System Failure: Part Nine The House Fan Fiction Archive Home Quicksearch Search Engine Random Story Upload Story   System Failure: Part Nine by phineyj and snarkbait Chapter 24: Cuddy House takes Route 571 and continues over the lake and southeast toward Princeton Junction. Wherever he's headed, I hope we get there soon, because the bike ride is exhilarating but I get the feeling my butt isn't going to thank me for many more minutes on this hard seat. "Are we nearly there now?" I shout, above the deafening noise of the wind. "What are you, five?" he yells back, and then adds, "It's a couple more miles." As House wouldn't tell me where we were going, I'm wearing jeans, a t-shirt, my favorite red stripy scarf and a cord jacket, and right now I'm wishing I'd picked up gloves as well, because it's cold for this late in the spring. I rub my fingers together, to try to get some feeling back into them. House pulls off the highway and makes a heart-stopping turn onto an unsurfaced side road. I just have time to read the sign, which says "Junction Rifle and Revolver Club: Members Only" in faded gold cursive script on a green background. You have got to be kidding me. No wonder he was being cagey about our destination. We stop outside a battered one-story wooden building and I'm about to ask House what he's thinks he's playing at, but I discover that the bike ride has solidified my legs to the point where I have to physically unstick myself from the saddle. By the time I've got myself disentangled from it and taken the helmet off, House has already disappeared inside the building, so I have no choice but to follow him inside. "Haven't seen you in a while, Dr House," the dapper elderly man behind the cash register is saying, as he passes him a ledger and a pen. "Yeah, well," House glances sidelong at me, as he scribbles his name down and hands his ID and credit card over, "My boss keeps me busy." While he completes the transaction - ignoring my glare of doom - I skim the laminated notice in garish shades of yellow and red which is fixed to the counter. Apparently `Prospective members must be of good character and must demonstrate a mature, responsible attitude toward firearms and safety.' I wonder for a second just how exactly House pulled that one off. The man glances over at the CCTV bank, which is showing a group of over-excited teens on one screen and a couple of older adults firing rifles among the grass and trees. "The Junior Rifle Team are indoors till noon, so you'll be on the outdoor range if that's okay?" he informs us, passing House two laminated badges across the pitted wooden surface of the counter. "Line's hot," he adds, laconically, and House nods. --- Ten minutes later, I'm wearing a pair of ear muffs in an unflattering shade of fluorescent orange, and sporting a set of yellow-tinted safety goggles. And holding...what is this? "It's a gun, Cuddy," House says, loudly, so I can hear him through the fuzz of the ear muffs, "You know, as used by cops, robbers..." "Is this the sort you killed my MRI with?" I ask, darkly. I needed that one added to my fundraising list like a hole in the head. Ooh, bad, bad imagery. "No," he says, "This is a 9mm Luger, that was a -" Whatever he's trying to tell me is drowned out by the loud explosion created by the check-shirted fat guy standing down the other end of the range from us, who is holding some sort of equally large, fat and scary-looking gun. "You actually enjoy this?" I ask, incredulously, as I wait for the percussive sound to die away. And then it occurs to me what a stupid question that was. Dangerous weapons, noise, the opportunity to show off...of course he enjoys this. House doesn't answer me; instead, he takes the gun, puts his own earplugs in - why does he get earplugs, I wonder - and shows me how to aim and fire it at the target. It's easier than I expect and after a couple of demonstrations, I have a go myself, and while I don't hit the target first time through, I get better with practice. House is, of course, insufferably accurate and nonchalant, and I wonder just how much he practices. After a while, he fetches his own gun, which it appears he keeps somewhere on the premises, and starts a friendly-ish competition with the fat guy. Half an hour later, my ears are ringing, despite the ear muffs, the goggles are making my nose itch and my right arm and shoulder ache. But I feel good; I'm enjoying the opportunity to concentrate all my attention on one achievable thing, and seeing the results. This is a side to him I've never encountered before. It's a small club, and nearly everyone we run into - idiotic giggling teens excepted - knows him by name. House actually chats to the fat guy, whose name is Pete, and to the man from the reception, who is called Harry, while we're drinking coffee in the very basic caf round the back of the range. He introduces me as "Lisa, a work colleague," and I don't talk