. She keeps her attention on a thick book in her lap, which she’s been reading for their project for a week now; every once in a while, she’ll bite her lip in thought or offer him a tidbit of information that he’s supposed to find interesting. But it’s rare that he responds, and any attempt at conversation dies almost as quickly as it begins.
He’s not complaining though. The hour-long drive passes easily enough and without issue. Perhaps on its own, the trip would bore him. Including her, however, keeps his mind occupied. Simply put, the current state of things surprises and confuses him. This may be a hobby they surprisingly have in common (and who would have guessed that?). But there has been no attempt on either of their parts to bond. They have both maintained a lack of interest in any kind of friendship. When they’re together, he talks about her body, and she focuses on the work in front of them. That’s it. Half the time (okay, more than half) they aren’t even remotely kind to one another. He thinks she’s an idiot, and she knows he’s an ass, and they work together well but without any delusions as to how they feel about each other. And yet…
They’re getting along.
The silence between them is easy and friendly.
It confounds him quite frankly, and in her silence, he finds mental stimulation in trying to explain how all of this has come to be. They’ve never wanted to like one another, but somehow… they’re acting like they do.
He tries his best to come up with an explanation but can’t. And when they’re finally standing at the base of the cliff, all thought over the matter ceases. No doubt his mind will return to that line of thought later, but for now, his attention shifts to the jagged rock in front of them.
It’s actually quite beautiful, he thinks. The sky is perfectly blue with clouds rounder and bigger than Cuddy’s ass, which he believes is truly saying something. Grass dots the face of the cliff, frequent footsteps etching a thick slash of brown through the ground. The lack of rain recently has removed the mud he remembers so vividly from the first time he was here, and for that, he’s grateful.
Not that that makes what they are about to do any easier, of course.
Cuddy leans down to retie her shoes, which gives him time to eye the stone he’s planning to top. Standing at the base of the mountainous area, he is no longer as sure as he was in her dorm room. Memories erode his confidence, the last time he went rock climbing with someone else suddenly hitting him at full force.
The smell of blood and sweat feels real once more, the scent trickling in like a phantom in the air. He recalls the sounds of bones hitting the earth, the cries of his friend - the pleas from him for help, for life, for death, for anything that would make the pain go away.
Sometimes House wonders if that - not the buraku - was what made him become a doctor in the end, if it was the helplessness then that has spurred him on since. Maybe it was as much about the freedom purpose creates as it was the freedom being right has. Carrying that boy, he was able to do nothing but hope his strength would last the long hike back to the base. His arms trembled, legs barely able to cope with the extra weight, and the thought of what might happen should he not get them back was inescapable. He had no medical training, no means of aiding the kid’s recovery or ensuring his survival. And looking back at the situation now, he’s not sure there’s a feeling worse than that.
He stands there uncomfortably full with memory. But he doesn’t panic or become afraid of what might happen with Cuddy this time. In the years since he’s done this with someone else, he has grown. He has learned. Recollection makes him uneasy, but he has no reason to let the feeling be known.
If anything, gazing upon the small mountainside, he becomes more confident as to how this will turn out. Most people would only see the rock, the immensity of the task before them. But he does not cower away.
He only sees choreography, chess.
A foot there, hand grabbing onto a small indentation here, rope reliance at this point - the movements are clear, as obvious a path as the road he drove on was.
There are some intricacies, of course. His companion isn’t nearly as tall, doesn’t have the same upper body strength. Then again, she has smaller feet and hands, which gives her access to places he’d never be able to fit in.
His head tilting to the side, he suspects there’s a pussy joke in there somewhere.
“I’m ready,” she interrupts as she stands back up.
He nods his head once but doesn’t say anything. Given the direction his thoughts are headed, it’s probably for the best.
So they silently get started.
As they make their way toward the top, her skill level takes him by surprise. There’s no way she could do this on her own, he realizes. But she’s not completely useless either, which shocks him. Really, her reliance on his guidance isn’t nearly as oppressive as he thought it would be, and, not that he’ll admit it, but the journey is less unbearable than he imagined.
At least, he believes that until they’re three quarters of the way to the top. Up to that point, she is eager to do as he tells her. Not once does she second guess holding onto a crumbling ledge or putting all of her weight on a foot that’s barely got anything beneath it to support her. In fact, for the majority of the journey, she’s not a pain in the ass, amazingly enough.
And then they hit the last portion of the climb.
They’re both sweaty, in need of a cool place to sit and an even colder glass of water. He’s tired but not taking a short cut when he says, “Grab here.”
She hesitates to reach for a small crevice in the cliff side.
