So here's part II. Alas, it' s not as funny or imaginative as the first part and will remind faithful readers of several other of my fics (especially my virgin fan fic: Two Bottles, Four Glasses, One Headache) (WTF was up with that title, anyway?). But hey, there's a little smut! So go me! – atd
p.s. Another HUGE thanks to everyone who leaves comments. For better or worse, I tend to judge the "success" of a fic by the number of comments I get. So they mean more to me than I can express. Group hug, you guys!
Cuddy had to admit that she was more than slightly disappointed.
After things had gotten so heated with House, she expected him to make a move on her the minute they left the party, maybe even beg for a quickie in the back seat of her car.
Instead, he had merely gotten on his bike, nodded at her, and zoomed off.
Now she drove home slowly—gripping the steering wheel tightly, with two hands, as she did on those rare occasions when she drank and drove—and tried to rationalize his departure.
Of course, he was right. What happened in that closet may've been sexy, and it may've crossed an invisible line, but it wasn't a point of no return. So what if they'd gotten a little handsy? So what if she'd showed him a little skin? It had been late and dark and they were both pretty drunk. They could move on from that, rationalize it. Anything more, however, would be a game changer.
Frustrating as it was, she knew that House was showing some rare maturity by going home. They worked together, flirted all the time, had a history. Sex would make things even more complicated than they already were.
She was literally having this thought when she pulled up to her house and saw House's bike parked against the curb. She tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress a smile.
He was sitting on her front stoop, casually, as though he had been invited.
"Jesus woman," he said. "What took you so long? Did you push your car home?"
"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" she said, cocking an eyebrow.
"Of course," he said. "Unless I read the part where you disrobed in front of me—twice—and told me to fondle your breasts incorrectly. . . If so, I can't imagine how you behave when you do want to have sex with someone."
"Cute," she said.
"I'll go, if that's what you want," he said, pretending to head back to his bike.
"Get inside," she said, grabbing the sleeve to his jacket.
They were both so horny and hot for each other, they didn't even bother with preambles. No drink was offered, there was no small talk. Instead, they began kissing, ardently, and clothing was shed, piece by piece, in the hall, as if they were leaving clues for a lost and weary traveler to find his way to the bedroom.
House seemed intent on finishing everything he had started in the closet. Within seconds, he was licking and sucking on her breasts and caressing her ass. Cuddy sighed, leaned back. Everything he was doing felt so. . .good.
His hands migrated slowly down her stomach, to her hips, and then to her inner thighs. They lingered, tantalizingly, on her thighs before he reached between her legs and felt inside her.
"Oh fuck," he said, feeling how wet she was.
"House," she moaned, squirming a bit.
"Shhhhh," he said.
He spread her legs with his knees, then crawled between them. She felt his hot breath against her skin. It made her shiver with anticipation.
"Tell me what feels good," he whispered and started to lap at her.
"Oh God, yes. . ." she said.
His tongue began to swirl around her clit.
"Yes. . ." she said, shutting her eyes. "Yes. . .yes. . ."
Now his tongue was getting faster, more probing.
"Jjhhsskmmmmmm. . ."
She had lost the power of speech. She began to buck a bit underneath him.
Finally, just when it felt like she was about to explode, he deftly finished her off by adding a couple of fingers to the mix.
"YES!" she screamed when she came. It was so loud she feared she had awakened the neighbors. She sighed, convulsed one more time—an aftershock of sorts—then burst into laughter.
"Holy shit," she said, mussing her own hair.
"You like?" he said, sliding up her torso, kissing her neck and mouth.
"I love," she said.
And she knelt before him and pulled off his black boxer briefs, eager to return the favor.
They had sex three times that night—the last time, in the shower, which was risky, in light of House's infarction, but had just sort of . . happened.
It was 4 a.m.
Cuddy walked him to the door.
Here was the funny thing about sex: Less than 30 minutes earlier, her soapy legs had been wrapped around him, as he fucked her against a shower wall. Now they both felt slightly shy.
