Gift of Screws, Chapter Sixteen
Title: Gift of Screws, Chapter Sixteen
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Characters: House, Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note: This piece takes place in the future when Rachel is five; House and Cuddy are in an established relationship.
Warning: This fic also contains sex. If that bothers you, don't read.
Summary: For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations.
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 (Part 1), Chapter 9 (Part 2), Chapter 9 (Part 3), Chapter 9 (Part 4), Chapter 10 (Part 1), Chapter 10 (Part 2), Chapter 10 (Part 3), Chapter 11, Chapter 12 (Part 1), Chapter 12 (Part 2), Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." - Emily Dickinson
John answered the door without a shirt on. Cuddy, holding a gift basket with kosher wine and the cookies she'd made the day before in it, hadn't anticipated that turn of events. And to be honest, the second she saw his muscled, half-naked form, the only thing she could think of was:
Thank God House couldn't see this.
The beefcake jokes would have never stopped. The accusations that John wanted her would have never ended.
Thank God House wasn't here now, she told herself once more.
"Lisa," John said in a friendly manner that was loud enough to pull her from her thoughts. Immediately she forced herself to look away from his abs, which she hadn't even realized she was practically staring at until she heard his voice. "It's good to see you."
She smiled, though she didn't feel the same way. She liked John, of course; he was a nice guy, who might not have done much for her sexually but who had become somewhat of a fixture in her life nonetheless. But at the same time, seeing him always - always - meant she needed his money.
Part of Cuddy realized she didn't need to feel bad about it. After returning from Iraq, John had been more than eager to accept the role of good will ambassador for his uncle's company, and it was quite literally his job to give money to organizations that needed it. And since his family's business had headquarters in New Jersey, it behooved them to donate in the area. It was to their benefit (and not just hers) that they continue to finance the hospital, and she understood that.
But she also realized that her hospital got a lot of its money for reasons that had nothing to do with charity.
She would never agree with House that John simply funded her projects in the hopes that she'd fall in love with him. She would never say that. What she would say, however, was that their… friendship left him predisposed to understanding and supporting her causes. And maybe she shouldn't have felt bad about that, but she did.
Even as she recognized that she'd take his money, she still felt guilty about it.
And so it came as no surprise that the smile she offered him never quite reached her eyes.
He, however, didn't know that; in fact, Cuddy doubted he realized just how conflicted he could make her feel.
And she was interested in keeping it that way.
Forcing cheeriness into her voice, she asked, "I'm not too early, am I?"
"Not at all," John said with a grin that practically showed every single one of his white veneers. As he gestured her to come inside, he explained apologetically, "I still like to get some P.T. in every morning."
With a gentle push, he closed the door behind her. "Arranging donations," he explained as he guided her into an expansive study off the left side of the foyer. "Sitting behind a desk… I'm still not used to it."
Cuddy was only half-listening to him. She didn't mean to ignore what he was saying, but the opulence of his… mansion was too distracting not to notice it.
There was marble on all of the floors, gold on all of the fixtures. Slabs of dark wood paneled each of the walls in his office, which made the whole room seem brooding and unfriendly when combined with all of the dark furniture. And though he offered her a seat, she didn't move to sit down on one of the plush leather sofas.
Instead, she watched him grab a t-shirt off of a different couch. As he pulled it over his head, he continued, "All that time in the military, I never expected to be doing what I'm doing now. And I'd like to think I wasn't sitting on my ass all day while my friends are halfway around the world dying still."
His head peeked out of the hole in his shirt. Sandy brown hair slightly askew, he shook his head. As though he were trying to push the thought aside, he closed his eyes and fell silent. And when he spoke once more, he offered simply, "Anyway, I like to work out when I can. I must have run long, but you're not early."
She didn't know what to say in response, so she nodded her head.
John must have sensed her discomfort, because he quickly drew attention to the basket of cookies her hands. "What do you have there?"
"Wine. Cookies," Cuddy supplied… almost too eagerly, she thought. Forcing herself to sound slightly more conversational, she explained, "They're, uh, hamantaschen. It's traditional for Purim. We make them and give them to other people."
"Thank you," he said dutifully, taking the basket out of her hands. The cellophane she'd wrapped around the basket crinkled loudly as he moved to put it on his desk. "I'll enjoy them."
To be honest, she doubted that. Clearly, as he'd demonstrated seconds ago, he took great care of his body. As such, he didn't seem like the kind to indulge in sweets. And even if he were, Cuddy was sure that she had somehow botched her grandmother's recipe and baked the worst cookies imaginable, making them inedible for anyone.
She kept that thought to herself though. Saying something would only make him feel obligated to tell her that he was sure they would taste fine. Even worse, he might be compelled to eat one of the cookies.
And she didn't want to be around for that. So she stayed quiet to avoid it altogether.
"That's very nice of you," he said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. "But, Lisa… I don't think you came here to give me a gift. As nice as it is, I'm sure you have other things to do on a Sunday."
She looked down at her feet for a fraction of a second. Her initial reaction had been to tear her gaze away from him, but doing that seemed childish. It seemed completely unfitting for her to be unable to meet his eyes and then not five seconds later ask him for money.
Making herself look at him once more, she admitted, "No, I didn't."
"Okay." Once again, he gestured for her to sit. Taking his own seat in an armchair, he told her, "Tell me about it. You didn't say anything on the phone."
Cuddy nodded her head and awkwardly sat on the couch. The leather rumbled beneath her loudly. The cushions so overstuffed, it made her feel as though she were being swallowed whole. "I know."
He threw his hands in the air. "Well… there's no need to be secretive," he said with a smile. "What do you need?"
Truth be told, it struck her as odd. To be in the presence of someone who seemed so kind, so helpful… it was definitely not what she was used to. As much as she loved House, as much as he loved her, he could hardly be considered either of those adjectives. Granted, he was watching Rachel for her now, but how much of a fight had it been to get him to do that much? And even if he occasionally qualified for being useful, being nice?
No.
If he were nice, it was always in his own screwed up way. Which Cuddy had come to appreciate, but he was never going to be kind in the way anyone else could recognize.
And that was why it was so weird to be face to face with someone who, for all intents and purposes, was the poster boy for everything socially acceptable and righteous.
But with that in mind, she knew she couldn't let herself be put off by it. Nor could she let herself feel so guilty for exploiting him that she didn't do just that.
"I need a donation," she said firmly.
He nodded his head as though he'd been expecting this.
That made her feel awful.
"How much do you need?"
"I can't tell you that."
He looked at her confused. He obviously didn't understand. "I don't -"
"John," she interrupted in a voice that she forced to sound calm. "I need you to write me a check, and I need it to look like I'm not coming to you at the last minute for a handout."
