Chapter Text
“Everything must be taken into account.
If the fact will not fit the theory –
let the theory go.”
Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles
Her door is closed, the blinds are drawn, and Secretary 861 is adamant that the boss lady not be disturbed. Something about preparing for a board meeting later in the week, or maybe it was insurance negotiations with guys in starched suits and slick-backed hair. Either way, it sounded boring.
And in true House fashion, he ignores every flashing warning sign of DO NOT DISTURB written all over Cuddy’s office, barging in without any regard for anything (or anyone) else.
“Silence doesn’t become you,” he announces loudly as the door swings closed behind him, just as loud. “As thrilled as I am to not hear you go on and on about clinic duty, I’m feeling a little neglected here.”
He comes to a stop in front of her desk, placing both hands atop the handle of his cane. Cuddy doesn’t even bother looking up at him, eyes on the budget report in front of her as she makes her corrections with a red felt pen.
“The kids miss their mommy,” he sniffs, wiping away an invisible tear. “I can only explain so much to them.”
“Dr. House,” Cuddy says in a drawl. “How can I help you?”
“You can admit you were jealous.” House tells her, tilting his head in amusement. “You felt a little forsaken because I spent more time looking at Ms. Teacher instead of you.”
“Right,” Cuddy nods, a little ironic laugh escaping her. “It surely has nothing to do with you and Wilson–two department heads–checking out a sick woman’s breasts.”
“Then why isn’t Wilson getting the same silent treatment? He was part of my so-called lechery.”
“Because more often than not, Dr. Wilson gets roped into your schemes,” the dean says with a roll of her eyes, “he’s more accomplice than perpetrator.”
“Are accomplices not equally guilty?” House gasps with indignant righteousness. “Are they not–”
“Why are you so offended that I’m not talking to you?” Cuddy asks, finally looking up at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “I thought you liked it when I didn't talk to you, and now that I’m not, you’re seeking me out?”
“We have a reputation to uphold.”
“Oh, please,” she nearly laughs at the comment so out of character, it may as well have come out of Wilson’s mouth. “You wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about reputation even if I paid you to.”
“I’m only here because Wilson wanted to know,” he defends weakly.
“If Dr. Wilson wanted to know so badly, he would’ve asked me himself. We’re on better terms than you and I are.”
Something about that last comment makes House’s chest tighten as he reaches into his pocket, fingers wrapping around the orange prescription bottle, gripping the hard plastic like a lifeline.
It’s stupid to feel some sort of possessiveness for the woman in front of him. She was his boss, a massive pain in the ass, and patron saint of the free clinic he hated so much. He had no right to jealousy, or to the bile he could feel building in the back of his throat at the mere thought of Wilson and Cuddy in a more personal relationship; nevermind the fact that Cuddy would never go for Wilson, especially knowing that the man was married.
“You know Wilson,” House begins in a voice that he hopes is light as he unscrews the bottle cap, “he has a thing for women in power.” He tips the bottle to let two pills fall into his palm. “But he’s always too afraid to talk to them, I think it’s one of his kinks.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re the one in front of me,” she replies, resting her chin in the palm of one hand, watching as House dry swallows the painkillers and just barely manages to hide her wince at the ease at which he does. “The man whose M.O. is to avoid me at all costs, to ensure that we’re not associated with each other any more than we have to be, is the same man demanding for my attention like a neglected kindergartner.”
“Well, you’re my boss,” he says facetiously. “Kinda hard not being–”
“What changed?” Cuddy asks loudly, interrupting his would-be tangent.
You did. House almost says, his eyes unconsciously dropping down to her lipsticked mouth and unbidden memories rise to the surface. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d kissed her in the doorway of her home, since she’d molded herself to his body and moaned into his mouth the way she did when she was still his. He very nearly damns it all to hell, the urge to lean across the desk despite his ruined leg to kiss her again suddenly so strong.
He wants so badly to hate her because he cannot, will not love her.
Instead, he says, “people don’t change,” and walks out of her office before either of them can say another word.
They don’t talk about the kiss. In fact, they don’t talk at all. Not that they were avoiding each other, which would be “highly inappropriate” in Cuddy’s highly uptight mind, but House had found himself preoccupied the past week with two wives (neither of whom are his own), Mrs. Clingy and Mrs. Wilson III.
Their words are perfunctory at best (well, as perfunctory as House can get), and Cuddy all but disappears from his radar after her “heart of silicon” comment, inadvertently leaving Wilson in House’s obsessive crutches.
