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when the world's asleep
by leiascully
She called him once while he was supposed to be in Vancouver, just to hear the message on his voicemail.
"Don't bother," said his voice, raspy and familiar, and then there was the beep.
"House," she said, "I hope you're having a good time in Canada. I just wanted to check in, I guess." She paused. "The hospital's pretty quiet without you. Maybe you should consider taking vacations more often."
When he picked up, it startled her.
"You could always fire me," he said. "Or offer me a fabulous early retirement package. But I want all the perks Marine Guy had. Full-service."
"You didn't go to Vancouver?"
"Apparently there's no place like home," he said. "I've got the Travel Channel. They promised to take me around the world and I wouldn't even have to leave my couch. Maybe you can get a refund."
"It's no problem," she said, mind racing so fast she wasn't even sure what she was thinking about. "My brother-in-law works for a travel agency."
There was a long pause. She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. It was oddly reassuring. When he wasn't making her life hell, it was almost hard to remember he was in the world. Like waking up in remission, she thought, except he was a cancer she wanted. If anything was going to consume her time and energy, House was the worthiest priority, she supposed. Not as healthy as tennis, but sparring with him was a better hobby than doing heroine or something like that. The fact that he'd answered the phone had disturbed her thought processes.
"Cuddy," he said, and it felt like his voice came from farther away than across town. She reached for the sound of her name like a diver coming up from the bottom of a deep cave. Not too fast, or she'd suffer for it, the way Chase was going to suffer for Cameron: she'd been right about Emma, but wrong about Chase. And then she was there, examining the shape of her name from his mouth. Soft c, soft d's with more tongue around them than most people used. She'd heard him say her name ten thousand times and every time she was fascinated by the way it was different from him. She focused in on the sound of his breathing again, aware that she was leaving too long a silence between them.
"Yes?"
"You did good. With Emma."
"I can't believe you remembered a patient's name," she said, trying to fall back into their usual banter. "I mean, Coma Guy, Plague Lesbian, Leper Kid, and Emma?"
"I'm unpredictable," he said. "And I don't actually know the name of her illness. Though I'm sure she had one all picked out."
"I'm sure," she said and thought about cribs and soft toys.
"Cuddy," he said.
"Yes?" She was holding her breath and she didn't know why.
He sighed, electronic static in her ear as the air buffeted the membrane in the phone on his end. "You still have hope?"
"I like to think that there's always hope," she said slowly, still not really breathing. "That's why I hired you. But I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"I'll never be one of those demonstrative, super-involved fathers," he said. "I can't promise I'll be any kind of parent at all. I've got things to do. I've got pain to deal with. I don't think I can handle three a.m. feedings and dirty diapers and bending down to find pacifiers."
"I know you," she said, thinking as she finished there was some words missing there, and it felt like her heart had stopped, like it was burning in her chest with a cool flame that would light up the whole house. The sun was setting. The room was filled with rosy light and she was standing on her nice wood floors that she'd worked hard for, still in her heels and her suit, one hand on the back of her couch for balance, because suddenly the world was tipping.
"You don't deserve to end up with a turkey baster," he said. "If it's not too late."
"I," she said. "Oh." She was gripping the couch so tightly that she was going to have the print of the fabric on the palm of her hand. "I was never going to ask."
"I know you," he said.
"You're getting soft, House," she said, attempting to salvage some part of the world as she knew it, the banter, the grudging affection, recalcitrant House. If she didn't talk, she was going to cry. Her lips were moving independent of her thoughts, frozen in rejoicing.
"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment. "But you like me. And I like sex. And however many things you have the capacity to screw up, I don't actually think motherhood will be one of them."
"House," she said, fear behind the joy that lifted her shoulders and made her eyes prickle, "we should talk about this."
He exhaled noisily in her ear. "You don't want to talk about this. What if I change my mind or say April Fool's? The more we talk about it, the more chances I have to regret or rescind my offer, and you're terrified of that happening."
"You're right," she said, "but on the other hand, talking is the responsible, adult thing to do, and we need to do it."
"Being adult is overrated," he grumbled. "Can't we just skip to the part where we have to have a lot of sex?"
"House," she said, putting a little of her boss voice into it, just enough to give an edge to the dipthong.
"I'll be over in half an hour," he said, and hung up.
She moved around her house in a dream, the empty rooms that were too big for just her. She left her shoes in the closet, changed from her suit into a pair of well-worn jeans, washed her face. The kitchen tile was cold on her bare feet as she opened the fridge and took out the salad things. Her hands moved automatically to wash and tear the lettuce and sprinkle seeds and dressing across it. She cooked some chicken and added it to the salad, and then ate it standing up at her kitchen island. She was brushing her teeth when she heard the motorcycle coast into her driveway, and then House came in without knocking, dropping her extra key on the table in the foyer.
"Hey," she said, suddenly bashful and awkward like high school.
