Cuddy's Shoes

"You owe me for those shoes," Cuddy griped.

Orange streetlights illuminated her profile. Then dark. Then another streetlight. Slowly. Because she wasn't breaking the speed limit to get him home.

House, slumped in the passenger's seat of her car but still bright-eyed, turned his bright eyes on her.

"The shoes you're still wearing?" he inquired impishly.

"The shoes I've had on since last night, which you ruined, which cost more than I'd like to admit," she sniffed. "Do you think I'd wear these around the hospital if I had another pair?"

House smiled dangerously. "So where were you that you were wearing expensive footwear?"

His eyes darted down her legs to the floorboard but it was too dark for him to make them out. No problem. He remembered them. He smiled again, waiting expectantly for her answer.

"I was out," Cuddy deflected.

"Out where?"

"Doing the things normal people do on weeknights before they're interrupted by a call saying there's been a meningitis outbreak in their ER." She fixed an annoyed look on him. "Another meningitis outbreak. Now, what do you want to eat?"

House's eyes narrowed as his mind snagged on Cuddy's unwillingness to answer. That normal people weren't hospital administrators he skipped over; he was too tired now that he'd pieced together the other, more pressing puzzle.

"I told you, I'm not hungry," he grumbled, mentally flipping through the limited options Cuddy had on a weeknight.

"You should eat something," she said, turning just so in the orange-dark-orange light. "I'm getting something, so speak now or prepare to eat rabbit food."

House stared past her. Where had she been?

"Not many places serve rabbit food at five a.m.," he commented absently.

"Trust me, I'll find something," she said, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary. She knew not answering his questions rankled him, but answering—honestly or dishonestly—would also rankle him. Evade the question first, make him fight for the answer, then tell him whatever she wanted: her little revenge, making him work for nothing.

"Can't trust you to have back-up shoes in your office, how am I going to trust you to do this?" House prodded grumpily, gazing at the dashboard. Expensive shoes. Business attire. No other details for the ddx.

Cuddy ignored him, exaggerating her attention to the road.

Knowing Cuddy, she'd been at a business dinner. God, how boring. The shoes weren't masochistic enough for a hot date. A lukewarm date, maybe. But nothing had indicated to him that she was dating again. Just the opposite, in fact: late nights at the office, early mornings at the office, the fact that she was driving him home right now rather than dumping him on the nurses or his lackeys.

Even the car smelled like business: impersonal, utilitarian, sterile.

House leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. No answer was that easy. Where had she been? The question nagged him. Even as the hours on his feet after a head injury began to catch up with him in the form of wave after wave of aches, quelled only a little by the Vicodin Cuddy had returned when she'd sprung him, the question still nettled…Cuddy in that skimpy school girl outfit…shaking her ruffled rump in his face…the fantasy so familiar he'd named it…but this time he'd hallucinated…and stopped her…his subconscious more interested in solving the puzzle….

He opened his eyes. Streetlights streaking past. The soft hum of tires. Cuddy's breathing…her smell…

He rested an elbow on the door and propped his chin up on rough knuckles. Fatigue had gone bone-deep hours ago. As soon as he'd woken up in that hospital bed, nurse my-way-or-the-highway blinding him with a pen light, the weariness had hit. Stiffness. Nausea. Every bone in his skull vibrating against overtaxed nerve receptors. He'd ignored it easily while the case was in progress. But now… He closed his eyes.

Streetlights turned a reddish-orange under the cover of his eyelids. Tire hum became louder. Cuddy's breathing much louder. And the smell of female sweat, blood, soap, antiseptic, fading perfume, rising deodorant, vomit, and Cuddy's skin…

Cuddy's smooth skin, floral shampoo. Those ruffled panties. That too-full bra.

This time he let the school girl stripper fantasy play out. Her proximity sharpened the sounds and smells. She stripped slowly, teasing the pole, teasing him much longer. Not speaking. Just the playful smile; she knew exactly what she was doing. This time he had her pacing the strip for maximum tease. This time she began touching him. First his knee. Gently. Then more vigorously.

