Pawns In A Game (3/3)
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, Part Two
Disclaimer: Not mine.
“I’m thinking.”
She rolls her eyes. By now she has no doubt surmised based on the current score and number of tiles left that she will win. Hell, even he knows it, if he’s being completely honest. The only way he’ll win is if she becomes distracted or overly confident that she blows the entire game. No, he thinks, she’s got to screw up and he has to play perfectly in order to win. Her actions clearly say she doesn’t think that will happen.
House, however, hasn’t given up. It’s likely he’ll lose, but defeat will be that much harder to swallow if he doesn’t fight to the very end. She’ll be that much more annoying if he quits now.
“Okay,” she says, cutting off his thought process. He begins to suspect that she’s doing that intentionally. “While you decide how to use a q to spell a euphemism for vagina -”
“Quim” is his thoughtless remark.
She pays no attention to the comment.
“I’m going to call the hospital and make sure they still have power. Try to figure something out without cheating while I’m gone.”
Never mind that she has already called twice and received reports saying that everything is fine. Forget that she is aware the downed tree has only cut off power to the neighborhood and that the hospital has a few generators in case of emergencies like this. She has chosen to overreact, and he’s let her. She’s put too much work into running the hospital to overlook possible crises. She cares too much, and just as she has checked on Rachel several times, Cuddy isn’t willing to neglect her other baby either. He understands this; in the two years they’ve dated, he’s seen just how deep her love for her job goes. He would be moronic to try to come between that, especially since he can use her distraction to his advantage.
The second she turns away from him, he sees that a diversion is in order. Dirty words are great, but they haven’t been effective. He needs something bigger, something surprising. Offensiveness will be expected of him, so he must do better. He needs -
Got it.
She walks to the kitchen to grab her cell phone, and he makes his move. In a whirlwind of hands swiping through the remaining tiles, he scurries to find what he needs. Unfortunately the letters he has won’t help much.
Two Rs immediately pop up; he takes them. Blocks hit the cardboard lid as he rummages for an A. He grabs an E underneath an upturned C and sets it aside. In the background he hears Cuddy asking the unlucky bastard on the other end the same questions she asked twenty-two minutes ago. He grabs an M, another M. He can’t find an A, but another E will work well enough, he supposes. He doesn’t have time to keep looking, not when Cuddy’s reaching the end of her laundry list of questions. It’ll get the message across anyway.
Half his attention focused on the noise coming from the kitchen, he can sense the relief in her voice. She’s going to hang up, and he’s still a letter short. Without thinking, he goes to plan B the Y he needs.
Practically diving for the licorice, he struggles to pull a Twizzler out of the bag. His fingers struggle on the waxy candy, but there’s success the second Cuddy says, “Goodbye.”
Frazzled he rushes to arrange the words.
Just as she returns, he finishes, sits back.
“What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously.
“I know it will be hard for you, having never been hooked on phonics and all, but you could try reading.”
“Just because you’re losing doesn’t mean you need to have a bad attitude,” she lectures as she glances downward.
The wine and candlelight slow her reaction time, and she leans down to make out precisely what he’s written on the coffee table.
“Merr and what’s that? A mangled V? Merr-V me?”
“What? No.” He leans forward to make sure he wrote it right. The tail on his Y is too short, but it’s still not very V-like. “That’s a Y.”
She closes her eyes, exhales. “You mean merry - spelled incorrectly. Marry me?”
“Couldn’t find the A or the Y,” he says with a shrug. “But you get the message.”
Her eyes open once more. Then they narrow on him. “This is a joke.”
“Of course it’s not.” Technically it’s not a lie. This isn’t a joke; it’s not an honest question, but he’s not kidding. He’s distracting.
“Right,” she says doubtfully, hands moving to her hips. “You’re proposing to me. With Scrabble tiles -”
“The first time I said I love you, we were playing a game of -”
“And gnawed on Twizzlers,” she continues, ignoring him.
“I couldn’t -”
“Find the letters. So you’ve said. And what? No ring?”
He’s not so stupid as to say no now. She’s not about to accept a proposal, of course. But she is about to unravel his [fairly obvious] plan and return to beating him if he doesn’t proceed carefully.
“Sure,” he lies. “I have a ring.”
“Uh huh. What’d you do - steal a ring pop from a little girl in the clinic? Make one out of licorice? Stop at a sex shop and buy a -”
“No. Although I like where you’re headed with that last one.”
“Then where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The ring.”
“Getting sized?” The answer comes out as a question. He is gifted with considerable intelligence in any number of areas. Jewelry is not one of them. He goes with something that sounds reasonable.
He must have said something right. The answer stops her questioning, and now she’s smiling a little, nodding her head as she laughs softly.
“Okay, House. I accept.”
He doesn’t get it. “What?”
She shrugs like they’re discussing what to do for dinner tomorrow. “I’ll marry you.”
It seems like she’s serious for a second there. But then that can’t be right. She doesn’t kiss him. If she really wanted to marry him, she would kiss him in celebration. The fact that she just sits back down in front of the game like nothing happened says she has no interest in his proposal.
“No, you won’t,” he accuses.
“I will too.” She looks at the board. “Did you decide on a word yet?”
“Don’t act like we’re getting married.” She has somehow managed to turn the tables on him, and that makes him more flustered than he wants to be. “You didn’t even kiss me.”
Her voice is dry. “I was supposed to?”
“Yes. At least. If we’re engaged, you should be doing much more than that.”
She smiles. “Who says we won’t?”
“Right now? The distance between my penis and your mouth says it.”
“That can wait. First I’m going to beat you.” She reaches for her wine. “I think it’s still your turn.”
He frowns at her single-mindedness. Sweeping his proposal back in the box with the other unused tiles, he thinks that this hasn’t gone as planned. “We’re not engaged,” he announces.
“Oh?”
“We’re not.”
She swallows the wine she’s been sipping on. Her tongue lazily runs along her lower lip, like, he fears, she’s toying with him before going in for the kill.
“But you asked,” she drawls. “Don’t tell me you would lie about your love for me and our relationship to win a game.” He is reminded that she is just as good at playing mind games as he is.
“That’s not what I did.” But saying that, he senses the trap he’s wandered into.
If he rescinds his proposal now, such as it was, she will take it to mean that he doesn’t love her enough to marry her. She will believe he has used their relationship, preyed on her emotions for no good reason. He doesn’t think she wants to get married, but now that he has casually thrown the idea out there, she will be mad if it seems like he thinks taking their relationship further is something to make fun of. Maybe she won’t think that tonight. She’ll be too distracted with the game to consider the matter further. But then one day, she will realize what he’s done, and she will be mad.
In order to avoid that, he has to make it known that this isn’t a game to him.
Unfortunately it was a game to him, he realizes.
That alone is bad enough for him. It’s unforgivable if he admits it out loud. But here she is, giving him the option that doesn’t end in immediate heartbreak for them both. He wasn’t proposing to her, but he gets the feeling then that she’s hardly being facetious in kind. She is being completely serious with her blackmail, in her expectation that he will bend to her will.
The alternative being too terrible to consider, she’s right. He will do as she wants. He has already lost her because of his selfishness, his inability to change. He did his best to be there when Arlene was ill, but he nearly ruined everything when Cuddy herself seemed to be on death’s door. She’d told him then what she needed from him - to be there - and he hadn’t listened. He screwed up and then had to undo that mistake. He spent all the time trying to recapture what he lost, knowing that he wouldn’t have lost in the first place if he had listened. He cannot afford and does not wish to lose her again.
His lips pursed together, he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that.”
She looks almost gleeful. Whether that has to do with being engaged or backing him into a corner, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He’ll choose to believe it’s the former - if only because it will make his ambivalence less prominent.
Then she tells him, “Now. Play the game, so I can beat you already.”
Only his pride keeps him from admitting to her:
She’s already won.
