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System Failure: Part Four
by phineyj and snarkbait
Chapter 12: House
Cuddy is kissing me, and it doesn't feel real for a moment.
It's like when you can see something is about to happen, and then you can't quite believe your eyes when it does.
I really wasn't expecting this.
Her tongue is in my mouth, and with a slow, methodical swirl, she persuades me to return her kiss.
All of the hairs on my arms are standing up on end and, as she lays one of her palms on my chest, I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart is beating.
I suddenly feel about fifteen years old, and I don't know why; it's not like we haven't done this before, but it was a long time ago, and things were very different then.
I really don't think this is a good idea; this isn't what I came here for.
How long has it been, though? I've always suspected we'd do this again. Maybe it's time I think less and kiss more.
So I close my eyes, and just go with it.
Even though I know that it will bring us one step closer to doing something she'll regret like hell tomorrow.
The kiss slows down and I open my eyes just as she's opening hers; we move apart slightly, but I kiss her quickly on the lips before she pulls completely away from me.
She instantly tenses up, and I can see the uncertainty in her body language; she's not sure she should have done that, any more than I'm sure I should have let her, but it happened, and I don't think either one of us would dispute that it felt good.
In fact for once, neither of us is saying anything, we're just looking at each other, and it's starting to make me nervous, because regardless of how good it feels, it's still a really bad idea.
She's upset; she doesn't really want this, why would she? She hates me.
"Wow," I say, and then swallow. "You must be really upset; you'd have to be emotionally unstable to do what you just did," I joke, trying to reach for our normal language of insults, because insults, snipes and cutting remarks are `our' normal.
Holding her in my arms and kissing her is not normal.
She looks away and I instantly wish I hadn't said anything.
She tries to move further away from me, but I reach out and pull her back.
"It's your fault I'm upset; what did you think was going to happen? You always have to keep pushing," she says, and she resists me as I tug her gently back toward me. She finally gives in when I have my arms around her waist.
Then we're staring into each other's eyes again, and we need to stop that shit, because we aren't teenagers.
I look away first. There is something questioning in her expression, and I don't have any answers for her.
I have nothing for her in that respect; nothing she wants to hear, and nothing I want to say.
I have two options; it doesn't matter which I pick, because things are going to be awkward tomorrow, either way.
So we might as well get laid.
I look at her again, and then lean in and instigate the second kiss, placing my hand on her left cheek.
My other hand stays around her waist and I pull her closer until her body is pressed against mine, and that's when I notice her shaking ever so slightly against me.
And for the first time in a very long time, she reminds me of the girl I knew back at Michigan.
The kiss becomes rougher, as she forces her tongue into my mouth, trying to take control back from me. She starts to push against me, and I stagger back and hit the sofa, which I fall onto hard.
It hurts, and I can't help but let out a slight groan into her mouth as she falls on top of me, but she moves her weight to my left instantly and gets off me, then she looks at my leg.
"Shit, House, I'm sorry ..." she begins.
"It's okay," I say, and I know this is going to sober her up; any minute now, she's going to start backing out.
"I shouldn't have...we probably shouldn't...." she begins.
"I should go," I say, wiping her lipstick from my face with the back of my hand.
"Because you can't finish what you started," she says quietly, staring at me.
"I didn't start that," I say defensively, looking away.
She's standing in front of me, and she takes hold of my chin to make me look at her.
"Yes you did; you didn't have to come here and shove that file in my face, but you just couldn't help yourself," she says.
I sit forward, sitting half on and half off the sofa. I have no idea what I should do now.
"Why did you come here, House?" she demands, calmly.
"I wanted to know why you felt guilty about something that wasn't your fault," I reply, uneasily.
And it's the truth, for once. That is all I came here for.
"And what you want, you get," she states, heatedly.
"Always," I return quietly.
She lets go of my chin and I look past her at the fireplace.
Her sisters are frozen and collected along the top of it: graduations, weddings and birthdays, and a lot of children, none of them hers.
"If you think that file tells you all you need to know about what happened with my brother, you're wrong," she says.
"Am I?" I reply.
"This was none of your business," she says distantly, and I'm not sure if she's saying it to me, the room or herself.
I chance a quick glance at her.
She's lost in thought again. I get up, using the arm on the sofa for leverage, and pick up my cane.
My aim is to get out of her home before she kicks me out, but she grabs my arm.
"Don't run away; it's all you ever do. You've stuck this in my face, now you deal with it," she says quietly.
"Like you helped me deal with my leg..." I begin, and I regret it the minute it's out of my mouth.
I don't want her to know I think about that sort of stuff. We're reaching a level of honesty we haven't been near in a very long time, and it makes me feel uncomfortable.
I didn't really mean to say that; I don't even remotely want to make this about me.
"So this is your way of punishing me?" she asks.
I shake my head. "No, it's not," I say, truthfully, but she probably finds it hard to believe I tell the truth at all these days.
I look down at her hand, and then at her.
---
The next thing I know, my shirt is on her bedroom floor.
I'm sitting on her bed, she's standing in between my legs and we're kissing again.
