by B. Cavis

by B. Cavis

He is uncomfortably aware that she finds the whole situation hilarious. Not in an “knock knock, who’s there,” sort of way-- which makes sense because knock-knock jokes are tools of the intellectually challenged and half brain dead to make themselves appear witty at the kind of crappy parties these people go to (paper hats are involved-- noise makers and disgusting mixes in ugly flag patterned bowls) and are therefore not her type of humor. Not even in the way that he enjoys things-- mocking the misery of others because, damn, pain is really pretty funny when it’s not yours and is therefore like a cheesy movie playing on a Monday night because there’s a rain delay at Shea Stadium.

No. Cuddy, unlike him, doesn’t find the misfortune of others to be amusing. She’s not the one who’s going to put Cameron in a corner, point, and cackle like she should be plotting over a cauldron. She’s also not the one who’s going to take bets on when the girl will lighten up or figure something out for herself-- grow a large enough backbone to get out from underneath him and find her own niche in the hospital.

Cuddy doesn’t laugh at people’s misery. In fact, he’s willing to bet that if Cameron ever showed up on her doorstep, eyes wide and in need of reassurance, Cuddy would pull a sappy TV moment out of her ass and offer the poor girl a hug and some motherly advice.

Which might lead to a bit of back stroking. Perhaps some intimate touching. Adventurous kissing to allow them both to explore their sexuality, and to allow the poor cripple something to take his mind of the pain that plagues him even through his Vicodin induced daze.

He’d be all for it. He’ll even provide the lingerie. And he’s sure Wilson would be happy to do some breast exams of them both, just to make sure they are cancer free and therefore up to the wild pillow fight in thongs and teddies they’re planning.

All for them, of course. Wilson might not even charge them a co-pay. He’s a nice guy like that.

Fantasies aside (and is it sick that he’s actually enjoying this one just as much as the Carmen Electra incident? Cuddy’s fun pillows might not be *that* fun or inflated, but she seems… wily; like she’d be full of surprises and good times to be had with flexibility) just for a moment, House is able to admit to himself that the whole situation, big Inappropriate mess that it is, makes Cuddy snicker into her evil paperwork filled folders.

Not that he’s complaining mind you. Cuddy’s fun pillows (and wow, he really *is* talking about them a lot these days, isn’t he?) tend to do this… jiggle sounds undignified for a woman of her stature, but it’ll have to do-- jiggle thing when she laughs. It’s quite entertaining, actually.

Even when she’s laughing at him. Because Cuddy, in all of her “oh, everyone is special and lovely and whee let’s have puppies” appearances to everyone else, is in reality a cold hearted evil maniacal witch who probably wants the puppies for medical experiments to be performed in her basement.

Her legs look great today.

“I’m onto you,” he announces when she walks into his office, hips swinging oh so very nicely as she moves. Heels and what they do to women’s legs rock. Not only for the improving posture thing, but also for the more aesthetically pleasing way they give that little *oomph* to the muscles. “You think you’re fooling me, but you madam, are wrong.”

“How terrible of me,” she agrees. “To think I could pass anything over on you. Forgive me, oh wise one.”

“I think a spanking should take care of it,” he allows, pretty damn magnanimously if he says so himself, and pats his lap. “Come to Daddy, you bad little girl.”

“You’re supposed to be in the clinic right now,” she says calmly, not even hinting at a blush, and his brain chooses this moment to point out that if he had said that to Cameron, her face would have turned the color of his pretty, pretty car and she would have lost the ability to speak. Cuddy just picks up his coffee cup and takes a generous swig with the throat that must have made her the life of all of the chugging parties in college that he can *so* picture her going to.

“Want to play Pound?” He leans back in his chair. “I’m not sure if I have any dice, but you could just drink until you’re feeling loose and willing to have sex with a frat boy.”

“I’ll pass,” she replies, looking seriously into his coffee mug. “What did you put in here?”

