Coming To Terms, Chapter 2A
Title: Coming to Terms, Chapter 2/10
Fandom: House, MD
Pairings: House/Cuddy, Wilson friendship
Warnings: Explicit content in later chapters
Summary: In the weeks following "Help Me", House, Wilson and Cuddy all have some adjustments to make.
Disclaimer: Seriously? You do know I am not David Shore, right?
Her day, as she'd expected, was a fire drill. Her cell phone rang at one o’clock, just as she was reaching for it to cancel her regular Tuesday lunch with Wilson. Too many responsibilities, and not enough sleep, energy or time; the all-purpose excuse for avoiding conversations she did not want to have, confessions she did not want to make.
That safe, reliable thing I spent the last year convincing you - and myself -- I wanted? Not so much. Turns out, I’m all about the bad boys. The tall, brilliant, sexy, playful, diabolically funny bad boys ….
“The mayor of Trenton says we’re heroic,” House announced into her ear, and she returned to reality.
“Mom would be so proud. If she were speaking to me.” She pulled out her desk drawer so she could put her aching feet up on it. This was a mistake; the desk reminded her of one of House’s rare and touching displays of generosity, and the drawer reminded her of the engagement ring she had to return. The boundaries between her failures, past present and future, were becoming thinner.
“The city of Trenton is grateful for the heroic relief efforts of the teams from Princeton and Plainsboro,” he read.
“'Efforts'? That’s annoying. I hate being praised for effort.”
“I do believe, that I knew that about you. Channel Nine said the first responders did a great job.”
“Great? Great? For God’s sake, Tony the Tiger thinks Frosted Flakes are great. Fuck Channel Nine.”
“Well, in my opinion,” he declared dramatically, “there are not superlatives superlative enough to describe you. You are awesome, covered with awesome sauce, with an awesomeness cherry on top. Now can we please skip the self-esteem-propping and get to the good parts of this conversation?”
“How about we skip the over-the-phone part of this conversation? I can meet you at your place in twenty minutes.”
“Why, Doctor Cuddy. Are you leaving work early?”
“New hospital policy: when a parking garage falls on top of you, you get to take an afternoon off.”
“Grrrrrrrreat.”
She let herself in. He was leaning against the kitchen counter staring studiously into the oven, which meant he’d reached the pain point where he didn’t want to come to the door for her, and he was trying to look too busy to bother.
She suppressed a worried glance at a new bandage across the back of his hand and took a deep, appreciative breath. “What,” she sighed blissfully, “is that smell?”
“Lemon crostini,” he answered, and aimed a devastatingly sexy smile at her. “Question: kissing after eating garlic - on which side of the fine line between ‘sensual’ and ‘revolting’ does that fall, for you?”
“Depends,” she answered, and dropped her shoulder so her purse fell with a thunk. “If we’ve both been eating garlic, it’s a moot point; if I have been eating garlic and he hasn’t, it’s his problem; and if he has been eating garlic and I have not, that means he has not been sharing, and then he is in for a world of hurt.” She stepped out of her heels and walked into his arms.
“Duly noted. Just to be sure, let’s kiss before the garlic,” he suggested, bending down.
“’Just to be sure’? When did you start hedging your bets?” she grinned against his mouth.
“When the stakes got this high.”
She felt lighter and freer than she had in months. It felt so good just to be able to say what was on her mind, without holding back or balancing or trying to protect at least one of them, but she allowed herself just one, probably idiotic-looking, smile as he did that … thing, he did, with his neck, moving his head from side to side as he opened his mouth just a fraction and sucked gently on her lower lip. When she let out a soft whimper, it was definitely not because of that, or because of his right hand curling around the small of her back, or the way his thumb made tiny circles at the base of her spine, or the ripple of his biceps under his t-shirt, or because of, well, anything, really, other than hunger. For food, that is. It had been a while since she’d eaten.
“I’m famished,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers slipped under the sleeve of the t-shirt.
“Right.” With a decisive nod, he returned his concentration to the food.
The meal was a simple, lovely, and highly improbable combination of ingredients. It was also so good that it should have been illegal. She tried not to make anything allegorical of any of that, or of the easy competence with which he worked, or the comfortable way his couch welcomed her body, or of the appreciative way he regarded her as she ate, taking obvious pleasure in being able to satisfy her appetite.
“You’re not drinking,” she pointed out, lifting her own glass of wine.
“Nope.” She found herself on the business end of a steady, lustful gaze.
“Are you okay?”
“It occurred to me that taking ibuprofen in gram doses and chasing it down with alcohol will eventually eat a hole in my stomach. It also occurred that puking blood was not the sexiest thing I could do with you.”
Warmth spread, and she felt ridiculous. She was forty-four years old. She was a mother, a respectable member of the medical community, a model citizen.
And apparently, so in love with Greg House that hearing him talk about peptic ulcers made her hot.