He understands her reluctance. There’s barely enough space for her hand, and at this point, he is aware (as no doubt is she) that one wrong move and subsequent fall could end in injury. But he expects her to listen to him as she has throughout the day thus far.
She doesn’t.
“No.”
Her vehemence takes him aback. Until now she’s trusted him, and her decision not to do so now puts him off his game.
“No?” His confusion is obvious, but he doesn’t wait for an explanation. Dangling off the side of a cliff, they are in no position for discussion. “You’ll be fine,” he is quick to add.
She doesn’t reach for it.
“Cuddy.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t.”
Given her feelings, another person would have looked for another path. He doesn’t. He has no doubt that she can reach the ledge he’s pointing towards. He knows he hasn’t miscalculated her abilities.
That can only mean whatever the issue is is something he’s not aware of. Since there’s nothing he can see, the problem has to be one inside of her. Fear is an obvious answer, but it rings false. Surely she wouldn’t have come if she were afraid of heights.
“What’s wrong?” he asks roughly, fed up with speculation even before he’s started.
Her voice quivers slightly. “I can’t reach it.”
“What? Of course you can.”
“No.” As though she doubts herself, she lifts her hand a little. For a second he thinks she’ll go for it. Almost instantly though she pulls back. “No. It’s too far.”
“No, it’s not,” he insists, shaking his head at her behavior. “You’re fine.”
“No, I -”
“No. You can. It’s completely within reach.”
“And if I miss -”
“Nothing will happen.”
And it won’t. They’ve been working side by side the last five feet or so, and he’s right next to her now; even if they didn’t have some precursory safety gear, she’s so close that he would be able to stop her from falling too far.
“You don’t know -”
“Actually I do, because I’m right next to you, and I can see that you can -”
“I can’t.”
“Just -”
“Shut up, House.”
“You -”
“You’re wrong. I can’t do it,” she snaps in a rush of hatred aimed at him. “You are wrong.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Her rage - that’s the only way he can describe it: rage - silences him. Out of place, it gives him pause, makes him realize that he can’t force her to do what he wants as things are. He has to change tactics.
After a moment, he tells her calmly, “All right. Stay where you are. Don’t move.” For whatever reason, his words seem to upset her more.
“Why? What are you going to do?” She’s suspicious of him, her eyes darting back and forth between him and the rock she’s clinging to.
His response is to descend the cliff, his actions swift but calculated. Carefully he gets closer to her, his feet scraping against the work, until he’s eventually right below her.
“House?” Her voice wavers though he thinks that might be a trick of the wind and nothing more.
He talks louder so that she’ll hear him. “Okay. I’m right below you.” He reaches up and presses a hand to the back of her leg. It’s just enough for her to feel, not enough (he hopes) to scare her. “You screw up, I’m here. You fall, I’ll be the one -”
“This is stupid,” she complains.
On that they agree, but he keeps that thought to himself. It won’t help him to say anything negative, not right now anyway. At this point he doesn’t care if they continue onward or abandon the cliff altogether. Either way, he needs to ensure a little cooperation from her if he wants things to move forward.
“I’m right here. All you have to do is reach up and grab the ledge.” She looks up at what she’s supposed to grab, considers it. “Just trust me,” he implores. “I’m right about this. You’re going to be fine.”
She thinks about it some more, then says, “If you’re wrong -”
“I’ll jump to my death to avoid hearing you bitch about how I was wrong,” he finishes.
He knows it’s not the promise of his own death that motivates her. He doesn’t mean it enough for it to be believable. If she moves at all, he guesses it will be because she’s just as sick of the stalemate as he is.
Yet for a moment, all thought of potential motivation seems unnecessary. Her gaze is fixated on the spot in the cliff, but she isn’t doing what he has told her to. Fear or something equally powerful stays her hand, overrides whatever interest she has in rock climbing or in trusting him. He waits for her to do what he wants, but as time stretches on, it seems less likely that she ever will.
If that’s the case, he wonders what his next move must be. They can’t stay like this forever.
Just as he thinks that however, she makes her move. Her body leans into the rock, feet hugging the ledge as best she can to protect herself from the breeze. Fingers outstretched, she reaches up.
She grabs hold of the crevice in the face of the earth.
Not once does she falter.
Not even for a second does it seem like she might fall or be hurt in some way.
He is vindicated.
He is right.
As he climbs back to his original position, he notices the embarrassment on her face. She should be ashamed, he thinks. But that is a thought he doesn’t share - at least not until they reach the top.
Then, when he doesn’t need her cooperation any longer, he feels free to share how he feels. The second they catch their breaths, he’s telling her, “See? I was right.”
She’s hunched over, wiping sweat and dirt off her hands, so he can’t see how his words go over. He assumes not well. And that suspicion is confirmed when she speaks.