"That was . . ." she started.
"Yeah. . . ." House said. "It was."
"See you on Monday?" Cuddy asked, as if that was a real question.
"Yup," House said. He backed out of the door, looking at her, until he finally turned around and headed toward his bike.
Late Monday morning, House joined his team for the differential.
"You're looking awfully . . . refreshed this morning," Taub said, with a smirk. "I saw Dr. Cuddy earlier and she was looking similarly. . .refreshed."
"And you look 10 percent more gay," House countered.
"Okay boys, break it up," Thirteen said, holding out her hands, as if to separate them. "Let us all agree, what happened at Remy's party stays at Remy's party."
"What happened at your party?" Foreman said, feeling left out.
"Who's Remy?" Kutner said.
Later, House joined Wilson for lunch.
"So. . .tell me everything," Wilson said, rubbing his hands together. "And spare no details."
"Foreman thinks it's viral; Thirteen thinks it's a cancer syndrome; Kutner thinks . . ."
"Not about your case, about Cuddy!" Wilson said.
"Oh, that. . ." House said, with a tiny smile.
"What happened between you and Cuddy?"
"There's nothing to tell."
"Liar! Cuddy could've gotten pregnant from all the eye sex you two were having. Don't tell me you didn't go home with her."
"I didn't," House said. (Saved by the subtleties of the English language. He hadn't technically gone home with her.)
"Just for the record I don't believe you," Wilson said.
"And just for the record, I don't care."
"You're an ass," Wilson said, pouting. "We always promised each other that if either of us made it to the promised land—namely Cuddy's bedroom—we would share everything."
"I don't remember ever making a promise like that," House said.
"It was implied," Wilson said, glumly taking a bite of his turkey sandwich.
"I thought that you and Cutthroat Bitch were in loooove," House said. "That you like big bitches and you cannot lie."
"We are," Wilson sniffed. "That doesn't mean I'm dead."
A few nights later, Cuddy left work on the late side—almost 8 p.m.
When she got into the garage, House was leaning against her car, waiting for her.
"What are you still doing here?" she said, knowingly.
"Just hanging out in the garage, leaning against your car, as one does."
"You want to come home with me," she said, twirling a lock of her hair flirtatiously.
"Yes, please," he said with an irresistible smile.
He was wearing that pink shirt she loved—and twirling his cane like a baton in that languorous, cocky way of his. She had promised herself their night of passion would be an isolated incident—a one time indiscretion. But who was she trying to kid?
She took a look around the garage: It was empty, for now. Then she positioned herself between his legs.
"What's in it for me?" she said, sexily.
He put his arms around her.
"Oh, I have plans for you," he said. "Dirty, dirty plans."
"Likewise," she said, with a bit of a leer.
"Thank God," he said—and grabbed her ass.
She got on her tip toes and stuck her tongue in his mouth, and suddenly House was digging into her skirt and they were both grinding against each other and starting to grope and pant, and for a second, it seemed like they wouldn't make it back to her place at all—that they'd have to have very ill-advised and very risky sex right there in the backseat of her car—when they heard the sound of footsteps.
They hastily disentangled, like teenagers getting caught behind the bleachers.
Of course. Cameron.
"I'm sorry," she said, mortified. "Excuse me."
And she kept walking to her own car, which was a few spots away.
"Be right back," House said to Cuddy.
He followed Cameron to her car.
"What you just saw. . ." House started, sternly.
"I didn't see anything!" Cameron said. Her face was bright red.
"No one knows about it, okay?"
"I swear I didn't see anything," she said, rifling frantically through her bag for her keys. She finally found them. "Can I just go home now?" she said.
He nodded at her wordlessly. She got in her car and took off. Her brakes squealed as she left.
He limped back over to Cuddy.
"So that happened," he said.
"That was . . .bad. We really need to get a hold of ourselves," she said.
"Exactly what I had in mind," he said, with a grin.
