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1.
He's still there in the morning.
Cuddy wakes up sharply, tumbling out of an anxious dream with her heart pounding, feeling watched. The feeling of House's body in her bed--the solid mass of him, the heat between them where she's curled half over his chest--it's unfamiliar, and for a moment she can't remember how it happened. She blinks sleep out of her eyes and takes a shaky breath, trying to banish the dream. Gradually, last night, what they did, comes back to her, warm and slow and smug. Cuddy smiles, brilliantly, and hides it against his collarbone. She wants to take a moment longer, before she has to worry about facing him. Her pulse skips a bit. She's nervous, and it's ridiculous. Last night she was powerful, in charge, in control. This morning she has no idea what to expect.
The last time she woke up next to him was more than twenty years ago. Then, he'd had no scruples at all about nudging his morning erection against the cleft of her ass, nosing her hair aside to slide kisses along her neck, one hand already reaching for her breast. God, his grin then, when she twisted in his arms to glare up at him. He knew he was irresistable like that, aroused and sleepy and warm. The memory is powerful and Cuddy wants that, suddenly, lazy morning sex with nowhere to go afterwards unless it's to follow him on a five-mile run, challenging his pace every step of the way, and then back to the shower, together.
She knows it won't be like that today. House hasn't moved since she woke, or spoken. His shoulders are tense beneath her, his abdominal muscles contracted, as if he's standing poised over a horrible fall, and everything depends on him staying absolutely still. His heartbeat, under her ear, is faster than it should be. Something's wrong.
Cuddy gasps when she remembers his leg. She pushes herself up immediately, and House grunts sharply. Naked, she leans over him, her breasts brushing against his chest. "House--"
He refuses to meet her eyes. He's staring at the wall opposite. The lines around his eyes are deep and set, and there's a muscle ticking in his jaw where he's clenching his teeth. His cane and his pills are both on the far side of the room. Cuddy gets out of bed, shivering when she slips out from under his arm. She grabs his motorcycle jacket, and fumbles in the pockets for the bottle. She takes it to him, and opens it when his fingers stutter on the lid. House tips his head back and quickly swallows two. The tension in his neck eases by a degree, but he's still sweating, and his constant frown is etched deeper than usual, between his eyes and around his thin lips.
Cuddy caps the bottle and puts it on the bedside table, carefully within his reach. "Why the hell didn't you wake me up?" she says.
House gets up on one elbow, rolling away from her, one hand gripping white-knuckled at his thigh. "Didn't want to interrupt your beauty sleep," he grits out. "Satan might disapprove."
"Stop it." Cuddy puts a hand on his shoulder and rolls him back, wincing when his hand spasms on his thigh despite her gentleness. "You're not going anywhere."
House shrugs off her hand. "Do you drain the life out of every guy you sleep with like this? No wonder you can't keep a man."
Cuddy tightens her lips, but she's not going to let her anger show. "What can I do?" she asks.
House looks at her for the first time. He's furious, his eyes stormy and dull. "Not much that I've ever noticed, unless it's fucking the morons who hand out the fancy doctor degrees."
The room feels colder than it should. Cuddy's stomach drops, the blood draining from her face. House bites down and looks away, staring at the door again. His biceps twitch and quiver as he massages his thigh just above the scar. Cuddy clamps down on every part of her that wants to turn away from him, outraged and hurt. It's not the door he's staring at. It's his cane. She propped it there last night. She forgot.
Cuddy grabs his hand and shoves it aside, ignoring his hiss of pain, and covers his thigh with her palms. His skin is fever-hot, the remaining muscles under and around the scar knotted and tight. She digs her hands into the scar tissue, watching his face. House closes his eyes, a cloud of anguish passing over his features. She works on the cramp, not bothering to be gentle, but going quickly in order to loosen the muscles and encourage blood flow. House doesn't say anything, breathing harsh and irregular. Gradually, his shoulders ease, and his frown lightens, until he's shivering underneath her, his muscles trembling in reaction.
When he lets out a breath that seems to push away the last edge of the pain, she stops. House doesn't open his eyes. Cuddy slips of the bed and brings his cane back. She puts it in his hand, closing her fingers over his. "I'm sorry," she says, quietly, but firmly.
He frowns again, just a hint this time. He pushes up, away from her. "Can't even do the walk of shame properly," he says, voice as cold as winter, his back to her. He limps awkwardly across the room. His shoulder bunches as he leans on on his cane, his right foot drags slightly on every step. She's never noticed, when he's dressed, just how much every part of his body is involved in moving him a few simple steps. He uses his cane to gather his clothes into a heap. "Supposed to abandon you and never call."
Cuddy doesn't want to watch him try and bend to pick up his clothes. She snatches them up before he can and shoves them into his arms. "Don't you dare," she says.