“Yes. You were. Thank you.”
Although he has no intention of dropping the subject, he lets it go for now. Her tone is lethal, and he’s not entirely sure she’ll resist an urge to push him off the cliff right now.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing for her to start moving. “There’s a stream with good water not too far from here. We can walk and get a drink before we head back down.”
She glances back to the spot on the ridge they just appeared over. “Wouldn’t it just be faster to go back down to the car?”
“Forgive me if I’m not in the mood to head down just yet.”
“Fine.”
She must be aware of her mistake, because she follows him in silence. Then when they reach the stream, she tries to placate him - a sure sign of guilt. With a forced smile, she says, “This was a good idea. It’s pretty.”
It is. Only a mile or so away from where they climbed, the stream is small, surrounded by lush trees and the sound of chirping birds. But he can’t find it in himself to be lulled by the peaceful setting. His words aren’t nearly as kind.
“It was. You’ll find that I’m always almost eventually right.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
It almost sounds like a promise, her solemn demeanor giving credence to that idea. With the utmost seriousness, she scoops handfuls of water into her mouth. If she has it in her to fight back, she isn’t. But looking at her, he’s sure his harsh words have done their job. The delicate sound of her slurping and the trickle of water around him leave enough room for his guilt to sneak in in the silence.
He looks away from her. He tells himself he doesn’t have any reason to feel bad, but rational thought does little for him. It’s clear that she has no intention of denying her mistake - something he has pushed her toward. He won’t pretend like that wasn’t what he wanted all along. But in getting it, he feels as though he has been ungracious, hurtful in a way he didn’t need to be.
Well, it’s her own fault, he thinks stubbornly. The least she could have done was come out the gate admitting that she had overreacted. She could have said that he’d been right all along without needing the prompt. Even now, when she has fallen silent, it has been mostly through his force that any mistake on her part has been admitted. Suddenly he doesn’t feel bad anymore. Nevertheless, he is grateful that she finally - finally - accepts that he wasn’t wrong.
For that reason, he decides there’s no point in punishing her any further by lashing out. He has gotten what he wanted. His frustration dissipates with her capitulation, and it would be cruel to force the issue of her screw up any longer.
Sitting on the grass next to her, he wonders why it matters to him anyway. Why does he want her to trust his judgment? Why is her failure to do so so galling? And why, most importantly, does he hesitate now to rub her nose in her mistake? He would never feel bad if this were anyone else.
He comprehends, fears, that the answers to those questions aren’t good ones.
Thus a distraction is necessary.
He takes a few sips of water, hoping that the cool drink will help him clear his mind. But long after he stops feeling parched, the questions bothering him remain.
So he asks one out loud.
In as non-threatening a way as possible, he breaks the silence. “What happened?”
“I don’t know” is her immediate response. The look on her face says she doesn’t, the honesty coming to her naturally, surprisingly enough. “That’s the first time that’s - I don’t know. That’s never happened before.”
She seems convincing enough. Looking at her, he sees that she’s not lying. But then… it’s not a satisfying answer either.
Just as he waits for her to say more, she adds, “I didn’t think I was afraid of heights.” Nervously she dips her hand into the stream. Her fingertips dance atop the softly flowing water. “Maybe I am though. I must have looked down too long.”
That doesn’t ring true to him. If she’s gone rock climbing before (and her skills prove that she has), he knows she’s used to the disorienting terror that instinctively bubbles up within you when you’re looking down. If she’s as experienced as her body says she is, she is capable of suppressing that fear. In the very least, if she weren’t capable of doing that, she would have never considered taking the pamphlet about rock climbing when it had been initially offered to her. Since she did take it, since she was willing to come with him, her so-called fear of heights is really something else.
Distrust in him perhaps?
Possibly. She said she used to go rock climbing with her father; that’s definitely different than going with someone she doesn’t really know. Maybe.
Whatever the reason, she must be afraid House will stumble upon the truth. Surely it’s not a coincidence that she takes off her sweatshirt at that moment. It’s warm out, but by the water, it’s definitely not hot. The heat of their climb has worn off, so if she’s disrobing, there’s a reason - and his body makes that reason obvious.
His gaze and thoughts instantly divert to her cleavage, the way her white tank top clings to her breasts and reveals just a sliver of the pale flesh beneath. No, he thinks, that would not be a choice she made happenstance. But the way her body looks right now dissolves any irritation he might feel about her diversion.
“If you’re so attracted to me,” she says in amusement, drawing his eyes upward once more. “Why don’t you do something about it?”
He blinks. “Such as?”
“You could kiss me,” she suggests nonchalantly.
He looks at her mouth, those sweet lips, for a second. It’s a tempting offer.
