It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere, Part 3
Characters, Pairing: House/Cuddy, Wilson, Cameron
Warning: Crack. Meta.
Summary: I honestly have no explanation for this. But if you've ever wondered, "who were those awful people in season 7, and where did House and Cuddy go?" then here is my gift to you.
If there was one thing Cuddy could appreciate, it was routine. She'd always taken comfort in the predictability of the odd crises and pointless conflicts that made up her workdays. Her own -- admittedly, even odder -- habit of resolving these crises was comforting too, when it wasn't disturbing. She never knew exactly what off-kilter, out-of-control incident was going to occur, but she liked knowing that whatever it was, she'd handle it.
"Yes, I know he tried to murder you first," she said, in a soothing tone as she disarmed a man of a large stuffed sailfish. "And I agree, that wasn't very nice. And he does apologize. Don't you, Sam?"
She looked expectantly over at the tycoon who was, despite being half a head taller than Harlan Prescott, cowering behind Harlan. Harlan was looking bored. His burly arms were crossed over his chest, and a resentful little frown darkened his face. He'd had to put his beer down to break up the fight; he hated when that happened.
"Let's just say," Sam mumbled, "that I wasn't myself when that happened."
"What does that mean?" the de-fished combatant demanded.
"We don't got time to explain that right now. Point is, you --," Harlan wagged his finger, "-- tried to blackmail your own brother with evidence of attempted murder, which is also not cool. And you know you'd have done the same thing."
"I would never do that! I promised Daddy Jim on his deathbed I'd take care of Sam!"
Across the deck a bell clanged, and amid the light applause that broke out, Cuddy shot a glare over at the bartender.
"Is that why you're trying to run him through with a tacky nautical wall decoration, now?" she asked.
Harlan grabbed a free drink from one the waitresses sashaying by. "Yeah, Luke, you would do that, if you were trying to protect Jamie. He was trying to protect Nate. Jack Montgomery, the fuckin' snake, planted those receipts in your cabin at Bear Creek, to make him think that you were behind the kidnapping plot."
Luke pushed his cowboy hat back from his brow and frowned. "When you put it that way," he conceded slowly. "I guess I forgive you. Montgomery, huh?"
"Fuckin' snake," Sam and Harlan said together. Sam's delivery sounded a little hopeful; Harlan's was disgusted.
"Buy you a beer while we plot our revenge?" Luke asked.
Harlan stood next to her, watching the -- on the whole, fairly routine -- brotherly reconciliation swagger toward the pool.
"Just wait 'till Luke gets around to asking why Sam was in the Bear Creek cabin in the first place," he predicted. "'I've been banging your wife at your ski lodge for the last two seasons' ain't gonna go over well."
"I had no idea you watched that show," Cuddy marveled. She hoped it wasn't for business tips. She'd done her best to engineer the romance between her assistant and Harlan. Harlan was supposed, in theory, to bring Gracie out of her shell and make her feel safe. Cuddy was starting to worry that he might, instead, elevate Gracie's dark side from petty kleptomania to grand larceny.
"It comes on right after Wheel of Fortune," he shrugged. "You get the noise complaint on Sandy Cove all sorted out?"
She grimaced and put the sailfish down on a table. "Whoever invented the performing-arts-high-school-misfits genre needs to die immediately."
"That's not a contract offer, is it? 'Cause I don't do that no more," Harlan said bitterly. "I'm all woobie and touchy-feely and sensitive-wensitive, now. 'Scuse me, I have to go hug an orphan or somethin'."
Just as she did the end of every day, Cuddy, took a breath of sun-kissed air and headed toward her dinner reservation, anticipating her view of the magnificent sunset, the gentle whoosh of waves against the shore.
"There's a Viking ship on the beach." This was Cuddy, talking to herself, which was not part of her routine.
A waitress was pouring Cuddy's ritual glass of wine. "There's a Viking ship on the beach," she said.
Cuddy gave a tight smile, to make it clear that she'd realized this. As much as she wanted to to, she couldn't take her eyes off the aberration. "How did that happen?" she wondered aloud. "How does anyone manage to write out-of-character Vikings?"
"You'd think," the waitress agreed. "There can't be that many writers who had Vikings for their high school girlfriends. On the other hand, that's what we said about zombies. Is Lila going to be joining you tonight?"
"She should be along any minute. I'll have my usual."
"There is a Viking ship on the beach." Lila Chuinard was approaching. "And a man down on the dock with Flint who desperately needs your attention."
"Medical attention?"
"I suppose you could say that," Lila said slyly. "From his aura, he appears to have been recently shot in the butt by one of Cupid's arrows."
House was hunched over the rail of Flint's boat the Lupita, facing the sunset, his hands clasped loosely together, his cane resting near his hip.
His butt looked just fine to Cuddy.