*******************
He’s sore from rock climbing but in need of an escape. After dropping Cuddy off, he hasn’t been able to settle down. Their near kiss torments him, what might have been something he wants to forget but can’t. Sitting alone in his dorm room isn’t exciting enough to distract him. And in spite of himself, all he can think of is how much he wishes she would have kissed him.
Throughout the short time they’ve known one another, it seems as though they’ve been circling around an inevitable ending. Desire has existed from the start; he’s wanted her from the minute he saw her. And as they’ve gotten to know one another she has come to want him. No matter what she says, she wouldn’t push him to admit his attraction if she didn’t feel the same way.
But that next step…
To want it as much as he does and yet fear it just as keenly is maddening. If only because he understands he won’t give in before she does, moving forward seems out of the question.
And then the paradox presents itself. He wants to be with her. He won’t risk being humiliated, being the one who caved first. Waiting for her is his only option, and yet it is precisely this need for self-restraint that makes the urge that much harder to resist.
Making matters worse, the longer he is alone, the more his thoughts seem unalterably fixed on the subject. And the more he fixates, the less he wants to protect his dignity.
It is important though, he reassures himself. He has made his attraction for her known enough that he would look like a fool to do anything more without her meeting him halfway. He has a point. And if he doubts that, the solution is simple:
He needs something to take his mind off things. That’s not hard to find on a college campus where someone is always throwing a party. All he has to do is follow in the direction drunken girls in tube tops are coming from.
Within ten minutes, he’s located the party - a keg visible through one of the windows and couples making out against tree trunks in the yard. They’re just outside of campus, so university security can’t do anything about it, and so far it would seem that no one has called the cops. That might change, he thinks, as he sees out of the corner of his eye, a guy take off shirt. Moonlight and foliage can only hide so much, and House knows it won’t be too long before the authorities are alerted.
He decides to take the risk, given that he can legally drink and all. But at the same time, he has no interest in standing here and seeing any more of that loser getting naked, so House slips through the cocked-open door. Instantly he is greeted by the smell of booze, the sounds of music being blasted through a boom box nearby.
And the sight of Cuddy.
She’s standing in the archway to the kitchen. Her back resting against the wooden molding, she has a red plastic cup in her hand and a smile on her face.
A smile aimed at the guy she’s talking to.
Envy barrels through House’s body. A sense of betrayal - and the acknowledged ridiculousness of the feeling - threaten to loosen his tongue. Seeing her flirt, he is humiliated, hurt, and tempted to make her suffer the same.
His focus is pulled as a drunken, redheaded man wearing a beer hat hands him a large cup of the homemade punch (filled with God only knows what) sitting on a table in the living room. “Relax, dude,” the stranger slurs.
House tries to smile at the reed-thin man offering him a reprieve from this embarrassment. But seeming happy turns out to be as difficult as actually being happy, and the friendly grin comes out as a grimace instead.
Suddenly a hand is on his forearm.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she says loudly, surprising him.
Drink sloshing in hand, he turns around, unprepared to face her. “Why wouldn’t I be here?” The gruffness he shows takes her aback.
“You’re right,” she says shrewdly. “Free alcohol, drunken girls - why wouldn’t you be here?”
Not kissing has altered their chemistry - poisoned it. Watching her with someone else has just made matters worse. And he doesn’t even pause to consider how to get them out of this. He returns the iciness she served him instead.
“Absolutely. But you know, I’m sure the guy who was just staring at your breasts was really interested in talking to you sober and -”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“Don’t be smug. You said it yourself: I’m here for the easy, drunken women. The second I entered the room, I spotted the easiest of them all.”
She doesn’t even seem fazed by his malicious words. “Right,” she fires back. “I’m the easiest, faster than the half-naked girls having sex in the -”
“They’re already pre-occupied.”
“And I wasn’t?”
“You want me to say you were? Because that seems like that would be the bigger insult.”
“Well on that we agree.” She mutters this under her breath. But their conversation, louder than normal so that they can hear one another, attracts the wrong kind of attention. The women in the room look like they want to throw their drinks on him and slap her for calling them easy. The guy Cuddy was talking to looks like he wants to throw much worse in House’s direction and do far more than slapping.
For a second House fears that he will get into a fight with the douche. He’s not afraid of an argument because he worries that he’ll get hurt. It’s just terribly cliché, and the last thing House wants is to feel like he’s in a teen movie. But then again, he’s in no mood to back down.
“Oh come on,” Cuddy says, grabbing his hand. He doesn’t want a fight, and clearly neither does she. “We’re leaving,” she announces, which is unnecessary given the way she’s yanking him toward the front door.
When they are outside, he says in protest, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“And you didn’t have to ruin my night.”
“How the hell did I do that?”
“You talked negatively about every woman -”
“I wasn’t alone in that, was I?”
“You insulted the guy I was talking to who also happens to be the person throwing the party.”
He chugs the drink he’d been given and tosses the cup on the lawn. “So?”
“So if you hadn’t said those things -”
“If you hadn’t started the conversation, I wouldn’t have. But you came over, and we talked, and it happened.”
“So you’re blaming me.”
He looks at her with surprise. “I could not possibly care enough to assign blame. You on the other hand seem very intent on making yourself look like an innocent party.”
“Because I am innocent.”
“Is that why? Or do you just want to look good for your boyfriend?”
“Because I did nothing wrong and could have had fun -”
“With him?”
“With Jose Cuervo. But no. Thanks to you, I’m stuck on someone’s front lawn and -”
“Well, if you want to get drunk -”
“Why do you think I’m her?”
“I think I can help.” He’s of age; it’s not like he can’t buy a bottle for them to share.
She’s not interested though. “Please don’t.”
“Why not? If I screwed things up -”
“If?”
“Since you’re so sure this is my fault -”
“It is.”
“Then let me make it up to you.” He’s come to get away from her, but in spite of himself, he’s offering to hang out with her. So much for resisting her, he thinks.
“I want to have fun, House. Getting drunk alone with you isn’t -”
“Pretty sure that’s what drinking games are for.”
For whatever reason, that convinces her. “You’re right. I have a game in mind.”
She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask her to. Somehow he’s just managed to cock block someone she might have otherwise slept with, and now House gets to spend time alone with her. That’s good enough for him.
Side by side, they walk to the liquor store. Each step he takes, he tries to act like this is completely normal. They are completely normal.
Nothing’s changed. It feels like it has, sure. They’re becoming friendlier, and for a moment, he thought they were going to kiss. He thought it, wanted it, but nothing happened.
Nothing is different.
But telling himself that means little. He’s self-conscious, aware of every step he takes, every word he utters in her presence at the liquor store. He feels awkward, warm, his palms sweaty. By the time they get back to her room, he’s relieved to crack open the warm bottle of tequila.
“Should I bother getting a shot glass?” she asks, hesitating to sit down as he already has on her bed. The implication of closeness is not lost on him.
He shakes his head. “Where’s your roommate?”
“Home for the weekend.” Immediately changing subjects, she says, “Ready to play?”
He takes a long pull from the bottle, cringing as he swallows. Handing her the liquor, he says, “Sure. What are we playing?”
She smiles. “Truth or dare or shot. Answer truthfully, do the dare, or take the shot. It’s simple.”
That sounds easy enough, which is to say he’s pretty sure he can manipulate the game to suit his needs.
To force the truth from her lips.
“All right. Since I just took a shot, I guess it’s your turn to go.”
She sits down next to him on the mattress. “Fine.”
The fact that he is on her bed with her disorients him. Her leg brushes against him as she gets comfortable, and just that small bit of contact has him craving more. He’s not even sure how this happened, how he lost control of his… feelings.
It’s such a foreign concept for him - to be this interested in a girl, so much so that it has begun to affect him. But then again… it’s not so strange. He’s used to going after what he wants, fighting for it. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and he’s certainly never been afraid to call people on their lies. That’s what she’s doing by pretending not to like him, lying. And so maybe, he tells himself, this can be explained by that. He’s not pathetically whipped by wanting. He’s doing what he has always done.
