Checkmate: Chapters 5 & 6
Chapter 5: Positional Play
Oxygen was already in startlingly short supply, her senses stumbling, and the sudden (literally breathtaking) jolt of his mouth pressed against hers sent her into a spiral from which there was no hope of recovering. His lips were surprisingly soft and careful, would flit away like a hummingbird if she made even the slightest motion to deny him, the pressure barely existent - a phantom-touch, spine-tingling but nowhere near enough. She strained for more, pushing hard against him (converging anywhere, everywhere at once) gasping. His lips curved delightfully into a smile as he took advantage of her open mouth, the fiery tang (bitter-Vicodin-laced, stale-coffee-and-sweet-peppermint that expressed at once his now-soft manner and usually-callous personality) exactly what (she hadn’t until that moment realized) she’d been expecting. And his fingers were threading through her curls, his thumb kneading the taut muscles on the back of her neck, his other hand gripping her own so firmly that they had completely bypassed pain and corkscrewed wholly into screaming, sparking pleasure….
She was lulled slowly from a dream-filled sleep by something caressing her cheek so softly that it couldn’t have been anything but a summer breeze, whisperingly warm and inviting. Gentle as the touch was, she inwardly cursed it for drawing her further towards consciousness, groaning as she nuzzled further into her pillow. Her pillow chuckled softly, the sound stirring it to motion beneath her, and the unexpected noise and action woke her with a start.
As accustomed as she was to waking alone, the fingers cupping her cheek and the arm snaking around her waist should have been frightening. But the voice that accompanied them was immediately familiar, yet in a way she could never remember having heard it before.
“Whoa there, Lise….”
Her vision finally adjusting to wakefulness and sunlight, she found an intense pair of eyes staring right back at her, so close that her own rumpled appearance was reflected in their depths. Minus the waggling eyebrows and lascivious grin, it was nonetheless Gregory House, wearing nothing but boxers, a few blankets, and a slow, tender smile.
It hadn’t been a dream at all.
His thumb ran in tickling, hypnotic circles on her bare skin. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Hey...” It was all she could muster, and even that one word was dreamily rumbling with sleep. She couldn’t help the smile she knew was spreading much too widely across her face, tried to hide it in the blankets, but his hand was quickly under her chin, tipping it upward. Speech was necessary. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven-thirty,” he answered, looking almost apologetic for having awakened her, suddenly becoming so purposely serious that she knew a glimmer of his usual sarcasm was returning. “I knew you’d have a conniption if I let you sleep any later, and I can’t take your shrieking before I’ve had my morning coffee.”
But it was impossible to take offense or vie for dominance when his hand had crept underneath her t-shirt - his t-shirt, she realized, though she couldn’t remember having put it on. The pads of his fingers were drawing lazy designs on her back, the sensation soporific; she was still so tired. “How long were you watching me sleep?”
“I’d say about as long as you were watching me sleep last night,” he answered pointedly, his smile curling into a smirk.
“You were in my house.” Even as she continued, she knew any defense was hopeless. “On my couch.”
“And you’re on me on your couch.”
She had felt his caresses, been aware of the startling proximity of his eyes to hers, but somehow she hadn’t noticed how close they actually were. She was wedged between him and the back of the couch, but he was taking the brunt of her weight, her upper body sprawled across his bare chest, her left leg over his. Instinctively, she pushed against his chest, raising herself off him.
“Hey - not so fast,” he chided, tugging her back down to him. “I don’t want all the blood rushing back into this side of my body all at once. Pins and needles….” He shuddered, the friction against her delicious.
“House….” His name was automatic - he must have known that - yet she thought she saw him frown, disappointment flaring for only a moment. Then his fingers were on her cheeks again, trailing across her forehead, and was it possible to be driven straight past oblivion with just that slight touch?
“Fever’s gone down. How’s the head?”
“Better.” Every second that passed would make her that much later for work. If only time would stand still for just a few moments….