“Arsenic. Gives it a kick. And I’ll pass too.” She raises an eyebrow. “On the clinic thing. You didn’t think I’d forgotten about that, did you?”

“No, and neither did I.” She folds her arms over her chest, like she’s going to intimidate him into something, and he rolls his neck to let it crack a couple of times in protest. “On your feet cripple.”

He sighs, big and heavy, and pushes himself up, hand going around the cane he hates more than anything else in the world except for maybe patients. “Oh, now we’re name calling. Wow. I feel small and sheepish, and am now going to go along with anything and everything you tell me to because I know how very much you could kick my ass. What with me being a cripple and all.”

“Do you find that it ever gets tiresome to be sarcastic and a pain in the ass all the time? Because you handle it all so well.”

“About as well as you handle being an uptight paper pusher.” She holds the door open for him, more to make sure he actually leaves his office than to make sure he can get out okay, and he glares at her sullenly as he hobbles past. “And in case you have forgotten, that’s very well.”

“I hadn’t,” she singsongs, and glances over her shoulders as Chase wanders by looking typically blond and pretty. House follows her gaze before turning back and fixing the appropriately horrified expression over his face.

“Dr. Cuddy!”

She glances up at him, eyebrow raised, and it occurs to him that she could probably beat him up. “Dr. House?”

“Corrupting me is one thing, I’m willing to take one for the team. But if you even think of taking your hot pink strap-on anywhere near Chase…” He shakes his head. “Shame on you for bringing an innocent boy into your sick, sick games.”

“You’re just jealous you might not be the only one on the end of my strap-on,” she responds, unruffled, and when the elevator doors open she gets in with him.

“What? Afraid I’ll wander away from the sickies and go chase after a pretty red balloon floating on the breeze?” He snarls. “I’ll try to control myself and listen while pretending to look interested in their petty little problems.”

“You always were a Saint,” she agrees, and folds her arms over her chest, not looking at all like she considers their silence “uncomfortable.”

But he’s a jack ass. To let her stand on the end note isn’t his style, and they both know it.

“Are you going to corrupt Chase?” he asks jauntily. “I could sell tickets. You have anything leather to throw on?”

“Just the cat of nine tails I used on you last month,” she answers back, and sets her jaw. That’s one thing he adores about this woman-- though he supposes he should use his insanely large brain to come up with a less ridiculous word than “adores”-- her willingness to do battle. Always. He can snark at Cameron and she’ll run away to lick her wounds and dream her Good Little Girl dreams about reforming him into a man with a whole heart, and he can piss and whine to Wilson for the fat lot of good it does him, but only Cuddy bites back when he nibbles at her heels.

House glances down idly. Nice shoes today. He imagines them pressing into the base of his spine as he has sex with her on an examination table (“Oh, Doctor, I have this itch in my… well, down there that I just can’t scratch. Could you help me?”)

Huh. Foot fetish. Cool.

“I’m sure I could set you up on a date,” he muses aloud, distracting himself before that little fantasy can go any further while in her presence. “He’ll have to ask his daddy if he can borrow the car, of course, but I’ll be nice and let him stay out past nine. For such a special lady, and all.”

Cuddy glances at him, perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, were you still being a brat?”

“Brats are five years old and stick things in uncomfortable places and then come downstairs to the clinic to have them removed,” he growls, and she smiles serenely.

“I think it fits, don’t you?” She folds her arms over her chest and raises her chin up-- he struck on a nerve somewhere, and she’s rallying her forces.

He has the image, strangely sickening of her and Chase making out in Lover’s Lane, Cuddy decked out in a poodle skirt and sweater set, blushing prettily while Chase tells her “Golly, gee, Ms. Cuddy, you sure do have pretty eyes.”

Sickening. Truly.

“I’m sure he’ll be disappointed,” House offers roughly, and she glances at him. “Chase. I think he fancies you, Miss Happy Fun Time Cleavage Boobs.”