“You know, the ancient Greeks believed in a little something called the humoral theory,” House says, watching Tom Glavine winding up on the pitcher’s mound at Shea, and Wilson shoots his friend a confused look from the other side of the couch. “According to them, the human body consists of four humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm."
Glavine delivers his pitch. Ball one.
“They correlated yellow bile with the liver, as well as hot and dry temperaments,” he continues, glancing over at Wilson, “which, funnily enough, are two words that accurately describe your wife’s seemingly nonexistent sex life at the moment.”
“I’m not cheating on my wife,” Wilson sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I had lunch with a nurse on her first day, it’s called being a supportive colleague.” The not that you would know is not said, but lingers at the end of the sentence regardless, and House momentarily ignores the unspoken dig.
Ball two.
“It was said that an excess of yellow bile in the body causes bitterness and anger in a person. In turn, their physical appearance was jaundiced or green.” He takes another look at Wilson, “that’s how the term ‘green with envy’ came to be. All because of jaundice.”
Ball three. There was always a fifty-fifty shot that the batter in the box would swing on a 3-0 count.
“Right,” Wilson nods hesitantly, still unsure of House’s point. “The Greeks did love their theories.”
Ball four. The batter walks to first base, and the next man makes his way into the box.
“But it doesn’t explain why you wore a green tie when you know Julie hates green.” House says, finally getting to the heart of his tangent. “And by the way, supportive colleagues don’t wear new, shiny shoes and ties that their wives hate to impress someone that’s essentially a stranger.” The older doctor’s brows rise in challenge. “Unless, of course, said supportive colleague has the major hots for the new girl. And if that Jenkins girl is the pair of legs you’re chasing–meow!”
New batter, ball one.
“What’s with you and Cuddy?” Wilson asks abruptly, a desperate attempt to get House off his back, feigning nonchalance as he crosses his arms and puts his sock-clad feet on the coffee table in front of them, mirroring House’s own posture.
Evidently, the diversion works as Wilson can practically see House’s thoughts stop in their tracks. A blank look crosses the diagnostician’s face for all but half a second, before it adjusts itself into the customary sneer that seemed to be reserved just for their Chief of Medicine.
Strike one from Glavine. Finally.
“There’s nothing with me and Cuddy,” House answers quickly. A little too quickly, even for House’s silver tongue. “She yells at me, I yell back, I take naps in the exam rooms when she holds me hostage in the clinic. It’s a nice little system we cooked up eight years ago, one I’m sure will hold up until I either keel over, or she fires me for breaking the MRI machine.”
“That’s nice and everything,” Wilson agrees half-heartedly, “except she hasn’t yelled at you all week, which has to be some kind of record for the two of you.”
Strike two.
“Were you not in the vicinity when she went off about that preschool teacher’s breasts?” House asks ironically, before gasping. “Oh wait, you were!” He shakes his head in mocking disappointment. “It’s always a tragedy when a brilliant young doctor loses his touch before you.”
Ball one.
“That wasn’t yelling,” the oncologist scoffs, rolling his eyes for added effect. “That was a scolding, at best. She didn’t even get on your ass about clinic duty. Not a single comment about the backlog of six years that you owe her.” His attention is fully on House now, the voice of Ralph Kiner becoming nothing more than background noise to their conversation.
Strike three, one out.
“She’s finally accepted that clinic duty isn’t for me,” House says with a shrug, eyes remaining stubbornly on the game. “Took her long enough.”
“If that were the case, she’d have fired you.”
“She wouldn’t fire me,” he mutters. “She wants me in her precious hospital.”
“Then you said something to her,” Wilson concludes knowingly. “You said something to offend her, and now she’s avoiding you like the plague.”
“Yes, I told her that the ropes she used really burned my wrists. She didn’t take it so well.” It’s an underhanded tactic, using sex to deter Wilson’s curiosity, but House was nothing if not underhanded.
The younger man opens his mouth to rebut, pauses, and thinks better of it, shaking his head and sinking back into the supple leather of the sofa without another word. And House is triumphant.
The runner on first steals second base.
Lisa Cuddy was no insomniac. She could be a late sleeper when she wanted (needed) to be, yes, but falling asleep had never really been an issue for her. Her father used to laugh and say that she could fall asleep to the sound of a ticking time bomb if given the opportunity. It was a habit she never seemed to outgrow, in fact, she seemed to hone this particular ‘skill’ during her residency; give her a flat surface a five minutes, she’d be dead to the world.
And tonight, there had been no emergencies in dire need of her attention, no fires to put out, or any paperwork immediately due the next morning. So, for all intents and purposes, Cuddy could have slipped into bed at ten and asleep six minutes later.