He crooked her head, brushing her tousled curls away from her face and whistling faintly. “The stories that’re gonna come from that….”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Finally surrendering to reason, she eased herself off him, taking one of the quilts with her, and careful to lift herself over his right thigh. She stood, swaying slightly and bringing a hand to her temple. Her head still ached, she must have hit it yesterday harder than she’d thought.
House sprung to his feet to steady her with more agility than he should have possessed after a night spent on her couch and before his morning Vicodin. If his tight-lipped expression was meant to disguise his worry, it was a miserable failure, but she preferred it that way.
“Stood up too fast.” She offered him a smile. “I’m fine. Really.”
He looked her up and down, closely and carefully, no doubt searching for any reason to convince her to stay home today, but finally giving in with a single nod. His hand on her elbow was soft and gentle, his thumb rubbing in circles. He wrinkled his nose at her, grimacing, but still not pulling away. “Go shower. You need it.”
He pushed her gently, but not before pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth, so quickly and softly that she hadn’t registered the gesture until he was already shuffling towards the kitchen. He paused, feeling her gaze, turning back and smiling. "Go. Don't make me follow you in there."
It wasn't much of a threat at all….
Purple, yellow, orange, more purple…. “House.” …green. Where the hell were all the red ones? “House.” If all those snot-nosed, feverish hellions had taken the last of them again…. “House!”
“Ah ha!” Finally spotting what he had been searching for, House extracted the coveted last red lollipop from the bowl on the clinic’s front desk and turned to Foreman, exasperated. “It’s much harder to ignore you when you’re shouting.”
The younger doctor’s arms were folded, and he fell in step beside House as he left they clinic. “Yeah? Well if you keep ignoring Eli….”
“Who?” House pulled his face into what he was sure was the picture of confusion, strolling leisurely out of the clinic.
Foreman rolled his eyes, falling into step beside him. “Shortness of breath? Vomiting? PHP?”
“Balding? Huge sideburns? Could stand to lose a few pounds?” House countered, the plastic wrapper crinkling as he tore it from the lollipop with his teeth, sticking the candy in his mouth. “I stopped in this morning. He was asleep.”
“He’s been awake and asking to see you for four hours. We’ve been paging you all day.”
“Turned it off,” he replied nonchalantly, pulling his pager out of his pocket, tossing it into the air and catching it. They were passing Cuddy’s office now. She was bent busily over her paperwork, her head resting on one hand. “The constant beeping was getting really annoying.”
“He won’t even let us in the room anymore unless you - ”
“House.”
Her voice echoed down the hallway. And there it was - the staccato clip of her heels increasing in volume as she drew nearer; an echo of that morning, when she had first crossed her kitchen after dressing, his back to her as he rifled through her refrigerator.
House stuck his cane out to stop Foreman, nearly tripping him, ignoring the younger doctor’s mumbled expletive. “What did you and the rest of the Mouseketeers do this time?”
Foreman’s folded arms and no-nonsense look said everything he didn’t: you’ve got to be kidding.
“Oh, like Mommy’s never yelled at you,” House sneered.
“I’m not her problem child.”
Cuddy was upon them now and jabbed House in the chest with one long finger. He took the lollipop from his mouth, staring down at her finger with a raised eyebrow. She removed it quickly. “You haven’t been in to see your patient once.”
“Who tattled?” House whined, staring angrily Foreman. “Was it Cameron again?” He turned back to Cuddy. She had shed her pink blazer, and her flowered top cut fantastically low, leaving just enough to the imagination. He let his run wild, staring at her brazenly. “If you want me to take an interest in my patients, you shouldn’t give me the boring ones.”
She must have noticed his line of sight, but paid it no heed. “You haven’t had a patient for over two weeks. Boring or not, you needed something to do.”
“PHP is genetic - the guy’s lived with it forever.”
“And you diagnosed it.”
“Do I get a gold star?” He asked, batting his eyelashes and simpering sweetly.
