A note from moi: I always feel bad when people write "I really like where this is going!" and then I wrap up the fic in the next chapter. But yes, this is the last chapter of Yours. I basically wrote it to right a few annoying wrongs from S6: Not only do Wilson and Cuddy reach out to House at Mayfield (because of course they would!), Lydia is just House's nice lady friend (because he's in love with Cuddy, people) and Lucas is reduced to the pest/nuisance/irritant that he actually is. So now it's over.
But remember: The best/worst thing about me as a fic writer is that I have a short attention span, so onto the next one!
Also, this chapter contains semi explicit sex, by my standards at least. Since most of my fics are basically wearing a chastity bracelet, just wanted to give you a head's up on that.
As always, thanks for reading and commenting.- atd
And now she was in his apartment.
Really in his apartment (at least he hoped), not a figment of his imagination, not a hallucination—but the actual Lisa Cuddy, in the flesh.
And what fine flesh it was. She was dressed simply, in a red silk blouse and grey skirt. She looked gorgeous. He had wanted to tell her that before, back in Nolan's office. But he didn't talk to Cuddy that way. (When he liked the way she looked, his default reaction was to mock her, make some crack about her having an ass the size of a hippo in heat.)
He jammed his hands in his pockets.
"You look pretty," he said.
"Thank you," she said, and smiled demurely.
Now that wasn't so hard.
"Drink?" he asked.
"That definitely sounds like a good idea."
They were awkward still—both trying to find their voices in this new reality, figure out what this was.
He squinted into his liquor cabinet.
"I have no wine," he said apologetically. "I have. . .vodka? Gin?"
"What are you drinking?" she asked.
"I'll have a scotch then," she said.
He fumbled a bit with the bottles and glasses, poured two scotches, handed her one.
She sat on the couch ("Hold my hand" she had said in his hallucination) and he sat across from her, in the chair where he had imagined her sleep. ("I haven't lied to you in 20 years.")
She seemed surprised that he didn't sit next to her.
"Oh," she said quietly, when he settled into the chair.
Then she took a sip of the scotch, nearly choked on it.
"I could dilute it with some water," he said, popping up. "Or ice."
"No, it's good. I like it." And she took another, adorably defiant sip.
"Okay," he said, sitting back down.
They looked at each other.
"So. . ." House said.
"So . . ." Cuddy echoed. "That session was pretty intense, huh?"
"I like Nolan, though. He's got a built-in bullshit detector."
"Tact is not one of his strengths," House said.
"But you like him," Cuddy said.
"I respect him," House said.
"Better still . . ."
She was thinking that there were few people House liked but even fewer that he respected. When he liked and respected someone—well, that was the rarest thing of all.
She looked at him. He looked so good to her, in his black tee-shirt and jeans, his long legs stretched out in front of him, that effortless, elegant masculinity he managed to possess. (How could she ever, for a second, thought that the coarse, blunt John House was his biological father?). She really wished he had sat next to her on the damn couch.
"I felt like Nolan was acting as our matchmaker," she said, chuckling nervously.
"The world's first black, male yenta," House said.
"He also sometimes thinks he's an exotic dancer named Cherry," House said.
Jokes. Always jokes, Cuddy thought.
She looked at him, seriously.
"House, I know that you're scared," she said. "I'm scared, too."
"But there's a difference," he said pointedly. "You're scared of practical things, like: Can I possibly introduce him to my child? How am I going to supervise him after I dump him?"
"No," Cuddy said. "I'm scared that I'm going to get hurt—again."
House stared into his glass for a long time.
"I was thinking about what Nolan said before," he said, musingly. "About how in the course of protecting myself, I hurt others—hurt you specifically."
Now he looked at her.
"The funny thing is, I would fucking kill anyone who hurt you."
She bit her lip. She wasn't used to this kind of candor from him.
"I know you didn't mean to, House."
"No, I did not," he said.
"I've already forgiven you."