Her hands are resting on my shoulders and my hands are just below her buttocks resting on her thighs, fingers either side of the slit in her black skirt at the back.
The drapes are open in the room, and I'm about to suggest she shut them, when she pushes me down onto her bed, and climbs on top of me, avoiding my leg this time.
We're still kissing.
I remember the last time I was here, after I'd broken in when Alfresco (or whatever his name was) fell off the roof.
And for some random reason I wonder if her roof is fixed now; it's an odd thought to have, really, considering Cuddy's hand is creeping along my stomach, over my navel, coming to a rest between my legs.
Then I inhale deeply as she rubs my semi-hard dick through my jeans.
I couldn't stop this now, if I wanted to.
I can't help but think how much things have changed. The last time I screwed Lisa Cuddy, I was on top. I think she's planning to screw me, this time, and under the circumstances, I don't think I'm going to try to stop her.
I run my hands under the hem of her skirt and slide my hands up the smooth curve of her legs. Her back arches forward slightly as I do this.
I give her ass a squeeze, both buttocks, as I reach it, and she responds by rubbing the bulge in my jeans harder.
I should probably get them off before it becomes impossible to get them past my hard-on.
I'm relieved when she starts to fumble at the zip; it's always better to take your pants off when you're being encouraged to, rather than just doing it, and hoping it's the right thing to do.
I remove my hands from her ass, deciding if she's going to take me out of my pants, then it's only right I get to cop a feel of her two greatest assets.
I slide my hands under her low cut vest top and slide it up and over her head, tossing it behind me, and I have a perfect view of her tits as they hang inches from my nose.
I remove her pale blue bra very quickly, and I'm rather proud of the speed, considering I'm a little rusty.
I place a hand on each breast, as she tugs at the waistband of my jeans and drags then down to my knees. By the time she grabs hold of my cock, I have one of her nipples in my mouth.
I curl my tongue around the tip of it, then take it into my mouth and suck softly.
I groan against her as she tugs me free from my boxers and begins to jerk me off, although it's not going to take long to get me fully hard at this rate.
I'm about to help her remove her skirt when she stops jerking; my eyes slide away from her breasts and then she sits up, and gets off the bed
"Don't stop now," I say breathlessly; I'm getting harder by the second.
She mutters something, but I miss it, and then she disappears into her bathroom.
For a split second I think she's changed her mind, leaving me semi naked on her bed with my jeans around my ankles.
But before my paranoia sets in completely, she comes back, minus her skirt, wearing only her pale blue panties and holding a condom.
Thank fuck for that.
I get out of my jeans, and then hold my hand out to her; she takes it, and I pull her back on top of me, suddenly deciding it's not a bad position for her to be in, at all.
I re-introduce my stiff cock into her hand and she palms it, continuing what she started earlier.
Our mouths meet again as we begin kissing; our lips are wet, so the kiss is sloppy and hard to maintain, considering I'm really trying not to come before she has a chance to become a much more integral part of this process.
I like kissing Cuddy, she's good at it; I'd forgotten how good.
God, she's even better at this though, I decide, watching her hand as she shuffles it up and down faster.
The condom has fallen on the bed; I pick it up and rip the packet open and hand it to her.
Then I lie back and close my eyes. And for the record, I still think this is a bad idea; a really good, bad idea.
Chapter 12: Cuddy
House tastes much as he always did; a little bitter from the Vicodin, but it's only an oral complement to the increasing bitterness of the man himself.
He still has the knack all right; I remember how kissing him when we were at Michigan felt like some other activity altogether than what I used to do with my high school boyfriend. What is different is how uncertain he looks today. The man I remember was so cocky and sure he was welcome.
I don't care. It's all his fault. My life is fine. It should be; it worked out just how I planned it. High school, medical school, and the rest. A first job, a better job; an even better job; the house, the car, the fuck-off office with the brass name plate. Not for me hanging round in my parents' tiny, over furnished home, while my younger sisters got married one by one and my mother went slowly crazy.
I had a system and it was working for me, and I don't need Greg House to make me think about things I've buried so deep no-one here even knew about them before today.
How dare he look up David's file and shove it in my face like that? He doesn't care if I feel guilty, or why. It was just another fascinating puzzle for him to solve, and as a bonus, something he'll have over me for ever.
I'm kissing him more angrily now and I'm suddenly overcome with a cold wave of self-loathing. I said I wasn't going to do this again. I should never have slept with him after the infarction. It made both of us feel worse, and given his state at the time, that was quite an achievement. I remember how bleak the expression on his face was when he said, "You can't make this up to me."
I step back, ready to end this before things go any further, but the look in his eyes pulls me up short. There's confusion there, all mixed up with desire, and - surely not - just a little bit of remorse, gone as soon as it appears. He says I'm emotionally unstable. Hold the front page: Lisa Cuddy has emotions.
This is a big, big, mistake, and I'm just about to say exactly that, when he kisses me. And this time I'm half expecting it to happen, and because I'm not in shock I relax, and he has his arms around me, and that's what undoes me, because I suddenly need that contact. My mind is whirling with so many things; the past, the present and future all mixed up in one blur of half-digested emotion. The way I feel right now - the way he made me feel - I need to be with someone who knows me; sees me as I really am.