His confidence boosted, he asks, “Truth or dare?”
She looks at him carefully, like she can’t figure out which option is safer around him. “Truth.”
“Truth? Really?”
“I figured it was safer. If I said dare, I doubt I’d be wearing a top.”
His eyes go wide with possibility. “I’ll keep that in mind for when you want a dare.”
“Good. My turn.”
“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “I didn’t ask a -”
“Sure you did.” She smiles as though she’s pleased at having tricked him. “You wanted to know why I chose truth.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Of course it does.”
“No, it -”
“Does it matter? You’ll have plenty of chances to ask more questions.” She’s toying with him, which he is beginning to suspect is her favorite hobby.
“Because I say it matters.”
“That’s not a compelling argument.”
“I bought the tequila. I don’t need one.”
“And why did you have to buy the -”
“I didn’t have to do anything. I could have just left you there to let you figure out how you’d be able to get your buzz on.”
That’s the argument she needs apparently. Because although she spits out, “Fine,” she’s giving into him. She realizes that being responsible isn’t the same thing as accepting blame, and he won’t do what she wants just because he’s screwed up her evening.
He fights the urge to make fun of her losing the fight. “What’s the question?”
He smiles. “Tell the truth: do you like me?”
“Are we in middle school?” she asks, rolling her eyes.
“We’re playing truth or dare, and you’re so pathetic you can’t even play fairly, so the answer your question would be: seems like it. Now. Answer the question.”
“Right now, my answer is no. I don’t like you.”
Sensing the opening, he asks, “So if I weren’t annoying you -”
“You know how to do that?”
He pays no attention to the dig. “The answer would be yes?”
“I’m not answering that,” she says firmly.
“No?”
She smiles. “It’s your turn to play.” He realizes she’s right. “Truth or dare?”
“Shot.” He grabs the bottle from her and chugs a little. The tequila burns going down, but he needs the alcohol to play this game. And if he wants to beat her, shot is the only option he can take.
“Coward,” she accuses.
“Maybe. Truth or dare.”
Again she assesses him to see which option she should take. “Should I take the shot too?”
He shrugs. “If you want, but that’s not a good strategy.”
“Why not?”
“Because at best, we both get drunk and forget the game. More realistically, you get drunk cause you’re smaller than I am and then I exploit that to get you to tell me all sorts of things.”
Normal, sane people would more than likely call off the game right then and there. Lines he won’t breach exist, but talk like that gives the impression otherwise.
She either knows that or doesn’t care. It’s probably a bit of both.
Regardless of the reason, she has no trouble looking him in the eye and saying, “Dare.”
“That’s courageous.”
She grabs the bottle and takes a small sip, winces. “I’m not afraid.”
“Good to know.”
“What’s the dare?”
“I dare you to kiss me,” he says slowly.
It’s a cheap way to force her hand, but he doesn’t mind that. He won’t win awards for chivalry, of course; however it’s the best option he has right now. If he wants a… relationship with her or something like that, if he wants her to make the first move, this is the path. And if she wimps out and goes for the shot, that’s fine. He’ll just change tactics, find another way.
But he doesn’t need one.
Cuddy leans closer. One of her hands covers his tentatively. Unlike this afternoon, he is prepared for the possibility of her pulling away. Just because she appears to be into the dare, he reminds himself, doesn’t mean she actually is.
“Nervous?” she asks with a lopsided grin.
He looks down at her palm atop his hand. “No,” he tells her, looking back up. It’s not entirely a lie.
“Good. I don’t back out of dares.”
He’s about to point out that so far she hasn’t fulfilled the challenge, hasn’t proven what she’s saying to be true.
Then her lips descend on him, and they are no longer playing a game. The kiss is brutal in its passion, her fingers against his jaw with enough force to bruise. One of them slams the tequila bottle onto the nightstand nearby. He has no idea who moves it, because every last bit of his attention is on her. He doesn’t even consider that he’s won; he’s gotten her to act on the attraction first.
She moans into him. The sound makes him want her like he’s never wanted anything before, as though passion itself were born in this moment and never previously. He has been a stranger to the desire and need he feels right now, and he fears, as she takes her sweater off, that he will never last long with her.
Cleavage spills over the cups of her bra as if her breasts are desperate for his touch. The sight makes his cock uncomfortably hard. Instantly he reaches for her and palms her chest. She quickly forces his head to follow, and his mouth is all too happy to obey, tongue, teeth, and lips doing their best to taste her.
Make her moan.
“Yes,” she hisses encouragingly when his mouth closes on one of her lace-clad nipples. As he suckles her, tongue laving over the tightening bud, he hears her unzipping her pants.
Suddenly reality hits.
This is happening.
He’s going to have sex with her.
At least eat her out, he thinks, his tongue coating with saliva at the thought.
Or, he tells himself, trying to keep himself from coming in his pants, if she changes her mind, if they don’t have sex, he’ll still see her naked.
It dawns on him that that doesn’t help maintain control. So he forces himself to pull away.
Their eyes meeting, he feels obligated to ask. “Are you sure?” Much to his dismay, she pauses in slipping her pants off. “You’re not doing this because -”
“Of a dare?” She looks at him like he’s crazy. “No.”
But it’s not enough for him. Part of him, mostly the bit in his pants, wants to just go ahead with it. He wanted a kiss, and if she wants more, he should just accept that. He wants to. He really does. And yet… as always, he wants to know why she’s doing this. Specifically, he wants to hear that this is real, not a drunken one night stand.
“Then why the change of heart from this afternoon?”
“Sorry,” she taunts. “I fulfilled my dare. It’s my turn now.” It’s an unsatisfying answer, but the sight of her body is too pleasing to keep him unhappy for long.
Her hands move to the fly on his jeans. “Truth or dare, House.”
Shot should be his answer, but it seems unfitting, given what they’re doing. His fingers are cupping her breasts, and he’s about to have sex with her, and alcohol is the last thing he needs or wants.
“Truth,” he says, excitement making his hips thrust in her direction.
“Do you like me?” she nearly whispers.
He swallows hard, deflects. “That’s kind of a hard question to answer with your hand on my penis.”
“Maybe.” She slips her fingers into his pants. “But it’s also the kind of question you have to answer if you want this to go any further.”
He impresses himself by holding out. “No.”
She isn’t put off. Pulling away from him, she reaches behind her back. “Really? Are you sure? Do you need more incentive to be honest?”
It’s a rhetorical question.
Slowly she takes off her bra.
His eyes wide, he breaks.
He confesses.
Against his wishes, he says it first.
He admits it.
But as he pushes his dick inside her, as he finally gets what he wants, he realizes he doesn’t care.
Some games are, after all, better lost.
********************
More Sundays than not recently, he wakes to the smell of earl grey and the soap with which Cuddy washes her face each day. Bedtime wars with Rachel have robbed them of quiet nights lately, but in return, mornings are now peaceful as the little girl sleeps in. Cuddy despises this of course, hates that she has to wrangle her daughter to get her out of bed and to first grade on time. But House can’t complain. It’s not in his nature to be an early riser, but time alone with Cuddy has been lacking these days. And never one to miss an opportunity to get her by herself, he has learned to wake up earlier than he would on his own.
On this particular morning, he is greeted by the sight of her, alone thankfully, hair messily pulled back and thin nightgown riding dangerously low on her chest. She looks like she considered doing yoga but decided against it, instead preferring to relax before the day truly begins. A mug of tea is forgotten nearby, her interest narrowed on the newspaper in her hands.
He rolls over to be closer to her, body spooning against her side. He kisses her shoulder but says nothing; that is greeting enough. Within seconds, he’s asleep once more.
When he wakes up again, some minutes or hours later, he notices immediately that she is still there, next to him; his nap couldn’t have lasted that long. If it had, she would have left.