So they started having sex. Not every night, but a lot of nights—several times a week.
One night, they had sex on the rug in front of her fireplace.
Another night, they had sex on—and under—her kitchen table. One night, she came to the door wearing a lab coat. When she took it off, she had nothing on underneath but a stethoscope and a thong. "Wanna play doctor?" she had trilled.
House never stayed the night. But he never left right away, either. After the fireplace sex, they'd wrapped themselves in the rug and shared a bottle of wine.
After kitchen table sex, House had eyed her: "Hungry?" he said. "Famished," she had replied. And they had cooked spaghetti carbonara together.
After stethoscope sex, House asked if he could take the lab coat home with him—for lonely nights, he had cracked. "You can always call me when you get lonely," she had said—and for a minute, they'd made meaningful eye contact, and then looked away.
They didn't really have a word for what they were—not boyfriend and girlfriend, precisely, but certainly more than "fuck buddies." They were both determined to keep it casual. (And quiet—save for Cameron, no one at the hospital knew). But the line was getting increasingly blurry.
A few weeks after he and Cuddy had started sleeping together, House found himself alone in his apartment, thinking about her. Of course, he was obsessing about sex. Cuddy was a turn-on to him in every possible way—quite literally, the hottest creature he'd ever slept with.
But he was also thinking of other things: About her laugh, for one thing, and how girlish and sexy it was. He was thinking about how comfortable it had felt tucked under that rug with her, naked and drinking wine. House didn't relax very often—it was nearly impossible for him to turn off his giant, restless brain. But after sex with Cuddy, wrapped in that rug—well, that was as close to content he had felt in years.
He had just seen her the previous night, but he thought maybe he would call her anyway. Was that really so bad? ("You can always call me when you get lonely," she had said). He didn't want to seem needy. But, fuck it, he was beginning to think that maybe he really did need her.
He picked up the phone and was just starting to dial when there was a knock at the door.
He grinned, hopped up.
"I knew you couldn't stay away," he said cheerfully, swinging the door open.
It was a beautiful brunette alright—but not the one he had been expecting.
His mouth dropped open.
"Stacy," he said.
"Surprise!" she said, sheepishly.
"What are you doing here?" He was still in shock.
"Don't I at least get a hug hello?"
He hugged her stiffly, ushered her in.
"You look good, Greg," she said, taking him in.
"So do you," he said.
A tall drink of water: That was the phrase that always came to mind when Stacy was in the room.
"And I repeat," he said, cautiously. "What are you doing here?"
"Mark and I broke up. . ."
He looked down at the floor, shoved his hands in his pockets.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"And I have found myself thinking more and more of . . . you."
"Yeah you, dummy."
"I think we need to some alcohol for this."
He grabbed a bottle of wine, opened it, and poured two glasses. Then he sat beside her on the sofa.
"I was very angry at you after I left Princeton Plainsboro," Stacy admitted.
"Yeah, kinda picked up on that."
"But I had a revelation of sorts. That you, in your own twisted, fucked up, Gregory House sort of way, did something nice. Gallant even."
"I think you're confusing me with some other ex boyfriend of yours."
"You didn't want to come between Mark and me. You felt he could make me happier than you could. So you let me go."
House scratched his head.
"I suppose that's true," he admitted.
"Now there is no Mark," she said, rolling the wine on her tongue. "There's just me. . .and you."
And she leaned toward him on the couch and went to kiss him.
He surprised both of them by backing away.
Stacy looked positively shocked.
"Oh my God," she said. "That was so presumptuous of me. You're seeing someone, aren't you?"
He stopped, thought about that for a second.
"Not quite," he said.
"You're not interested in me anymore," she said.
He had fantasized about this sort of thing on more than one occasion: Stacy coming to his door, begging him to take her back. Mark completely out of the picture. And now here she was: Beautiful, elegant, brilliant Stacy—the only woman he'd ever been able to sustain a long term relationship with. The only woman he had ever truly loved.