"I'm really trying hard not to be that hurtful guy anymore," House said. "The problem is, he took 50 years to create. Might take a little more time to destroy."
"I think it's going well so far," she said, smiling at him.
"You think?" he said, scratching his head. "Cause I hear that chicks don't actually go for the sensitive type."
"Hey, Wilson has had a pretty good run."
"Did you just compare me to Wilson? Get out!" He pointed jokingly to the door.
"Sorry. Trust me, you are in no danger of being mistaken for James Wilson." Then, feeling bold from the scotch, she added: "He doesn't turn me on one bit."
House gulped, started to say something. Then he took note of her empty glass.
"Another drink?" he said.
She held out her thumb and forefinger— just a splash. He ignored her—filled her glass almost to the top.
She took it, folded her legs underneath her, and gave him a flirty look.
"So . . . now what?" she said.
"Now we . . . talk some more," he said.
She tried to mask her disappointment. Hey, if the man wanted to talk, the man wanted to talk.
"What about?" she said.
"You never told me your fantasy," he said, slyly.
She laughed, relieved.
"You're like a dog with a bone!" she said.
"Apt analogy," he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Why are you so obsessed with my fantasy?"
"I showed you mine. It only seems fair that you show me yours."
That actually made sense to her. She had told him about her fantasies as a way of leveling the playing field, of allowing him to save face. This seemed like a natural extension. Besides, she really wanted to have sex with him. And talking about fantasies was good foreplay.
"Which one?" she said playfully, rolling the strong drink on her tongue.
"There are multiple fantasies?"
"We've been at this for a long time," she said.
He gave her a self-satisfied smile.
"Pick a favorite."
"Maybe I can tell you the one I have most often."
She gave him a provocative look.
"You sure you're ready for this?"
"Oh, I'm ready," he said, sitting on the edge of the chair and unconsciously spreading his legs a bit. "I was born ready."
"Okay. . .There's been an emergency in town—a train crash of some sort. The emergency room is swamped. It's all hands on deck—including you."
"If I'm working in the ER, you know this is a fantasy," House cracked.
She looked at him.
"Are you going let me tell my story or what?"
"All ears," House said.
"It's late. You and I have been working for hours—close together. We're both a little hot and sweaty."
He shifted a bit in his chair.
"I'm exhausted," she continued. "So I decide to secretly slip into an exam room to take a nap. I lie back on the table and I start to fall asleep. That's when a man enters the room. . ."
"Please be me, please be me. . ." House said, in mock incantation.
Cuddy smirked at him.
"It's you. My eyes are closed but I can just sense it. You walk up to me."
"What are you wearing?" House said.
"Ummm, white blouse and a skirt. I had a jacket, but I've taken it off because I was so hot. And the first few buttons on my blouse are undone."
"Can I see your bra?"
"Just the top of it."
"What color is it?"
House inhaled a bit.
"Then what do I do?" he said, softly, already turned on.
"You start to unbutton my blouse, very slowly, very methodically. And then you take off my blouse and place it on the chair."
"So now you're just wearing the red bra."
"Right. And the skirt and my thong. But then you take those off, too."
"You're completely naked now."
"And is the door locked?"
"No, it's closed, but not locked. Anyone could walk in on us any moment."
"What does your pussy look like?" he said.
"It's smooth, except for one small strip of hair."
House licked his lips.
"Then what I do?"
"You start to touch me."
"Not yet. You're waiting. You're letting the tension build."
"Are you wet yet?"
"Oh, I've been wet since you unbuttoned my blouse."
His breathing got heavy.
"So then what do I do?" His voice had that raspy quality men got when they were turned on. She didn't need to look at his jeans to know that he was hard as a rock.
"You start to kiss me and lick me all over."
"Your nipples. . ."
"Yes, you especially enjoy sucking and licking my nipples."
"Yes I do. . ." he said. "What kind of noises are you making?"
"I'm moaning. Very quiet moans of pleasure."
"Fuck," House said. It was taking all of his strength not to touch himself. "Then what?"
