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breaking and entering
by ellixian
There is pain, he thinks to himself as he bends over to grab his ankles, and there is pain. This is the good kind. He feels his calf muscles contract, coiled tight, and then ease back into a delicious, quiet ache as he unfolds his body to stand upright.
He had hoped it would work, but hadn't let himself believe that it did, even when he first surfaced from a grey, dreamless haze and all he felt was the smouldering traces of two bullets and an unfamiliar fullness in his thigh where the pain used to be.
But already he's feeling better than he's felt in years. Hell, make that a decade. He stretches again, pulls his right leg almost to his chest, and holds his breath. It's almost ten seconds before he realises he might suffocate, waiting for that familiar twist of dull-edged fire that never comes.
Swiping a hand across his forehead, he jogs up the short flight of steps. Then hops down, and jogs back up, just because he can. Because he hasn't quite stopped believing he can.
He lets himself into his apartment, and stops short. The light is on in the kitchen, and he's briefly surprised that it works at all. The last time he remembers actually using it was, oh, maybe two years ago.
"Pasta okay with you?" She steps momentarily into his line of vision, shoots a smile and waves a wooden spoon in his direction, then disappears again. Towards the stove, he presumes, as he drops his iPod on the table by the door and shucks off his shoes and socks.
"An incredible violation of my privacy," he half-shouts, as he pads quickly into his kitchen. Her back is to him, and she's fiddling with something in the sink. She's still wearing the remnants of a hard day at work, although she's kicked off her ridiculous three-inch heels, her coat lies discarded on the coffee table and her hair is messily pulled back with - well, at least she'd found a use for those leftover chopsticks he kept accumulating from the Chinese take-out place.
She half-turns, and flashes him a lopsided grin. "Door was open, House. Can't complain about privacy if you haven't figured out how to use a key."
He grunts in response, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. "Much as this display of domesticity will greatly enhance my Donna Reed sex fantasies, Cuddy, what the hell are you doing here?" As he speaks, he sidles over to her and just manages to avoid a slap directed at his wrist as he sneaks a slice of red pepper off the chopping board. (He had one of those?)
"You haven't been answering your phone," she replies, and makes a face at him for stealing another pepper. "Your phones, actually. And e-mail. Or voice mail."
She's dicing mushrooms now, quickly and expertly, and he wonders why he always had the impression that she couldn't cook. Clearly he was wrong. Or maybe he should reserve judgement until after he tries the finished product.
"So you thought you'd check up on the recovering invalid?" He takes a swig of cool water, then another. "I'm not playing hooky on rehab, if that's what you're worried about. And, not that it's any of your business, there was a massive blackout in the neighbourhood for the last month. No electricity for anyone. It's like Amish Survivor out here."
"Right," she deadpans at him, as she makes short work of a clove of garlic. "Which explains why all your kitchen appliances are in perfect working order and your answering machine has been beeping like the devil for the past half hour."
"That would be Wilson," he shoots back, not quite able to disguise the grin on his own face. "He calls at six everyday in the misguided belief that one day I'll actually pick up. Or he's just checking to see if I'm alive, who knows."
"That's kind of what we're all wondering." She pauses in her chopping, shoves a stray lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and looks at him. "Since you checked out of the ICU, no one's heard a word from you. We can only presume you've been doing your own rehab, with your own trainer. While apparently allowing yourself to starve to death." Her eyes flick meaningfully towards the fridge, which, as far as he knows, contains ten bottles of water, two cans of tuna and a jar of peanut butter.
"It's a special diet for people who no longer work for the Ministry of Silly Walks," he pretends to protest, then yields under her laughing gaze. At least she looks relaxed and happy to see him, two things he's never really been able to say about her - certainly not in the same sentence - in the years since she put him on her payroll. "I eat out a lot. Grab a sandwich after rehab, order pizza. There's protein and carbohydrates and all that wholesome vitaminy stuff. And clearly I'm keeping hydrated."
"Clearly," she repeats drily, and, grabbing the bottle from his hand, takes a quick swallow of water.
He shifts a little, bracing himself against the counter, so that he's deliberately crowding into her personal space. She grimaces at him and takes a step to the side.
"So, now that your curiosity is satisfied," he says, cocking his head and trying to think of when he last saw her smile in just this way (college, his brain tells him, over twenty years ago), "enlighten me, devil woman, as to why you've commandeered my kitchen in the name of your master Beelzebub. You have my neighbour in the freezer, don't you?"
"It's not like you'll miss the space he takes up in there," she shoots back, "I don't think your freezer's seen anything but tumbleweed in the last two decades. As for what I'm doing here in your precious kitchen - have you met me, House? I'm an over-achiever, I was bored... you should be thankful that I just decided to buy you food. My other option was to completely redecorate your apartment."
