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The Significance of a Storm
by melissaisdown
Framed by the doorway, they stand wavering and helpless . House an
invalid to his own emotions. A passenger on plane. A plane whose engines have
died, whose wings have burst into flames. A plane whose pilots abandoned
at take off. Forced to choose between jumping without a parachute and
trying to land it himself, House's indecision s dangerous at this moment.
A hand at the small of her back. The lightest touch. A faint intimation
in his stare. Where is he leading her? His own thought as their eyes finally
meet. Pain drove him into her arms before. The pain of losing Stacy, and most of his thigh. Is this comfortable because it is familiar, or is it different?
Could it be different? Questions flooding his brain, one escapes her,
"Are you going?" She almost whispers.
House never acknowledged the alternative. Until now.
Considering in a moment of silence, his head aching, he nods.
Holding his hand briefly as she lets him go, Cuddy bites her lip, and in an
instant of sensory pleasure, still tastes him. The door closes, leaving only
the unresolved and still unrequited.
Before Cuddy reaches her bed, only to sulk at the prospect of sleeping
in it alone one more night, the doorbell rings. Rushing to answer, she tries
to conceal her excitement.
"Deluge. Can you give me a ride home?"
Nodding, she reaches for her coat.
"You can stay here if you want. I mean you're leaving your bike
here anyway."
"Is Lisa Cuddy trying to seduce me?"
"I don't want to go out in the rain any more than you, House."
"I think you liked that kiss. I think you want more. You're trying to keep me
here, pretty soon you'll get out the handcuffs..."
"Fine." And she puts her coat on, opens the door. But House doesn't move.
"Are you sure? Because the sleepovers are usually at my place."
The door shuts, Cuddy trails back to her bedroom.
"I'm taking a shower. You can have the bed if you want. I'll be up half the
night going over expense reports."
House sits on her bed, watching her scramble for the shower. When
the water turns on, he relaxes, removing his shoes. Spread eagle on her
bed, and grinning at the thought. Then it dawns on him, Lisa Cuddy is naked,
wet, alone, and the only thing separating them is a relatively thin wall.
Dirty thoughts about Lisa Cuddy are not something he can easily
suppress. House has been pining for a reunion for years and at the
moment that prospect pulls him away from his own self pity.
A single pillow underneath his single head, a fantasy transpires:
The bathroom door isn't locked. Entering,enveloped by steam and
overwhelming heat, her silhouette is familiar through
the glass door of the shower. Did she hear him or is she just being coy?
Sliding the door open, with no hint of hesitation, his first instinct to stare,
ogle even, at the color of her wet flesh, her glistening dark hair,
the goosebumps she gets when his arms wrap round her, pulling her
from one kind of heat into another. Their mouths meet violently in Cuddy's
slippery misstep. Gorgeous, and struggling to remove his saturated shirt
as they sway and stagger to her bed. Their lips only parting so that he can
concentrate on her neck,while she unbuttons his jeans. The sound of the
zipper is victory. But he can't let her look once the jeans fall, missing
thigh muscles and malformed legs are dealbreakers in the bedroom.
Pushing her to the bed, beads of water and bubbles transform into sweat.
On top of her, House's weight is familiar, the pressure grinding against her,
now he buries his face in her breasts, his facial hair scratching,rasping the
friction unbearable. Tongue encircling one nipple, sucking, nuzzling,
kisses trail down, between her breasts, down ,a kiss on her belly,hands
gripping tight around those hips, down...
The water stops. Shower's over. Shaking off the fantasy, House gets out
of Cuddy's bed, taking a blanket and pillow with him. If he's going to have
a wet dream, he'd rather it not be in her bed. Already feeling pathetic and
now a little aroused, he limps across the living room, resting on the couch.
It is going to be a long night.
Cuddy peaks her head in, " Sure you don't want the bed?"
House feigns snoring, but knows sleep will not come tonight.