It was absurd to reject her advances because of a fling with Lisa Cuddy, no matter how red hot.
"I'm interested," he said. And he pulled her toward him.
Four days later, he lingered in Cuddy's office after work.
She looked up from her paperwork.
"I was wondering when you were going to show up," she said, confidently.
"We need to talk," he said, and closed the door behind him.
"Talk, huh?" she teased. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Then she took note of his face: Dead serious.
"What's up?" she said, furrowing her brow.
"Stacy Warner came to my apartment the other night," he started.
She gasped the tiniest bit.
"And she and Mark split up."
"Oh," Cuddy said. She suddenly knew what was coming. She felt vaguely ill.
"She wants to try again. . .with me."
She looked at him, speechless.
"So I've, uh, been . . .seeing her, these past few days," he said. "We're getting back together."
"Oh," Cuddy said. She wanted to crawl under her desk.
"I just want to say, Cuddy, that. . .what you and I had . . . it meant . . . it was . . ."
"Forget it," Cuddy said, abruptly. "It was what it was. We had fun."
House looked at her.
"Right," he said, biting his lip. "Fun."
"I'm happy for you, House. Really I am. Stacy is a wonderful woman."
So are you, he thought, but didn't say.
"Cuddy, I really am sorry . ."
"There's nothing to apologize for," she said, in a voice so cold and indifferent, it cut through him like a knife. "Get out of here. I have work to do."
He stood up, stiffly.
"Thanks," he said, although he wasn't quite sure what he was thanking her for.
He came back the next day, lingered awkwardly until she looked up from her work.
"What is it?" she said. No thaw.
"I brought you this." And he dropped a file on her desk.
His budget report.
"So how's it going with the divine Ms. Warner?" Wilson said, happily, a few weeks later over lunch.
"Fine," House said.
"Fine? The love of your life comes crawling back to you and all you can muster is . . .fine?"
"We're doing well. Taking it slow."
"Yeah, of course. Not that slow."
"So you're upset because you wish it was going . . . faster?"
"You're not that into her anymore?" Wilson said, incredulously.
"I never said that," House said.
"Okay, I'm officially out of ideas."
"Everything's fine," House said, but it wasn't particularly convincing because he grimaced a bit and rubbed his leg.
"Your leg is bothering you?"
"It does that all the time," House said. "It's the chronic part of chronic pain."
"I haven't seen you rubbing your leg like that since, well, since Stacy left you. What's going on, House?"
"I said it was nothing," House snapped. "Don't make a federal case out of it."
Several days later, Stacy joined him in the cafeteria for lunch. They were, not unexpectedly, the source of much curiosity and speculation among the hospital staff, who craned their necks and tried to eavesdrop. Some remembered Stacy from her stint as lead counsel, maybe even knew a bit of her history with House. Newcomers couldn't believe that the cranky and unapproachable Dr. House had a girlfriend.
As for Cameron, she was strangely . . . relieved. She had managed to reconcile House's feelings for Stacy. Stacy was the love of his life. He was hung up on her. That was why he had never returned her affections.
But seeing him all over Dr. Cuddy in the garage that night threw her whole theory out of whack. God, could that night have been any more mortifying? Especially when House came over to scold her for what she had seen. Like it was her fault! Maybe if he'd had a little control over himself she wouldn't have seen anything! She cringed involuntarily, as she always did when she remembered that night. (She'd been painstakingly avoiding Dr. Cuddy and House in the hallway ever since.)
But now, seeing House with Stacy, she felt that order was restored in the universe. That was just lust she had witnessed, this was love.
Cuddy also saw Stacy and House. When she entered the cafeteria and noticed them, her first thought was to flee. Then she pulled herself together, walked up to their table.
House stood when she approached. Stacy looked amused by this gentlemanly act.
"Stacy," Cuddy said. "It's so good to see you. I heard you were back in town. I've been meaning to call."