“Aren’t you taking prevacid?” she asked.
“Damn,” he whispered. “You almost had it there, but then you lost it.”
“Almost had what?”
He reached over and picked a strip of roasted pepper out of her salad and nibbled it. “Just for a while, there, you acted like a human being enjoying herself. Then your eyes got all wonky and you went all serious responsible mature adult on me. I really wish you’d quit doing that.”
“This is your mission in life? To bring me down to your level?”
“Pretty much. How’m I doing? Do you feel properly indulged, yet, or do I need to break out the raspberry sorbet?”
He waved the pepper at her. “Granted, it is about fifteen days ahead of schedule for you, but you’ve had a stressful week.”
“How did you know that I … God damn it, House. Have you been hacking into my online grocery purchases, now? Did you break into my house and rifle through my freezer?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Not particularly,” she decided, glaring. “And I do not want to know how you manage to track my menstrual cycle, either.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, anybody could do that.”
This, of course, was a test, and probably the first of many to come. Greg House 101: anyone without the intellect, gall and staying power to match his, anyone who can be outmaneuvered, browbeaten into submission, harassed into a homicidal rage, driven batshit, or otherwise pushed away, deserved and ought to be. Come play with me, this challenge was saying -- if you know the rules, if you can keep up, if you are worth playing with.
The rational part of her brain realized this.
The irrational part of her brain - or at least the part that was irrational, but not so insanely irrational that it would pursue a relationship with him in the first place -- wanted to strangle him for screwing with the moment, anyway.
She looked across the sofa at him, his long legs stretched out, looking smug and mischievous, and suddenly the rest of her body was holding a knife to her entire brain’s throat.
She put her plate and wine glass down on the coffee table, leaning forward just far enough to let him look down her blouse. “Okay, Genius,” she said glibly. “You’ve established that you have fifteen days to live. Make the most of it.”
One of them made the decision, and they both adjusted their bodies, and she found herself lifted up and stretched out along his length on the couch.
“This is a really bad idea,” he said, the longing in his voice betraying his words. “On oh, so many levels.”
“I know,” she said, and laid her head on his chest.
The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth. “Wanna bet which one of us screws it up?”
“Nope. Even money. I have the control issues on steroids going for me, but you’ve got those authority issues and intimacy phobias. And we’re equally stubborn.”
“I hope so.” He moved to kiss her, at last. “Oh, God, I hope so.”
Chapter 2 (part B) Chapter 3
Fandom: House, MD
Pairings: House/Cuddy, Wilson friendship
Warnings: Explicit content in later chapters
Summary: In the weeks following "Help Me", House, Wilson and Cuddy all have some adjustments to make.
Disclaimer: Seriously? You do know I am not David Shore, right?
Her day, as she'd expected, was a fire drill. Her cell phone rang at one o’clock, just as she was reaching for it to cancel her regular Tuesday lunch with Wilson. Too many responsibilities, and not enough sleep, energy or time; the all-purpose excuse for avoiding conversations she did not want to have, confessions she did not want to make.
That safe, reliable thing I spent the last year convincing you - and myself -- I wanted? Not so much. Turns out, I’m all about the bad boys. The tall, brilliant, sexy, playful, diabolically funny bad boys ….
“The mayor of Trenton says we’re heroic,” House announced into her ear, and she returned to reality.
“Mom would be so proud. If she were speaking to me.” She pulled out her desk drawer so she could put her aching feet up on it. This was a mistake; the desk reminded her of one of House’s rare and touching displays of generosity, and the drawer reminded her of the engagement ring she had to return. The boundaries between her failures, past present and future, were becoming thinner.
“The city of Trenton is grateful for the heroic relief efforts of the teams from Princeton and Plainsboro,” he read.
“'Efforts'? That’s annoying. I hate being praised for effort.”
“I do believe, that I knew that about you. Channel Nine said the first responders did a great job.”
“Great? Great? For God’s sake, Tony the Tiger thinks Frosted Flakes are great. Fuck Channel Nine.”
“Well, in my opinion,” he declared dramatically, “there are not superlatives superlative enough to describe you. You are awesome, covered with awesome sauce, with an awesomeness cherry on top. Now can we please skip the self-esteem-propping and get to the good parts of this conversation?”
“How about we skip the over-the-phone part of this conversation? I can meet you at your place in twenty minutes.”
“Why, Doctor Cuddy. Are you leaving work early?”
“New hospital policy: when a parking garage falls on top of you, you get to take an afternoon off.”
“Grrrrrrrreat.”
She let herself in. He was leaning against the kitchen counter staring studiously into the oven, which meant he’d reached the pain point where he didn’t want to come to the door for her, and he was trying to look too busy to bother.
She suppressed a worried glance at a new bandage across the back of his hand and took a deep, appreciative breath. “What,” she sighed blissfully, “is that smell?”