Cuddy chuckled wryly, shaking her head. “If I thought a sticker chart would improve your work ethic, I would’ve hung one in my office years ago.”
“A monkey in a lab coat could’ve diagnosed this guy.” He paused for a beat, eying her, weighing his next move. “You did.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but under her frosty exterior, he could detect the slightest hint of amusement. She was enjoying this just as much as he was. Was it even possible that the charged atmosphere - so abruptly filled with electrical energy that he could hear the humming, feel its static pulling at him - wasn’t noticeable to anyone but the two of them?
A throat cleared. “We’re treating the PHP,” Foreman interrupted, watching them both warily, “fever’s still present, urine output is decreasing, and he’s still vomiting small amounts of blood.”
“There’s nothing exciting about bloody vomiting,” House grumbled.
“Funny.” The blue of Cuddy’s eyes seared him. “Your patient probably shares your opinion.” She turned to Foreman, and, glowering or not, the loss of her eye contact was painful. “Go tell Mr. Grant that Dr. House will be in to see him momentarily.”
Foreman nodded, departing obediently. As soon as he was up the stairs and out of sight, Cuddy turned suddenly to House and held out her palm.
The gesture had him at a momentary loss, but he was quick to rebound, feeling around in his pockets before taking the lollipop out of his mouth and holding it out to her. “Only one I’ve got. Slightly used, but you’re welcome to it.”
She placed her hand on her hip. “Someone was rifling through my desk yesterday - ”
“You really can’t trust housekeeping.”
“ - and arranged all the paperclips into an impressively accurate outline of the female anatomy.”
He widened his eyes in exaggerated surprise, making sure to enunciate his words, shouting just a little too loudly. “How awkward!” Heads were turning in their direction, but for most of the hospital staff, this was nothing more than another spat between the Dean of Medicine and famously hot-headed diagnostician. “So you want me to have a chat with Wilson, then?”
“I want the key to my office back, House.” She was holding onto her authoritative demeanor phenomenally. Still, she allowed him the smallest of smiles - in slight amusement, mostly, but speaking volumes when coupled with the quick lowering of her eyes, the slight dip of her chin.
“What makes you think I need a key to get into your office?” He let the question hang heavily between them until she peered up at him through her lashes, and in an instant he heeded her unspoken request, quickly changing gears, tone teasing, conversational. “Nice job with the concealer. It almost looks like you got whammed with the candlestick instead of the wrench.”
“Because that would hurt less?” she asked dryly, but she was looking at him again, and that was really all that mattered.
“Because the candlestick was the lamest of the Clue weapons,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Guns, knives, pieces of lead pipe, and giant wrenches are just lying around the mansion, and the candlestick’s the best Miss Scarlet can come up with?”
“House, if you think you can avoid….”
Her skin was still just a little too pale, her eyes only betraying a slice of the exhaustion he knew was still weighing upon her. Once his caresses had finally lulled her off to sleep last night, she hadn’t awakened until morning. But her sleep had been fitful, and he had woken more than once just in time to soothe her back to slumber before consciousness had fully snagged her.
It came without warning, but he was at once filled with the intense urge to touch her, soothe her - rub up against her arm, brush back her hair, kiss her until they were both out of breath. Anything. Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling just perceptibly faster, and he knew she felt it, too. He turned and lumbered down the hall.
“You better be on your way to see your patient, House. I’m not kidding.”
“Right after my meeting with Colonel Mustard in the conservatory,” he tossed back to her, smiling to himself. “Tactics.”
He still had both her keys, and he meant to hold onto them for quite awhile.
Chapter 6: Transposition
“Did you know your answering machine isn’t working?”
“Probably because I unplugged it.”
“I tried to call you five times last night.”
“We’ve got to get you a new phone-a-friend. I’ve got this 900 number - five bucks a minute, but worth every penny.”
“I needed to….”