"I'm the one who should've called you," Stacy said. "I've been. . . busy." And she gave a knowing look to House, who looked down.
"We should definitely try to catch up," Cuddy said, starting her escape. "Enjoy your lunch, you two."
"Why don't you join us?" Stacy said, quickly.
Cuddy and House exchanged a mortified look.
"No, I. . . was just going to grab a sandwich and take it back to my office," Cuddy said. "I'm positively buried under paperwork."
"Ha, been there," Stacy said. "But that catching up thing? Let's really do it."
"Absolutely," Cuddy said. She nodded at House and left.
"I like her so much," Stacy said, innocently, as Cuddy walked away. "And she's such a knockout. I wonder why she doesn't have a boyfriend?"
A few nights later, at about 2 am, Cuddy was awakened by a phone call: House.
"This better be an emergency," she said.
"Hi," he said.
She could hear the sound of a bar. The song "Closing Time"—every bar's cue that it was time to go home—was playing in the background.
"What do you want House?"
"Can I come over?"
"Are you out of your mind?"
"I miss you. I miss being with you."
"Are you still seeing Stacy?" Cuddy said, sharply.
"She has nothing to do with this," he slurred.
"I'm not going to sleep with you when you're seeing another woman," Cuddy said.
"Why not?" he whined. "Just because I'm dating Stacy doesn't mean I can't have sex with you."
"Actually it does."
"But we're so good together. You know we're good together." Then he laughed, like he had just thought of something truly amusing. "I dare you to fuck me!"
"Screw you," she said, and hung up.
Over Moroccan stew a few nights later, House finally mustered the nerve to end things with Stacy.
"The thing is," he said. "Remember when you asked me if I was seeing somebody? I lied. I kind of was."
"Cuddy," Stacy said. (She hadn't known until this exact moment, but now it suddenly seemed obvious.)
House averted his eyes.
"Yeah," he said.
"Why didn't you say anything?" she said.
"I thought it was casual," House admitted. "But it's. . .not."
"It's. . .as in present tense?" Stacy said.
"No! I haven't been with Cuddy since I've been with you!" House protested. (He neglected to add: Because Cuddy shut me down the other night.)
"But you want to be?"
He managed to swallow a bite of couscous.
Stacy put her head in her hands.
"No, I'm sorry. This was my fault. I thought I could swoop back in your life and we could pick things right up where we left off. But real life doesn't work that way, does it?"
"I guess not," House said.
"I think, in a way, we were both playing a role—hoping that the real feelings would kick in eventually."
"You know I'll always care about you."
"And I'll always care about you. Not so much in this moment, " she added with an ironic chuckle. "But I'll work on that."
"More wine?" House said.
"Why the hell not?" she said.
The next day, House was in Cuddy's office with a patient file.
"I need permission to do a liver biopsy," he said, handing her the file.
She looked at the file, frowned.
"A liver biopsy is the protocol here. Why are you asking my permission?"
"Just dotting my ts and crossing my i's," he said. "Er, reverse that."
"What, are you going to do next? Ask my permission to go the bathroom?"
"Sounds like fun," he said, cocking an eyebrow. An ill-advised joke.
She glared at him.
"Geez, I'm just kidding." Then, hesitating, he said: "I thought you might like to know that Stacy and I broke up."
"Really," she said, dryly.
"Yeah. . .We just couldn't reignite that old spark, I guess. So we, uh, parted ways."
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, still cold.
"Anyway, I thought you might want to know that."
"It really doesn't concern me."
He looked at her.
"No," he said. "I suppose it doesn't."
"Gotta second, boss?"
It was Thirteen, standing in his office.
"Do you have plans Friday night?"
"A smart man never answers that question without knowing why it's being asked. But if it's lesbian strip bingo, count me in."
"Foreman has been grousing about missing my party. So we're going to recreate it—minus the Truth or Dare, needless to say—at Sullivan's."
"Sorry," House said. "Big plans Friday night. Huge."