House's head snapped up. "Mmm?"

Cuddy's intense gaze, half derisive, half concerned, struck him like an intense wave of…

Yeah. Pain.

He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes again, titling his head back, his short fingernails digging into bony palms. Nothing to do but let it crest and break.

After a moment, he exhaled. He ignored Cuddy and her are-you-okay face. Hand to pocket, hand to bottle, thumb to cap, quick shake, two more down the hatch.

He scented paper bags containing scentless food. Home. He yanked the door open before she could speak again.

"You didn't grab a cane for me, did you?" he asked, out of the car before she began to move and hurting for the effort.

He waited until her face met his over the roof of the car.

"Because I tend to use one of those a lot. Maybe you haven't noticed." He slammed the door. "Hard to see over such bountiful breasts."

He'd scaled two steps before his hand went to his pocket to find exactly one set of keys missing. Where were they? He patted his jacket and pants twice before he remembered. By that time, Cuddy stood next to him oozing derisive concern.

Pulling his leg up the final step, he realized he missed Wilson. Damned cutthroat bitch Amber who wouldn't share.

He paused, his brain snagged suddenly on Cuddy again. She was standing too close. He needed room to open the outer door. Where had she been in those shoes?

"Where were you last night?" he asked as he reached for the spare key waiting on top of the door frame.

"Where were you just now?" Cuddy returned.

She stood too close still, clutching those paper bags, defying his appraising I-ask-the-questions-here scan.

Several retorts clamored to his tongue at once but he said nothing. Just opened the door. Too tired to pick one out. He'd have time to ponder the question once she was gone.

He took one step inside and turned to block the door. "Which one's mine?" he asked with a glance at the bags.

Her eyes narrowed and she stepped forward to challenge him. "I'm coming in. I'm staying." She tried to nudge past.

House held the door tightly when she pushed it. "Nah-ah."

She paused, took a step back, and altered her posture. "You don't want me to come in?" she asked, her tone innocent yet sultry, batting her eyes once.

For a second he stood slack-jawed, dumbly asking that same question. Then he snapped back to himself.

"Any other day, oh God, yes, but Wilson's cleaning lady hasn't shown up in a year and you won't believe—"

But just like that, she pushed the door open and walked past him. He realized he'd let go of the door and looked stupidly at his hand, then stupidly at Cuddy as she walked to his kitchen.

Any other day but this one. He groaned, still standing at the door. Why the one day he was in too much pain to get even the ghost of an erection? He'd gotten nothing in the sensory deprivation tub when striptease schoolgirl Cuddy appeared. Nothing in the car when she reappeared. Not even a rush of blood to the right area.

Cuddy was determined to stay in his apartment for an undisclosed amount of time, and his blood wouldn't move in the right direction.

He flicked the door shut, testicle-deep in self-pity before it closed. Fine. If he couldn't have any fun, he'd ignore her.

Jacket off. Spare key on the table. Right hand gripping gnarled flesh, left hand touching furniture, next stop: bedroom. He would sleep off the headache and she'd be gone when he woke up, then he'd sniff the couch for any lingering scent of her and take out his frustrations shower-style.

No major deviation from a usual day.

Except that she was following him.

Batting the bedroom door closed, he fished for something clean to sleep in.

She knocked. "House."

What? Why? If he couldn't have any fun with her, he didn't need her here.

"Changing clothes," he called. "I may need some help," he added automatically, though the chances of that happening when he was conscious and lascivious would make even the most compulsive gambler fold.

He heard her snort through the door. Or imagined he heard it.

"Five minutes."

The clack of expensive shoes on hardwood floor resonated in the quiet apartment. She was out there in his living room, touching his things, seeing the space he inhabited. It was too personal. Cuddy didn't just get to come in. He hadn't invited her. How had she gotten past him? He recalled only vaguely what had happened. Edema affecting short term memory. That much he recalled. He'd be concerned if Cuddy's presence weren't somehow comforting.

Cuddy's presence. An image of her in plaid and tight, white underwear flashed before him. He swallowed. God.