House had just settled comfortably against Wilson’s desk and helped himself to half of a homemade turkey sandwich when Cuddy materialized in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glinting fiercely. He had left her not five minutes ago, but she had obviously stopped at her office before coming to hound him - she now wore her suit jacket, the fabric pulling against her curves in all the right places.
Neither the return of the jacket nor her sudden appearance surprised him in the least.
“Miss Scarlet,” he accused her teasingly, mouth full of turkey, “you took the secret passage.”
“Yes. Straight from the Oncology Lounge,” Cuddy answered dryly. “I don’t have time for this, House.”
“Yet you’re still stalking me.”
“Only because you won’t get any work done unless someone’s following you around.”
“When are you going to admit that you like the view from behind me?”
He waggled his eyebrows, watching Cuddy’s glance jump from him to Wilson, as if to gauge how much the other man knew. Relief flickered across her features when Wilson quickly wiped the smirk off his face, the corners of her frown rising, forehead smoothing. When she spoke again it was with much less force than he would have expected. “Patient. Now.”
“Lunch.” House took a bite out of his sandwich to emphasize his point.
With a look of determination that he could only attest to seeing on the Discovery Channel in the moments before a snake springs out at its unsuspecting prey, Cuddy crossed the room in three quick strides, snatching the half-eaten sandwich from his hand.
He recoiled as if she had in fact bitten him, barely had time to respond before she stepped swiftly back to the door. “Hey!” Behind him, Wilson chuckled, and House turned at the sound of this betrayal to glare his friend into silence.
“You’ll get your lunch after you see your patient.”
Taking his weight off the desk and leaning on his cane, he took a few hobbled steps in Cuddy’s direction, but she stood her ground. Her eyes were gleaming in triumph, churning into an even more irresistible blue. Distracted, he voiced the first thought that came to him. “You just stole Wilson’s sandwich.”
“If Wilson wants it, he can come get it.” She eyed the gnawed edges of the hard roll and torn slices of turkey with a hint of disgust that he found amusing. “Though I doubt he’ll find it very appetizing after you’ve slobbered all over it.”
House turned to Wilson, nodding pointedly in Cuddy’s direction, but Wilson merely shook his head, holding his hands up as if to surrender. “She’s right. I don’t want it.”
“Your culinary skills got us into this mess.” House jabbed his cane at Wilson and flicked it at the door. “And I’m not going to be the only one led out of here by your sandwich, so move.”
No doubt determining that any argument would not be worth the effort, Wilson rolled his eyes and obeyed, walking past Cuddy and through the door without further comment. House took his time crossing the room, faking a stumble in order to brush up against the breast of Cuddy’s suit. A grin flickered across her face, fading as her eyes lowered.
Without a word, she led them down the hall.
The boy came out of nowhere, appearing as abruptly as a flash of light but with substance and solidity, zipping in front of Cuddy. She faltered, lurching forward. Instinctively, House reached out to steady her, his outstretched arm nearly clothes-lining Wilson in the process. His hand lingered on her upper arm longer than was necessary, the starched fabric of her jacket rough against his fingers. She didn’t seem to notice, one of her hands on the little boy’s shoulders, the other still holding the half-eaten sandwich carefully aloft.
“You okay?” she asked the boy softly.
The kid nodded his curly, carrot-topped head, offering a small apologetic smile. House recognized him immediately - the same Spiderman shirt as the day before, the fear in those large, dark eyes.
Reluctantly, House took his hand from Cuddy’s arm, and only through the lack of pressure did she seem to detect that his fingers had been upon her at all, her chin dipping toward him as she watched his hand pull away. House bent down to the boy’s eye level. “Tell your mommy you need glasses.”
The boy blanched, eyes widening when he saw House’s familiar face so close to his own, and he tore himself from Cuddy’s grasp, running between them and down the hall, sneakers pattering loudly.
“What was that about?” Cuddy asked, frowning as she turned to follow the boy’s fleeing form. She brought a hand to her head as if to brush back her hair, instead quickly and gently massaging the hidden bruise at her temple.