“Lemon crostini,” he answered, and aimed a devastatingly sexy smile at her. “Question: kissing after eating garlic - on which side of the fine line between ‘sensual’ and ‘revolting’ does that fall, for you?”
“Depends,” she answered, and dropped her shoulder so her purse fell with a thunk. “If we’ve both been eating garlic, it’s a moot point; if I have been eating garlic and he hasn’t, it’s his problem; and if he has been eating garlic and I have not, that means he has not been sharing, and then he is in for a world of hurt.” She stepped out of her heels and walked into his arms.
“Duly noted. Just to be sure, let’s kiss before the garlic,” he suggested, bending down.
“’Just to be sure’? When did you start hedging your bets?” she grinned against his mouth.
“When the stakes got this high.”
She felt lighter and freer than she had in months. It felt so good just to be able to say what was on her mind, without holding back or balancing or trying to protect at least one of them, but she allowed herself just one, probably idiotic-looking, smile as he did that … thing, he did, with his neck, moving his head from side to side as he opened his mouth just a fraction and sucked gently on her lower lip. When she let out a soft whimper, it was definitely not because of that, or because of his right hand curling around the small of her back, or the way his thumb made tiny circles at the base of her spine, or the ripple of his biceps under his t-shirt, or because of, well, anything, really, other than hunger. For food, that is. It had been a while since she’d eaten.
“I’m famished,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers slipped under the sleeve of the t-shirt.
“Right.” With a decisive nod, he returned his concentration to the food.
The meal was a simple, lovely, and highly improbable combination of ingredients. It was also so good that it should have been illegal. She tried not to make anything allegorical of any of that, or of the easy competence with which he worked, or the comfortable way his couch welcomed her body, or of the appreciative way he regarded her as she ate, taking obvious pleasure in being able to satisfy her appetite.
“You’re not drinking,” she pointed out, lifting her own glass of wine.
“Nope.” She found herself on the business end of a steady, lustful gaze.
“Are you okay?”
“It occurred to me that taking ibuprofen in gram doses and chasing it down with alcohol will eventually eat a hole in my stomach. It also occurred that puking blood was not the sexiest thing I could do with you.”
Warmth spread, and she felt ridiculous. She was forty-four years old. She was a mother, a respectable member of the medical community, a model citizen.
And apparently, so in love with Greg House that hearing him talk about peptic ulcers made her hot.
“Aren’t you taking prevacid?” she asked.
“Damn,” he whispered. “You almost had it there, but then you lost it.”
“Almost had what?”
He reached over and picked a strip of roasted pepper out of her salad and nibbled it. “Just for a while, there, you acted like a human being enjoying herself. Then your eyes got all wonky and you went all serious responsible mature adult on me. I really wish you’d quit doing that.”
“This is your mission in life? To bring me down to your level?”
“Pretty much. How’m I doing? Do you feel properly indulged, yet, or do I need to break out the raspberry sorbet?”
He waved the pepper at her. “Granted, it is about fifteen days ahead of schedule for you, but you’ve had a stressful week.”
“How did you know that I … God damn it, House. Have you been hacking into my online grocery purchases, now? Did you break into my house and rifle through my freezer?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Not particularly,” she decided, glaring. “And I do not want to know how you manage to track my menstrual cycle, either.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, anybody could do that.”
This, of course, was a test, and probably the first of many to come. Greg House 101: anyone without the intellect, gall and staying power to match his, anyone who can be outmaneuvered, browbeaten into submission, harassed into a homicidal rage, driven batshit, or otherwise pushed away, deserved and ought to be. Come play with me, this challenge was saying -- if you know the rules, if you can keep up, if you are worth playing with.
The rational part of her brain realized this.
The irrational part of her brain - or at least the part that was irrational, but not so insanely irrational that it would pursue a relationship with him in the first place -- wanted to strangle him for screwing with the moment, anyway.
She looked across the sofa at him, his long legs stretched out, looking smug and mischievous, and suddenly the rest of her body was holding a knife to her entire brain’s throat.
She put her plate and wine glass down on the coffee table, leaning forward just far enough to let him look down her blouse. “Okay, Genius,” she said glibly. “You’ve established that you have fifteen days to live. Make the most of it.”
One of them made the decision, and they both adjusted their bodies, and she found herself lifted up and stretched out along his length on the couch.
“This is a really bad idea,” he said, the longing in his voice betraying his words. “On oh, so many levels.”
“I know,” she said, and laid her head on his chest.
The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth. “Wanna bet which one of us screws it up?”
“Nope. Even money. I have the control issues on steroids going for me, but you’ve got those authority issues and intimacy phobias. And we’re equally stubborn.”
“I hope so.” He moved to kiss her, at last. “Oh, God, I hope so.”
Chapter 2 (part B) Chapter 3