Except, it was thirty minutes past midnight and she wasn’t even in her bedroom.
She sat by the fireplace. On her sidetable, a mug of Earl Grey that had gone cold nearly two hours ago, and an Agatha Christie novel face-down right next to it. The flames ahead of her flicker and make the wood crackle; it’s the only sound in the house, save for the occasional drip-drip of the leaky kitchen faucet that she said she’d get fixed weeks ago.
Sleep, evidently, is elusive tonight, as it has been for the past six nights. It’s a frustrating pattern, to say the least. Every time she closed her eyes, he would be the first thing seen in her mind’s eye. She cannot get away from him, not at the hospital, not in her own home, not even in her dreams.
Gregory House, it seemed, would not be ignored. An irony, considering the man had done anything and everything in his power to keep at least twenty feet between them at all times, save for their encounter in her office earlier today. She tells herself that this is all his fault anyway, showing up at her doorstep twenty minutes to midnight, demanding answers to questions she wasn’t prepared to be asked.
You wanted him to find that card, a voice sounding suspiciously like James Wilson tells hers.
“Why would I want him to find the damn card? I threw it out for a reason.” Cuddy answers aloud, only to groan, running a hand through her hair.
Phenomenal, the sleep deprivation has made her a borderline schizophrenic.
Once again, she silently marvels at House’s own ability to function for thirty-six hours straight without throwing himself down a flight of stairs or in front of an eighteen-wheeler. Then again, House had taken a liking to taking naps in exam rooms on the rare occasions she’s managed to herd him into the clinic.
There was also the matter of the Vicodin, which he seemed to be relying on more heavily than he used to. She’d thought about confronting him about it once, when Dr. Wilson had expressed his concern about House’s habits. It would’ve been a lost cause, however, because she knew what he would say if he ever caught wind of her own concern: he had a hole in his leg, of course he was going to be taking something for it.
She also knew that if she even so much offered the idea of extra-strength ibuprofen, he’d laugh in her face and question her abilities as a doctor (because to him, she had stopped being a doctor the moment she accepted the position as Chief of Medicine).
His comments stopped bothering her a long time ago, and she used the same excuse he would use whenever he was in a particularly awful mood. He was in pain, and it was a pain that she had had a direct hand in. And during nights like these, she wonders if it was better to just amputate.
Sometimes she wonders if he still hates her for it.
And yet, when he kissed her that night, it felt like something long dormant in her had been reawakened. He felt like hers again, his lips so warm in comparison to the frigid air outside she could have sworn he tasted just like summer. His hands, which had always been more gentle than the rest of him, still fit just right against her hips and she still remembered how high she had to lift herself up in order to meet his mouth seamlessly.
A chime knocks Cuddy right out of her thoughts, and when she startles at the sound, she glances up at the grandfather clock to confirm what she’d already known.
It was one in the morning, and it seemed that she’d be enduring another sleepless night.
For the first time in exactly one week–three since the night they kissed, but it’s not like she’s keeping track– House barges into her office after insulting her assistant (some smartass comment about playing Mommy’s Secretary) and stands in front of her desk expectantly after letting the door slam. Loudly, and she cringes inwardly at the sound of the blinds knocking against the door’s glass windows.
She looks up from the insurance contract expectantly, waiting for him to demand a brain biopsy or for permission to gouge someone’s eye out.
“Wilson’s cheating on Julie.” Of all the things Cuddy had been expecting him to say, commenting on the fidelity of one of her doctors was certainly at the bottom of the list.
“I…” is the very intelligent response she has to the accusation, confusion so very evident in the tone of her voice and the way she shakes her head, as if to gather her thoughts. “What?” Another riveting observation.
“Julie,” House says impatiently, waving his hand in the air with a ‘get-with-the-program’ gesture. “She’s being double-crossed by her perfect doctor husband.”
“And you know this… how, exactly?” She knows that she probably shouldn’t be encouraging this kind of conspiracy between her staff, but she knows that House is never going to let this issue go until she at least hears what he has to say about it. Even when the issue at hand is about a marriage that he is absolutely not involved in.
“Wilson told me,” he tells her in that matter-of-fact tone. It’s the same tone he uses to clinic patients that like shoving objects in places where they most definitely do not belong.
“Right,” Cuddy drawls, “because one of my department heads would openly admit to having an affair.” She rolls her eyes at the thought of the Good James Wilson–at least, that’s what some of the nurses called him–ever saying such a thing, and to her most polarizing doctor, at that.
“It’s the guy code,” House nods, remaining steadfast in his belief of Wilson’s alleged affair. “Bros before hoes.”