"Figured you'd say that," she chuckled. "Foreman's going to take it personally, you know."
"Foreman doesn't take anything personally," House said.
"Just thought I'd ask. . ." Thirteen said with a shrug, starting to leave.
"Wait," House said, as something dawned on him. "Is Cuddy going to be there?"
Thirteen narrowed her eyes.
"I haven't asked her yet. But I was planning on it."
"Good. Do that. And if she asks, make sure she thinks I'm not coming."
"Are you coming?"
"It's possible that my enormous plans may've fallen through."
By the time House got to Sullivan's, everyone from the party was already there, including Cuddy, who was standing in the corner talking to Wilson and Amber.
House marched right up to them.
"I didn't know you were coming tonight!" Wilson said, slapping House on the shoulder.
"Oh joy," said Amber.
Cuddy looked trapped.
"Hey Wilson, didn't you have that important thing you needed to do—over there," House said, pointing vaguely to the other side of the bar.
"What thing?" Amber said. "Over where?"
House gave Wilson a meaningful look.
"Oh yeah," Wilson said quickly. "That important thing. Over there. I forgot." And he grabbed Amber's arm and ushered her away.
"Olivier he ain't," House said, smiling.
Cuddy turned away from House, took a sip of her martini.
"So now you're not speaking to me? Real mature, Cuddy."
"Thirteen told me you weren't coming tonight."
"I had a change of plans."
"Yeah, right," Cuddy said.
"Why are you so pissed at me?"
"The fact that you have to ask pretty much answers your own question."
"Because of Stacy?"
"Yes, because of Stacy. And because of your disgusting, drunken . . . proposition."
"Not my finest moment," he admitted.
"I'd like you to leave me alone now," she said.
"I told you, Stacy and I ended things."
"The fact that you started things is why I'm upset."
"That's not fair," House countered.
"It's not like you and I were in an exclusive relationship."
"I never said we were."
"It wasn't even a relationship at all. It was . . . "
She folded her arms, looked at him.
"It was what, House?"
"Incredibly hot, for one thing," he said.
He immediately knew this was the wrong answer, because her lip began to tremble.
"Fuck you," she said, and grabbed her handbag and stormed out of the bar.
All eyes watched her leave, including Cameron, who wasn't pleased with this development. Why did everything between House and Cuddy always have to be so. . .passionate?
House felt his neck grow red. He had a real dilemma. If he ran after Cuddy, it would be a show of weakness, a sign that he cared. If he let her go, he may never get a shot with her again.
"Cuddy!" he yelled, limping quickly out the door.
He managed to get to her car just as she was putting her key in the lock.
"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant to say."
"Go away, House."
He grabbed her wrist tightly.
"You asked me the other day why I broke up with Stacy. I broke up with Stacy because I couldn't stop thinking about . . .you."
She had been struggling, ever so slightly, under his grip. Now she relaxed a bit.
"You couldn't?" she said.
"No. I don't know what we had together. But it was more than sex. I have. . .feelings for you."
"What about you? You act like this is all on me. You never once told me how you felt."
"Yes I did," she said. "I told you I'd be there for you if you ever got lonely."
He smiled, gently.
"You did say that, didn't you?"
He blinked at her.
"I'm lonely," he said.
"You're at a party at a bar," she cracked.
"But I'm very very lonely," he whispered in her ear, putting his arms around her.
"Me too," she said.
He kissed her neck, then her mouth. Then, for good measure, he kissed her again on the mouth, with just enough tongue to get them both a little worked up.
"Wanna get out of here?" he breathed.
"We should probably go back inside for a bit, just so as not to raise suspicion," Cuddy said.
"Too late," House said.
He gestured to the window, where the entire gang was spying on them. When they were spotted, they all turned away quickly, practically whistling with feigned indifference.
Cuddy buried her face in House's chest.
"Oh God," she said.
"Busted," House said.
"Well, on the bright side," Cuddy laughed. "I guess they don't think I'm boring anymore."