John drew his lips into a thin line. Obviously contemplating the matter, he didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, probably thinking about how bizarre her insistence on secrecy was.
But in her mind, it made perfect sense. The D.E.A. was convinced Roberts was using the hospital pharmacy to funnel out drugs for one of her top donors. That alone would be more than enough to have the organization looking into the hospital's finances. The additional fact that the top donor, David Howard, was using a percentage of his drug money to finance the hospital just clenched it for her.
Those two premises combined could only mean the D.E.A. would be sniffing for people to convict.
John, obviously, was not a part of that drug ring. However, if he were to suddenly donate the precise amount of money she needed, she thought it would look suspicious.
As a friend, she didn't want any of that nonsense to blow back on him. As someone who benefited from his generosity, she definitely didn't want to give him a reason to think she was a bad investment.
He didn't understand that though.
"Lisa, if something's wrong -"
"If I could tell you, I would," she said honestly. "But satisfying your curiosity is probably the worst thing I could do for you right now."
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "To be honest, I'd feel better if you told me something." When she didn't say anything, he changed tactics. "I can write you a check."
"Thank you."
"That's never a problem, you know that, right?"
From anyone else, it would have been such a pompous statement. From him though, it didn't come across that way at all. If anything, it was meant to be more of a comforting remark, and indeed, it was.
"I'll give you what you want," he told her in a friendly manner. "You know I'm always willing to help you. I'm just asking - friend to friend - what's going on."
She smiled sadly. "That's why I'm not telling you."
He seemed reluctant to accept that. He stared at her long and hard, his eyes imploring her for some sort of answer. But when none came, she could see him slowly realize he would never get an answer from her.
"All right," he said finally. "You want to give me a ballpark, or should I just pick a number?"
She glanced away as he stood up. "You need to pick one," she told him, looking back at him.
He shrugged and headed towards the large mahogany desk in the office. Grabbing a scrap of paper, he wrote something down on it. "Is this enough?" he asked, handing it to her.
Instantly Cuddy looked down… and found herself staring at a number with eight figures.
Quickly she swallowed the sigh of relief she felt. Given how unprofessional all of this was, she wanted it to appear otherwise at least. She couldn't make this seem right and outstanding, but she could at least make it look like that, she thought.
"Enough?" he asked once more.
"Yes," she said in a voice that was slightly higher pitched than it should have been.
It was definitely more than enough.
"Good."
"You're too generous, John," she told him out of obligation.
As he headed back to his desk, he shook his head. "I'm not," he disagreed. "Truth is, without your hospital, I wouldn't be alive." Opening one of the drawers, he pulled out a checkbook. "This is really the least I can do for you."
That hardly made her feel better.
In fact, his words made her feel as though she'd been blackmailing him, exploiting his near death experience for cash. And that made her feel nauseous.
Standing up, she said shakily, "That's my job. I -"
"And this is mine," he interrupted with a firm voice. "So let me help."
Slowly she walked towards him. She didn't want to seem too eager, even as she slipped the scrap of paper he wrote on into her pocket. As much as she wanted his money and wanted all of this to be over, she knew she had to be careful.
She couldn't seem too desperate. That would just make him question her more.
Yet, emboldened by his words, she couldn't help but tell him, "If that's true… I need you to backdate your check."
John nodded his head. "To when?"
Quickly thinking, she decided it would need to be fairly recent. She couldn't have him backdate a check to a month ago. That would just make people question why she hadn't cashed it before then. On the other hand, it couldn't be too recent, because that too would draw suspicion.
"Last Wednesday, I think," she told him eventually. It was really the only time that would work. In theory, if he'd mailed a check on Wednesday, she wouldn't have gotten it till Friday or Saturday afternoon. And if her office mail hadn't been delivered until after she'd left or if she hadn't given the check to accounting before leaving (both of which were plausible explanations), it would be equally plausible that she wouldn't be able to cash the money until Monday.
In short, dating the check Wednesday would make it look like she hadn't had to beg him for money.
"Done," he said, signing off on the check. "You sure you won't tell me what this is for?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
"It's better for both of us if I don't."
He started to hand her the check, but he paused. "You'd tell me if this was personal, right?"
She looked him in the eyes. "I am fine. The hospital will not be without this money." True, without his donation, she was looking at being fired. Maybe the board would hold off until her contract was up for renewal, but this scandal was embarrassing enough that it would eventually reflect on her.
That was undeniable.
However, it was also undeniable that that was not what he had meant. That was not his idea of personal, and she would never imply that the reason she was here fell under that category.
"All right," he conceded finally. "I believe you."
"Thank you."
Quietly he handed her the check.
But oddly enough, she immediately felt her relief stifle itself. She'd originally planned to give him what he seemed to need - a certain amount of gratitude in her reaction once she had the check in her possession. Yet when it came time to perform, in the actual moment, she found herself distracted.
By how close he was to her.
He'd shifted around the desk to hand her the check, and that seemed fine; he was trying to give her the check, after all. As his fingers brushed against hers, however, she realized just how near he was now.
He was so close.
Too close.
His frame seemed to loom over her. The scent of his cologne made her eyes water, his body heat so palpable that she felt herself beginning to sweat. And though he wasn't doing anything wrong, even though he was just standing there, something did not feel right.
Cuddy cautiously began to step back.
Truth be told, she didn't understand why she wanted to put distance between them. She didn't think he would hurt her or anything like that. More importantly, rationally, she knew he wouldn't do that.
But she moved away from him anyway.
"You have no idea how much this means," she said, trying to replace the awkwardness in the air with her words. She tried to use placing the check into her purse as a cover for what she was doing, but she wasn't sure it worked.
On the other hand, she was sure he wasn't really hearing anything she said. He was listening, she thought, but he wasn't exactly paying attention to what she was saying. Because even as she placed the money in her purse, she could hear (though her back was turned) him following. "I don't know where the hospital would be without…."
She didn't get a chance to finish what she was saying.
She could have. He wasn't doing anything so Cuddy guessed she could have kept talking. But she could feel him right behind her, and that fact was both distracting and irritating enough to make her forget everything she wanted to say.
"I'm sure you would have found the money elsewhere," John said.
He was so conversational about it. That was what struck her the most: he just chatted away, as though he weren't intentionally getting close to her.
And though part of her knew it wasn't right to object to anything he was doing with that check in her possession, she couldn't let this continue.
"John." She shook her head a little. She hadn't wanted to take offense, but she had to say something.
Turning around, Cuddy prepared herself to tell him to back off.
But she never got the chance to rebuff his advances.
She found herself too busy kissing him to do that.
At first, she didn't understand what was going on. All she'd been doing was turning around. All she'd been thinking about was what she needed to say to get him to move away from her.
She had not been expecting a kiss.