“Dr. Gregory House,” Wilson answered dryly, “champion of small children everywhere.”
“Little Peter Parker needs to work on his spidey-sense and learn to watch where’s he’s going.”
His comment was, of course, in response to Wilson’s jab, but he didn’t take his eyes from Cuddy. She felt his gaze, eyes sweeping to his, and quickly dropped her arm to her side, nodding once, tightly, to answer the question he hadn’t asked, her reply oft-repeated, but still not wholly believed: House - I’m fine….
They continued down the hall without further incident. Cuddy gingerly handed the sandwich to Wilson as they approached the elevator, wiping her hand on her coat. “I have a board meeting. Make sure he sees his patient.”
House caught her eye for only a moment before she turned away, but couldn’t read her expression. As soon as she was out of sight, he filched the sandwich from Wilson, ready to bite eagerly into it, but pausing open-mouthed. “I don’t need a babysitter. Look - ” He lifted a leg a few inches off the ground. “Big boy pants now and everything.”
“Cuddy seems to think otherwise,” Wilson answered as the elevator chimed and the doors opened before them. A small crowd parted to make room, and they stepped inside. “She’s upped my pay by ten dollars an hour.”
“And I thought that was for all those sexual favors. You know, I heard that - ”
“Stop.” Wilson waved a hand. “Whatever you’re going to add to that, I don’t want to hear it.” There was a rustle of unspoken disappointment behind them. Wilson didn’t speak again until they had gotten off the elevator and started down the hall, his tone too-obviously conversational. “What’s going on with Cuddy, anyway?”
“You seriously think there’s anything on this planet that could answer that question?”
“I assumed - lothario that you like to think you are - that you would claim to know all about the inner workings of the female psyche.”
“You’re also assuming,” House pointed out, popping the last of the coveted sandwich into his mouth and licking his fingers, “that Cuddy’s a woman.”
“Fine,” Wilson retorted. “I’ll rephrase the question. What’s going on with you and Cuddy? And don’t lie to me - you practically mowed me down when she tripped.”
They were outside the patient’s room. Reaching into his pocket, House popped the top on his Vicodin bottle, quickly swallowing a pill. Despite Foreman’s insistence that the patient was alert and agitated, Eli Grant was asleep once again, breathing deeply and evenly. House walked into the room, lowering his voice - if he could follow Cuddy’s orders without having to deal with a conscious patient, all the better. “I wouldn’t’ve had to if you weren’t too afraid of getting cooties to even touch a girl.”
“I know you two have this game you play,” Wilson mumbled, following him closely. “The adult version of anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better, but - ”
“It’s more adult than you think.” Looking up from the monitors, House grinned wickedly. “I can cut you in, for a price. Cuddy won’t mind.”
It took Wilson a moment to answer, and his tone was much more serious than the previous comment warranted. “Be careful, House.”
“What - you scared I’m gonna hurt Cuddy’s feelings and she’ll lash out at you?”
“No. I think you’ve got yourself hardwired for self-destruct. She - ”
House met his friend’s gaze, the thought leaping into words before he had a chance to stop it, his voice low and suddenly stern. “She isn’t Stacy.”
“I was going to say: she’s your boss.” Wilson took a step back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Are you sure there isn’t - ”
“So,” House interrupted too loudly, but still the patient didn’t wake, “Alice still a tiger in the sack or has the cancer started eating away at any of the fun-loving organs yet?”
Wilson sighed. Mission accomplished: conversation closed.
The key didn’t turn the way Cuddy had thought it would, the handle clanking awkwardly as she jimmied the key in the lock before it finally gave way. She swung the door open.
What had seemed a faint murmur only moments ago transformed into a wave of scales and chords that flooded the hallway. She thought she recognized the last moments of Bach before the music trilled in an entirely different direction, twisting wildly for a moment before settling on the Rolling Stones.