He resists.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he throws back. It would be too easy to just give into the attraction. He would like to (maybe), but it would be too simple, would feel like he were accepting defeat. Until she admits that she feels the same way, he alone cannot say those things, act on his desires. He can’t surrender alone - that’s what it comes down to.
But she is equally stubborn. “How do you figure?”
“Oh I’m sorry. Do you always tell men you aren’t attracted to to kiss you?”
She leans in close - his heart thunders at the possibility of what she might do, mind tries to unravel the mystery of her behavior. Will she admit it? Will she kiss him? Is this what she wants? Is he insane for thinking any of this is a good idea?
His eyes start to close. He wants this -
And then she says coyly, “Maybe.”
She’ll never give in before he does. When he opens his eyes, that’s what he sees: determination, stamina.
Just like that, the moment is over. He thinks he might hate her for making this so difficult. On the other hand, she is all the more attractive for being just as pig-headed, just as much of a challenge as he is. He respects that, is drawn to it, even as he despises it.
No matter what though, he won’t give in. He won’t. If she wants this, she’ll have to give in to their chemistry before he does. Until then, he will hold out.
Abruptly he pulls away from her. She won’t admit she wants him today. Knowing that, he is cold to her as he stands.
“Come on. Let’s go home,” he says in a voice that approaches command.
There is no room for disagreement. They got close to taking the next step, but they won’t - not today. They’ve had their fun, and now…
Now it’s time to return to reality.
******************
The lit fireplace and candles cast the room in gloomy shadows. The storm that knocked their power out has calmed to a quiet drizzle, rain pinging against the windowpane. Half empty wine glasses nestled between a barely touched bowl of popcorn and packet of Twizzlers, it all amounts to what should be a romantic evening with Cuddy. Their plans of watching a movie together have been ruined because of a stray tree hitting some power lines nearby, and that alone should have him in a good mood; he got to avoid another one of Owen Wilson’s awful movies (it was, sadly, her pick tonight), which is reason enough to celebrate). And yet the mood in the room is decidedly not romantic, and he’s definitely not happy right now.
In a brief moment of reflection, he realizes that this is all his fault. When the power went out, he could have gotten one of their laptops to finish the movie. He could have suggested they go to bed, an untimely end to their night, yes, but one that surely would have been more fun than this.
Unfortunately, he went with option C: playing a game of Scrabble.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. He had no desire to watch his girlfriend get hot and bothered by Owen Wilson. And since it was a Saturday night, he also had no interest in going to bed at nine; sex would have prolonged sleep for a while, but afterwards, it would still be too early for bed. So why not beat her at a game they both enjoyed playing?
Well… that’s not how things are turning out. He sees that now. At first, when he started to lose, he tried to distract her by making all of his words sexual. She knew what he was doing; he wouldn’t insult her intelligence by pretending otherwise. Yet she tolerated his antics and even went so far as to laugh at some of the slang he was putting on the board one wooden tile at a time.
He understands now why.
All of those four letter words were entertaining, not distracting. She’s played just as well with his strategy in place. Instead of closing the gap, he has efficiently widened it. And of course, just as he’s about to do some serious damage by getting a triple word score with the phrase, “with squirrel,” she protests.
“That’s not a word.”
“Sure it is.” It’s not. “Means pregnant.”
She sets her glass of wine down roughly, cabernet dangerously sloshing close to the rim. Her agitation prevents her from noticing.
“It does not,” she says in a high and mighty tone - like there’s nothing worse than cheating at Scrabble. Their relationship has made them a team against the outside world, but it has done nothing to remove the inherent competitiveness between them.
He reaches for a piece of licorice sitting nearby. As he plucks the candy red strand from the plastic bag, he deflects. Mouth full, he says, “You’ve had more wine than I thought if you think that’s true.”
She’s unmoved. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to believe that ‘with squirrel’ means -”
“But it does.”
“Even if that were true and you know it’s not, it’s two words.”
“That didn’t bother you when I spelled out, ‘eat -‘”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not.”
“House. I’ve let you cheat for half the game, and you’re still losing. You might cut the amount you’re losing by, but until you play the game seriously, I’m going to continue to kick your ass.” She tosses her hands up in defeat. “So if you want to keep screwing around, by all means, cheat. It doesn’t bother me a bit.”
She’s too at ease for him to write it off as a bluff. She really doesn’t care, and considering she’ll still be up fifty points even if he adds squirrel to her with, that’s not hard to understand why. The best he can do is narrow the gap, not close it, and after this, what will he do? He’ll be stuck with writing variations of ass for the rest of the game.
“Well?” she interrupts impatiently. “Are you going to make a move or not?”
Continue on to the rest of the fic