But still nothing. He might as well be dead.

Pathetic. He pushed his jeans roughly toward the floor. Useless. Pajama bottoms he pulled up just as roughly. If his groin wasn't going to respond, he wasn't going to be nice to it.

"House?"

"What?" The t-shirt he was pulling over his head muffled his response.

"Just checking."

"Just checking," he parroted nastily.

He wasn't hungry. He didn't want to socialize. He wanted a drink to help him sleep, and to lie on his couch and stare at the television until he passed out. Cuddy wasn't supposed to be here.

House stared at his hands and sighed. Nothing was easy.

He yanked the bedroom door open and stopped in his tracks. There she was. Waiting for him.

"What're you doing here?" he grumbled, shouldering past her toward the living room. Left hand to wall and book case, right hand clutching hard, gnarled tissue.

"Making sure you're okay," she answered from behind him. "You should still be an in-patient since you vomited and hallucinated."

"You're just pissed about your shoes," he mumbled, settling on the couch.

She ignored the comment and veered to the kitchen. "I want you to eat something and try to sleep. If after a few hours you pass a neuro exam, your heart rate and BP stay normal, and you don't puke, I'll leave you alone."

House glanced incredulously at her when she appeared with food. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." She smiled condescendingly and offered him a…salad?

House took it, mouth open, and looked up at the satisfied expression on her face. Where'd you get this? he wanted to ask. Instead, he closed his mouth and muttered, "Wilson would've gotten me something with meat in it."

"Wilson's not here," Cuddy pointed out, settling opposite him on the lounge chair with her own salad.

House frowned at the lettuce. Damned stupid Amber. Cuddy's shoes didn't match her outfit.

"Where were you last night?" he asked, snarling at a forkful of dry vegetables.

Cuddy sniffed while she chewed. "You've asked me that three times already," she said. "Give it a rest."

"Your shoes don't match your outfit," he said absently, tugged into himself by the mystery.

"They did until a few hours ago," Cuddy responded. She pointed to his bowl with a fork. "Eat."

House stuffed roughage into his mouth. "Those shoes cost twice what your jacket cost."

"And they're worthless now," she answered.

He chewed, swallowed, and stared. But he'd already gone through the evidence, so though he was compelled to ask, his mind was blank.

"House."

She broke his concentration. He shifted his stare to her.

"I wasn't on a date. Not even close. I was having dinner with a donor and her family." Cuddy's gentle tone suggested she suspected something serious was wrong with him. "These shoes aren't that nice."

She pointed two artificially sharp toes at him.

He blinked. Then nodded. She was right.

"Eat your food and go to sleep," she admonished. "I don't want to take you back to the hospital, but I will if I have to."

He shook his head absently—no, not back there—and speared more lettuce. Her shoes weren't that nice. Her explanation was plausible. But something wasn't right.

As he ate mechanically, the Vicodin he'd taken in the car kicked in and with it the exhaustion that always followed an adrenalin surge. He'd been riding on Vicodin and adrenalin for hours. Not anymore.

Hands shaking, he put the bowl down. A glass of water appeared in his field of vision. He took it, drank from it, and put it down too.

"I'm going to bed," he mumbled.

Cuddy caught his arm before he could begin shuffling down the hall.

"House. Are you all right?"

Her eyes searched his. His searched back.

"Long day," he said.

She let go.

Again she followed him down the hall, stopping at the doorway while he arranged himself under the covers.

Tired as he was, inviting as sleep was, the fact that Cuddy was standing a few feet from his bed spurred him to crack a joke.

She smiled and retorted with equal measure, then turned the light off.

He stored the image of her silhouette at his bedroom door for later and rolled over. Cuddy was sleeping in his living room. He smiled. That's what he wanted to dream about.

The soft pillow under his head, the mattress taking the weight of his body, the diffuse dizzy wash from too much Vicodin…

He woke suddenly, adrenalin coursing through him. Couldn't have been a minute later. Cuddy's shoes had nothing to do with that nagging feeling. He launched himself out of bed. It wasn't over.