Instead she’s smiling at him. “Good morning,” she says gently, placing a soft kiss in his hair. “I thought you might sleep in.”
Bleary eyed he blinks, doesn’t move, can’t. “What time is it?”
“Around 7. Rachel won’t be up for a while.” He’s too tired to respond. “Want to do the crossword with me?”
Slowly her words seep into him, and he realizes what she’s saying: it’s early, and they are all alone for a while. There might have been a time where he would waste time on a game. These days though, he likes more direct interaction with her.
Instantly he looks at her like she’s crazy. Suddenly wide awake, he says, “You and I are alone. In bed. You think I want to play a game with you?”
“Why not? You’re pretty creative.”
He doesn’t bother to respond. There’s no need to. A smile on his face, he reaches up and kisses her. Perhaps this isn’t creative. If anything slipping his hand beneath her nightgown and spreading her thighs with his fingers is pretty damn expected. But he’s willing to wear the label of predictable, domesticated. He’s alone with the woman he loves, and that’s all that matters to him right now.
As he pulls her against him, he thinks:
No, he has never been one to miss an opportunity.
********************
Kindness burns more than cruelty. Lying in the hospital bed, House wishes malice were involved. Hatred would make this easier. The betrayal wouldn’t be so hard to digest. But the truth is Stacy has done this out of love; Cuddy has manipulated him out of some sort of devotion for the genius he possesses. That too is a kind of love for him, he realizes. She values his mind above all else, but he is more than a mere resource to her. Sometimes he questions that, but every time he comes to the same conclusion: their one night together years ago has bonded her to him for reasons he can’t understand. For reasons he doesn’t know, other than that they exist, as her behavior has proven now.
She would not trick a regular patient as she has tricked him.
Her talent lies in making you think she follows the rules more than she does. Bypassing a patient’s wishes and mangling their body at the order of a girlfriend though… that’s a risk Cuddy wouldn’t take for anyone.
And Stacy, knowing the legal implications, knowing how much he will hate her for it, wouldn’t consent unless she cared.
But concern makes this that much harder to take. They have done this out of love, but what they have done is ruin his body. They keep talking about physical therapy, about how this will get better, the pain will go away, he’ll be able to use his leg just fine, blah, blah, blah. He no longer listens to them when they get like this.
They comfort him to lessen the horror of their own behavior.
He can’t even begin to pretend that the conversation is about anything else now. The lies they speak are for themselves. They console out of guilt, out of denial. Cuddy leaves when he reacts to their selfishness. Patients and paperwork always seem to pop up when her optimism is called into question. Her point of view is the only one she’ll listen to. After all these years, she’s still desperate to prove that she knows more than anyone else in the room. Only this time, she’s wrong, and she knows it, so she leaves before she has a chance to lose the argument.
Stacy, on the other hand, rarely leaves his side. Afraid she’ll lose him, she clings. Terrified that she will be seen as disloyal, she stays by his side as if that proves otherwise. But it doesn’t - not to him anyway. He hates her too much for that right now. Her constant presence is met with anger and resentment, which he has no problem voicing. Still she stays. The crueler he is, the more determined she is to be with him, to get him past this, to ride his mood out.
She doesn’t realize he can’t get over it.
He has lost part of his leg, thanks to her choices. Every time he looks down, he will be reminded of her betrayal. Even if the pain goes away, that scar will still be there. He will never be able to forget and so he will never be able to forgive.
Today she has left while fighting tears. He’s aimed to hurt her, and he’s succeeded. Yet triumph quickly falls victim to regret and guilt.
He doesn’t want to be like this, he tells himself. He doesn’t want to lose her - which he will if he obsesses over what cannot be altered now.
All of that goes out the window when Cuddy comes into his hospital room with his lunch in her hands.
“I brought you extra pudding,” she tells him like he’s a little boy and that’s the kind of thing that makes him happy.
“Thanks, Mommy.” Normally the remark would go without incident. But these days sarcasm is more biting than he thought possible. Innocuous comments quickly devolve into the most hateful sentences he can craft. Cuddy’s intolerance for it merely enrages him. If she refuses to listen, he gets louder. If she doesn’t appear hurt, he digs deeper. She treats him like a child, because he is, pink and screaming for her attention. She comes to him knowing that there’s no reason this conversation won’t go the same way as the rest.
Because of that he’s not surprised to hear her say, “Don’t start.”
“I’m starting something?” he asks with mock innocence as she sets the tray down. “You really do like to read into my words, don’t you? Find hidden meanings where there are none?”
She doesn’t take the bait. “I brought you lunch. I’m not trying to fight.”
“Of course not.”
“You can be mad at me all you want -”
“Oh goodie. Thank you for your permission.”
“It’s not going to change anything,” she insists, uncovering the lids on his food tray. “Try the potatoes first. They don’t smell as -”
“You think I don’t know things won’t change? You think I’m unaware of that, Doctor Cuddy?” He throws her title around, because it’s a joke to him now. Additionally it infuriates her, which makes him happy. Or at least, it would make him happy if he could take this any longer.
And he can’t. Right now, her presence is too much for him to bear, and he wants her to leave.
Forgiveness is of course inevitable; manipulating and ignoring patients is the kind of medical practice he’s pioneered. Her choice is a mirror to his own, and if he hates her for this, then there are bigger problems for him to address than a part of missing thigh muscle. Assurance in his methods therefore necessitates forgiveness and vice versa, he knows.
But getting there is more difficult than he anticipated. Letting go is out of reach right now, and he can’t help but push her away.
Today however, she isn’t so easily pushed. Normally she would leave at this point. This time she just sits in the chair by his bed.
“Of course you do. I apologize.” She’s desperately trying to stay calm, to keep him calm.
His eyes narrow hatefully. “I’m sure you do.”
“Now who’s reading into who?”
“Whom,” he corrects.
She rolls her eyes. “You must be feeling better if you’re playing games with me.”
But the thing is: he’s not playing games, a phrase that implies he’s having fun. It goes without saying that he’s not.
She seems to sense that his thoughts are turning dark. “It will get better,” she repeats.
“Right. I can’t run -”
“You don’t know what your limitations are. We haven’t tested how -”
“No rock climbing,” he says, ignoring her, using the example because they have a past. They don’t talk about that though. “No -”
“House,” she says, covering his hand. “We don’t know that yet. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not.”
“Pretending that’s true -”
“It is.”
“Pretending that’s true, there are other things you can do.”
“Lucky me. I get to play Trivial Pursuit for the rest of my life.”
“If you’re going to pity yourself, at least have better criteria for deciding your life is over,” she says dryly. She’s joking… sort of.
He imitates her tone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She cringes, frowns. Sadness ages her features. “Don’t be like that.”
“Wow,” he says loudly. Frustration immediately instigates him to go further. When she’s telling him what to do, he can’t hold back. “You really do like to read into what I have to say. So let’s play a game. What am I telling you when I say: fleck of soy guru? You get that?”
Even if she didn’t get the anagram, the way he’s speaking makes the message obvious. It’s almost as obvious as the look of dismay on her face is when she figures it out.
Lips pursing together, she stands. It is not surprising that she’s choosing to leave. That’s what she does.
She heads to the door, pulls it open. But before she leaves, she turns to him. Holding the door open with her hand, she says tauntingly, “I like the anagram. See? You’ve already taken up a new hobby. Who knows what you’ll pick up in the future?”
She’s making fun of him, and he hates her for that.
But after she’s gone, he slowly realizes that he’s hoping she’s right. He hopes that there is something to look forward to, something to make his life more than pain and diagnoses. He can handle the pain and the betrayal if he knows that it will at some point end. The fact that he has no idea how any of this will turn out is what galls him the most, scares him.
Still, lying in the hospital bed, House thinks she’s wrong. How long did he go untreated before being diagnosed? How complicated has this been already? Given his current situation, it’s impossible for him to imagine things getting better.
From where he is, after what he’s lost, he just isn’t sure life will ever be good to him again.