So when she found herself pressed against his eager mouth, at the very beginning, she didn't get it. Which sounded incredibly dumb, yes, but it was the truth. She was too awash with confusion to immediately push him away.
But as the seconds ticked on, as he kept kissing her, realization began to set in.
He was kissing her.
John - not House - had his lips on hers. John - not House - was the one whose hands were in her hair as he pulled her closer. It was John's tongue in her mouth, John's stubble against her chin.
And though time seemed to slow to a crawl, she could tell by his reaction that she pushed him away very quickly. Her hands on his chest, she shoved him hard.
Instantly he stumbled back. His body involuntarily taking a few steps back, she knew she'd caught him by surprise; he was a big man, muscular and tall. If she were able to push him away at all, it was because he clearly hadn't expected her to fight him.
Seeing that she had, he instantly apologized. Even before his body had stopped moving, he was apologizing. "I'm sorry. Lisa. I'm so sorry."
She was unmoved. Her entire body tensing, she asked, "What are you doing?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing away from her.
It was funny though. For a fraction of a second, she caught sight of the emotions playing on his face. He did not seem sorry to her. He just looked… disappointed.
"I am with someone," she said furiously.
"I know." His lips pursed together as though he had swallowed something sour.
But if she was supposed to care about how he felt right now, she didn't. Though she tried hard to keep her calm, she was livid. His feelings didn't matter to her then. "You can't just -"
"No, I know," he interrupted. The words came out hastily, in agitation. Clearly he didn't like her being upset.
She didn't care.
"I'm sorry," she said coldly, her arms folding across her chest. "You're the one who kissed me," she pointed out. "You don't get to be the one who's upset." Cuddy didn't let that thought linger for long.
Perhaps for impact, she should have. But anger and confusion pushed thoughts through the synapses of her mind too fast for her to stop talking. "Why would you do that? You know I have a boyfriend."
He wagged a finger in objection. "No, you have House."
"He saved your life."
John nodded his head. "Yeah. He's a great doctor. Pretty terrible person, if you ask me."
She bit back the reminder that she hadn't, in fact, asked for his opinion. Instead she pointed out, "You don't know him."
"You think?" But it was more of a rhetorical question than anything else, because his voice was filled with conviction when he spoke. "I know that he is rude and costs you millions of dollars." He looked at her intently. "I know that he talks to your staff about when he has sex with you."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "He's not serious." It sounded ridiculous. Even to her own ears, her words sounded incredibly dumb, but it was a fact: when he did those things, it was not out of a personal disrespect for her. "I know the impression he gives," she conceded. "But I'm the one who lives with him. I know far more about him than you will ever."
He seemed to ignore that last part. Instead, he asked in a way that seemed almost challenging, "You live with him, huh?"
"Yes." She didn't really understand the question, but she was willing to go with it.
"Really?"
"I'm pretty sure about that, yeah."
His eyes narrowed on her. "You know he still keeps his apartment?"
Once more, her first reaction was confusion. Normally she was much better at thinking on her feet, but with this… she was so surprised by his behavior. Honestly, it shocked her to see John behaving this way.
She had trusted him.
Perhaps part of her had always known House was right: John wanted her. However, she'd never considered the possibility that he would act on it while she was with House. It was idiotic to her now, but before John had kissed her, she had always believed that he would respect her.
The fact that he clearly did not was hard to digest. That he also seemed ready to make a point just made her feel completely out of her league.
And without any clue as to where this was head, she could only shake her head a little. "What?"
"You said he's living with you," John said carefully, his voice low. "He's not. He still has his apartment." She still didn't understand, leaving him completely in the clear to tell her, "You think he loves you, but… he doesn't."
The way he spoke, she could tell that he was trying his best to be… kind? It was absolutely out of the question for her that he could actually be nice while saying those things. But looking at him, listening to him, she could see that he was doing his best to seem reasonable, polite, helpful. As though he were telling her something she needed to hear, he was acting like it was his duty to get her to see things his way.
"He lives with you, but he's kept his house. You say he loves you, but it's been how long now?" He didn't give her a chance to answer before he continued. "And he won't marry you? He makes you work and watch over him like he's a child? That's love?"
Instantly, she knew that he wasn't asking rhetorical questions.
He wanted answers.
And she would give them.
Of course, she didn't want to. Naturally, her first instinct was to shut the line of conversation down all together. After all, it wasn't like he had a right to know why she hadn't married House or why she continued to work. That wasn't something he deserved to know.
No matter how much he acted to the contrary.
However, she understood that she would have to give into his entitled curiosity. If she said nothing, John would assume he'd been right. If she angrily denied without explanation, again, he would believe he was correct. And if she were to let him believe that…
He would never back down.
At that thought, she had to wonder how they got to this point. Was she really being forced to defend her relationship? Were they really there in this conversation? She realized that they were, but it still felt foreign and awful.
Sighing, she said as calmly as she could, "Sit down."
He didn't move.
So she elaborated. "Since you've brought this up, I'm willing to talk about it. But this isn't going to be a quick conversation," she said knowingly. "So let's have a seat." She encouraged his behavior by sitting back down on the couch once more.
Thankfully, he joined her. And though he tried to suppress a triumphant smile, he wasn't all that successful.
Cuddy ignored that though.
Licking her lips, she asked tentatively, "What have you heard about my daughter?"
"Rachel?" She nodded her head. Inwardly she was thinking that he damn well knew her daughter's name. He was acting somewhat confused, but in her mind, if he knew that House still had his apartment, John had to know other things about her life. But he wouldn't admit to that outright, it seemed. And so it wasn't surprising that his answer was cautious. "I've heard things," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "She's… what, four?"
"Five," Cuddy automatically corrected.
"Five." He smiled warmly. "Right. Obviously I know that now." She didn't react to his attempt at humor, so he was quick to keep talking. "I think once you told me she was diabetic? But I don't really know much about her."
She was sure he was lying. She could feel it in her bones that he knew much more than he was saying. And why wouldn't he? He had access to the most expensive private detectives to investigate her life if that were what he wanted. Hell, he probably didn't even need detectives. He had enough money that he could bribe just about anyone - including her own employees - to give him whatever information he wanted. And knowing that, she thought it was unlikely that he didn't know much about her daughter.
Still, Cuddy knew it would be of no use to bring up that point. Whether he'd stalked her or not, the important part was to make him realize that he had no chance with her.
Choosing to focus on that, she made herself remain calm.
"When Rachel was born, her mother thought she was dead," Cuddy explained slowly, despite easily recalling that series of events in her mind. "And she… left her in an abandoned house."
He was horrified when he said, "That's awful."
She shook her head a little. As bad as it sounded, she had spent time with Natalie. She had seen how scared and alone and young she had been, and it was hard to resent her because of that. Which was what Cuddy told John. "She was a child herself. She -"
"I don't know. If you're old enough to have sex…." The idea that Natalie should have known better was one he did not speak, but then he didn't need to. His point was obvious.