He listens to Cuddy scurry about, making tea, sifting through papers,
and he wonders what she's wearing underneath that robe. He
wonders how she felt about the kiss and if she shares any of his thoughts.
The period of time between dusk and dawn is one single people
share only with themselves. Cuddy with a bed full of pillows, knowing
that someone belonged in that space. House with his vicodin, and
occassionally a lonely hand, never considering, if or who belonged in
that space. Just assuming he'd already lost her.Tonight seems like no
exception, together but alone, afraid of losing what little they have,
afraid of the pain.
An hour has passed of audible administrative work. A passage of
silence,then,
"Son of a bitch."
House sits up. It is after all the closest thing to a pet name she will ever
have for him. When the cursing doesn't continue, he rises to investigate.
Looming in her bedroom doorway, he watches Cuddy drag her foot
as she collapses onto her bed, shocked only for a moment to see him
standing there.
"If you're trying to impersonate me, you're using the wrong leg, but
you should know that..."
Ignoring him, she rubs her foot.
"You're bleeding."
"I dropped a paper punch on it."
She picks it up. It's hulking, long, heavy.
"Ah, the three hole variety."
House sits in a nearby chair, patting his lap, an invitation for her foot.
Cuddy's foot is tiny, pale, delicate. He stares at it a moment, wiping away
the blood and examining it.
"It's not broken."
Arbitrarily placing a band aid on the wound, one of his hands errantly
moves up her leg, stroking her ankle, gentle on he calve. But he feels
Cuddy's glare and blinks, pulling away.
"Thanks."
House reaches for his vicodin bottle, dry swallowing, and offering
her one but she's not even looking. Cuddy pushes the paperwork from
her bed and lies back. House stands ready to return to the couch
but impulsively plops down beside her, his body sprawling across
the bed he had no intention of getting in again, especially with her.
Uncertain of what he does next, what he wants to do next, he closes his eyes.
A moment later, her hand takes his, all four of their eyes glued to the
ceiling. He wants to look at her, to talk but the sound of the rain is
enough.
They stay still a while, as she nears sleep, Cuddy forces herself
awake, standing.
"I'll take the couch."
Shaking his head, House stands pacing toward the couch. Chivalric, he
compliments himself. But when Cuddy sits back down, he follows, to be
beside her, the only direction he's being pulled.
A sleepy smirk graces Cuddy's lips and they finally look at eachother.
Chagrin, and he stands again before another thought has the chance
to cross his mind.
A redundant dance, to stay or to go...
Hearts beat faster and faster as Cuddy's pale face comes up to meet
his own. House knows that when he kisses this woman, and forever weds
his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind will never
gambol again like the mind of a God he doesn't believe in. He knows what
a kiss here and now means. So he waits, listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that has been struck upon a star. And to the rain. And to her.
Then he kisses her. At lips' touch the reunion begins and there is no turning back .
This time is different, it will be different. To step up and inherit the moment, is
significantly more difficult when you're a cripple. But here he stands, initiating
something dangerous, something mutual.
Urgency, panic, surprise, desire they are now both experiencing what
they have denied themselves for so long.
Cuddy, now admitting the accuracy of his evaluation, her hands framing
his face, a torrential tempest flooding the rest of their world. Inside it's
dry and warm and the urgency escalates as their tongues coalesce. A verse of
monologue commences in her conscience,
"No, no, no. Not now. If this this was going to happen it should have started
a long time ago," she tells herself. 'Except this did start a long time ago', her heart interrupts and she surrenders unconditionally. Not for the first time. And whether her heart or brain will let her admit it, she hopes not for the last.
House pulls back quickly, to look her in the eyes, to posit any hesitation, any
second thoughts now, before he falls any further on this downward spiral.
Kissing him reassuringly, softly he knows and rubbing his face to hers
closes his eyes, contemplating how not to ruin this.
His boss, his past incarnate, kisses his ear, cheek, and neck near the scar.