much, because this isn't my environment, and I can't join in the discussion of hollow point this and caliber that. I must be looking at him oddly, because when they've gone, he says, "What? I can't have meaningless social interactions? Maybe I don't want them saying `he kept himself to himself' when the cops are looking for the next Beltway sniper." I don't think he really minds, but to change the subject, I ask him where he learned to shoot. "On the base in Germany," he says, "On my dad's membership, when I was a teenager." "It's just about the only thing we both agree is fun," he adds, loading his coffee with sugar and stirring it with more violence than necessary. I look over at him, and think that he looks more relaxed than I've seen him in ages. And you know, this actually is fun. Next time he suggests a magical mystery tour, I might just give him the benefit of the doubt. Chapter 25: Wilson I'm running an iron over a light blue shirt I need for work on Monday. Wondering, as I do, what the hell is going on with House and Cuddy at the moment? They're up to something. And the only something they could be up to at eight p.m. on a Friday evening at House's place begins with an S, and ends with House getting fired if he screws everything up. And how could he not? This is House and a woman, and not just any woman: the only one in his life who has any semblance of control over him. How could he be so stupid...no wait, I've got that slightly wrong, how could she be so stupid? Why can I smell burning? Oh crap; I yank the iron up...by the looks of it, my favorite blue shirt is ruined. I've just fashioned a six inch dark iron mark into the back of it. I'm getting sick of all of this domestic stuff and I've only been doing it for a month. I need to incorporate ironing into the cleaner's list of things to do. I give up ironing before I injure myself or the dog and go and sit in the lounge. I resist as long as I can but by midday I try House's cell, eager to fire some questions at him. I can't believe he hasn't told me the small fact that he and Cuddy are screwing now. It would be better to do it face to face really, because then I can tell how much lying he's doing, but I also can't wait until Monday. I dial the number and wait for House to pick up...which he doesn't. Typical. I hang up and stare at my cell for a moment. It's probably none of my business, but House is so not ready for a relationship with anyone. Never mind his complete lack of social skills, there's the increasing drug addiction. So why on God's green earth he's gone for Cuddy I'll never know; they enjoy making each other miserable; they live for it. This could be such a disaster; they work in the same place, if this screws up, they'll make each other's lives even more hellish. That would be fun to watch, but probably wouldn't be very nice for either of them in the long run. Maybe they aren't screwing, maybe they were - discussing the case? I turn on the TV and half watch a baseball game. Yes, Cuddy was at House's place Friday evening, discussing the case, right after he shaved his face, vowed to start wearing his lab coat on a daily basis and gave everyone on his team a pay raise in recognition of all the hard work they've put in this year. They were absolutely having sex. There is no other reason two people who love to hate each other that much would be hanging out together on a Friday evening. And then something horrendous dawns on me...my god, House is getting more tail than I am at the moment. It's official: my life is a complete mess. I pick up my cell and try House's number again. Chapter 26: House The journey didn't take too long, but that doesn't stop Cuddy whining about her aching butt the minute we're out of earshot of the reception area. I got inside the club before she even had her helmet off, but more importantly, before she could freak out. She followed me in and gave me a dangerous smile coupled with the evil eye, but she pretended she was okay with everything when the poor guy on reception smiled at her. He even got some sort of fake smile in return. She probably realized she was going to look stupid if she kicked off about where we were, in the middle of the reception area. It's not like she can do anything about it now, seeing as we're miles from anywhere with a bus stop or a train station. Little does she know she's going to enjoy herself today; hopefully she won't have an allergic reaction in the process. I'm off the clock. I'm glad we're going to be hitting the outdoor range, it's a nice day. I notice that the weird fat guy is here again, he's here all the time. He should get out more; out of here at least. I make like I know everyone here, even though I can only remember the names of two people, Harry on reception - because he had a badge on - and fat boy Phil...or is it Pete? Yeah it's... Pete. I wish his name was Phil; fat boy Phil sounds way better than fat boy Pete. "Is