"Then, finally, you touch my pussy."
"With my tongue," he said eagerly.
"Not at first. With your finger. One finger, then two, then three. . ."
"Are your moans getting louder?"
"Yes. But it's not until you go down on me that I really start to . . .purr."
"What does it feel like?" House said.
"My pussy?" she said, looking at him. "It feels warm and soft and wet."
"And what does my tongue feel like inside you?"
"It feels good—so good. It's making me come."
They were both totally worked into a lather this point.
"Oh God," he said. He couldn't take it anymore. "Lie back."
"No," she said. "I have a better idea."
And with that, she got up from the couch, and sat on his lap, straddling him.
She started to kiss him. He kissed back, ravenously, his mouth and tongue thick with desire. She began to unsnap his jeans, pulled him out.
"Your leg?" she asked.
"Doesn't hurt," he breathed. "But your fantasy?" He was unbuttoning her blouse, kissing her neck and her cleavage, succumbing to the feel of her hand on his cock.
"I have a new fantasy now where I tell you my fantasy and fuck you on this chair."
"You're going to be the death of me, Lisa Cuddy," he said—and let out a groan as she eased onto him.
They had sex two more times—the second time, he did recreate the salient parts of Cuddy's fantasy. And then, she looked at her watch and realized it was 10 o clock.
"Damn" she said, popping up. "I'm late."
He was lying in bed naked, looking deliriously happy, and slightly smug. ("Was it as good as the fantasy?" he had asked, nibbling at her ear. "Better," she replied.)
"No," he said, grabbing her arm. "Stay."
"I can't. I'm already late for the babysitter."
"We waited 20 years to do this. You can't stay for another 20 minutes? Please?"
He was giving her the puppy dog eyes.
She was helpless in the face of his sexiness.
"Okay," she said. And leaned in to him, started to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her toward him. Then she snapped out of it.
"Shit! No! I've been with you for three hours and you're already making me an irresponsible mother." But she was smiling when she said it.
She got dressed quickly, as he watched her from the bed.
"See you tomorrow?" she said.
"Absolutely," he agreed.
And this would be the true test, Cuddy thought to herself. She was sitting in the cafeteria the next day, alone, wondering if he would find her.
She had felt so close to him last night—she was this close to saying "I love you."
But intimacy with House was an elusive thing—a slippery bar of soap.
After she lost Joy, she had felt close to him, too. And then he had pulled away.
When he was in Mayfield, after the letters, again she felt a new intimacy. And he had pulled away.
Now, after yesterday, after that revealing session with Nolan ("Do you want to be with her?" Nolan had asked. "Yes," he had said plainly—no wisecracks, no deflections, no denials), and after their great sex, after the way he had begged her to stay, held her in his arms, she felt closer to him than ever.
But would he pull away again? Was she simply setting herself up for more, even greater disappointment?
She was literally having this thought when a flower—a white iris—dropped onto her tray.
"Hi," House said, sliding into the seat across from her.
"Hi," she said, grinning like the school girl in love she had, in fact, always been. She rested her chin on her hand. "You got me a flower," she said.
"Picked it myself, from the coma patient in room 211."
"I'm sure she won't notice it's gone."
"Probably not. She died 20 minutes ago."
"You stole a dead woman's flower. How romantic."
"It is, in a goth sort of way."
"You're impossible," she said.
"You look pretty today," he said, leaning back and taking her in.
She would never tire of hearing him say it.
They beamed at each other.
"This looks cozy," an unpleasant voice said.
They looked up. Lucas.
On impulse, Cuddy reached across the table and grabbed House's hand.
"It is," she said.
She had no idea how House would react: Would he recoil? Drop her hand? Make a joke?
Instead, he held her hand back, the tiniest of smiles playing at the corner of his lips—like he was trying to suppress the smile but he just couldn't help himself.
Lucas folded his arms.
"So what? You two are together now?" he snapped.
House looked at Cuddy.
"Yeah," he said.