"Hey," he mumbled, looking away from her, and that was a little relief, that he wasn't so sure of himself either. She shifted from foot to foot, her hair still pulled up from washing her face, her hands pushed into her pockets. He stood hipshot, his eyes going from her windows to her stomach, briefly to her face, and back to her knees.
"Change of heart?" she said at last.
"Funny how witnessing a miraculous birth-before-birth will do that to you," he quipped, and she thought of the tiny fingers grasping his, and the absorbed look in his eyes over the mask. "I was still right, though," he continued, leaning on his cane.
"Of course," she said dryly.
"However, in this instance, you were slightly more right." He hesitated. "I'm proud of you."
"Thank you," she said, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat.
They stood there, a strange tableau, and the light had faded from the room. She moved to turn on a lamp, turning her back to him. "Do you mean it?" she said, forcing her voice to be casual. Maybe the lump was her heart, ten inches and slightly to the right of where it ought to have been. Behind her she heard the rattling of pills and the popping of a bottle top.
"You of all people should know I never repeat a compliment."
"The other thing."
She heard him shift his weight, the rubber tip of the cane squeaking. "I meant it."
"Why?" She still had her back to him, her face turned resolutely toward the lamp. The light dazzled her eyes until she couldn't see anything.
"Because," he said. "You were right. I'm getting soft."
"Really."
He blew out a long breath, sounding nervous and frustrated. "Because it should be someone you know and Wilson failed his interview and Chase is all tied up with Cameron and Foreman's even less fun than I am. Because you don't have time to meet anyone else and because if you did I'd try to sabotage it, because I always do. Because it would be a shame to keep my genius and your cleavage from propagating. Because you like me, as I already pointed out. Because I like sex. Because I owe you. Because."
"Because?"
"Because I like you."
She blinked, blinded by the lamp, blue afterimages clouding her vision. Her heart was a flame in her chest that pushed light through her skin. The table glowed where she touched it, she thought. She stood looking at her fingertips, the nailbeds white from the way she was pressing the table. He shifted behind her again and she heard the denim of his jeans scraping as he walked, her hearing seeming supernaturally acute, perhaps to compensate for the pale flare of the room before her dazzled eyes. She heard the floorboards giving under his weight as he came toward her with his uneven pace.
Time had stopped, she thought, or maybe it was just that she wasn't really breathing again, the lack of oxygen making her head light and her toes tingle. Listening to him approach was like the pause before she'd ripped open the letter from Hopkins all those years ago and her whole future had opened up before her. She could feel the nervous energy radiating off him, though he was as quiet as she was, and then he was standing just behind her, and god, the wait was killing her.
His fingers touched her shoulder. It wasn't a romance novel: she didn't shiver. She thought she'd never been so still in her her whole life, every cell waiting, listening. His palm was warm through her shirt, the fine cotton no real barrier. She thought she could feel the whorls of his fingertips as they slipped down her spine and stopped at the small of her back.
"Cuddy," he said. "Say something."
She turned, almost in his arms, widening her eyes to banish the tears until she felt like her face was all eyes and quivering mouth, drinking in his serious face. She looked up at him and he looked down at her and they were looking at each other, just staring, and his hand was still resting there just above her ass, his forearm crooked around her waist. The floor pressed up against her feet and she could feel the lines across her soles where the seams were between the narrow planks.
"Thank you," she said, and he almost laughed.
"That was all the talking we needed to do?"
"No," she said, smiling though her mouth was crooked with the weight of an indescribable mix of emotions. "There will be more things to talk about, but they can wait. If it works."
"Have a little faith in my grotesquely overstated masculinity," he said, and his smile was crooked too.
"Custody," she said. "Child support. You don't have to do the parent thing."
"We'll see," he said. "At some point my heart might turn back into a pumpkin."
"If you're in glass slippers, I should probably make sure you keep off your feet," she said, her blood moving again, her joy and her desire both fierce. The anticipation of him sent the fire under her breastbone licking lower and lower.
"That's what I signed up for," he murmured, and she hadn't realized he was quite so close.
"What if it doesn't work?" she said, and she could feel the rebound of her breath from his skin.
"Then we'll try again," he said, a husky whisper. "Plenty of amusement. You didn't hire me because I give up easily." All she could see was his eyes, shining in the lamplight. She licked her lips and then his mouth brushed hers. He was so gentle she thought for a moment that it wasn't really House. But the stubble around the soft lips was House's and the taste of pills was too. The handle of the cane rested against her hip. She kissed him back, certain but not fierce.
"I can't offer you romance," he said against her cheek. "I'm not the type. I don't know what I can offer you. Maybe nothing but this."
"We'll work it out," she said.
"In bed?" he quipped with a bit of his humor coming back. His stubble grated against her jaw as his cheekbone rubbed over hers, but it was good. The friction of being near House would always be a little painful.
"Come on," she said, and reached back for his hand on her back, and led him down the hall, the floor creaking a little under his sneakers and her bare feet.