this your way of punishing me for making you drive by my place first so I could change?" Cuddy says miserably. "I thought you might like to shoot stuff, make you feel better about all those unresolved issues you've got going on," I say, floating my hand near and around her to help her visualize the issues. Unfortunately I say it loud enough for at least two groups of people to hear as we head past them and they turn and stare at her, rather worriedly. Suppose they don't like people with issues around here, wielding weapons, my bad. It's at this point I wonder why the hell I've brought Cuddy somewhere she could hypothetically pop a cap in my ass and claim it was an accident. I turn away from her death glare and we head towards the end booth where Pete is. I can feel her gaze burning into my back. I'm about ninety nine percent sure Pete has been here every time I've ever been to this place. I love that fact actually, because we always have this friendly little shoot off and I always win. And then those little veins in his neck always pop up briefly as he grits his teeth and smiles, pretending he doesn't really care that I kick his ass every time I pop in. When his jaw muscles relax enough, he laughs light heartedly and informs me, `no way would I beat him' if we were using rifles. I agree, for his pride's sake, but I'd probably take him with one of them too. I show Cuddy how to aim, and she holds the gun like a girl, which is no surprise. I eventually have to reach around her and show her how to hold it properly. It's a bit awkward and I do it as quickly as possible, before she elbows me in the ribs thinking I'm trying to cop a feel. When I pull away, she gives me a strange look that I can't seem to hold onto, so I divert my eyes and start loading my gun. Cuddy is surprisingly accurate; it's actually quite frightening how close to the center of the target she's getting towards the end. The ear protectors I chose for her are hilarious. I could have chosen simple plugs like mine, but this is funnier and if the helmet hadn't killed her hairdo, those heinous things sure have. Who spends fifteen minutes doing their hair when they know they're about to get onto a motorbike anyway? Serves her right. I glance across at her, and her face is completely serious; her arms are locked in front of her and she holds the gun steady and doesn't let it kick her back. She was a bit wobbly at first; I had concerns for any squirrels that might have been innocently gathering acorns in the immediate vicinity during a few of her first attempts, but she's really got into the swing of this fast. She's in control, and I can tell she's zoned everything else out around her to help her concentrate. I didn't expect anything else from her really; and that's how I know my evil plan has worked, because I'm pretty sure David and the Coyote are far from her mind right now. Pete can't resist a friendly little shoot off, and I can't resist betting him twenty bucks I get closer to the center of the target than he does on our first shot. I win of course, but I don't take his money. I don't think he has a job, and it's not a wise choice to take money from people who have bumper stickers reading `Yeah you can take my gun, when you come and pry it from my cold dead hands.' I think he's into his hunting too. I've never been hunting, a lot of the guys around here are into that - not that I could do it now anyway - but that's not why I like shooting. I like the precision and accuracy involved. It takes time to master this, although you wouldn't be able to tell, judging from the state of Cuddy's target. She must have done this before, surely? We take a break and head for the caf around the back. Cuddy grabs some coffees and we sit for ten minutes. I need to let my leg rest before the drive back. "So?" I enquire and then blow some air from one cheek to the next. I was going to say how are you feeling, but then realized we aren't teenage girls at a pajama party. "So?" she questions back. "You hate me and you have had the worst day of your life?" I suggest. She smiles slightly and stirs her coffee as I raise my eyebrows. "It was fun actually," she says. "It's helped," she continues. "Thanks." I stick my bottom lip out slightly and nod. I hope she's not going to start opening up or anything, I hope that's it. She stays silent for a few minutes, and I relax a bit. I can't do heart to heart shit, not here especially; not the time or place. She gives me a strange look, like she's about to ask me something, but she's not quite sure how to put it. "You were right about the file and about David," she says softly. "But you were an ass, shoving it in my face the way you did," she adds, recovering her tough administrator persona. I'm not really sure what to say, so I say nothing, and then my cell rings and I dig it out of my pocket, hoping it's one of the kids with a heads up on the case. It's Wilson. "Hey," I say into