Besides which, it's good. I realize how I've missed this; not just Greg, although he'd probably be gratified to know how often I do remember the times I was with him, in the middle of some undistinguished sexual encounter. No, it's not just because it's him; I can't even remember the last time I touched someone and felt anything other than a vague worry about whether I've brushed my teeth or if I'll be able to remember where I left the car. It's as though to do this job, and do it well, I've had to kill off one by one all the bits of me that used to take risks and have fun. The bits that felt something.
The need for contraception dawns on me rather late in the day, when we're already in my bedroom, more undressed then dressed, and he's sitting on my bed with an expression on his face stuck somewhere between, `I can't believe my luck' and `I wonder how quickly I can make it out the door?' When I get to the bathroom, I have a minor panic over the fact that I may not, in fact, actually possess any condoms, until I remember the ones I bought in a hopeful frame of mind at a conference last fall and stuck in my travel wash kit.
I don't look at him as I step out of my panties and slide the condom onto his now fully erect cock. I'm too afraid of what I'll see. Does he feel sorry for me? Is this some sort of half-baked attempt to make up for the trauma he's put me through this evening? Would we be here at all if I hadn't, basically, leapt on him? I risk a glance and almost laugh when I see he's got his eyes closed. Oh well, in for a dime, in for a dollar; I rise up on my knees a bit and lower myself onto him, carefully, because it's been a while.
Ah. I luxuriate in the sensation of being filled and I remember why I used to like this. As I start to move, House's eyes snap open and I lean down to kiss him, but have to stop, as we fall into a long-forgotten rhythm and our tempo speeds up. My hands are on his shoulders and his are on my hips, and he reaches two long fingers up to reach my clit, which jumps under his touch; I lean into his hand, and close my eyes. This feels strange, and awkward, and familiar and easy, all at the same time, and I'm not thinking much of anything now. The world has reduced to his hand on me, and his cock inside me, and the wiry scrape of his pubic hair as we move together and apart.
He used to talk to me when we had sex; say flirty things and filthy things and make silly comments; I liked it; no-one I'd ever slept with before college had done that. But after his infarction we fucked - there's no other way of describing it - in total silence, and there's no sound in the room tonight, either, apart from the soft, sweaty noise our bodies make as they slide together.
The quiet helps me focus, though, and somewhere under the weight of worry and doubt, a half-forgotten sensation is building in me, teasing me with a sparkly hint of what's to come. I lean forward a little, and rest some more of my weight on House, and I moan, because that's it; that's what I'd nearly forgotten; that sense of being locked into an inevitable trajectory, beyond doubt, beyond thought, when the end is in sight and all there is to do is feel.
Suddenly, I'm there, clenching around him; the wave has hit me and I'm gripping on to House like the alternative is being washed away, and someone's shouting, and as he moves more quickly, moaning something incoherent and holds me with a grip that'll leave bruises in the morning, I realize that someone is me.
I roll off him. House lies there, looking slightly stunned, and he says, breathlessly, "Remind me why we waited this long?"
---
I must have dozed off, because when House's pager bleeps I wake with a start. He looks over at me, and then at the inky-dark crumple of his leather jacket where it's lying on my bedroom carpet, just out of reach. I'm just thinking of getting up and fetching it for him, when his cell starts to ring in the pocket of his jeans. He leans down for his cane, hooks the jeans with it and drags them close enough so he can extract the phone.
Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he says, brusquely, "Better be good," and then listens to whatever the caller's got to tell him for about five seconds, until he loses patience and butts in with, "Yeah, I kind of got that from the ICU part. Serious like, dead before the night's out, or serious like, House, we need you to reassure us before the scary British paparazzi tear us limb from limb?"
He listens some more. I can't hear which of his team is on the phone, but I'm guessing Cameron, because she normally draws the short straw when it comes to giving House unwelcome news.
After a minute longer, he says, long-sufferingly, "OK, tell Chen I'll be there in half an hour and I don't want any more chunks cut off my patient before then, unless he wants chunks cut off him, capisce?" and hangs up.
He glances at me, and says, mostly to the counterpane, "Looks like we get to skip the awkward discussion about whether I stay or not, doesn't it?"
I honestly can't think of anything to say; I'm still fuzzy from pleasure, and simultaneously pissed at myself for being so weak, and relieved that he has to go. Then, I feel guilty because I feel relieved. So I settle for a nod, and roll over and pull the covers over my head, as though if I bury myself deep enough, all this will go away.
I hear him collect his clothes, and put them on, use the bathroom, and head out toward the hallway. I'm just waiting, tensely, for the sound of the front door closing, when instead I hear him coming back into the bedroom.
"I'm sorry about your brother," he says, quietly, and then, finally, he does go.
And as I listen to the sound of his motorbike fading into the distance, and absently smooth out the indentation in the pillow where his head was a few minutes ago, I know the question is not whether I'm going to regret this tomorrow, but how much.
Continues in Part 5
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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