"... some reason, so hard to get right, that we are up to our eyeballs, in 'em, here." Flint was saying. He gestured toward the beach, where the locals were beginning to appear, strolling along the shore in the early evening air. "Look over there. You got your smart, independent female lawyer, your smart independent female doctor, your smart independent businesswoman, your smart independent female CIA agent, your smart independent female politician, your smart independent female private detective, your smart independent female munitions specialist -- careful, I wouldn't make eye contact with that one -- and your smart independent ... Oh, Doctor Cuddy. There's a Viking ship on the beach."
House leveled her with a cold stare. "I suppose you're going to tell me," he accused, "that fairy tales are real?"
She lifted her skirt, exposing a length of bare, tanned thigh, and hopped aboard, wincing as one bare foot came down hard on the deckplate. "They are, somewhere."
"And I am not hallucinating this. I do not have a brain tumor. Or a broken neck. Or lupus. Right?" The contrast between the deep blue of his eyes and the cotton-candy colored streaks across the sky was almost painfully sharp.
"Maybe somewhere you do. But not here."
"What am I doing here?"
"Blocking my view of the sunset."
"I mean, here, here. "
"Well, the other things that we are up to our eyeballs in around here are musically gifted adolescents, criminals with hearts of gold, pains in my ass, and oversensitive geniuses. So statistically speaking, there ought to be at least three of you here blocking my view of the sunset."
The corner of his mouth turned up, just a twitch, and he stepped aside. Cuddy moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Flint slunk off, leaving them alone.
House stared out over the sea for quite some time. Cuddy let the little wheels and cogs and pistons and pulleys in his head do what they'd always done.
"Eliminate the impossible, and whatever's left, however ridiculous, has to be the truth. Or, at least, a truth," she suggested. "For most of us here, being here, however weird it is, is an easier truth to accept than the truth of who we've been forced to be, back where we came from."
He turned to her, his eyes narrowed, and she felt the heat of his gaze. "You've let your hair go curly," he said. "And you're."
Not wearing a bra, she thought with a sigh, and of course he would have to say so, but House fell silent again.
"What, House?"
"I'd forgotten how pretty you are, when you're having fun," he finally said softly.
"Is that diagnostically relevant?" she asked. "You think, what, if I look happy, if I look like I'm happy to see you, you must be hallucinating?" It was a depressing, but not unjustified, conclusion; just the sort of thing, in other words, that House would come up with.
"I think," House said, leaning in to kiss her, "that if it's an hallucination, it's one I have always wanted live in."
Warning: Crack. Meta.
Summary: I honestly have no explanation for this. But if you've ever wondered, "who were those awful people in season 7, and where did House and Cuddy go?" then here is my gift to you.
If there was one thing Cuddy could appreciate, it was routine. She'd always taken comfort in the predictability of the odd crises and pointless conflicts that made up her workdays. Her own -- admittedly, even odder -- habit of resolving these crises was comforting too, when it wasn't disturbing. She never knew exactly what off-kilter, out-of-control incident was going to occur, but she liked knowing that whatever it was, she'd handle it.
"Yes, I know he tried to murder you first," she said, in a soothing tone as she disarmed a man of a large stuffed sailfish. "And I agree, that wasn't very nice. And he does apologize. Don't you, Sam?"
She looked expectantly over at the tycoon who was, despite being half a head taller than Harlan Prescott, cowering behind Harlan. Harlan was looking bored. His burly arms were crossed over his chest, and a resentful little frown darkened his face. He'd had to put his beer down to break up the fight; he hated when that happened.
"Let's just say," Sam mumbled, "that I wasn't myself when that happened."
"What does that mean?" the de-fished combatant demanded.
"We don't got time to explain that right now. Point is, you --," Harlan wagged his finger, "-- tried to blackmail your own brother with evidence of attempted murder, which is also not cool. And you know you'd have done the same thing."
"I would never do that! I promised Daddy Jim on his deathbed I'd take care of Sam!"
Across the deck a bell clanged, and amid the light applause that broke out, Cuddy shot a glare over at the bartender.
"Is that why you're trying to run him through with a tacky nautical wall decoration, now?" she asked.
Harlan grabbed a free drink from one the waitresses sashaying by. "Yeah, Luke, you would do that, if you were trying to protect Jamie. He was trying to protect Nate. Jack Montgomery, the fuckin' snake, planted those receipts in your cabin at Bear Creek, to make him think that you were behind the kidnapping plot."
Luke pushed his cowboy hat back from his brow and frowned. "When you put it that way," he conceded slowly. "I guess I forgive you. Montgomery, huh?"
"Fuckin' snake," Sam and Harlan said together. Sam's delivery sounded a little hopeful; Harlan's was disgusted.
"Buy you a beer while we plot our revenge?" Luke asked.
Harlan stood next to her, watching the -- on the whole, fairly routine -- brotherly reconciliation swagger toward the pool.