the phone, whilst holding the finger of my other hand to my lips so Cuddy doesn't say anything. She gives me a strange look but keeps her mouth shut, thankfully. "Where are you?" Wilson says. I hold the phone away from my head and aim it in the general direction of the shooting range. I keep it there for twenty seconds and then return it to my ear. "I'm at Disneyland," I say into the phone. "Mickey and Goofy just went postal; I'm hiding in a mushroom house with an Oompa-Loompa." Cuddy gives me another strange look, then rips the orange ear muffs from where they are resting on her head and gives me an evil look. "Cheerful today," Wilson says, and I notice his words are laced with a slightly dangerous tone. "I'm cheerful every day; I'm the very epitome of cheer. What do you want?" "Just wondering what you're up to, not really seen much of you this week," Wilson says, in a strangely high pitched voice, like he's forcing the conversation out for the hell of it, and I'll be honest, it's very girly, very Wilson. "Okay; I'd love to talk to you about knitting patterns but I'm busy shooting stuff at the moment Wilson, can I call you back later?" I say. "Yeah, I did come by your place last night, thought you'd like to have a few beers but I saw you had company, so I figured I'd leave you to it." Oh crap. I get a look on my face that feels severely worried, and I assume it must look that way too, because Cuddy mirrors it and tilts her head. I clear my throat. "What are you talking about?" "Cuddy's car, parked outside your place," Wilson prompts. "We were discussing the case," I say quickly, then close my eyes, because I have a feeling I know what he's going to say next. "At eight p.m. on a Friday evening?" I stare at Cuddy, she stares at me, and I swallow and then remove the phone from my ear and fake the best disturbance sound I can into the receiver. "We may have a slight problem," I say to her as I hang up on Wilson and turn off the phone. Chapter 27: Cuddy House didn't have to tell me who it was on the phone; there's no one else he talks to like that. Or who would dare ask him what he's up to. Wilson has managed to thoroughly burst my bubble, I reflect glumly, as I cling onto House for dear life while he takes the corner onto the highway much too fast. The bike's not any more comfortable the second time, in fact, I reckon I'm going to be walking like a cowboy for the rest of the weekend. I could cheerfully kill my Head of Oncology right at this minute. Couldn't he have sat on his curiosity at least until Monday morning? Then I consider the fact that at least this way House and I will have the chance to plan our approach before we go back to work. That's if House will talk about it all. Maybe it'll just be easier to avoid Wilson for a bit. Although, crap...I'm pretty sure I said I'd sit in on interviews with him all Monday afternoon. The scenery flashes past and although the weather was sunny earlier, it looks like it's going to rain now. House is still driving far too fast. I wish he wouldn't, not just because I don't have a death wish, but also because the sooner we get back to Princeton, the sooner I'm going to have to have a conversation with him. The rain hits just as we reach the Princeton city limits; big fat drops that run into my eyes and drip off the end of my nose. Great, just what I need, I think sourly, a cold shower. --- My legs are so stiff when I jump down off the bike outside my place that I nearly fall over. I take my helmet off, which makes a trickle of rainwater run down my neck. I twitch a strand of my poor maltreated hair over my shoulder and inspect it. It looks like frizzy rat tails. I'm waiting for a mocking comment from House, and it surprises me when I don't get one. He's still sitting on the bike, staring straight ahead into space, the rain beading on his helmet. I go round so he can see me. "You're going to say, `we need to talk' aren't you?" he says, morosely. "Well, actually I was going to say, do you want some lunch? And maybe to borrow a towel? But yeah, we do need to talk." I go inside. I don't want to get any wetter and I decide that it's up to him whether he comes in or not, I'm not going to try to persuade him. I'm starving so I head straight for the kitchen, grabbing the hand towel from the bathroom as I go and trying not to look in the mirror. My fridge doesn't have a whole lot that's edible in it. I'm pondering unlikely recipes featuring one egg, half an onion and a potato salad, when I remember I've got lasagna in the freezer. So I put that in the microwave to heat up, and start making a salad to go with it. I'm just chopping the tomatoes when House limps into the kitchen, minus his helmet and jacket and sits down heavily at my kitchen table. He gets his Vicodin out of his jeans pocket and takes one. I've never actually invited him here before - although obviously he's been here, when Alfredo was sick, and then on Thursday