He pushes the robe from her shoulder, and unties the belt with two fingers.
It falls from her body gradually, revealing what he's longed for, what he's
thought about in his masturbatory moments, her. No fantasy can
compare to this feeling now, just standing there. The clock ticks as both struggle
to forget time exists. Not wanting this to end, afraid of moving, afraid of spoiling it, House loses his balance, his good leg tiring. In this instant a tidal wave of emotion consumes him, tears fill his eyes and he wants only to go home. To quit the game he knows he can only lose, to forfeit
before playing even one round.
A hand reaches out, supporting him and on a whim he lunges, his mouth
devouring hers. Their bodies locked together as they fall on
the bed, a giggle at the clumsy catastrophe itself. Cuddy is on top of
him now, struggling with his shirt while his hand travels lower, cupping
her ass. Curious fingers slide up her nightie, tugging at her thong, pulling
it down as the shirt is ripped from his body. House's field of view
is skewed, seeing only her he pauses a moment, in this silence they
make an agreement, a pact, not unlike the one they made years past.
It is him asking permission, it is both of them allowing this to happen.
Objectivity and romance are not things either doctor could find a
way of marrying. So they abandon one for the other, on rainy nights,
as a coping mechanism, and for eachother.
The air near his fingers is humid as he lifts her nightie to reveal
the breasts doted upon for years. The breasts fantasized about in
many showers, on rendezvous with hookers, and generally when he
should be doing his job. But she will not let him touch them. Not yet.
Cuddy's kissing him lightly on the lips teasing him, stroking
his chest, admiring his arms, and trailing lower kissing just
below his belly button, her tongue peaks out making him intolerably hard,
and his eyes roll back. Continuing she unzips his jeans, the denim tight
around his erection. A groan when she pulls at them, the friction she's
creating ...she's always creating. Jeans on the floor, she straddles him
now separated only by the cotton of his briefs, smiling and enjoying
his torture. Rewarding him with the return of her breasts, House sits up
brushing his cheek against one,that beard scratching, irritating, arousing
a nipple as he kisses the other one, eyes closed while she slowly grinds
against him. Dry friction, he feels her start to soak through, a subtle
dampness saturating his briefs... Was it him or her? Nibbling at her
collarbone, hands on her hips, agony is ecstasy and he jerks up,
involuntarily, form fitting perfectly to the space between Cuddy's legs.
He wants to take the briefs off, pull, rip, tear, burn them, he needs flesh
on flesh, in flesh but she is in control, setting the pace, his boss,
administratively lascivious, rocking rhythmically. From her collarbone
he traverses upward kissing, licking, sucking her neck, her chin, biting her
bottom lip. House whispers something, neither offensive nor romantic below
her ear and in their labored breadths all she hears is "need." Cuddy pulls away,
leaning, her breasts falling away from him. House's center plummets
at the thought that she has changed her mind, come to her senses...
Obscurity, blackness, the world disappears a moment. His eyes adjust.
She has only flipped a switch. Returning in darkness, highlights remain.
House's eyes project light of their own, street lamps, starlight, a stare.
Dulling one sense has only heightened all the others. She examines
him calculatingly in the rain's reflection as if, in this moment she detects
not just his vulnerability or instability, but his sincerity. Landing above
his upper lip, the first kiss is off and sloppy, but House recovers it,
his arms clasping around her back, his tongue invading her mouth, she
writhes against him, in need of a more thorough penetration. Tongues
rolls against teeth then their mouths part. Magnetically drawn down,
always down, she nuzzles his neck, almost purring. A hot breath at the
crosssection of his chest hair and she ventures lower, until her face is
just above his erection. She tugs at the underwear, teasingly, one side
and then the other until she reveals what she has instigated. Letting
the briefs rest above his knees, covering most of his scar, she
continues tantalizing him with her mouth. She starts at his left hip, hot
wet kisses, and then an appearance by her tongue. Licking the crease
between his thigh and testicles, Cuddy continues encircling his erection,
not yet giving him what he wants. Long, dark locks tickle him
as she moves to the other hip. When her mouth makes contact, she gets a
peripheral glimpse while he stiffens more, and then she stiffens at the sight
of anticipatory fluid escaping his engorged cock. But Cuddy does not relent.