"Just wait 'till Luke gets around to asking why Sam was in the Bear Creek cabin in the first place," he predicted. "'I've been banging your wife at your ski lodge for the last two seasons' ain't gonna go over well."
"I had no idea you watched that show," Cuddy marveled. She hoped it wasn't for business tips. She'd done her best to engineer the romance between her assistant and Harlan. Harlan was supposed, in theory, to bring Gracie out of her shell and make her feel safe. Cuddy was starting to worry that he might, instead, elevate Gracie's dark side from petty kleptomania to grand larceny.
"It comes on right after Wheel of Fortune," he shrugged. "You get the noise complaint on Sandy Cove all sorted out?"
She grimaced and put the sailfish down on a table. "Whoever invented the performing-arts-high-school-misfits genre needs to die immediately."
"That's not a contract offer, is it? 'Cause I don't do that no more," Harlan said bitterly. "I'm all woobie and touchy-feely and sensitive-wensitive, now. 'Scuse me, I have to go hug an orphan or somethin'."
Just as she did the end of every day, Cuddy, took a breath of sun-kissed air and headed toward her dinner reservation, anticipating her view of the magnificent sunset, the gentle whoosh of waves against the shore.
"There's a Viking ship on the beach." This was Cuddy, talking to herself, which was not part of her routine.
A waitress was pouring Cuddy's ritual glass of wine. "There's a Viking ship on the beach," she said.
Cuddy gave a tight smile, to make it clear that she'd realized this. As much as she wanted to to, she couldn't take her eyes off the aberration. "How did that happen?" she wondered aloud. "How does anyone manage to write out-of-character Vikings?"
"You'd think," the waitress agreed. "There can't be that many writers who had Vikings for their high school girlfriends. On the other hand, that's what we said about zombies. Is Lila going to be joining you tonight?"
"She should be along any minute. I'll have my usual."
"There is a Viking ship on the beach." Lila Chuinard was approaching. "And a man down on the dock with Flint who desperately needs your attention."
"Medical attention?"
"I suppose you could say that," Lila said slyly. "From his aura, he appears to have been recently shot in the butt by one of Cupid's arrows."
House was hunched over the rail of Flint's boat the Lupita, facing the sunset, his hands clasped loosely together, his cane resting near his hip.
His butt looked just fine to Cuddy.
"... some reason, so hard to get right, that we are up to our eyeballs, in 'em, here." Flint was saying. He gestured toward the beach, where the locals were beginning to appear, strolling along the shore in the early evening air. "Look over there. You got your smart, independent female lawyer, your smart independent female doctor, your smart independent businesswoman, your smart independent female CIA agent, your smart independent female politician, your smart independent female private detective, your smart independent female munitions specialist -- careful, I wouldn't make eye contact with that one -- and your smart independent ... Oh, Doctor Cuddy. There's a Viking ship on the beach."
House leveled her with a cold stare. "I suppose you're going to tell me," he accused, "that fairy tales are real?"
She lifted her skirt, exposing a length of bare, tanned thigh, and hopped aboard, wincing as one bare foot came down hard on the deckplate. "They are, somewhere."
"And I am not hallucinating this. I do not have a brain tumor. Or a broken neck. Or lupus. Right?" The contrast between the deep blue of his eyes and the cotton-candy colored streaks across the sky was almost painfully sharp.
"Maybe somewhere you do. But not here."
"What am I doing here?"
"Blocking my view of the sunset."
"I mean, here, here. "
"Well, the other things that we are up to our eyeballs in around here are musically gifted adolescents, criminals with hearts of gold, pains in my ass, and oversensitive geniuses. So statistically speaking, there ought to be at least three of you here blocking my view of the sunset."
The corner of his mouth turned up, just a twitch, and he stepped aside. Cuddy moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Flint slunk off, leaving them alone.
House stared out over the sea for quite some time. Cuddy let the little wheels and cogs and pistons and pulleys in his head do what they'd always done.
"Eliminate the impossible, and whatever's left, however ridiculous, has to be the truth. Or, at least, a truth," she suggested. "For most of us here, being here, however weird it is, is an easier truth to accept than the truth of who we've been forced to be, back where we came from."
He turned to her, his eyes narrowed, and she felt the heat of his gaze. "You've let your hair go curly," he said. "And you're."
Not wearing a bra, she thought with a sigh, and of course he would have to say so, but House fell silent again.
"What, House?"
"I'd forgotten how pretty you are, when you're having fun," he finally said softly.
"Is that diagnostically relevant?" she asked. "You think, what, if I look happy, if I look like I'm happy to see you, you must be hallucinating?" It was a depressing, but not unjustified, conclusion; just the sort of thing, in other words, that House would come up with.
"I think," House said, leaning in to kiss her, "that if it's an hallucination, it's one I have always wanted live in."