The End
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, Part Two
Disclaimer: Not mine.
“I’m thinking.”
She rolls her eyes. By now she has no doubt surmised based on the current score and number of tiles left that she will win. Hell, even he knows it, if he’s being completely honest. The only way he’ll win is if she becomes distracted or overly confident that she blows the entire game. No, he thinks, she’s got to screw up and he has to play perfectly in order to win. Her actions clearly say she doesn’t think that will happen.
House, however, hasn’t given up. It’s likely he’ll lose, but defeat will be that much harder to swallow if he doesn’t fight to the very end. She’ll be that much more annoying if he quits now.
“Okay,” she says, cutting off his thought process. He begins to suspect that she’s doing that intentionally. “While you decide how to use a q to spell a euphemism for vagina -”
“Quim” is his thoughtless remark.
She pays no attention to the comment.
“I’m going to call the hospital and make sure they still have power. Try to figure something out without cheating while I’m gone.”
Never mind that she has already called twice and received reports saying that everything is fine. Forget that she is aware the downed tree has only cut off power to the neighborhood and that the hospital has a few generators in case of emergencies like this. She has chosen to overreact, and he’s let her. She’s put too much work into running the hospital to overlook possible crises. She cares too much, and just as she has checked on Rachel several times, Cuddy isn’t willing to neglect her other baby either. He understands this; in the two years they’ve dated, he’s seen just how deep her love for her job goes. He would be moronic to try to come between that, especially since he can use her distraction to his advantage.
The second she turns away from him, he sees that a diversion is in order. Dirty words are great, but they haven’t been effective. He needs something bigger, something surprising. Offensiveness will be expected of him, so he must do better. He needs -
Got it.
She walks to the kitchen to grab her cell phone, and he makes his move. In a whirlwind of hands swiping through the remaining tiles, he scurries to find what he needs. Unfortunately the letters he has won’t help much.
Two Rs immediately pop up; he takes them. Blocks hit the cardboard lid as he rummages for an A. He grabs an E underneath an upturned C and sets it aside. In the background he hears Cuddy asking the unlucky bastard on the other end the same questions she asked twenty-two minutes ago. He grabs an M, another M. He can’t find an A, but another E will work well enough, he supposes. He doesn’t have time to keep looking, not when Cuddy’s reaching the end of her laundry list of questions. It’ll get the message across anyway.
Half his attention focused on the noise coming from the kitchen, he can sense the relief in her voice. She’s going to hang up, and he’s still a letter short. Without thinking, he goes to plan B the Y he needs.
Practically diving for the licorice, he struggles to pull a Twizzler out of the bag. His fingers struggle on the waxy candy, but there’s success the second Cuddy says, “Goodbye.”
Frazzled he rushes to arrange the words.
Just as she returns, he finishes, sits back.
“What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously.
“I know it will be hard for you, having never been hooked on phonics and all, but you could try reading.”
“Just because you’re losing doesn’t mean you need to have a bad attitude,” she lectures as she glances downward.
The wine and candlelight slow her reaction time, and she leans down to make out precisely what he’s written on the coffee table.
“Merr and what’s that? A mangled V? Merr-V me?”
“What? No.” He leans forward to make sure he wrote it right. The tail on his Y is too short, but it’s still not very V-like. “That’s a Y.”
She closes her eyes, exhales. “You mean merry - spelled incorrectly. Marry me?”
“Couldn’t find the A or the Y,” he says with a shrug. “But you get the message.”
Her eyes open once more. Then they narrow on him. “This is a joke.”
“Of course it’s not.” Technically it’s not a lie. This isn’t a joke; it’s not an honest question, but he’s not kidding. He’s distracting.
“Right,” she says doubtfully, hands moving to her hips. “You’re proposing to me. With Scrabble tiles -”
“The first time I said I love you, we were playing a game of -”
“And gnawed on Twizzlers,” she continues, ignoring him.
“I couldn’t -”
“Find the letters. So you’ve said. And what? No ring?”
He’s not so stupid as to say no now. She’s not about to accept a proposal, of course. But she is about to unravel his [fairly obvious] plan and return to beating him if he doesn’t proceed carefully.
“Sure,” he lies. “I have a ring.”
“Uh huh. What’d you do - steal a ring pop from a little girl in the clinic? Make one out of licorice? Stop at a sex shop and buy a -”
“No. Although I like where you’re headed with that last one.”
“Then where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The ring.”
“Getting sized?” The answer comes out as a question. He is gifted with considerable intelligence in any number of areas. Jewelry is not one of them. He goes with something that sounds reasonable.
He must have said something right. The answer stops her questioning, and now she’s smiling a little, nodding her head as she laughs softly.
“Okay, House. I accept.”
He doesn’t get it. “What?”
She shrugs like they’re discussing what to do for dinner tomorrow. “I’ll marry you.”
It seems like she’s serious for a second there. But then that can’t be right. She doesn’t kiss him. If she really wanted to marry him, she would kiss him in celebration. The fact that she just sits back down in front of the game like nothing happened says she has no interest in his proposal.
“No, you won’t,” he accuses.
“I will too.” She looks at the board. “Did you decide on a word yet?”
“Don’t act like we’re getting married.” She has somehow managed to turn the tables on him, and that makes him more flustered than he wants to be. “You didn’t even kiss me.”
Her voice is dry. “I was supposed to?”
“Yes. At least. If we’re engaged, you should be doing much more than that.”
She smiles. “Who says we won’t?”
“Right now? The distance between my penis and your mouth says it.”
“That can wait. First I’m going to beat you.” She reaches for her wine. “I think it’s still your turn.”
He frowns at her single-mindedness. Sweeping his proposal back in the box with the other unused tiles, he thinks that this hasn’t gone as planned. “We’re not engaged,” he announces.
“Oh?”
“We’re not.”
She swallows the wine she’s been sipping on. Her tongue lazily runs along her lower lip, like, he fears, she’s toying with him before going in for the kill.
“But you asked,” she drawls. “Don’t tell me you would lie about your love for me and our relationship to win a game.” He is reminded that she is just as good at playing mind games as he is.
“That’s not what I did.” But saying that, he senses the trap he’s wandered into.
If he rescinds his proposal now, such as it was, she will take it to mean that he doesn’t love her enough to marry her. She will believe he has used their relationship, preyed on her emotions for no good reason. He doesn’t think she wants to get married, but now that he has casually thrown the idea out there, she will be mad if it seems like he thinks taking their relationship further is something to make fun of. Maybe she won’t think that tonight. She’ll be too distracted with the game to consider the matter further. But then one day, she will realize what he’s done, and she will be mad.
In order to avoid that, he has to make it known that this isn’t a game to him.
Unfortunately it was a game to him, he realizes.
That alone is bad enough for him. It’s unforgivable if he admits it out loud. But here she is, giving him the option that doesn’t end in immediate heartbreak for them both. He wasn’t proposing to her, but he gets the feeling then that she’s hardly being facetious in kind. She is being completely serious with her blackmail, in her expectation that he will bend to her will.
The alternative being too terrible to consider, she’s right. He will do as she wants. He has already lost her because of his selfishness, his inability to change. He did his best to be there when Arlene was ill, but he nearly ruined everything when Cuddy herself seemed to be on death’s door. She’d told him then what she needed from him - to be there - and he hadn’t listened. He screwed up and then had to undo that mistake. He spent all the time trying to recapture what he lost, knowing that he wouldn’t have lost in the first place if he had listened. He cannot afford and does not wish to lose her again.
His lips pursed together, he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that.”
She looks almost gleeful. Whether that has to do with being engaged or backing him into a corner, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He’ll choose to believe it’s the former - if only because it will make his ambivalence less prominent.
Then she tells him, “Now. Play the game, so I can beat you already.”
Only his pride keeps him from admitting to her:
She’s already won.