With each of House's gasps, each moan, her tongue slides deeper, outlining
every fiber of his manhood until finally resigning her resistance, her
tongue glides slowly up the underside of his shaft.
"Call me sweet sauce..." A murmur, a safe-word. This is House
being sentimental. Begging. Cuddy is no stranger to compromise.
She answers his plea, knowing what it means and not wanting an end
in sight. Rising, slippery lips smiling and her clit throbbing, she rolls off for a
moment, and he tosses the underwear that had finally reached his ankles
to a far corner of her bedroom. Throwing himself on top of her, House demands control. Hardly giving her a chance to react, he decides reciprocity is due, and initiates a similar torture with no intention of stopping until she is as near
eruption as he is.
Flushed, naked bodies now, nearly parallel as his mouth descends
onto hers, pushing, his tongue exploring deeper and deeper.
Cuddy's hands frantically run across his back, his erection pressing
into her leg, and a nearby crevice. Both are barely breathing, misguided
fingers tangled in her hair, her sweat on the tips. They do part, but
only for House to return with one more kiss and a shared gasp. Moving lower,
he sucks one nipple, unable to resist and she moans. A serene sound,
whetting Lisa Cuddy's pleasure. His tongue slithers between her breasts,
his bottom lip outlining her cleavage. He tries to swallow her, to fit more
of her into his mouth than any man ever has. Or ever will. Lifting his
weight up now, his lips rise from her skin, and he looks at her smirking, a
confused look on Cuddy's face then, pelvises grind and there's one last kiss,
merely a distraction. While his mouth was occupying her mind, his
hand was exploring her body. Instantaneously he gropes her from
behind, rubbing her once more closer against his hardness and then
jerks away, his throbbing member immediately replaced by an
eager hand. To feel her from the inside, a longing about to be attained.
House brushes her clit, then rubs it before inserting a finger, and then
another, pulling out, pushing back in, knowing the exact spot to massage...
The man's knowledge of human anatomy has superfluous benefits.
He continues this pattern a few minutes, as she throbs, writhes, swells beneath
him. Enjoying watching her face, teeth clenched, eyes closed when the pressure's
firm, he occasionally hovers to share a breath, suck at her neck. And in doing so, hears something. Until this, the experience had been original, devoid of
flashbacks or recollections. But now it all comes rushing forth.
"Greg," she utters, barely audible.
Definitely would not have heard it had his ear not been so near her mouth.
With one word, his first name, comes the thought of the last time.
It was after all, the last time she called him Greg. Panicked, wavering
his momentum slows noticeably. House fears this is a repeat. Another
one night stand, induced by guilt and a plethora of unchecked emotions
only to end in regret, disappointment and impotent potential.
Is it just sex? Then a strange feeling in his chest as he realizes he's not
afraid of it being something more, he's afraid of it being nothing at all.
Again. He's afraid of five more years of denial. Of the impossibility of this happening tomorrow, or the next day. He wants to say something, 'Lisa',
recite a sonnet, negotiate a truce, but nothing comes.
This time must be different.
Cuddy caresses his face as the thought evaporates.
His hand covered generously in Cuddy's natural lubricant, fingers
come up, leaving her in frustration. Running them along her arm, he
prepares to penetrate her now, both of them in unbearable unrest. He does
permeate the fervid orifice and in a moment that pangs both of them,
comes to the awareness that his leg will not let him. He knows its boundaries,
knows the stamina of the circumstance. The long slow session that
was about to commence would be more than one leg could muster.