Undressing him was like rediscovering a favorite sculpture. His hands slid over her body and it seemed as if her clothes melted off, the fabric no barrier to his touch. They left the lights off in the bedroom and she explored him with her hands. She knew his body with its grace and the history written over it. She had seen him before, in exam rooms, in hospital beds, in her bed once what seemed like long ago. His scar was like the surface of the moon and her fingers whispered over it and he didn't flinch. He was beautiful with all his faults and his flawed, damaged body and she wanted to cry but it wasn't the time.
She knelt over him, her breasts swaying, and kissed him, putting more and more of her heart into it. He kissed her back, suddenly passionate, as if some border had been crossed. She slid one hand down to caress him, his shaft hot under her palm and firming as she ran her fingers up and down it. He groaned a little, which surprised her, and his left hand came up to hold the back of her head as the fingers of his right hand slipped between her folds, spreading her moisture. Reflexively she reached toward the bedside table for a condom and then half-laughed, a quick chuff of breath.
"Bareback," said House, and she could hear his amusement and his arousal. "Pretty hot."
"You're sure?" she said, staring into his eyes as best she could in the dark.
"I'm not going to get any more sure," he said, and touched her cheek with two fingertips, almost a lover's caress. Almost the touch of someone in love. She closed her eyes, but it didn't matter. "Trust me, Cuddy."
"I do," she said, and held him steady while she sank down onto him slowly, adjusting to the feeling of fullness. He groaned again, quietly. "Okay?" she breathed.
"That's my line," he said, and she smoothed her palm over his face to feel for the creases in his brow.
"No pain?"
"I'm fine," he said. "Had my pills. Good to go for now. We may have a talk in the morning, but for now I'm fine, except for the danger of imminent ejaculation if a certain administrator doesn't get her attractive ass in gear."
She almost grinned and shifted carefully over him, one hand braced on his chest and the other tracing the line of his lips. He slid easily in and out of her: she was slick, her thighs tensed against her weight and her desire for him. She had forgotten he was vocal, lots of little grunts and groans to her whimpers, and she leaned down to kiss him. "You know this will probably be more effective if I achieve orgasm first?" she murmured.
"Clinical," he grunted. "You're making this sound less fun than it is."
"I have ways to compensate for that," she said, and clenched her muscles around him. He groaned a little and pushed his hand between their bodies, his fingers reaching for her clit.
"Minx," he panted. "You're not helping your cause."
"As long as you are," she said, taking a lot longer than usual to piece the words together through the haze of pleasure building behind her eyes, putting everything out of focus. There were stars in the dark, and it was amazing what the brain did to compensate for the overfiring of stimulated nerves, but she couldn't concentrate on anything but the hot length of him stretching her, rubbing inside her in all the right places as she tipped her hips, and his fingers circling and circling her clit or rolling her nipples. He kissed her neck and her head lolled, some muscles oddly slack and the rest winding tighter and tighter as the pleasure coiled between her hips. Her back was so tense it was almost painful, her spine arching so that his mouth slid across her collarbone and she missed the touch of his lips, but it was too much to think of. She was climbing a steep slope of sensation, rushing up and up and up so fast that she couldn't breathe and then the pleasure flung her off into space, and she cried out as she flew, the whole world exploding into stars around her. She came hard, feeling her muscles contracting around him: it had been a long time since anyone else had touched her, and she'd been more wired than she knew. When she came back to herself she was lying on his chest, his lips on her eyelids, his hips still thrusting up into her. She ground down on him, sitting up so that she could reach behind herself to caress his balls, and he came with a yelp. She draped herself over his chest again and he rolled over her suddenly, sliding a pillow under her hips, still firm inside her but softening. Her lips moved blindly over his face, tasting salt, unsure of whether it was sweat or a few tears: she could feel a dampness between her eyelashes but she held back the sob of relief that was caught under her sternum. He didn't deserve to be subjected to crying. It wasn't what he'd signed up for, no matter how she explained it away to herself as joy, as a natural reaction to the emotional and physical release of orgasm. Instead she slung her arms around him, pressed her face into his shoulder, and held him, his weight a comfort, his ribs slotting in between her ribs.
He stayed in the circle of her arms until their breathing had slowed, synchronized and even, and he was soft inside her. She was almost asleep, drowsy from the heat they'd created.
"Moving now," he murmured. "Comfortable as you are. Slide over." Carefully he rolled off her. She felt suddenly cold and dragged the duvet blearily up over both of their bodies.
"You're staying," she said, but it was half a question.
"Not driving the bike after that," he said. "Thigh's still shivery."
"Sorry," she mumbled, the doctor in her coming alert and pushing through the layers of fog.
"I knew the job was dangerous when I took it," he said, and kissed her. "Sleep. We'll both sleep."
"An idea man," she said, slipping away, and felt him curl around her before she drifted off.
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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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