“Wow,” she huffs. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more sexist.”
“It’s not like I told him to go out with the new nurse,” he nearly whines. “He did that all by himself, with his own thoughts and everything.”
“Which new nurse?” Cuddy asks, eyebrows knitting in sudden concern.
“Oh, now that he’s possibly dating another staff member, you’re worried?” House taunts, “what happened to caring about your employees from the bottom of your heart? Did you get tired of the act?”
“According to you, I have no heart,” she says dryly, tapping the end of her pen against the desk blotter. She stays quiet for a moment before asking, “it’s Nurse Jenkins, isn’t it?”
“Do you install tracking devices every time you hire a new employee?” He looks at her in disbelief, like she wouldn’t know which nurse had started a scant two weeks ago and which nurse had been working at the hospital for longer than she’d even been a physician.
“No, just you,” she answers, abandoning her pen in favor of leaning both her elbows against the desk, craning her neck slightly to meet his gaze.
“Now I feel special,” House says, just the barest hint of a smile on his face. “You know, in some countries, that constitutes as a marriage proposal.”
“Then, it’s a good thing we’re not in those countries,” her voice drops an octave as she says this and she swears that she had no intention of doing so.
“Does this mean that I’m Mommy’s favorite?” He asks salaciously, not-so-subtly trying to sneak a peek down her blouse.
“It means that I think you’re a liability.” She answers with a raised brow.
“Oh, that’s so hot,” House says in an exaggerated whisper. “You really know how to get a guy going, Dr. Cuddy.”
“What can I say?” Cuddy lifts her shoulder in a smug, half-shrug. “I know what gets you off.” This is dangerous territory, she knows. Though it’s barely a flirtatious exchange by any other person’s standards, she and House weren’t just any other people to each other.
No matter how much they try to deny it.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” House observes, eyes raking over her form (at least, the parts of her left visible by the desk) and it takes everything within Cuddy to repress the warmth suddenly pooling at the pit of her stomach.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” That much is true, and she knows that even he can’t dispute this. And the thought of one-upping Greg House, in any conceivable manner, has her smirking.
Dangerous territory, indeed.
“The Mets lost last night,” he says out of the blue, and despite the unexpected comment, it hauls them back to a steady, neutral ground. As relieved as she is, there’s a part of Cuddy that wishes they stayed on the rocks, even just for a little while longer.
“Of course they did,” she murmurs, unsurprised but still disappointed. “The Braves?”
“The Phillies,” House all but spits out, and this time, Cuddy doesn’t bother hiding a wince at the proclamation. It would be just like the Mets to lose to their division rivals.
“Who was on the mound?” She asks this more out of habit rather than curiosity, because for whatever reason, she wants him to keep talking to her.
It was pathetic of her, really.
“Glavine.” Another wince. It was always the veteran pitcher. “At Shea.”
“At least it wasn’t the Yankees,” Cuddy says half-heartedly, knowing damn well that no matter who they played, a loss was still a loss.
“And Wilson went out to lunch with the one with the legs.” And just like that, their tentative neutrality is gone and irritation floods Cuddy’s system once more.
“Are we still on that?” She doesn’t bother masking her exasperation because she knows he’ll see through the facade anyway.
“I certainly am,” House shakes his head in sorrow, “I never thought I’d see the day where I’d care about the hospital’s reputation more than you.” He wipes a nonexistent tear. “And whoever said people don’t change?”
“You did.” The dumbass part of her sentence goes unsaid, but she’s sure he hears it in the silence.
And Dr. Wilson only had lunch with Nurse Jenkins because she was nervous about her oncology rotation.”
“Yeah, he said that too,” House murmurs, like there’s some big mystery to uncover.
“Maybe because it’s the truth,” Cuddy sighs, and her patience with him (as well as this conversation) had run out entirely. “Now go figure out what’s wrong with your patient,” she turns back to the contract pointedly, waiting to hear the slamming of her door.
But as Jagger once said, you can’t always get what you want.
“No patient,” he tells her smugly.
“Then clinic.”
“Not really feeling it today.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Still not gonna do anything about Wilson?” He’s so insistent on this Wilson thing that if Cuddy didn’t know any better, she’d think House himself was interested in the oncologist.
“There’s nothing to do.” She picks up her pen and lets it hover over the page: a sign that their conversation is coming to a rapid end. “And you still owe me three months of clinic duty, so there’s something you could do.”
“And what do I get in return?” A haggler until the very end.
“You get to keep your job,” she looks up at him only briefly, catching the moment he pivots, then limps his way out of her office without another word.
She pretends not to notice that he’s reached for the Vicodin again.