So House sighs, falling to the bed, resting on his back a fraction of a
second before pulling her on top of him. Begging, insisting
commanding in a glare, to be ridden. Climbing on top of him
seizing control, Cuddy has a candid moment. Simple and unadulterated
silence as a predawn breeze wanders in. House's eyes closed in anticipation,
she bends down to kiss them, resting her forehead on his, her whole
body relaxing flat on his, forming a horizon. Unbridled vulnerability,
both souls defenseless when his eyes open. Their lips touch
but it's not a kiss, no rather it is an impulse. A mutual need to touch
as much of one's bare skin to the other's. A carnal reflex, the first
line of an epilogue, as close to romance as either heart will allow
itself. A deep breath. Time recompresses. Both minds race to catch
up to the moment, their destination to remain in it as long as possible.
House's hands cradle her face as he relents control. Guiding him in
with a single stroke, both gape, eyes closed. With the roll of thunder, a street
light flickers, impersonating lightening. House opens his eyes first, to the
delight of ecstasy on this friend's face. Strength, patience, pride,
this was making love to Lisa Cuddy.
She sits up, their bodies perpendicular as her hips rise slowly
and come back down. Cuddy pushes the hair from her face, letting
herself get lost in the rhythm. 'Oh yeah,' House thinks, 'she's fantasized
about this, about doing it again.' It relieved him to see her so satisfied.
God she was sexy. God she was good.
The sight of her on top of him,sweating, panting, a subtle growl,
is enough to push him over the edge. Normally this wouldn't bother
House, but he vowed to make tonight different. To make it extraordinary
somehow. Prolonged pleasure and devastatingly deep penetration
seemed extraordinary enough. Putting his hands on her hips he
grunts imperceptibly, suppressing a scream, suppressing profanity.
Hips bucking he takes control of the rhythm and pace slowing,
stalling even.
"God..." escapes her lips. Tired of being taunted, Cuddy arches
her back before lowering onto him. She rests her hands on
his shoulders, and moves with him on each thrust, the intensity
escalates. His bucking becomes more urgent, the pace changes
subtly. Their eyes connect as he reaches for her face, one hand
on each side. unyielding gravity, attraction, magnetism, some
combination in transparency. They see through eachother, and they
see eachother.They always have. House exhales then kisses her
relentlessly - on her chin, her cheek, a corner of her mouth, her temple.
Here it happens, the difference, the deviation, the apex,
"I love you," he reveals. A confession. Muttered, it escapes
without his consent, as one word. A whisper, low but audible.
A secret divulged to the only person he can trust left in the
world. Fear of abandonment, rejection, fear of fear, all pass
with the last syllable.
Cuddy questions what she hears only because it is unexpected.
Unprepared and uncertain there is one last pause where she solely
enjoys the physical connection. Then,
"I know."
She rocks silently, holding her breath. House's eyes are closed
as he holds her tighter, thrusts deeper. Somehow he has exceeded expectations
she was unaware she had.
He was inside Lisa Cuddy. Deep. The thought alone was enough to make
him come. Her soul an impenetrable fortress, her body the like.
To be inside her made him happy- reunion as union, but he could never
let her know. A mere nicety. A formality of their undefined relationship.
Images fill his mind in the darkness. Beyond the silhouette of her
immaculate body House sees a storm. Not the one occurring simultaneously
in their nook of New Jersey, no a storm at sea. Torrential, linear sheathes of
rain baptizing him against his will. The horizon inscrutable, the darkness all encompassing. With a flash of fire, of lightening, the bow abruptly breaks
and the ship begins capsizing. Then he discovers he's not alone. He was
never alone. And now they're sinking, the tide high, the turbulence of the
waves forcing them into eachother's arms.They sink below. Together. Alone.
Present circumstances are nearly as dire. The man envies the
woman seeing her as both a stranger and his best friend. A paradox.
An anomaly. His passion. Was Lisa Cuddy a puzzle? Is this all
just some game? The initial attraction he tries to recall but his
blood is boiling.