"I understand what you're saying." Really she did. "But when you're a young girl and you've kept your pregnancy a secret and you have no idea what giving birth is like… you don't always do what makes sense." Shrugging the point off, she decided it would be best to redirect the conversation. Without giving him a chance to respond, she told him, "Anyway, she didn't think Rachel was breathing. She thought she was dead, so she left Rachel in that abandoned house."
John remained visibly appalled but only asked, "Do you know what happened to her afterwards?"
"I have an idea," Cuddy said with a nod. After all, she had been the one to find her daughter. "But I don't know how long she was alone before someone found her. We had an idea of her physical problems at the time, but no one really knew how she would develop later in life."
It didn't surprise her that he felt the need to console her. When it came to her daughter, people seemed eager to both comfort and condemn. Neither reaction surprised her now.
But that didn't mean she appreciated one of his hands covering her knee or the way he sympathetically told her, "I'm so sorry to hear that. So she is diabetic then?"
Unceremoniously she pushed his hand off of her. She didn't want him to touch her.
Yet her voice remained calm as she recalled the sequence of events in Rachel's deteriorating health. "When she was a little over thirty-two months, she was diagnosed with hypothyroidism after she kept complaining that she was cold and it was July. Six months after that, she was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Seven months ago, she nearly died from her first asthma attack."
She looked away from him at that moment. It was hardly easy to retell this story, which she wished with her entire being was untrue. It wasn't like talking about all the ways her daughter could have died or all the reasons why she might die was something she wanted to do… especially with someone like John, someone whom she no longer trusted.
But more than anything, she hated seeing the pity in his eyes.
Admittedly that sounded backwards. It shouldn't have been his reaction that bothered her at the moment. But it was. Because there was something about knowing how awful someone else found this situation that just seemed to make it worse for her. And the last thing she wanted was to be distracted by self-pity and regret - not when doing so would let him believe he could break up her family in order to date her.
"I had no idea," John said gently, his voice warm and soft and the complete opposite of how she felt about him.
Her gaze snapping back to meet his eyes, she made herself continue. "Every day, I leave my house knowing that something might happen." She swallowed hard. "Most parents worry about cars, the flu, perverts. I get to worry about that and the possibility that my daughter's blood sugar will suddenly rise or fall or that her airway will close and nobody will do anything until it's too late."
She ignored the innate panic that always seemed to come with admitting out loud: Rachel could die at any moment. Cuddy felt the emotion rumbling within her in hot, frenetic waves. But she refused to let that show, much less give into the feeling.
Instead, she watched John's face. She hated seeing the sympathy in his gaze. She really did. But it was better, in her mind, to pay attention to him than to allow herself any time to consider the feelings within her.
"I'm really sorry, Lisa," he told her, reaching out to her again. This time, thankfully, he didn't touch her; he simply placed his hand palm side up on the couch cushion between them.
She didn't take his hand.
"Do you know who's watching her now while I'm here?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. Her voice firm, she said, "House."
His lips formed into an o shape, but no sound came out. He was too shocked, it seemed, to respond.
"I'm not married to him?" She laughed humorlessly. "I trust him with my daughter's life."
He had an answer for that. "Of course you do. He's a good doctor."
"That's not why I'm with him," she said, dismayed by the implication he was making. "He's a great doctor, yes. There's no one I would trust more professionally, yes." She nodded her head for emphasis. "But more than that, he's the person I want to have with me doing this. House is the one I trust to help me."
John actually bristled at that.
"I get," she told him forcefully, feeling her cheeks turn pink with frustration. "That my relationship doesn't make sense to you, that it doesn't seem right to you." Cuddy shrugged. "I don't care. We're not married, because I don't want to be married. I work, because I love my job. He keeps his apartment in case one of us gets sick, so we can protect Rachel from contracting whatever illness he has or I have at that moment."
She could feel herself beginning to glare at him. "I'm with him, because I want to be. And he has many flaws, but he's never assumed as you have that I'm so stupid as to not be aware of what comes with dating him."
He looked at her completely taken aback. "That's not what I -"
"I don't care," she interrupted dismissively. "I don't need to know what you intended. All you need to know is that I don't want to be with you. And regardless of what happens between me and House, I won't ever want to be with you."
The words came out cruelly, her lips contorting into a judging sneer. If she'd originally wanted to be as nice about it as possible, she had surely missed the mark, because there was no denying how cold she was.
He looked too crushed for her to not know that.
But Cuddy didn't care.
If he was going to choose to grab and kiss her, then she was going to respond with as much thoughtlessness and selfishness as he had.
And she had, she recognized. She had said everything she'd needed to say, and now there was no point in waiting around for him to disagree.
Standing up, she prepared to leave.
But she'd barely taken a step before John spoke up. "You're taking the money."
She spun around to face him once more. He was still seated on the couch. And although he should have been defeated, she could see a small trace of hope in his features.
"You're taking the money," he repeated. "Since I don't want to insult your intelligence," he said with a sneer of his own. "Surely by now you've realized why I've been writing you checks."
In the back of her mind, she heard herself say that House had been right all along.
Unfortunately.
Yet she refused to acknowledge that out loud.
"If you're taking my money," John told her pointedly. "You're accepting the gesture. You're okay with me wanting you."
"I need it," she said firmly. "So yeah, I'm going to take it."
He stood up. "Cause you couldn't find the money elsewhere?" He chuckled at the idea. "Let's be honest: we both know you could go to anyone you wanted and get a couple million. You're taking my money -"
"Because it's easy."
"Because you don't care that I like you," he insisted. "Because maybe deep down, part of you likes the attention. Part of you wants -"
"You're convenient, John. Nothing more." Pursing her lips together, Cuddy capitulated. "If you want to believe that I want you, despite what I've been telling you, fine. I can't stop you. I'll take your money each and every time."
Calmly, she added, "And you'll get nothing in return."
Before he could disagree, she decided it was time to end the conversation. "I'll show myself out."
She didn't give him a chance to say anything else. As she walked away, she could hear him try to call her back. But she had said what she'd needed to. And whatever he wanted to tell her was something she didn't need to listen to. So when he said her name, her response came in the form of her closing his front door behind her.
It was only when she'd been driving for ten minutes that the enormity of what had happened hit her. Instantly pulling off onto the shoulder of the road, she felt the words come up from through her like vomit.
He'd kissed her.
She'd kissed someone other than House, other than the person she was in a relationship with.
She hadn't wanted to, but she'd cheated on him.
And with that realization came actual vomit.
Her hand scrambling to open her car door in time, she barely made it. Turning her head as quickly as she could, she threw up onto the deserted, snow-covered road.