*******************
He’s sore from rock climbing but in need of an escape. After dropping Cuddy off, he hasn’t been able to settle down. Their near kiss torments him, what might have been something he wants to forget but can’t. Sitting alone in his dorm room isn’t exciting enough to distract him. And in spite of himself, all he can think of is how much he wishes she would have kissed him.
Throughout the short time they’ve known one another, it seems as though they’ve been circling around an inevitable ending. Desire has existed from the start; he’s wanted her from the minute he saw her. And as they’ve gotten to know one another she has come to want him. No matter what she says, she wouldn’t push him to admit his attraction if she didn’t feel the same way.
But that next step…
To want it as much as he does and yet fear it just as keenly is maddening. If only because he understands he won’t give in before she does, moving forward seems out of the question.
And then the paradox presents itself. He wants to be with her. He won’t risk being humiliated, being the one who caved first. Waiting for her is his only option, and yet it is precisely this need for self-restraint that makes the urge that much harder to resist.
Making matters worse, the longer he is alone, the more his thoughts seem unalterably fixed on the subject. And the more he fixates, the less he wants to protect his dignity.
It is important though, he reassures himself. He has made his attraction for her known enough that he would look like a fool to do anything more without her meeting him halfway. He has a point. And if he doubts that, the solution is simple:
He needs something to take his mind off things. That’s not hard to find on a college campus where someone is always throwing a party. All he has to do is follow in the direction drunken girls in tube tops are coming from.
Within ten minutes, he’s located the party - a keg visible through one of the windows and couples making out against tree trunks in the yard. They’re just outside of campus, so university security can’t do anything about it, and so far it would seem that no one has called the cops. That might change, he thinks, as he sees out of the corner of his eye, a guy take off shirt. Moonlight and foliage can only hide so much, and House knows it won’t be too long before the authorities are alerted.
He decides to take the risk, given that he can legally drink and all. But at the same time, he has no interest in standing here and seeing any more of that loser getting naked, so House slips through the cocked-open door. Instantly he is greeted by the smell of booze, the sounds of music being blasted through a boom box nearby.
And the sight of Cuddy.
She’s standing in the archway to the kitchen. Her back resting against the wooden molding, she has a red plastic cup in her hand and a smile on her face.
A smile aimed at the guy she’s talking to.
Envy barrels through House’s body. A sense of betrayal - and the acknowledged ridiculousness of the feeling - threaten to loosen his tongue. Seeing her flirt, he is humiliated, hurt, and tempted to make her suffer the same.
His focus is pulled as a drunken, redheaded man wearing a beer hat hands him a large cup of the homemade punch (filled with God only knows what) sitting on a table in the living room. “Relax, dude,” the stranger slurs.
House tries to smile at the reed-thin man offering him a reprieve from this embarrassment. But seeming happy turns out to be as difficult as actually being happy, and the friendly grin comes out as a grimace instead.
Suddenly a hand is on his forearm.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she says loudly, surprising him.
Drink sloshing in hand, he turns around, unprepared to face her. “Why wouldn’t I be here?” The gruffness he shows takes her aback.
“You’re right,” she says shrewdly. “Free alcohol, drunken girls - why wouldn’t you be here?”
Not kissing has altered their chemistry - poisoned it. Watching her with someone else has just made matters worse. And he doesn’t even pause to consider how to get them out of this. He returns the iciness she served him instead.
“Absolutely. But you know, I’m sure the guy who was just staring at your breasts was really interested in talking to you sober and -”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“Don’t be smug. You said it yourself: I’m here for the easy, drunken women. The second I entered the room, I spotted the easiest of them all.”
She doesn’t even seem fazed by his malicious words. “Right,” she fires back. “I’m the easiest, faster than the half-naked girls having sex in the -”
“They’re already pre-occupied.”
“And I wasn’t?”
“You want me to say you were? Because that seems like that would be the bigger insult.”
“Well on that we agree.” She mutters this under her breath. But their conversation, louder than normal so that they can hear one another, attracts the wrong kind of attention. The women in the room look like they want to throw their drinks on him and slap her for calling them easy. The guy Cuddy was talking to looks like he wants to throw much worse in House’s direction and do far more than slapping.
For a second House fears that he will get into a fight with the douche. He’s not afraid of an argument because he worries that he’ll get hurt. It’s just terribly cliché, and the last thing House wants is to feel like he’s in a teen movie. But then again, he’s in no mood to back down.
“Oh come on,” Cuddy says, grabbing his hand. He doesn’t want a fight, and clearly neither does she. “We’re leaving,” she announces, which is unnecessary given the way she’s yanking him toward the front door.
When they are outside, he says in protest, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“And you didn’t have to ruin my night.”
“How the hell did I do that?”
“You talked negatively about every woman -”
“I wasn’t alone in that, was I?”
“You insulted the guy I was talking to who also happens to be the person throwing the party.”
He chugs the drink he’d been given and tosses the cup on the lawn. “So?”
“So if you hadn’t said those things -”
“If you hadn’t started the conversation, I wouldn’t have. But you came over, and we talked, and it happened.”
“So you’re blaming me.”
He looks at her with surprise. “I could not possibly care enough to assign blame. You on the other hand seem very intent on making yourself look like an innocent party.”
“Because I am innocent.”
“Is that why? Or do you just want to look good for your boyfriend?”
“Because I did nothing wrong and could have had fun -”
“With him?”
“With Jose Cuervo. But no. Thanks to you, I’m stuck on someone’s front lawn and -”
“Well, if you want to get drunk -”
“Why do you think I’m her?”
“I think I can help.” He’s of age; it’s not like he can’t buy a bottle for them to share.
She’s not interested though. “Please don’t.”
“Why not? If I screwed things up -”
“If?”
“Since you’re so sure this is my fault -”
“It is.”
“Then let me make it up to you.” He’s come to get away from her, but in spite of himself, he’s offering to hang out with her. So much for resisting her, he thinks.
“I want to have fun, House. Getting drunk alone with you isn’t -”
“Pretty sure that’s what drinking games are for.”
For whatever reason, that convinces her. “You’re right. I have a game in mind.”
She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask her to. Somehow he’s just managed to cock block someone she might have otherwise slept with, and now House gets to spend time alone with her. That’s good enough for him.
Side by side, they walk to the liquor store. Each step he takes, he tries to act like this is completely normal. They are completely normal.
Nothing’s changed. It feels like it has, sure. They’re becoming friendlier, and for a moment, he thought they were going to kiss. He thought it, wanted it, but nothing happened.
Nothing is different.
But telling himself that means little. He’s self-conscious, aware of every step he takes, every word he utters in her presence at the liquor store. He feels awkward, warm, his palms sweaty. By the time they get back to her room, he’s relieved to crack open the warm bottle of tequila.
“Should I bother getting a shot glass?” she asks, hesitating to sit down as he already has on her bed. The implication of closeness is not lost on him.
He shakes his head. “Where’s your roommate?”
“Home for the weekend.” Immediately changing subjects, she says, “Ready to play?”
He takes a long pull from the bottle, cringing as he swallows. Handing her the liquor, he says, “Sure. What are we playing?”
She smiles. “Truth or dare or shot. Answer truthfully, do the dare, or take the shot. It’s simple.”
That sounds easy enough, which is to say he’s pretty sure he can manipulate the game to suit his needs.
To force the truth from her lips.
“All right. Since I just took a shot, I guess it’s your turn to go.”
She sits down next to him on the mattress. “Fine.”
The fact that he is on her bed with her disorients him. Her leg brushes against him as she gets comfortable, and just that small bit of contact has him craving more. He’s not even sure how this happened, how he lost control of his… feelings.
It’s such a foreign concept for him - to be this interested in a girl, so much so that it has begun to affect him. But then again… it’s not so strange. He’s used to going after what he wants, fighting for it. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and he’s certainly never been afraid to call people on their lies. That’s what she’s doing by pretending not to like him, lying. And so maybe, he tells himself, this can be explained by that. He’s not pathetically whipped by wanting. He’s doing what he has always done.
