Faint of Heart, Part 8
Title: Faint of Heart, 8/17
Pairing: House/Cuddy established
Warnings: Some explicit content, some fluff.
Summary: House and Cuddy need a vacation, and they take one, but it isn't that simple. Set in the sharkverse, and will include events from "Recession Proof" and "The Last Temptation."
I'm back! I'm back! And I have internet again!
Comments welcome.
It had to be after five by the time Barb brought her back from the rec center, but Cuddy could not be sure of the exact time. The clock had been unplugged to make room for two chargers -- one for House’s phone and ipad, and another for Wilson’s laptop - and was now serving as a duck train.
“That, is the mom,” Rachel informed Wilson solemnly, pointing to a line of plush animals on the sofa. “And that’s the dad. And these are the kid ducks.”
Cuddy cringed. Rachel put the mom in front of every parade, and of course Wilson would notice that, and point it out to House at the first opportunity. After a few “don’t be stupid, Wilson; sometimes, a duck is just a duck” - deflections that only House would even try to pull off, he’d probably make some snide crack about the dad duck walking behind the mom duck in order to get a better view of her ass.
A little unsettled by the fact that she was becoming so familiar with the House-Wilson craziness that she had the oncologist even losing the non-existent dumb arguments, now, Cuddy picked an owl up out of the chair. “You forgot this one, Sweetie.”
Rachel shook her head so hard that the plastic fish on the brim of her little pink fishing hat jiggled. “He is bossy and braggy an’ no one likes him.”
“Where’s House?” Cuddy didn’t hear the bedroom television, and her view of the terrace was blocked by a fishing pole, a beach umbrella, and the wheeled cooler recently provided by James Wilson, Sherpa.
“Ousside. Making grownup drinks.” Rachel scrabbled up onto the couch, her grimy fingers leaving little orange cheez wheel smears everywhere. “I’m getting blue kool-aid,” she added reverently.
“Want to watch some tv?” Wilson asked Rachel diplomatically. Cuddy and House were circling each other on the topic of Rachel’s sugar intake, and Wilson was, for once, studiously staying out of it. Parenting with spectators was always tricky, her sister had told her. To which Cuddy had a new comeback: try it with a reluctant fifty one year old who has more childhood issues and bad habits than a parade of beggars has hands, sometime, and then throw his endearingly judgmental best friend in the mix too.
“No Wisson.” Rachel tilted her nose upward. “I do that,” she said, “with Howse.”
Rachel loved that tacky hat so much that she was probably going to insist on sleeping in it, and she had enough sunscreen still on her body to contaminate the gulf, but the water wings continued to be a point of contention. Not having the stamina for another screeching fight with her daughter, Cuddy relented with only a medium-sized twinge of guilt.
“Stay on the steps,” she warned, raising her voice over the ruckus from the other end of the pool, where a group of kids were clustered around pizzas and swigging sodas.
“I love Snape.”
“Ugh, I hate him.”
“But Dumbledore always trusted him.”
“He was horrible to Harry.”
“I think he loved Harry”.
“He loved Lily, but not Harry.”
“Do you think Harry loved Snape?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Nick, there’s a baby over there. You want to get us thrown out?”
“They can’t throw me out.”
“That mean lady could kick your butt again.”
“Shuddup, Emma.”
“You shut up. Pig.”
“CANNONBALL!”
“Good grief. What are you, five?”
“What are you, forty?”
“So, do you think Harry loved Snape?”
“He would have saved him..”
“Of course, but he'd save anyone.”
“Not Voldemort”.
“Duh.”
“Don’t you dare. I mean it.”
“EEEEEEeek! Spence!”
“Oh, come on, it’s just water.”
“Maybe to love Lily that much he had to love Harry a little. Maybe not love really.”
“I love Luna.”
“I love Neville.”
“This is ridiculous,” Cuddy mumbled, ducking her head from another splash.
“I know, right?” House helped himself to a cheez wheel. Cuddy knew everything there was to know about the nutritional content of those things from the way “cheez” was spelled. “Snape is awesome. Of course he loved Harry. I have never figured out why Harry loves Ginny, though. She is so flat.”