Continue on to the next chapter
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Characters: House, Cuddy, Rachel Cuddy
Author's Note: This piece takes place in the future when Rachel is five; House and Cuddy are in an established relationship.
Warning: This fic also contains sex. If that bothers you, don't read.
Summary: For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations.
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 (Part 1), Chapter 9 (Part 2), Chapter 9 (Part 3), Chapter 9 (Part 4), Chapter 10 (Part 1), Chapter 10 (Part 2), Chapter 10 (Part 3), Chapter 11, Chapter 12 (Part 1), Chapter 12 (Part 2), Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." - Emily Dickinson
John answered the door without a shirt on. Cuddy, holding a gift basket with kosher wine and the cookies she'd made the day before in it, hadn't anticipated that turn of events. And to be honest, the second she saw his muscled, half-naked form, the only thing she could think of was:
Thank God House couldn't see this.
The beefcake jokes would have never stopped. The accusations that John wanted her would have never ended.
Thank God House wasn't here now, she told herself once more.
"Lisa," John said in a friendly manner that was loud enough to pull her from her thoughts. Immediately she forced herself to look away from his abs, which she hadn't even realized she was practically staring at until she heard his voice. "It's good to see you."
She smiled, though she didn't feel the same way. She liked John, of course; he was a nice guy, who might not have done much for her sexually but who had become somewhat of a fixture in her life nonetheless. But at the same time, seeing him always - always - meant she needed his money.
Part of Cuddy realized she didn't need to feel bad about it. After returning from Iraq, John had been more than eager to accept the role of good will ambassador for his uncle's company, and it was quite literally his job to give money to organizations that needed it. And since his family's business had headquarters in New Jersey, it behooved them to donate in the area. It was to their benefit (and not just hers) that they continue to finance the hospital, and she understood that.
But she also realized that her hospital got a lot of its money for reasons that had nothing to do with charity.
She would never agree with House that John simply funded her projects in the hopes that she'd fall in love with him. She would never say that. What she would say, however, was that their… friendship left him predisposed to understanding and supporting her causes. And maybe she shouldn't have felt bad about that, but she did.
Even as she recognized that she'd take his money, she still felt guilty about it.
And so it came as no surprise that the smile she offered him never quite reached her eyes.
He, however, didn't know that; in fact, Cuddy doubted he realized just how conflicted he could make her feel.
And she was interested in keeping it that way.
Forcing cheeriness into her voice, she asked, "I'm not too early, am I?"
"Not at all," John said with a grin that practically showed every single one of his white veneers. As he gestured her to come inside, he explained apologetically, "I still like to get some P.T. in every morning."
With a gentle push, he closed the door behind her. "Arranging donations," he explained as he guided her into an expansive study off the left side of the foyer. "Sitting behind a desk… I'm still not used to it."
Cuddy was only half-listening to him. She didn't mean to ignore what he was saying, but the opulence of his… mansion was too distracting not to notice it.
There was marble on all of the floors, gold on all of the fixtures. Slabs of dark wood paneled each of the walls in his office, which made the whole room seem brooding and unfriendly when combined with all of the dark furniture. And though he offered her a seat, she didn't move to sit down on one of the plush leather sofas.
Instead, she watched him grab a t-shirt off of a different couch. As he pulled it over his head, he continued, "All that time in the military, I never expected to be doing what I'm doing now. And I'd like to think I wasn't sitting on my ass all day while my friends are halfway around the world dying still."
His head peeked out of the hole in his shirt. Sandy brown hair slightly askew, he shook his head. As though he were trying to push the thought aside, he closed his eyes and fell silent. And when he spoke once more, he offered simply, "Anyway, I like to work out when I can. I must have run long, but you're not early."
She didn't know what to say in response, so she nodded her head.
John must have sensed her discomfort, because he quickly drew attention to the basket of cookies her hands. "What do you have there?"
"Wine. Cookies," Cuddy supplied… almost too eagerly, she thought. Forcing herself to sound slightly more conversational, she explained, "They're, uh, hamantaschen. It's traditional for Purim. We make them and give them to other people."
"Thank you," he said dutifully, taking the basket out of her hands. The cellophane she'd wrapped around the basket crinkled loudly as he moved to put it on his desk. "I'll enjoy them."
To be honest, she doubted that. Clearly, as he'd demonstrated seconds ago, he took great care of his body. As such, he didn't seem like the kind to indulge in sweets. And even if he were, Cuddy was sure that she had somehow botched her grandmother's recipe and baked the worst cookies imaginable, making them inedible for anyone.
She kept that thought to herself though. Saying something would only make him feel obligated to tell her that he was sure they would taste fine. Even worse, he might be compelled to eat one of the cookies.
And she didn't want to be around for that. So she stayed quiet to avoid it altogether.
"That's very nice of you," he said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. "But, Lisa… I don't think you came here to give me a gift. As nice as it is, I'm sure you have other things to do on a Sunday."
She looked down at her feet for a fraction of a second. Her initial reaction had been to tear her gaze away from him, but doing that seemed childish. It seemed completely unfitting for her to be unable to meet his eyes and then not five seconds later ask him for money.
Making herself look at him once more, she admitted, "No, I didn't."
"Okay." Once again, he gestured for her to sit. Taking his own seat in an armchair, he told her, "Tell me about it. You didn't say anything on the phone."
Cuddy nodded her head and awkwardly sat on the couch. The leather rumbled beneath her loudly. The cushions so overstuffed, it made her feel as though she were being swallowed whole. "I know."
He threw his hands in the air. "Well… there's no need to be secretive," he said with a smile. "What do you need?"
Truth be told, it struck her as odd. To be in the presence of someone who seemed so kind, so helpful… it was definitely not what she was used to. As much as she loved House, as much as he loved her, he could hardly be considered either of those adjectives. Granted, he was watching Rachel for her now, but how much of a fight had it been to get him to do that much? And even if he occasionally qualified for being useful, being nice?
No.
If he were nice, it was always in his own screwed up way. Which Cuddy had come to appreciate, but he was never going to be kind in the way anyone else could recognize.
And that was why it was so weird to be face to face with someone who, for all intents and purposes, was the poster boy for everything socially acceptable and righteous.
But with that in mind, she knew she couldn't let herself be put off by it. Nor could she let herself feel so guilty for exploiting him that she didn't do just that.
"I need a donation," she said firmly.
He nodded his head as though he'd been expecting this.
That made her feel awful.
"How much do you need?"
"I can't tell you that."
He looked at her confused. He obviously didn't understand. "I don't -"
"John," she interrupted in a voice that she forced to sound calm. "I need you to write me a check, and I need it to look like I'm not coming to you at the last minute for a handout."
John drew his lips into a thin line. Obviously contemplating the matter, he didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, probably thinking about how bizarre her insistence on secrecy was.