His confidence boosted, he asks, “Truth or dare?”
She looks at him carefully, like she can’t figure out which option is safer around him. “Truth.”
“Truth? Really?”
“I figured it was safer. If I said dare, I doubt I’d be wearing a top.”
His eyes go wide with possibility. “I’ll keep that in mind for when you want a dare.”
“Good. My turn.”
“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “I didn’t ask a -”
“Sure you did.” She smiles as though she’s pleased at having tricked him. “You wanted to know why I chose truth.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Of course it does.”
“No, it -”
“Does it matter? You’ll have plenty of chances to ask more questions.” She’s toying with him, which he is beginning to suspect is her favorite hobby.
“Because I say it matters.”
“That’s not a compelling argument.”
“I bought the tequila. I don’t need one.”
“And why did you have to buy the -”
“I didn’t have to do anything. I could have just left you there to let you figure out how you’d be able to get your buzz on.”
That’s the argument she needs apparently. Because although she spits out, “Fine,” she’s giving into him. She realizes that being responsible isn’t the same thing as accepting blame, and he won’t do what she wants just because he’s screwed up her evening.
He fights the urge to make fun of her losing the fight. “What’s the question?”
He smiles. “Tell the truth: do you like me?”
“Are we in middle school?” she asks, rolling her eyes.
“We’re playing truth or dare, and you’re so pathetic you can’t even play fairly, so the answer your question would be: seems like it. Now. Answer the question.”
“Right now, my answer is no. I don’t like you.”
Sensing the opening, he asks, “So if I weren’t annoying you -”
“You know how to do that?”
He pays no attention to the dig. “The answer would be yes?”
“I’m not answering that,” she says firmly.
“No?”
She smiles. “It’s your turn to play.” He realizes she’s right. “Truth or dare?”
“Shot.” He grabs the bottle from her and chugs a little. The tequila burns going down, but he needs the alcohol to play this game. And if he wants to beat her, shot is the only option he can take.
“Coward,” she accuses.
“Maybe. Truth or dare.”
Again she assesses him to see which option she should take. “Should I take the shot too?”
He shrugs. “If you want, but that’s not a good strategy.”
“Why not?”
“Because at best, we both get drunk and forget the game. More realistically, you get drunk cause you’re smaller than I am and then I exploit that to get you to tell me all sorts of things.”
Normal, sane people would more than likely call off the game right then and there. Lines he won’t breach exist, but talk like that gives the impression otherwise.
She either knows that or doesn’t care. It’s probably a bit of both.
Regardless of the reason, she has no trouble looking him in the eye and saying, “Dare.”
“That’s courageous.”
She grabs the bottle and takes a small sip, winces. “I’m not afraid.”
“Good to know.”
“What’s the dare?”
“I dare you to kiss me,” he says slowly.
It’s a cheap way to force her hand, but he doesn’t mind that. He won’t win awards for chivalry, of course; however it’s the best option he has right now. If he wants a… relationship with her or something like that, if he wants her to make the first move, this is the path. And if she wimps out and goes for the shot, that’s fine. He’ll just change tactics, find another way.
But he doesn’t need one.
Cuddy leans closer. One of her hands covers his tentatively. Unlike this afternoon, he is prepared for the possibility of her pulling away. Just because she appears to be into the dare, he reminds himself, doesn’t mean she actually is.
“Nervous?” she asks with a lopsided grin.
He looks down at her palm atop his hand. “No,” he tells her, looking back up. It’s not entirely a lie.
“Good. I don’t back out of dares.”
He’s about to point out that so far she hasn’t fulfilled the challenge, hasn’t proven what she’s saying to be true.
Then her lips descend on him, and they are no longer playing a game. The kiss is brutal in its passion, her fingers against his jaw with enough force to bruise. One of them slams the tequila bottle onto the nightstand nearby. He has no idea who moves it, because every last bit of his attention is on her. He doesn’t even consider that he’s won; he’s gotten her to act on the attraction first.
She moans into him. The sound makes him want her like he’s never wanted anything before, as though passion itself were born in this moment and never previously. He has been a stranger to the desire and need he feels right now, and he fears, as she takes her sweater off, that he will never last long with her.
Cleavage spills over the cups of her bra as if her breasts are desperate for his touch. The sight makes his cock uncomfortably hard. Instantly he reaches for her and palms her chest. She quickly forces his head to follow, and his mouth is all too happy to obey, tongue, teeth, and lips doing their best to taste her.
Make her moan.
“Yes,” she hisses encouragingly when his mouth closes on one of her lace-clad nipples. As he suckles her, tongue laving over the tightening bud, he hears her unzipping her pants.
Suddenly reality hits.
This is happening.
He’s going to have sex with her.
At least eat her out, he thinks, his tongue coating with saliva at the thought.
Or, he tells himself, trying to keep himself from coming in his pants, if she changes her mind, if they don’t have sex, he’ll still see her naked.
It dawns on him that that doesn’t help maintain control. So he forces himself to pull away.
Their eyes meeting, he feels obligated to ask. “Are you sure?” Much to his dismay, she pauses in slipping her pants off. “You’re not doing this because -”
“Of a dare?” She looks at him like he’s crazy. “No.”
But it’s not enough for him. Part of him, mostly the bit in his pants, wants to just go ahead with it. He wanted a kiss, and if she wants more, he should just accept that. He wants to. He really does. And yet… as always, he wants to know why she’s doing this. Specifically, he wants to hear that this is real, not a drunken one night stand.
“Then why the change of heart from this afternoon?”
“Sorry,” she taunts. “I fulfilled my dare. It’s my turn now.” It’s an unsatisfying answer, but the sight of her body is too pleasing to keep him unhappy for long.
Her hands move to the fly on his jeans. “Truth or dare, House.”
Shot should be his answer, but it seems unfitting, given what they’re doing. His fingers are cupping her breasts, and he’s about to have sex with her, and alcohol is the last thing he needs or wants.
“Truth,” he says, excitement making his hips thrust in her direction.
“Do you like me?” she nearly whispers.
He swallows hard, deflects. “That’s kind of a hard question to answer with your hand on my penis.”
“Maybe.” She slips her fingers into his pants. “But it’s also the kind of question you have to answer if you want this to go any further.”
He impresses himself by holding out. “No.”
She isn’t put off. Pulling away from him, she reaches behind her back. “Really? Are you sure? Do you need more incentive to be honest?”
It’s a rhetorical question.
Slowly she takes off her bra.
His eyes wide, he breaks.
He confesses.
Against his wishes, he says it first.
He admits it.
But as he pushes his dick inside her, as he finally gets what he wants, he realizes he doesn’t care.
Some games are, after all, better lost.
********************
More Sundays than not recently, he wakes to the smell of earl grey and the soap with which Cuddy washes her face each day. Bedtime wars with Rachel have robbed them of quiet nights lately, but in return, mornings are now peaceful as the little girl sleeps in. Cuddy despises this of course, hates that she has to wrangle her daughter to get her out of bed and to first grade on time. But House can’t complain. It’s not in his nature to be an early riser, but time alone with Cuddy has been lacking these days. And never one to miss an opportunity to get her by herself, he has learned to wake up earlier than he would on his own.
On this particular morning, he is greeted by the sight of her, alone thankfully, hair messily pulled back and thin nightgown riding dangerously low on her chest. She looks like she considered doing yoga but decided against it, instead preferring to relax before the day truly begins. A mug of tea is forgotten nearby, her interest narrowed on the newspaper in her hands.
He rolls over to be closer to her, body spooning against her side. He kisses her shoulder but says nothing; that is greeting enough. Within seconds, he’s asleep once more.
When he wakes up again, some minutes or hours later, he notices immediately that she is still there, next to him; his nap couldn’t have lasted that long. If it had, she would have left.
Instead she’s smiling at him. “Good morning,” she says gently, placing a soft kiss in his hair. “I thought you might sleep in.”
