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sauce for the goose
by ellixian
"You," he declares, as he throws open her office door, "are no fun at all."
She waves a hand at him dismissively, without even looking up from her stack of files.
"Cuddy," he raps his cane on her desk to get her attention, "it's rude to ignore your subordinates."
When she finally looks up, he reaches inside his pocket for her thong, and flips it squarely onto her files. "You're the biggest spoilsport on the planet. You ruined my game."
"I'd say we're at least even," she retorts, "especially after you almost killed yourself. Again. Lucky me, I get to explain to every member on the board why you somehow managed to live. Again. You have to stop getting their hopes up, House. Try actually dying sometime."
He shrugs as he drops himself into the chair in front of her desk. "It was the quickest way to prove everyone wrong."
"Stupidest way to prove everyone wrong," she counters, "And I haven't even yelled at you yet for sending your team out on covert operations to steal my underwear. I'm guessing Cutthroat Bitch was responsible for that false fire alarm we had two days ago?"
He smiles at her, as winningly as he knows how. She rolls her eyes.
"Come on, Cuddy," he cajoles her, "It was fun."
"Twenty years of clinic, House," she replies, "if you had the life expectancy of a normal, non-suicidal person. But since you clearly don't, you'd better clock an extra fifty hours by January."
"Hey, where's the sympathy from my boss?" he asks, as he swings his legs up onto her desk. "I almost died, sort of. My team drugged me and turned me into a lab rat and extracted parts of my vital organs for experimentation."
"You deserved it," she snaps, and then emphatically taps him on his ankle, one tap for each word, "Legs. Off. My. Table. House."
"Killjoy," he gripes, "Thought you'd like to see some leg action yourself, after you've so generously flashed me every part of your anatomy over the last few weeks."
She glowers at him. "Doing paperwork to explain your botched blood transfusion is not helping my mood any."
"Awww, see. You're no fun at all."
He gets up to go, but turns back. "We still on for tonight?"
She sighs. Rolls her eyes. Nods.
He grins.
- - - - -
"You gonna pout all night?" he asks, as he slips his hand under her hair.
She tips her head back, and doesn't say anything for a while as he gently massages her neck.
"It was out of line, House," she finally says, her eyes closed. "You've done some pretty embarrassing things to me in your time, but this, well--"
He frowns. "You sort of won. Kind of. Although I did fire Cole."
"He was a good doctor," she sighs wearily, "And this isn't a pissing contest."
"Exhibit A, Cuddy: laxatives in my lupus textbook?" he arches an eyebrow at her, and she laughs. "Fifty hours of clinic isn't punishment enough?"
She looks over at him, seems to weigh her options in her mind, and says, "Remember that lecture I asked you to give a while back? You told me to, and I quote, 'stuff it where the sun don't shine'?"
"Yeah," he says slowly, as he drops his arm around her shoulder and she leans against him.
"I couldn't find anyone else to give it, so I was going to do it. It's tomorrow morning."
"You're saying you'll forgive me if I agree to deliver this lecture?"
"As good a deal as you're going to get," she shrugs.
He thinks for a bit, then he nods.
She smiles, and kisses him.
"Now this kind of punishment I can get used to," he mutters into her ear, and she laughs as he starts to unbutton her blouse.
- - - - -
His phone rings at seven-oh-four am.
"What the fuck--" he shouts, but it isn't on his bedside table, and he would ignore it except some idiot set it on LOUD, so it sounds like an ambulance is roaring through his living room and it's killing his head to the point that he really needs to bludgeon somebody to death with an anvil.
He levers himself off the bed, bleary-eyed, and realises that, except for a lingering hint of lavendar and vanilla in his sheets, she's gone.
But the phone is still ringing, so he drags his leg behind him as he stumbles around the apartment.
He finally finds it in the kitchen, inside the open microwave oven, and he swears a blue streak before he flips it open.
Cuddy. Of course.
He hits the button to answer the call.
The line goes dead.
He swears again.
- - - - -
Her phone rings at seven-fifteen.
She loves caller ID. Best invention in the world.
She ignores the first call. And the second one, at seven-sixteen, and the third, at seven-eighteen.
She picks up at seven-twenty.
"Miss me already?" she asks cheerfully.