But in her mind, it made perfect sense. The D.E.A. was convinced Roberts was using the hospital pharmacy to funnel out drugs for one of her top donors. That alone would be more than enough to have the organization looking into the hospital's finances. The additional fact that the top donor, David Howard, was using a percentage of his drug money to finance the hospital just clenched it for her.
Those two premises combined could only mean the D.E.A. would be sniffing for people to convict.
John, obviously, was not a part of that drug ring. However, if he were to suddenly donate the precise amount of money she needed, she thought it would look suspicious.
As a friend, she didn't want any of that nonsense to blow back on him. As someone who benefited from his generosity, she definitely didn't want to give him a reason to think she was a bad investment.
He didn't understand that though.
"Lisa, if something's wrong -"
"If I could tell you, I would," she said honestly. "But satisfying your curiosity is probably the worst thing I could do for you right now."
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "To be honest, I'd feel better if you told me something." When she didn't say anything, he changed tactics. "I can write you a check."
"Thank you."
"That's never a problem, you know that, right?"
From anyone else, it would have been such a pompous statement. From him though, it didn't come across that way at all. If anything, it was meant to be more of a comforting remark, and indeed, it was.
"I'll give you what you want," he told her in a friendly manner. "You know I'm always willing to help you. I'm just asking - friend to friend - what's going on."
She smiled sadly. "That's why I'm not telling you."
He seemed reluctant to accept that. He stared at her long and hard, his eyes imploring her for some sort of answer. But when none came, she could see him slowly realize he would never get an answer from her.
"All right," he said finally. "You want to give me a ballpark, or should I just pick a number?"
She glanced away as he stood up. "You need to pick one," she told him, looking back at him.
He shrugged and headed towards the large mahogany desk in the office. Grabbing a scrap of paper, he wrote something down on it. "Is this enough?" he asked, handing it to her.
Instantly Cuddy looked down… and found herself staring at a number with eight figures.
Quickly she swallowed the sigh of relief she felt. Given how unprofessional all of this was, she wanted it to appear otherwise at least. She couldn't make this seem right and outstanding, but she could at least make it look like that, she thought.
"Enough?" he asked once more.
"Yes," she said in a voice that was slightly higher pitched than it should have been.
It was definitely more than enough.
"Good."
"You're too generous, John," she told him out of obligation.
As he headed back to his desk, he shook his head. "I'm not," he disagreed. "Truth is, without your hospital, I wouldn't be alive." Opening one of the drawers, he pulled out a checkbook. "This is really the least I can do for you."
That hardly made her feel better.
In fact, his words made her feel as though she'd been blackmailing him, exploiting his near death experience for cash. And that made her feel nauseous.
Standing up, she said shakily, "That's my job. I -"
"And this is mine," he interrupted with a firm voice. "So let me help."
Slowly she walked towards him. She didn't want to seem too eager, even as she slipped the scrap of paper he wrote on into her pocket. As much as she wanted his money and wanted all of this to be over, she knew she had to be careful.
She couldn't seem too desperate. That would just make him question her more.
Yet, emboldened by his words, she couldn't help but tell him, "If that's true… I need you to backdate your check."
John nodded his head. "To when?"
Quickly thinking, she decided it would need to be fairly recent. She couldn't have him backdate a check to a month ago. That would just make people question why she hadn't cashed it before then. On the other hand, it couldn't be too recent, because that too would draw suspicion.
"Last Wednesday, I think," she told him eventually. It was really the only time that would work. In theory, if he'd mailed a check on Wednesday, she wouldn't have gotten it till Friday or Saturday afternoon. And if her office mail hadn't been delivered until after she'd left or if she hadn't given the check to accounting before leaving (both of which were plausible explanations), it would be equally plausible that she wouldn't be able to cash the money until Monday.
In short, dating the check Wednesday would make it look like she hadn't had to beg him for money.
"Done," he said, signing off on the check. "You sure you won't tell me what this is for?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
"It's better for both of us if I don't."
He started to hand her the check, but he paused. "You'd tell me if this was personal, right?"
She looked him in the eyes. "I am fine. The hospital will not be without this money." True, without his donation, she was looking at being fired. Maybe the board would hold off until her contract was up for renewal, but this scandal was embarrassing enough that it would eventually reflect on her.
That was undeniable.
However, it was also undeniable that that was not what he had meant. That was not his idea of personal, and she would never imply that the reason she was here fell under that category.
"All right," he conceded finally. "I believe you."
"Thank you."
Quietly he handed her the check.
But oddly enough, she immediately felt her relief stifle itself. She'd originally planned to give him what he seemed to need - a certain amount of gratitude in her reaction once she had the check in her possession. Yet when it came time to perform, in the actual moment, she found herself distracted.
By how close he was to her.
He'd shifted around the desk to hand her the check, and that seemed fine; he was trying to give her the check, after all. As his fingers brushed against hers, however, she realized just how near he was now.
He was so close.
Too close.
His frame seemed to loom over her. The scent of his cologne made her eyes water, his body heat so palpable that she felt herself beginning to sweat. And though he wasn't doing anything wrong, even though he was just standing there, something did not feel right.
Cuddy cautiously began to step back.
Truth be told, she didn't understand why she wanted to put distance between them. She didn't think he would hurt her or anything like that. More importantly, rationally, she knew he wouldn't do that.
But she moved away from him anyway.
"You have no idea how much this means," she said, trying to replace the awkwardness in the air with her words. She tried to use placing the check into her purse as a cover for what she was doing, but she wasn't sure it worked.
On the other hand, she was sure he wasn't really hearing anything she said. He was listening, she thought, but he wasn't exactly paying attention to what she was saying. Because even as she placed the money in her purse, she could hear (though her back was turned) him following. "I don't know where the hospital would be without…."
She didn't get a chance to finish what she was saying.
She could have. He wasn't doing anything so Cuddy guessed she could have kept talking. But she could feel him right behind her, and that fact was both distracting and irritating enough to make her forget everything she wanted to say.
"I'm sure you would have found the money elsewhere," John said.
He was so conversational about it. That was what struck her the most: he just chatted away, as though he weren't intentionally getting close to her.
And though part of her knew it wasn't right to object to anything he was doing with that check in her possession, she couldn't let this continue.
"John." She shook her head a little. She hadn't wanted to take offense, but she had to say something.
Turning around, Cuddy prepared herself to tell him to back off.
But she never got the chance to rebuff his advances.
She found herself too busy kissing him to do that.
At first, she didn't understand what was going on. All she'd been doing was turning around. All she'd been thinking about was what she needed to say to get him to move away from her.
She had not been expecting a kiss.
So when she found herself pressed against his eager mouth, at the very beginning, she didn't get it. Which sounded incredibly dumb, yes, but it was the truth. She was too awash with confusion to immediately push him away.
