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Therapy
by phineyj
Cuddy
The hydrotherapy pool at PPTH has always been a pain in the neck. If it's not threatening to give people legionella, it's developing cracks in its safety flooring or a fault in its chair lift. If I didn't know better I'd think it was haunted or something.
I have a Head of Facilities, Frank Jacobs, to deal with these things, but he's a bit prone to refer things upwards when it's serious. I've been meaning to have a conversation with him some time soon, involving him taking more responsibility or I'll make him go and manage portering instead. No-one wants to run portering.
So when I get paged down to the pool late on Friday afternoon, I guess Frank's having a panic about something. In fact, when we've sorted out whatever's wrong with it this time, I can have that chat with him. I'm actually just down the hall when I get the page, because I've just been to fetch some documents from my car, so I can be there in minutes.
When I arrive, the entrance is deserted, so I assume Frank's waiting inside. I take my shoes off and replace them with attractive bright blue plastic baggies from the basket by the door, as instructed by the laminated notice taped to the entrance door. Well, the notice makes no comment on their attractiveness, but somehow I don't think it was quite the look Miuccia Prada was going for when she designed this skirt.
Two things strike me as I walk through the door, my plastic shoe-substitutes making the textured rubber floor feel unpleasantly slimy under the soles of my feet. Firstly, it's dark; the last remains of the daylight aren't sufficient to illuminate the room and the intermittent red blinking of the security alarm reflects spookily in the midnight blue surface of the water. Secondly, the place is deserted. No Frank.
As my eyes get used to the low light levels, a movement in the water catches my attention and it seems the pool is haunted...by a certain Dr House.
Who appears to be...exercising?
He's got his back to me, and I creep as quietly as I can toward him, and lean down, so I can say in his ear:
"Funny sort of emergency."
And I think this may be the only time since I've known him that I've caught him completely off guard. He visibly jumps, half turns in the water, and says, grouchily, "Jesus, that was quick, what did you do, teleport?"
"No, I was in the area," I say smugly, and take a couple of steps back, before he can do something juvenile like splash me or drag me in the pool by my ankle.
"Are you doing therapy?" I ask him, although he obviously was. It would be nice to hear him admit it, though.
"No," he informs me, turning to face me and floating lazily on his back, "I just think I look hot in shorts."
"You do," I say, appreciatively. It's enough that he's finally doing some work on his leg; we don't need to have a discussion about it.
"You know what would be really therapeutic?" he asks.
I can guess what's coming, so I don't answer.
He doesn't disappoint me.
"If you stripped off and got in here with me."
"Yeah, because it'll give me a real thrill when Frank walks in here and sees me in my birthday suit," I tell him.
House nods toward the side of the pool, where a messy pile of clothes and a cane lie abandoned on a bench.
"Key's in my pants pocket," he informs me, "Lock the door and leave it in."
"How did you get a key?" I ask him, suspiciously. Breaking and entering is more his usual style.
"The price was listening to Frank-n-furter moaning about his job for half an hour the other week," he explains, grimacing, "Believe me, that man is dull. Good thing he was too stupid to notice I kept my I-pod plugged in the whole time."
"Strange," I comment, "He speaks very highly of you."
House snorts and treads water impatiently. "So, are you coming in, or what?"
I have a quick think about it. It's been a long, tiring week. Maybe I do need a spot of therapy.
---
The pool is deliciously warm and when I've undressed, I get in and float about for a bit with my eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness and the velvety texture of the water on my skin. I can't even remember the last time I went swimming; not that you can really swim in here, it's too small.
An electronic whine makes me open my eyes, and I see House has hit the switch on the chair lift; he lowers it so the seat is submerged in the water, and then sits on it. He's taken his shorts off and even in the dark and through the distortion of the water, I can see he's standing to attention.
"Enough with the dolphin impression," he says, "Get over here."
I don't normally respond well to him ordering me around, but today I'm kind of intrigued to know what he's got in mind, so I take a couple of strokes and I'm standing in front of him, waiting for instructions.
He pats his lap. "Hop up."
I turn around and pull myself up onto the plastic seat and lean back against him; he snakes both arms around me and cups my breasts, while he kisses my neck. The water comes up to my waist, and the contrast between the warm water surrounding my lower half, the cold air pebbling the flesh on my chest and House's calloused hands teasing my nipples is unexpected and exciting.
He moves his hands down to take hold of my hips, and gives me a gentle tug backwards. The water slides upwards to cover my chest, and he holds me against him with one arm, while he slip a hand down and starts to touch my clit, and I moan and press against his touch.
"This is not hygienic," I say, suddenly struck by guilt, and House's hand stills.
"Wow, I'm flattered - hygiene's the main thing on your mind?"
"Well, other people have to use this pool," I say, defensively.
"Not until seven a.m. Monday," he informs me, dismissively. "Anyway, it gets a complete water change every twenty four hours, according to whatshisname."
"God, that must cost us a fortune," I say, mentally totting up the water and power bills.
House sighs and says long-sufferingly, "Would you stop thinking about the budget for a few minutes - I'm trying to work here?"
He grabs my hips again and tilts me further forward in the water until my chin's dipping in it, and he can slide smoothly into me from behind. I gasp, because he's in me so deep; the water's supporting my weight, and he's still got an arm underneath me and his fingers on my clit. We both start to move; it's awkward at first but we soon figure out how to make it work.
I'm moaning and panting and working myself on his cock and his fingers, and the water is slip-slopping against the edge of the pool behind us, when he pauses, and says, slightly out of breath, "Sure you don't want to chat about utility bills some more?" and I say, "No! Please, I need this -"
"Okay," he agrees, "Since you asked nicely," and he starts again, and I really, really hope that this room is sound proofed because I'm about to scream.
---
"Better get out, before more bits of me than normal go wrinkly," he smirks, and I agree, because I'm beginning to feel prune-like myself.
"Are you going to come back to my place? I have pizza," he asks, casually, as we both towel off and get dressed, like we're a normal couple who hang out together on a Friday evening all the time.
Leaving before six o'clock on a Friday. Now, that would be a lot more radical than having sex with my Head of Diagnostics in the therapy pool, I muse, and then I have to wonder whose set of priorities is more warped, mine or House's.
"Okay," I say, and he does a good job of hiding his expression of pleasure, but it's there on his face just for a fleeting moment.
House voluntarily working on his leg, and inviting me to his home; this is just plain weird. If he pays for the pizza it might actually be the end of life as we know it.
But later, as we sit on his sofa half watching some disaster movie, while eating pepperoni pizza and arguing over whose turn it is to fetch more beer from the kitchen, I think maybe weird is our normal.
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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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