"Mata Hari!" he yells, and she just barely smothers a laugh at that, "You lulled me into a false sense of security with sexual favours and now you're just toying with me! Is this your twisted idea of revenge?"
"You don't know the half of it," she informs him gleefully.
"What the hell do you--"
"Check your closet."
She hangs up.
- - - - -
Seven-twenty-eight. She answers his call.
"This is me officially calling in sick," he snarls, "and I hate you."
"Harsh words but a sadly empty threat, House," she replies jauntily, "you can't call in sick. You're supposed to give that lecture you promised me. It starts at eight-forty-five."
"First of all, I don't keep my promises, never have. Second of all, I especially don't keep promises to Lucifer's midwife after she's STOLEN ALL MY PANTS."
"Not all your pants," she corrects him.
"I am not wearing the ones you left me," he snaps back, "they're purple, for god's sake. Bright purple. Where did you even get those hideous things?"
"When did you get all fashion-conscious on me?" she asks, and laughs, just to annoy him a little more.
"You can give the lecture. I quit."
"Oh no you don't," she says confidently, "No one else would hire your ass."
"I could just not turn up, and take whatever punishment you have to dish out."
"If you don't come in today, I'll exercise my prerogative as Dean of Medicine to fire, as I see fit, anyone on your new team. Maybe everyone on your new team."
"You can't do that," he says, horrified, "that's blackmail."
"I prefer to call it a benevolent dictatorship," she says serenely, "I'm not forcing you to do anything. You have a choice here."
"You know, Hitler pretended to believe in free will too," he snaps.
"Whatever," she returns. "It's your fault for sleeping like a pig and not noticing that I'd moved half your closet out of your apartment."
"I was tired. You wore me out with all the grinding and the moaning and the..."
"Better get a move on, House," she cuts him off, "Lecture starts in about an hour."
"Cuddy," he whines, "It's too early to buy new pants."
"I know," she smirks, satisfied, "See you at work."
- - - - -
Wilson looks at House quizzically. "What the hell are those?"
"Shut up. I asked you to bring me pants."
"I thought you were joking. Or high."
"The nurses won't give me scrubs," he admits despondently, "And Cuddy broke into my locker and stole my spare jeans."
Wilson shakes his head in sympathy. "She's thought this through," he remarks seriously, his most practised, reassuring, I'm-your-caring-cancer-doctor-and-your-best-friend-in-the-whole-world smile on his face.
But House is pretty sure Wilson is howling with laughter on the inside.
- - - - -
Foreman just rolls his eyes.
Thirteen does too, except he's almost certain he caught her flashing a thumbs-up in Cuddy's direction.
Cutthroat Bitch and Taub look at him with pitying, triumphant grins on their faces.
Kutner doesn't even blink. House figures he's probably too stoned to notice.
- - - - -
Cameron, who's auditing the lecture for no real reason, furrows her brow. "Um, House?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
- - - - -
Chase turns up at the end of the talk. "I got a text message from Cameron," is how he explains his presence, then "Did you get dressed in the dark? In a gay club?"
- - - - -
The moment the lecture is over, he storms as quickly as he can to her office.
Which isn't easy to start with, him being a cripple and all. But Cuddy is nothing if not a skilled practitioner of evil. Aside from being devastatingly purple, the pants she got him are also at least two sizes too small.
She's sitting at her desk, a big, evil grin stretched across her face - the Cheshire Cat with cream - and waves two fingers at him.
"Happy now?" he growls, and holds out his hand. "I assume you have a pair of my jeans somewhere in your lair."
She leans back in her chair. "I'm not sure you've learned your lesson," she drawls, all sex and lazy confidence, and he knows he should be angry, not turned-on, but damn. He's always liked conniving women.
"Let me be clear on this: you will never again send your team after any item of my clothing."
"Fine," he sighs noisily.
"If you do," she warns him, "no more thong games, even in the bedroom."
"Deal," he mutters under his breath, and waves his hand emphatically. "Jeans. Now."
She smiles, and pulls his most well-worn pair of Levi's out of her desk drawer. She walks over to him, and puts them in his hand.
"Devious hell-bitch," he grumbles.
"Thanks for the compliment," she smiles, and kisses him. "Now take off your pants."
- - - - -
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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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