Bleary eyed he blinks, doesn’t move, can’t. “What time is it?”
“Around 7. Rachel won’t be up for a while.” He’s too tired to respond. “Want to do the crossword with me?”
Slowly her words seep into him, and he realizes what she’s saying: it’s early, and they are all alone for a while. There might have been a time where he would waste time on a game. These days though, he likes more direct interaction with her.
Instantly he looks at her like she’s crazy. Suddenly wide awake, he says, “You and I are alone. In bed. You think I want to play a game with you?”
“Why not? You’re pretty creative.”
He doesn’t bother to respond. There’s no need to. A smile on his face, he reaches up and kisses her. Perhaps this isn’t creative. If anything slipping his hand beneath her nightgown and spreading her thighs with his fingers is pretty damn expected. But he’s willing to wear the label of predictable, domesticated. He’s alone with the woman he loves, and that’s all that matters to him right now.
As he pulls her against him, he thinks:
No, he has never been one to miss an opportunity.
********************
Kindness burns more than cruelty. Lying in the hospital bed, House wishes malice were involved. Hatred would make this easier. The betrayal wouldn’t be so hard to digest. But the truth is Stacy has done this out of love; Cuddy has manipulated him out of some sort of devotion for the genius he possesses. That too is a kind of love for him, he realizes. She values his mind above all else, but he is more than a mere resource to her. Sometimes he questions that, but every time he comes to the same conclusion: their one night together years ago has bonded her to him for reasons he can’t understand. For reasons he doesn’t know, other than that they exist, as her behavior has proven now.
She would not trick a regular patient as she has tricked him.
Her talent lies in making you think she follows the rules more than she does. Bypassing a patient’s wishes and mangling their body at the order of a girlfriend though… that’s a risk Cuddy wouldn’t take for anyone.
And Stacy, knowing the legal implications, knowing how much he will hate her for it, wouldn’t consent unless she cared.
But concern makes this that much harder to take. They have done this out of love, but what they have done is ruin his body. They keep talking about physical therapy, about how this will get better, the pain will go away, he’ll be able to use his leg just fine, blah, blah, blah. He no longer listens to them when they get like this.
They comfort him to lessen the horror of their own behavior.
He can’t even begin to pretend that the conversation is about anything else now. The lies they speak are for themselves. They console out of guilt, out of denial. Cuddy leaves when he reacts to their selfishness. Patients and paperwork always seem to pop up when her optimism is called into question. Her point of view is the only one she’ll listen to. After all these years, she’s still desperate to prove that she knows more than anyone else in the room. Only this time, she’s wrong, and she knows it, so she leaves before she has a chance to lose the argument.
Stacy, on the other hand, rarely leaves his side. Afraid she’ll lose him, she clings. Terrified that she will be seen as disloyal, she stays by his side as if that proves otherwise. But it doesn’t - not to him anyway. He hates her too much for that right now. Her constant presence is met with anger and resentment, which he has no problem voicing. Still she stays. The crueler he is, the more determined she is to be with him, to get him past this, to ride his mood out.
She doesn’t realize he can’t get over it.
He has lost part of his leg, thanks to her choices. Every time he looks down, he will be reminded of her betrayal. Even if the pain goes away, that scar will still be there. He will never be able to forget and so he will never be able to forgive.
Today she has left while fighting tears. He’s aimed to hurt her, and he’s succeeded. Yet triumph quickly falls victim to regret and guilt.
He doesn’t want to be like this, he tells himself. He doesn’t want to lose her - which he will if he obsesses over what cannot be altered now.
All of that goes out the window when Cuddy comes into his hospital room with his lunch in her hands.
“I brought you extra pudding,” she tells him like he’s a little boy and that’s the kind of thing that makes him happy.
“Thanks, Mommy.” Normally the remark would go without incident. But these days sarcasm is more biting than he thought possible. Innocuous comments quickly devolve into the most hateful sentences he can craft. Cuddy’s intolerance for it merely enrages him. If she refuses to listen, he gets louder. If she doesn’t appear hurt, he digs deeper. She treats him like a child, because he is, pink and screaming for her attention. She comes to him knowing that there’s no reason this conversation won’t go the same way as the rest.
Because of that he’s not surprised to hear her say, “Don’t start.”
“I’m starting something?” he asks with mock innocence as she sets the tray down. “You really do like to read into my words, don’t you? Find hidden meanings where there are none?”
She doesn’t take the bait. “I brought you lunch. I’m not trying to fight.”
“Of course not.”
“You can be mad at me all you want -”
“Oh goodie. Thank you for your permission.”
“It’s not going to change anything,” she insists, uncovering the lids on his food tray. “Try the potatoes first. They don’t smell as -”
“You think I don’t know things won’t change? You think I’m unaware of that, Doctor Cuddy?” He throws her title around, because it’s a joke to him now. Additionally it infuriates her, which makes him happy. Or at least, it would make him happy if he could take this any longer.
And he can’t. Right now, her presence is too much for him to bear, and he wants her to leave.
Forgiveness is of course inevitable; manipulating and ignoring patients is the kind of medical practice he’s pioneered. Her choice is a mirror to his own, and if he hates her for this, then there are bigger problems for him to address than a part of missing thigh muscle. Assurance in his methods therefore necessitates forgiveness and vice versa, he knows.
But getting there is more difficult than he anticipated. Letting go is out of reach right now, and he can’t help but push her away.
Today however, she isn’t so easily pushed. Normally she would leave at this point. This time she just sits in the chair by his bed.
“Of course you do. I apologize.” She’s desperately trying to stay calm, to keep him calm.
His eyes narrow hatefully. “I’m sure you do.”
“Now who’s reading into who?”
“Whom,” he corrects.
She rolls her eyes. “You must be feeling better if you’re playing games with me.”
But the thing is: he’s not playing games, a phrase that implies he’s having fun. It goes without saying that he’s not.
She seems to sense that his thoughts are turning dark. “It will get better,” she repeats.
“Right. I can’t run -”
“You don’t know what your limitations are. We haven’t tested how -”
“No rock climbing,” he says, ignoring her, using the example because they have a past. They don’t talk about that though. “No -”
“House,” she says, covering his hand. “We don’t know that yet. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not.”
“Pretending that’s true -”
“It is.”
“Pretending that’s true, there are other things you can do.”
“Lucky me. I get to play Trivial Pursuit for the rest of my life.”
“If you’re going to pity yourself, at least have better criteria for deciding your life is over,” she says dryly. She’s joking… sort of.
He imitates her tone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She cringes, frowns. Sadness ages her features. “Don’t be like that.”
“Wow,” he says loudly. Frustration immediately instigates him to go further. When she’s telling him what to do, he can’t hold back. “You really do like to read into what I have to say. So let’s play a game. What am I telling you when I say: fleck of soy guru? You get that?”
Even if she didn’t get the anagram, the way he’s speaking makes the message obvious. It’s almost as obvious as the look of dismay on her face is when she figures it out.
Lips pursing together, she stands. It is not surprising that she’s choosing to leave. That’s what she does.
She heads to the door, pulls it open. But before she leaves, she turns to him. Holding the door open with her hand, she says tauntingly, “I like the anagram. See? You’ve already taken up a new hobby. Who knows what you’ll pick up in the future?”
She’s making fun of him, and he hates her for that.
But after she’s gone, he slowly realizes that he’s hoping she’s right. He hopes that there is something to look forward to, something to make his life more than pain and diagnoses. He can handle the pain and the betrayal if he knows that it will at some point end. The fact that he has no idea how any of this will turn out is what galls him the most, scares him.
Still, lying in the hospital bed, House thinks she’s wrong. How long did he go untreated before being diagnosed? How complicated has this been already? Given his current situation, it’s impossible for him to imagine things getting better.
From where he is, after what he’s lost, he just isn’t sure life will ever be good to him again.
The End