She knew the tune immediately, smiling in spite of herself as she closed the door softly behind her. Of course House would choose this moment of all moments to remind both of them that you can’t always get what you want.
“It’s about time,” he called over the sound of the piano, not bothering to turn. “I was about to send out the hounds.”
“You’re a bastard,” she answered, approaching him, trying to summon up even an edge of the anger she had originally felt back on her own front porch, but barely finding frustration. “I need my keys back - all of them.”
“I left you a spare.”
“Your spare won’t get me into my house.” She let the incriminating metal evidence fall from her outstretched hand onto the keys of the piano. It jumped as he continued to play before clattering to the floor. Neither of them bent to retrieve it.
“You were in that board meeting for a really long time,” he finally offered, on the verge of laughter.
“My purse was locked in my closet, House.” She had meant it as a reprimand, but weariness transformed it into something more akin to a whine.
“You keep insisting that I need keys to get into everything….”
“You keep saying you don’t, but stealing them anyway.”
“I might not need them….” He paused, throwing himself into the music for a moment, the notes vibrating in the air. “But you still do.”
Her eyes were transfixed on his splayed fingers as they darted skillfully over the black and white piano keys, the fluttering movement and repeating parallel patterns strangely hypnotic. “This isn’t a game, House.”
“Sure it is. You think you one-up me, I get you back a hundred times better….” As he spoke, she let her gaze jump from his fingers, could only see a fraction of his face from this angle: the corner of his eye twinkling, his mouth tugging into a grin. “You’ve got nothing on me, Cuddy. You’ll own up to it one day.”
“I’ve got plenty on you.”
He twisted his head, the locking of their eyes a sudden shock of frigid water - blue on blue, both freezing instantly. The tune had morphed into something different - a practiced paradox: lazy and vivacious, clipped and lingering, poignant and unfeeling. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, yet eerily familiar, and his fingers seemed to have memorized it perfectly.
“In Twister, maybe. But I could so sink your Battleship.” He was playing one-handed now, reaching to take a drink from a sweating tumbler that sat on the piano, the ice clinking. He nodded at a second glass that she hadn’t noticed was there. “Seltzer. Don’t want you to be able to accuse me of trying to get you under the influence.”
She didn’t reach out to take it, sighing tiredly. “I didn’t come for a drink, House. I need my keys.”
Maneuvering awkwardly, fingers of one hand still lazily playing the piano, he pulled a key out of his back pocket and tossed it to her with a quick flick of a wrist. The motion surprised her, but she somehow managed to catch it, her keys jangling in an odd rhythm with the notes of the piano as she safely placed it back on the ring with the others.
“Thank you.”
Only when his playing faltered did she realize how her voice must have softened. She had stayed at the hospital far later than usual, and exhaustion had long since passed the point where sleep would come easily that night. Having succeeded in wrangling at least one key from him, her mind and body must have decided that it was time to give in, and for the first time since entering his apartment, she felt the persistent, dull ache of her head.
Sighing, she backed slowly away from him.
He must have sensed the sudden increase in distance between them - when had the space of so few inches become so noticeable? - because he stopped playing completely, swiveling and deftly catching her wrist. “Stay.”
“House….” She meant to give him a full sentence, to tell him that it was getting late and articulate all the reasons why it would be best for both of them if she left. All she got out was his name.
“Cuddy.” The syllables played out on his tongue, curving on the corners of his sudden, soft smile. “You’re already here. You’re exhausted. It’s late.”
He was standing now, pulling her closer, and piling one excuse on top of another as haphazardly as a toddler stacking multi-colored, lettered blocks - a sunny A sleeping on its side; grass-green P, backwards; fire-engine W (or M, maybe, standing on its head); leafy L; and a bluebird J placed too close to one side and sending the whole tiny tower toppling….
And there was nothing playful in his tone this time as he gently repeated his command, something in his voice weaving it halfway into a request - as close, she knew, as he’d ever get to asking for anything. “Stay.”