Exhausted, sweat soaked Cuddy is frantically humping him now.
As much for his relief as her own self serving purpose. She's lifting
herself completely off and repetitiously impaling herself, the friction on his
glans inconceivable, the spot he's hitting exact. Squinting and kissing his chest
near his heart, she squeals, her muscles contracting around him, House pulls
her mouth to his, trying to talk at the same.
He knows she is close.
Administrative need, he would say, as her pelvis collides into his,
up and down, impatiently seeking the pressure on her clit. His hand
sneaks in between them and draws circles around it, applying
the pressure that she needs. He is close also. But this time had to be
different. Focusing on her, his balls tighten, sixteen shades of blue
by now, he thinks. Nothing is more romantic than simultaneous
orgasm, an insurmountable truth in the back of his mind. It is rare,
dependent on chemistry, on timing, on want. Promises will not be broken,
tonight will not be the like last time.
Staring at her now, he's trying to interpret her unutterable utterances.
When he removes his hand from her clit and the girating slows, Cuddy
is entranced. She's looking at House but not seeing him, he knows.
Pumping into her as they synchronize, he kisses her, tenderly and
with eyes open. Counting, holding his breath, waiting. Then her orgasm
begins, the shape of her mouth a revelation, their lips touching, their mouths
wide open,combining air, exchanging life. Her eyes are closed but House
blinks only once as he comes, not wanting to miss the smallest thing,
engraving this moment in his memory, he memorizes her expression, records
her desperate, almost angry scream, while he fills her with tangible,
sticky heat. Rapture as a second load escapes him,undeniable joy,
uncontrollable pleasure to share this feeling with another person.
Intensified exponentially because the person is her. Torrid, dripping
spasms linger, the gratification reminiscent to both of them. Long, awaited
simultaneity is sweet. A rush of blood to House's head and he's dizzy,
frozen as her body collapses on his. They are weak, overwhelmed by
the rare sensations just aroused in eachother. By eachother.
A minute. Two. Three. Five. House is somehow still hard and therefore
still inside her, afraid perhaps of ending the connection,of ending the night.
Trembling in his arms, her core quivers as Cuddy writhes sleepily on the
verge of another orgasm, almost not wanting it to happen, not wanting to admit
he is this good. Achingly slow rocking on one of the largest cocks that has
ever been inside her. She's taut, saturated, stuffed. They both want this
and slowly it builds. When he can tell she's near again, he stops her,
they don't move, it builds. Mere seconds then, one slow thrust, he juts up, and
both surrender again, as she clenches around him, milking him, a full body climax,
two really. It's as good as the first, it lasts and they hold their breath, letting
it sear through them, making it linger.
After a sensual sigh, Cuddy rests her head on his chest able,
in the moment, to hear only the sound of his heartbeat. Hers must be
drumming loudly, but she chooses to ignore it.Their stares intercept eachother.
The air is still, the storm has past.
Through all they said and did that night, even through his appalling
sentimentality, they are both reminded of something - an elusive line,
a fragment of lost words, that they had heard somewhere long ago.
For a moment a phrase tries to take shape in House's mouth and his lips part,
as though there is more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air.
But neither make a sound and what they almost remember is uncommunicable forever. A relic of the past, a ghost of yesterday. This time is different.
Cuddy, defeated, closes her eyes and is asleep within minutes.
House can't relax, compelled now to watch the sun rise with this woman
in his arms. Something about watching her sleep fascinates him.
Hearing her breathe, touching her skin as it cools. It permeates his
calloused emotional barricade. It calms him. If this had happened
out of guilt, again it was no matter. The past is always there,
the present does not last. But both are thinking about the future.
An orgastic future that year by year recedes before them. It eluded them
both before, but no matter, tomorrow they will run faster, reach farther...
Until one fine morning -
But it is still night. And with this House is content.
Please post a comment on this story.
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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