She glances down at them imperviously. Familiar territory. “They are rather nice, aren’t they?” she glows proudly, pulling her arms away to glance down her shirt cheerily. “All nice and perky.” She looks up at him. “You know, you talk about them a lot.”

Why yes, yes I do. For they are bouncy and perky and would probably look very good pressed against my sheets. Perhaps with some Cool Whip. Or cherries. Ooh! Fudge.

He loves fudge. Fudge is his friend.

“It’s hard to notice anything else the way you wave them at everyone. It’s apparently replaced the handshake as the new method of greeting in this hospital.”

“And yet,” she muses, “no one else complains.”

“Boobs tend to do that to people,” he mutters, mentally bitching about how goddamned long the elevator is taking. His leg is starting to hurt and he wants nothing more than to find a quiet room to dose up in and watch a couple hours of baseball. He wonders how long he’ll have to stay in the Clinic before Cuddy wanders away to follow something shiny and pretty and leaves him to his own devices and own entertainments. “I guess I’m just more concerned with professionalism and integrity of this hospital than I am your bouncy bags.”

“Yes, I can see how the Game Boy and snark is just a thin veil you draw over your professionalism. How sneaky of you.” She leans back against the side of the elevator, rubbing at the back of her neck, and there is a moment of calm in their bickering that leaves him wondering if maybe, for a little while, she could just be quiet with him and he with her.

He swallows thickly and pops the cap on his pet bottle of Vicodin. It’s a cheap release, but it works and who the hell is going to call him on it anyway.

“I’m not going to go after Chase,” she says quietly, and he swallows a pill dry. “I’m not the one with the history of going after my fellow doctors.”

He straightens. Moment over. “You should start, you miss half the fun.”

“Cameron and you don’t look like you’re having fun. You look like you’re waiting for her to get sick of it and walk away.” She sighs, rubbing the hand over her throat now. “I can’t really blame her. You are a pain in the ass, after all, and I’ve never slept with you. I can only imagine-”

“I didn’t sleep with Cameron,” he mutters, and she stops.


“I didn’t sleep with her,” he repeats. “Do you need your hearing checked? Because I hear we have a clinic downstairs that can do that for you.”

She’s looking at him. He keeps his eyes focused forward tightly. “Oh,” she says, “I thought for…” Cuddy shakes her head and sighs. “Okay, fine. You didn’t sleep with her. I didn’t sleep with Chase. Neither one of us seems to have plans to do so. Are we done with this now?”

The door opens and he hobbles out, her hot on his heels, and she watches to make sure the nurses give him case files before her shoulders go down. Apparently she believes the power of the manila folder will stop him from wandering away to watch Soap Operas or baseball or jerk off in the bathroom.

He’s not going to enlighten her. Jerking off is a very private thing, after all.

The nurse wanders to the other side of the counter, distracted by a woman rubbing at her shoulder as a toddler tugs at her other arm. “The kid’s too fat,” he growls out loudly. “Stop feeding him so much and he won’t be able to pull so hard. Proper nutrition does not include McDonalds for breakfast.” He turns back to Cuddy, and she’s wearing her usual “You are such an antisocial asshole” face, but he’s willing to ignore it for the time being.

Besides. It’s sort of cute.

Bad thought. Twenty Hail Marys and five minutes of whacking the weasel.

He’s a hard ass. His dick is just going to have to live with that.

“So,” he breathes gruffly. “Neither one of us is getting laid. This is sad. So what?”

She shrugs. “Nothing. Go see your patients.”

“Because you have a look like it’s something-”

“Patients,” she growls, and turns swiftly on those nice shoes of hers. “And if I catch you not treating people and saving lives, I’ll take away your Game Boy.” He watches her walk, aware that he should throw something mean and catty and in character at her retreating back, and can’t seem to find anything except:



She presses the door for the elevator, he goes back to the boring world of People Who Stick Things Where They Don’t Belong, and the woman with the overweight child leaves to go buy carrots.


Feed me. It stops the voices and soothes the hunger. Really... Okay, not really. But it helps.

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