But as the seconds ticked on, as he kept kissing her, realization began to set in.
He was kissing her.
John - not House - had his lips on hers. John - not House - was the one whose hands were in her hair as he pulled her closer. It was John's tongue in her mouth, John's stubble against her chin.
And though time seemed to slow to a crawl, she could tell by his reaction that she pushed him away very quickly. Her hands on his chest, she shoved him hard.
Instantly he stumbled back. His body involuntarily taking a few steps back, she knew she'd caught him by surprise; he was a big man, muscular and tall. If she were able to push him away at all, it was because he clearly hadn't expected her to fight him.
Seeing that she had, he instantly apologized. Even before his body had stopped moving, he was apologizing. "I'm sorry. Lisa. I'm so sorry."
She was unmoved. Her entire body tensing, she asked, "What are you doing?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing away from her.
It was funny though. For a fraction of a second, she caught sight of the emotions playing on his face. He did not seem sorry to her. He just looked… disappointed.
"I am with someone," she said furiously.
"I know." His lips pursed together as though he had swallowed something sour.
But if she was supposed to care about how he felt right now, she didn't. Though she tried hard to keep her calm, she was livid. His feelings didn't matter to her then. "You can't just -"
"No, I know," he interrupted. The words came out hastily, in agitation. Clearly he didn't like her being upset.
She didn't care.
"I'm sorry," she said coldly, her arms folding across her chest. "You're the one who kissed me," she pointed out. "You don't get to be the one who's upset." Cuddy didn't let that thought linger for long.
Perhaps for impact, she should have. But anger and confusion pushed thoughts through the synapses of her mind too fast for her to stop talking. "Why would you do that? You know I have a boyfriend."
He wagged a finger in objection. "No, you have House."
"He saved your life."
John nodded his head. "Yeah. He's a great doctor. Pretty terrible person, if you ask me."
She bit back the reminder that she hadn't, in fact, asked for his opinion. Instead she pointed out, "You don't know him."
"You think?" But it was more of a rhetorical question than anything else, because his voice was filled with conviction when he spoke. "I know that he is rude and costs you millions of dollars." He looked at her intently. "I know that he talks to your staff about when he has sex with you."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "He's not serious." It sounded ridiculous. Even to her own ears, her words sounded incredibly dumb, but it was a fact: when he did those things, it was not out of a personal disrespect for her. "I know the impression he gives," she conceded. "But I'm the one who lives with him. I know far more about him than you will ever."
He seemed to ignore that last part. Instead, he asked in a way that seemed almost challenging, "You live with him, huh?"
"Yes." She didn't really understand the question, but she was willing to go with it.
"Really?"
"I'm pretty sure about that, yeah."
His eyes narrowed on her. "You know he still keeps his apartment?"
Once more, her first reaction was confusion. Normally she was much better at thinking on her feet, but with this… she was so surprised by his behavior. Honestly, it shocked her to see John behaving this way.
She had trusted him.
Perhaps part of her had always known House was right: John wanted her. However, she'd never considered the possibility that he would act on it while she was with House. It was idiotic to her now, but before John had kissed her, she had always believed that he would respect her.
The fact that he clearly did not was hard to digest. That he also seemed ready to make a point just made her feel completely out of her league.
And without any clue as to where this was head, she could only shake her head a little. "What?"
"You said he's living with you," John said carefully, his voice low. "He's not. He still has his apartment." She still didn't understand, leaving him completely in the clear to tell her, "You think he loves you, but… he doesn't."
The way he spoke, she could tell that he was trying his best to be… kind? It was absolutely out of the question for her that he could actually be nice while saying those things. But looking at him, listening to him, she could see that he was doing his best to seem reasonable, polite, helpful. As though he were telling her something she needed to hear, he was acting like it was his duty to get her to see things his way.
"He lives with you, but he's kept his house. You say he loves you, but it's been how long now?" He didn't give her a chance to answer before he continued. "And he won't marry you? He makes you work and watch over him like he's a child? That's love?"
Instantly, she knew that he wasn't asking rhetorical questions.
He wanted answers.
And she would give them.
Of course, she didn't want to. Naturally, her first instinct was to shut the line of conversation down all together. After all, it wasn't like he had a right to know why she hadn't married House or why she continued to work. That wasn't something he deserved to know.
No matter how much he acted to the contrary.
However, she understood that she would have to give into his entitled curiosity. If she said nothing, John would assume he'd been right. If she angrily denied without explanation, again, he would believe he was correct. And if she were to let him believe that…
He would never back down.
At that thought, she had to wonder how they got to this point. Was she really being forced to defend her relationship? Were they really there in this conversation? She realized that they were, but it still felt foreign and awful.
Sighing, she said as calmly as she could, "Sit down."
He didn't move.
So she elaborated. "Since you've brought this up, I'm willing to talk about it. But this isn't going to be a quick conversation," she said knowingly. "So let's have a seat." She encouraged his behavior by sitting back down on the couch once more.
Thankfully, he joined her. And though he tried to suppress a triumphant smile, he wasn't all that successful.
Cuddy ignored that though.
Licking her lips, she asked tentatively, "What have you heard about my daughter?"
"Rachel?" She nodded her head. Inwardly she was thinking that he damn well knew her daughter's name. He was acting somewhat confused, but in her mind, if he knew that House still had his apartment, John had to know other things about her life. But he wouldn't admit to that outright, it seemed. And so it wasn't surprising that his answer was cautious. "I've heard things," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "She's… what, four?"
"Five," Cuddy automatically corrected.
"Five." He smiled warmly. "Right. Obviously I know that now." She didn't react to his attempt at humor, so he was quick to keep talking. "I think once you told me she was diabetic? But I don't really know much about her."
She was sure he was lying. She could feel it in her bones that he knew much more than he was saying. And why wouldn't he? He had access to the most expensive private detectives to investigate her life if that were what he wanted. Hell, he probably didn't even need detectives. He had enough money that he could bribe just about anyone - including her own employees - to give him whatever information he wanted. And knowing that, she thought it was unlikely that he didn't know much about her daughter.
Still, Cuddy knew it would be of no use to bring up that point. Whether he'd stalked her or not, the important part was to make him realize that he had no chance with her.
Choosing to focus on that, she made herself remain calm.
"When Rachel was born, her mother thought she was dead," Cuddy explained slowly, despite easily recalling that series of events in her mind. "And she… left her in an abandoned house."
He was horrified when he said, "That's awful."
She shook her head a little. As bad as it sounded, she had spent time with Natalie. She had seen how scared and alone and young she had been, and it was hard to resent her because of that. Which was what Cuddy told John. "She was a child herself. She -"
"I don't know. If you're old enough to have sex…." The idea that Natalie should have known better was one he did not speak, but then he didn't need to. His point was obvious.