“The character, I mean,” he added to her disapproving look. His eyes grazed the commotion, and the tips of his fingers touched hers. “Which one were you?”
“I haven’t read the books, but from what I’ve gathered, Hermione.”
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I meant which one of them?”
She followed his gaze to the teenagers. “The one in the dark green one-piece,” she decided. “That’s the perfect suit - not too fancy not too simple and in a slimming dark color. She’s spent hours looking for it, two weeks matching her shoes and jewelry to it, and she’ll be both disappointed and relieved that it doesn’t draw anyone’s attention. You, were the guy in the chocolate brown trunks.”
“Nope.” He flashed her the unguarded smile that she always thought of as Greg’s, not House’s, and clucked. “The one in the water. He’s socially awkward, girls make him nervous, but he’s naturally good at sports, and when he’s playing volleyball or water polo or whatever that is, he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.”
“Especially not the honey-blonde with the French braid.”
“The what?” Confusion puckered the line between House’s brows.
“The red bikini,” Cuddy clarified, and rolled her eyes. “The one who’s taking such intense pains to not look at the inarticulate jock, or the charmer in the brown trunks.” She frowned at her glass. “What did you call this?”
“A Walmartini.” House crooked one arm over the back of the patio chair and watched her uncoil. “Vodka, blue raspberry snow-cone syrup, limes, and some other stuff I don’t remember.”
“Creative.” She tried to smile gamely, even while her throat caught fire; that “other stuff” in his recipe seemed to include bargain lighter fluid.
“Tangy, sweet , surprisingly potent, and has a kick like a Missouri mule.” He gave her that exciting little eyebrow flash that always lit her pilot light. “Like someone I know.”
Cuddy kicked her sandals off and propped her feet up on the chair beside him. She didn’t know how to feel about being compared to a Walmart concoction, and she was pretty sure she was insulted by the word “sweet”, but she was too loose and too aware of his sun-pinked skin to do more than inhale and purr. She’d thought his natural smell -- freshly laundered cotton, with an undertone of cheap soap and single malt -- was intoxicating, but it was nothing like the warm mélange of all of the above combined with sea salt, Rachel’s sunscreen, and her own shower gel.
“So you and Wilson hit the world’s largest retailer and the beach today? You boys do know how to have a good time.”
He bowed his head and replenished her drink with a graceful dip of his wrist. The cuff and ankles of his chinos were wet, and his feet were bare. Thank God she’d outlasted her inexplicable, and gratefully temporary, fixation on House’s feet; this week, it was that elegant neck, the thick cords of muscles meeting the valley of his spine behind the tropical print of his shirt - and how he managed to look both clichéd and disreputable was another mystery -- that was sending her hormones into overdrive. It was a bit less embarrassing than the month she’d spent melting every time he exposed his wrists. Forty-three years old and she was coming undone at the sight of a man in shirtsleeves folding laundry, for crying out loud, and crushing on his handwriting even when he forged her name.
“Like the ocean, Walmart reminds us of our insignificance, and of the futility of our struggles,” he pronounced loftily. “And also that Wilson needed new underwear.” He looked down at her feet, and she wiggled her toes invitingly. Say what you would about House - and Cuddy said it all - he gave magnificent foot rubs.
“Philosopher,” she accused. She was thinking of ocean waves, the way they just kept on kissing the shore no matter how many times they were sent away, until at last they carved their own fractal spaces into the landscape.
She rolled one ankle elaborately, and brushed his thigh with her sole. “Have I thanked you, for shanghaiing me here?”
Finally taking the hint, he cradled her right calf in his left hand, the fine bones of his right hand working the pressure points on her foot, careful, yet firm. The relief was exquisite: thirty six dollars for a pedicure and twenty minutes spent choosing the perfect shade of cherry red polish, began to pay off.
“No,” he smirked. “But if I’m not mis-reading you, you will, soon. Repeatedly.”
Cuddy arched her face up toward the golden sunset. He was not misreading her. He never did.