"Hey!" he protests, "You leave my furniture alone and I might forget about pressing charges. Like trespassing, breaking and entering with intent to seduce..."
"Shut up," she interrupts him, grinning broadly, "Anyway, you'll have to engage Foreman's lawyer for that, what with all the illegal things that - on the record - I have absolutely no idea you're making him do. Your lawyer is still buried under all those malpractice suits that for some inexplicable reason keep getting filed against you."
"You know, you'd think all those people I rescued from the gaping maw of death would be a little more spiritual and a lot less litigious," he drawls before making a successful grab for the bottle in her hand, and draining the rest of the water. "Mind if I take a shower before I partake of this gourmet feast?"
"I was going to suggest you do just that," she returns promptly. "Make sure you wash behind your ears."
He almost laughs at that, this playground banter he enjoys with her, and heads to his bedroom. He glances over his shoulder as he goes, and catches the briefest glimpse of her watching him, studying intently the way he walks, before she turns back to the task of looking for something, anything, in which she can actually boil water.
By the time he emerges again, still slightly damp from dragging his clothes on over his soap-fresh skin, he can practically taste the sweetness of frying garlic on the air, and his stomach rumbles appreciatively.
"I'll have you know I'm not fussy," he declares, by way of announcing his return. "In bed, sure - gotta ensure those hookers really earn their living. At work, mess with the Force and called upon the House of Cuddy will be plagues and curses and good old-fashioned rumours that you're actually a man and your cleavage is just the devil's smokescreen. But when it comes to food, I'll eat anything. To wit: Greg hungry. Food now."
She's standing over the stove, a laugh on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes, and he wonders, briefly, if there's a way to keep her here forever, short of chaining her to the table.
"Almost done. You can wait two minutes," she says, and pre-empts his pout by nodding in the direction of the fridge. "Why don't you start on the drinks? They should be chilled by now."
He cocks his head as he studies her. "Wine? Why, Dr. Cuddy, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were desperate to get into my pants. Again."
He's not sure if she blushes at that, as she turns her attention back to the pasta simmering in juices he can smell but can't name. She clears her throat, then says, a little louder than usual, "It's not wine. Just sparkling apple juice. I didn't... I'm not..."
"You're still trying," he says quietly, as he removes the bottle from the ice box, and wipes off the dew that immediately frosts over the glass. "How?"
"Anterior abdomen," she replies, just as quietly. "It's not as effective but I couldn't - " She turns back, quirks a smile at him and shrugs. "Spectacularly failed at finding another secret-keeper."
He twists the cap off the bottle and fills two wine glasses with amber liquid, brings one over to her. "Do you need...?"
The offer never makes it out of his mouth. She accepts the glass, then looks him straight in the eye, blue on blue, and shakes her head, firmly. "I'll be fine," she tells him, with conviction that almost persuades him, "You - do what you have to do." He only just manages to remind his hand not to reach for hers, before she adds, "Which is, eat one hell of a lot of pasta. I hope you weren't kidding when you said you were hungry."
She takes the pan off the stove and efficiently ladles steaming heaps of fettucine and mushrooms and peppers onto two waiting plates. "Bigger pile's for you," she informs him with a grin, grabs her plate and wine glass, and leads him into the living room.
"We're not being civilised?" he asks, wonderingly, as he trails after her, breathing in the garlic and pepper and that hint of lavendar that he's quite sure isn't his soap. "I can find chairs somewhere, I think. Give me a few minutes and I'll beat a couple out of my neighbours. The ones you haven't already chopped up for dessert."
She drops down on the couch, swinging her feet easily onto the table, and jerks her chin at the spot next to her. He sits where she indicates and, for a couple of seconds, allows himself to enjoy the weight of her warmth next to him.
They reach for the remote control at the same time. He smirks triumphantly when he pries it from her fingers. "It was always a futile effort on your part, Cuddy - me and this remote, we share a supernatural, symbiotic bond that no mere woman can hope to rend asunder."
She snorts and flicks a mushroom at him.
He retaliates, with a red pepper, and laughs when she gripes, playfully, that she slaved over a hot stove so they're supposed to eat the damn food and not wear it.
Dutifully, he pops the wayward mushroom into his mouth, then arches his eyebrows at her. "So, do I get to choose tonight's entertainment or what?"
She sighs noisily, rolls her eyes, then grins at him. "Fine. What's on your TiVo?"
"Cuddy," he laughs, "you break into my apartment, you feed me and you want to watch my porn. Some might say that makes you the perfect woman."
She gifts him with a smile, a swallow, and a nudge in his ribs. "Hang on to that thought when you finally stop making excuses not to come back to work, okay?"
That shouldn't be too difficult, he thinks but doesn't say.
Especially since it turns out she's a pretty good cook after all.
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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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