night. I am suddenly surprised at just how angry I still feel about him letting himself and Chase in that time. I've never invited him to my place for exactly the reason I feel angry - because I knew he would pick through all my stuff and make judgments. Well, that's what he does, but just because I work with him doesn't mean he's got the right to know everything about me. Which he would if we were in a relationship. Whoa, where did that thought come from? "Cuddy, stop thinking so much, it's making the air thick," House says, tiredly, leaning back in his seat. Water drips from his curly head and onto my kitchen floor. I pick up the towel from where I left it on the sideboard and throw it to him. "I'll stop thinking if you stop making a mess of my floor," I say, tartly, and then I make myself busy finishing the salad, getting plates and silverware out and finding a mat to put the now bubbling hot lasagna dish on. We eat in silence, pretty much. House is hungry too; at any rate, we finish the lasagna between us and I certainly don't eat half of it. I clear the plates away and make some coffee and we go and sit in the other room. I can tell he's in pain after the bike ride, and sure enough, as soon as he's sat down on the couch, he props his right leg up on my coffee table, glancing at me because he's obviously expecting me to tell him off, but I don't. Let's face it; there are more important things to talk about at the moment than the state of my living room furniture. I sit down beside him on the couch, leaving a cordon sanitaire of a couple of feet between us. "Is this the part where you tell me we're colleagues and this will never work?" he enquires, at length, stirring sugar into his coffee. I'm amazed sometimes he hasn't rotted all his teeth. "Is that what you want me to say?" I ask. He's still intensely interested in his coffee and not in meeting my eye. "I don't know," he says, still not looking at me. It sounds like an honest answer. "If you'd told me two days ago that I could sleep with you twice and yet we wouldn't be looking for heavy objects to hurl at each other by now, I wouldn't have believed you. And this throws me." I look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and I wonder how much sleep he got last night. I imagine working with him every day if we choose not to pursue this; I think of how much harder it's going to be now I've been so fully reminded of what I saw in him in the first place. And then, I don't want to talk any more; talking is always what gets us in trouble. So I lean across and kiss him instead, taking my time. He's a bit tense as first, but after a few moments he slides a hand under my hair and pulls me closer to him, but then he lets me go and moves away. "Hang on - we haven't shouted abuse at each other yet. I'm not sure I can do this without foreplay," he says, rubbing a hand over his bristly chin, in a quizzical fashion. "It's okay, I'll give you a free pass," I tell him. "But I like arguing with you," he whines. "I know," I say, smiling, because it's true, but he's never come out and admitted it in as many words before. This is different from before. I actually have a choice here. There's going to be no passing this one off as a bad decision made while in an emotional state. House guesses what I'm thinking. "This is the third time...it could get to be a habit." "Would that be so bad?" I ask. I genuinely want to know. I can't make up my mind what I feel about all this. "Have I got any good habits?" he asks, and I shake my head, get up off the sofa and carefully settle myself back down in his lap. Because what Wilson knows one day, the nurses will know the next. And the whole of PPTH will know the day after. It's pointless thinking we can keep this a secret, so we may as well enjoy it while we can. It is different this time. We just neck for a long time, like teenagers, while the rain runs softly down the windows of my living room and the couch gives occasional creaks of protest under our combined weights. I remember we used to do this at Michigan, passing long hours on rainy Saturday afternoons when there was nothing on TV and we were both too hung over to face the library. "Cuddy, you're thinking again," House says, when we've paused and finally, he looks at me directly, "Don't overdo it, will you?" "I was just thinking that all this," I wave a hand, vaguely indicating the two of us, "What are the odds? I meet someone who reminds me of David, and thanks to your idle curiosity, it kind of mushrooms and now everything's different...but I'd never got over it in the first place; I can see that now." House looks thoughtful and I'm surprised he hasn't got a comeback for that `idle.' Because according to him, his curiosity is never idle. "I've got an idea," he says, sounding more cheerful than he has all day since Wilson called him. Continues in Part 10   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.