Part 9
Pairing: House/Cuddy established
Warnings: Some explicit content, some fluff.
Summary: House and Cuddy need a vacation, and they take one, but it isn't that simple. Set in the sharkverse, and will include events from "Recession Proof" and "The Last Temptation."
I'm back! I'm back! And I have internet again!
Comments welcome.
It had to be after five by the time Barb brought her back from the rec center, but Cuddy could not be sure of the exact time. The clock had been unplugged to make room for two chargers -- one for House’s phone and ipad, and another for Wilson’s laptop - and was now serving as a duck train.
“That, is the mom,” Rachel informed Wilson solemnly, pointing to a line of plush animals on the sofa. “And that’s the dad. And these are the kid ducks.”
Cuddy cringed. Rachel put the mom in front of every parade, and of course Wilson would notice that, and point it out to House at the first opportunity. After a few “don’t be stupid, Wilson; sometimes, a duck is just a duck” - deflections that only House would even try to pull off, he’d probably make some snide crack about the dad duck walking behind the mom duck in order to get a better view of her ass.
A little unsettled by the fact that she was becoming so familiar with the House-Wilson craziness that she had the oncologist even losing the non-existent dumb arguments, now, Cuddy picked an owl up out of the chair. “You forgot this one, Sweetie.”
Rachel shook her head so hard that the plastic fish on the brim of her little pink fishing hat jiggled. “He is bossy and braggy an’ no one likes him.”
“Where’s House?” Cuddy didn’t hear the bedroom television, and her view of the terrace was blocked by a fishing pole, a beach umbrella, and the wheeled cooler recently provided by James Wilson, Sherpa.
“Ousside. Making grownup drinks.” Rachel scrabbled up onto the couch, her grimy fingers leaving little orange cheez wheel smears everywhere. “I’m getting blue kool-aid,” she added reverently.
“Want to watch some tv?” Wilson asked Rachel diplomatically. Cuddy and House were circling each other on the topic of Rachel’s sugar intake, and Wilson was, for once, studiously staying out of it. Parenting with spectators was always tricky, her sister had told her. To which Cuddy had a new comeback: try it with a reluctant fifty one year old who has more childhood issues and bad habits than a parade of beggars has hands, sometime, and then throw his endearingly judgmental best friend in the mix too.
“No Wisson.” Rachel tilted her nose upward. “I do that,” she said, “with Howse.”
Rachel loved that tacky hat so much that she was probably going to insist on sleeping in it, and she had enough sunscreen still on her body to contaminate the gulf, but the water wings continued to be a point of contention. Not having the stamina for another screeching fight with her daughter, Cuddy relented with only a medium-sized twinge of guilt.
“Stay on the steps,” she warned, raising her voice over the ruckus from the other end of the pool, where a group of kids were clustered around pizzas and swigging sodas.
“I love Snape.”
“Ugh, I hate him.”
“But Dumbledore always trusted him.”
“He was horrible to Harry.”
“I think he loved Harry”.
“He loved Lily, but not Harry.”
“Do you think Harry loved Snape?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Nick, there’s a baby over there. You want to get us thrown out?”
“They can’t throw me out.”
“That mean lady could kick your butt again.”
“Shuddup, Emma.”
“You shut up. Pig.”
“CANNONBALL!”
“Good grief. What are you, five?”
“What are you, forty?”
“So, do you think Harry loved Snape?”
“He would have saved him..”
“Of course, but he'd save anyone.”
“Not Voldemort”.
“Duh.”
“Don’t you dare. I mean it.”
“EEEEEEeek! Spence!”
“Oh, come on, it’s just water.”
“Maybe to love Lily that much he had to love Harry a little. Maybe not love really.”
“I love Luna.”
“I love Neville.”
“This is ridiculous,” Cuddy mumbled, ducking her head from another splash.
“I know, right?” House helped himself to a cheez wheel. Cuddy knew everything there was to know about the nutritional content of those things from the way “cheez” was spelled. “Snape is awesome. Of course he loved Harry. I have never figured out why Harry loves Ginny, though. She is so flat.”