"I understand what you're saying." Really she did. "But when you're a young girl and you've kept your pregnancy a secret and you have no idea what giving birth is like… you don't always do what makes sense." Shrugging the point off, she decided it would be best to redirect the conversation. Without giving him a chance to respond, she told him, "Anyway, she didn't think Rachel was breathing. She thought she was dead, so she left Rachel in that abandoned house."
John remained visibly appalled but only asked, "Do you know what happened to her afterwards?"
"I have an idea," Cuddy said with a nod. After all, she had been the one to find her daughter. "But I don't know how long she was alone before someone found her. We had an idea of her physical problems at the time, but no one really knew how she would develop later in life."
It didn't surprise her that he felt the need to console her. When it came to her daughter, people seemed eager to both comfort and condemn. Neither reaction surprised her now.
But that didn't mean she appreciated one of his hands covering her knee or the way he sympathetically told her, "I'm so sorry to hear that. So she is diabetic then?"
Unceremoniously she pushed his hand off of her. She didn't want him to touch her.
Yet her voice remained calm as she recalled the sequence of events in Rachel's deteriorating health. "When she was a little over thirty-two months, she was diagnosed with hypothyroidism after she kept complaining that she was cold and it was July. Six months after that, she was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Seven months ago, she nearly died from her first asthma attack."
She looked away from him at that moment. It was hardly easy to retell this story, which she wished with her entire being was untrue. It wasn't like talking about all the ways her daughter could have died or all the reasons why she might die was something she wanted to do… especially with someone like John, someone whom she no longer trusted.
But more than anything, she hated seeing the pity in his eyes.
Admittedly that sounded backwards. It shouldn't have been his reaction that bothered her at the moment. But it was. Because there was something about knowing how awful someone else found this situation that just seemed to make it worse for her. And the last thing she wanted was to be distracted by self-pity and regret - not when doing so would let him believe he could break up her family in order to date her.
"I had no idea," John said gently, his voice warm and soft and the complete opposite of how she felt about him.
Her gaze snapping back to meet his eyes, she made herself continue. "Every day, I leave my house knowing that something might happen." She swallowed hard. "Most parents worry about cars, the flu, perverts. I get to worry about that and the possibility that my daughter's blood sugar will suddenly rise or fall or that her airway will close and nobody will do anything until it's too late."
She ignored the innate panic that always seemed to come with admitting out loud: Rachel could die at any moment. Cuddy felt the emotion rumbling within her in hot, frenetic waves. But she refused to let that show, much less give into the feeling.
Instead, she watched John's face. She hated seeing the sympathy in his gaze. She really did. But it was better, in her mind, to pay attention to him than to allow herself any time to consider the feelings within her.
"I'm really sorry, Lisa," he told her, reaching out to her again. This time, thankfully, he didn't touch her; he simply placed his hand palm side up on the couch cushion between them.
She didn't take his hand.
"Do you know who's watching her now while I'm here?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. Her voice firm, she said, "House."
His lips formed into an o shape, but no sound came out. He was too shocked, it seemed, to respond.
"I'm not married to him?" She laughed humorlessly. "I trust him with my daughter's life."
He had an answer for that. "Of course you do. He's a good doctor."
"That's not why I'm with him," she said, dismayed by the implication he was making. "He's a great doctor, yes. There's no one I would trust more professionally, yes." She nodded her head for emphasis. "But more than that, he's the person I want to have with me doing this. House is the one I trust to help me."
John actually bristled at that.
"I get," she told him forcefully, feeling her cheeks turn pink with frustration. "That my relationship doesn't make sense to you, that it doesn't seem right to you." Cuddy shrugged. "I don't care. We're not married, because I don't want to be married. I work, because I love my job. He keeps his apartment in case one of us gets sick, so we can protect Rachel from contracting whatever illness he has or I have at that moment."
She could feel herself beginning to glare at him. "I'm with him, because I want to be. And he has many flaws, but he's never assumed as you have that I'm so stupid as to not be aware of what comes with dating him."
He looked at her completely taken aback. "That's not what I -"
"I don't care," she interrupted dismissively. "I don't need to know what you intended. All you need to know is that I don't want to be with you. And regardless of what happens between me and House, I won't ever want to be with you."
The words came out cruelly, her lips contorting into a judging sneer. If she'd originally wanted to be as nice about it as possible, she had surely missed the mark, because there was no denying how cold she was.
He looked too crushed for her to not know that.
But Cuddy didn't care.
If he was going to choose to grab and kiss her, then she was going to respond with as much thoughtlessness and selfishness as he had.
And she had, she recognized. She had said everything she'd needed to say, and now there was no point in waiting around for him to disagree.
Standing up, she prepared to leave.
But she'd barely taken a step before John spoke up. "You're taking the money."
She spun around to face him once more. He was still seated on the couch. And although he should have been defeated, she could see a small trace of hope in his features.
"You're taking the money," he repeated. "Since I don't want to insult your intelligence," he said with a sneer of his own. "Surely by now you've realized why I've been writing you checks."
In the back of her mind, she heard herself say that House had been right all along.
Unfortunately.
Yet she refused to acknowledge that out loud.
"If you're taking my money," John told her pointedly. "You're accepting the gesture. You're okay with me wanting you."
"I need it," she said firmly. "So yeah, I'm going to take it."
He stood up. "Cause you couldn't find the money elsewhere?" He chuckled at the idea. "Let's be honest: we both know you could go to anyone you wanted and get a couple million. You're taking my money -"
"Because it's easy."
"Because you don't care that I like you," he insisted. "Because maybe deep down, part of you likes the attention. Part of you wants -"
"You're convenient, John. Nothing more." Pursing her lips together, Cuddy capitulated. "If you want to believe that I want you, despite what I've been telling you, fine. I can't stop you. I'll take your money each and every time."
Calmly, she added, "And you'll get nothing in return."
Before he could disagree, she decided it was time to end the conversation. "I'll show myself out."
She didn't give him a chance to say anything else. As she walked away, she could hear him try to call her back. But she had said what she'd needed to. And whatever he wanted to tell her was something she didn't need to listen to. So when he said her name, her response came in the form of her closing his front door behind her.
It was only when she'd been driving for ten minutes that the enormity of what had happened hit her. Instantly pulling off onto the shoulder of the road, she felt the words come up from through her like vomit.
He'd kissed her.
She'd kissed someone other than House, other than the person she was in a relationship with.
She hadn't wanted to, but she'd cheated on him.
And with that realization came actual vomit.
Her hand scrambling to open her car door in time, she barely made it. Turning her head as quickly as she could, she threw up onto the deserted, snow-covered road.
Continue on to the next chapter