“The character, I mean,” he added to her disapproving look. His eyes grazed the commotion, and the tips of his fingers touched hers. “Which one were you?”
“I haven’t read the books, but from what I’ve gathered, Hermione.”
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I meant which one of them?”
She followed his gaze to the teenagers. “The one in the dark green one-piece,” she decided. “That’s the perfect suit - not too fancy not too simple and in a slimming dark color. She’s spent hours looking for it, two weeks matching her shoes and jewelry to it, and she’ll be both disappointed and relieved that it doesn’t draw anyone’s attention. You, were the guy in the chocolate brown trunks.”
“Nope.” He flashed her the unguarded smile that she always thought of as Greg’s, not House’s, and clucked. “The one in the water. He’s socially awkward, girls make him nervous, but he’s naturally good at sports, and when he’s playing volleyball or water polo or whatever that is, he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.”
“Especially not the honey-blonde with the French braid.”
“The what?” Confusion puckered the line between House’s brows.
“The red bikini,” Cuddy clarified, and rolled her eyes. “The one who’s taking such intense pains to not look at the inarticulate jock, or the charmer in the brown trunks.” She frowned at her glass. “What did you call this?”
“A Walmartini.” House crooked one arm over the back of the patio chair and watched her uncoil. “Vodka, blue raspberry snow-cone syrup, limes, and some other stuff I don’t remember.”
“Creative.” She tried to smile gamely, even while her throat caught fire; that “other stuff” in his recipe seemed to include bargain lighter fluid.
“Tangy, sweet , surprisingly potent, and has a kick like a Missouri mule.” He gave her that exciting little eyebrow flash that always lit her pilot light. “Like someone I know.”
Cuddy kicked her sandals off and propped her feet up on the chair beside him. She didn’t know how to feel about being compared to a Walmart concoction, and she was pretty sure she was insulted by the word “sweet”, but she was too loose and too aware of his sun-pinked skin to do more than inhale and purr. She’d thought his natural smell -- freshly laundered cotton, with an undertone of cheap soap and single malt -- was intoxicating, but it was nothing like the warm mélange of all of the above combined with sea salt, Rachel’s sunscreen, and her own shower gel.
“So you and Wilson hit the world’s largest retailer and the beach today? You boys do know how to have a good time.”
He bowed his head and replenished her drink with a graceful dip of his wrist. The cuff and ankles of his chinos were wet, and his feet were bare. Thank God she’d outlasted her inexplicable, and gratefully temporary, fixation on House’s feet; this week, it was that elegant neck, the thick cords of muscles meeting the valley of his spine behind the tropical print of his shirt - and how he managed to look both clichéd and disreputable was another mystery -- that was sending her hormones into overdrive. It was a bit less embarrassing than the month she’d spent melting every time he exposed his wrists. Forty-three years old and she was coming undone at the sight of a man in shirtsleeves folding laundry, for crying out loud, and crushing on his handwriting even when he forged her name.
“Like the ocean, Walmart reminds us of our insignificance, and of the futility of our struggles,” he pronounced loftily. “And also that Wilson needed new underwear.” He looked down at her feet, and she wiggled her toes invitingly. Say what you would about House - and Cuddy said it all - he gave magnificent foot rubs.
“Philosopher,” she accused. She was thinking of ocean waves, the way they just kept on kissing the shore no matter how many times they were sent away, until at last they carved their own fractal spaces into the landscape.
She rolled one ankle elaborately, and brushed his thigh with her sole. “Have I thanked you, for shanghaiing me here?”
Finally taking the hint, he cradled her right calf in his left hand, the fine bones of his right hand working the pressure points on her foot, careful, yet firm. The relief was exquisite: thirty six dollars for a pedicure and twenty minutes spent choosing the perfect shade of cherry red polish, began to pay off.
“No,” he smirked. “But if I’m not mis-reading you, you will, soon. Repeatedly.”
Cuddy arched her face up toward the golden sunset. He was not misreading her. He never did.
Part 9