House's gaze drops to the floor again. They're both naked, just his clothes between them. He takes them from her. Cuddy knows he doesn't want to look at her, doesn't want to apologize, doesn't want to acknowledge that she's watching. She takes her robe and leaves him with his clothes, so he won't be humiliated when he has to sit down again to dress.
She's making coffee when he makes his way out of the bedroom. From the slow tap of his cane, she knows he hasn't recovered yet. Not that he ever will. Not that he'll ever take back what he said. Cuddy frowns at the coffee maker, feeling tense and snappish. She grips the counter until her knuckles whiten. She doesn't want to turn around.
"I didn't want to wake you," House mutters behind her.
When Cuddy faces him, he's already step-tapping out of the room. She doesn't call after him to wait.
Twenty years ago, when she woke in his arms, he was already awake, and watching. Grinning down at her, hard and eager and whole.
Cuddy listens to the grumble of the motorcycle starting. The kitchen blurs in front of her, until she rubs the last of the sleep out of her eyes. She drinks her coffee when it's ready, in her quiet house, and misses twenty years of chances, of mornings after.
2.
It's always the pain that wakes him first, and this morning is no exception. The dull throb is less insistent than usual, though, and the rest of his body feels heavier, so weighted down with sleep that he can barely lift his arm to reach for his pills. When he opens his eyes, blearily, he sees the bottle, the red glare of numerals on the alarm clock, and a Tiffany lamp that definitely isn't his. House grins, letting a satisfied sound rumble through his chest, wondering if it'll wake Cuddy. She's draped over him, her body relaxed in sleep, a curl of her hair tickling his chin. He can feel the soft curve of her breasts against his side, the brush of her pubic hair, one foot cool against his calf. He already hates how good it feels, how easy it was to fall into this pattern. He wants to blame Cuddy for being a snuggler, but his arm is wrapped around her and he doesn't want to move.
He manages his pills one-handed, just one to take the edge off the moment when he first tries to move. He frowns a bit as he caps the bottle and sets it on the bedside table again. Cuddy must have gotten up at some point to get them. His cane's leaning against the table, too, in reach if he sits up. He shrugs a bit, wriggling his fingers to see if he's going to get pins and needles all through his shoulder where Cuddy's lying on him. She murmurs in her sleep and he stops, holding his breath.
She settles again, this time with her lips a little lower down on his chest. House laughs, a low humming chuckle. She's awake, doesn't want to show it. He rubs his fingertips over her shoulder, lightly enough that she can ignore him if she wants. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her hair, brushing his chin over the top of her head. He wants to roll her over, lie between her spread thighs, kiss her while he fucks her slowly. His mouth on her neck when she tips her head back, using his knees to thrust deeper inside her, feeling the hot squeeze of her muscles. It's a great idea, genius, but it's nothing his body can do much with. House frowns instead, and wonders how his life is going to start sucking even worse to make up for this; it's too good, and he's going to end up paying somehow.
"Hey," he says softly, into the dim too-early morning, "you wanna go see a play?"
Cuddy muffles something completely undignified in his chest, a snort or a giggle. House jostles her, pulling his arm back and dumping her head on the pillow. She's laughing in earnest now, even as he pushes up on one arm and rolls to his left, so that he can lean over her, watch her. He's always loved watching Cuddy in the mornings, when she's tousled and pale without her make-up. It makes her eyes bluer somehow, and more honest. He lays a hand on her stomach and then slides it higher, smirking when she doesn't stop him, and cups her breast. No reason, no intent; but she's naked under him and he can't not. He grins and watches his fingers, teasing across her nipple until it stands up under his attention.
"I'm more than just a mammary gland," Cuddy says, in her annoyed get-thee-to-thy-clinic-hours voice.
"What's that?" he shouts, leaning down and pressing his ear to her breast. "Didn't quite hear you the first time!"
Cuddy shoves him back, laughing again. "Don't you ever shave?"
"The instruction manual that came with my razor says 'do not operate while sleeping'." Not that he's ever really been one to listen to the fine print. He lunges in again, and gets tangled when Cuddy wraps an arm around his neck, pulling him closer and kissing him lightly. He kisses back, meeting her lips softly. They've both got morning breath. House doesn't care. Cuddy tastes like laughter, and desire. He lets her roll him back, because it's even better when she's above him, pushing him down into the bed, holding him still.
After a minute, she pushes up and demands, "What play?"
"Only the best," House says, straight-faced, loving the sway of her breasts against his arm, the way her legs have somehow twined around his good one. "Hooters Masterpiece Theatre, and I'll buy you all the hot wings you can eat."
She makes a face and rolls her eyes. House just reaches up and kisses her again, to hide how easy it is to smile.
3.
Wilson wakes up first. He's lying on his side, his head propped on his bent arm and half a pillow. It's the tug of the covers that wakes him, and it's the careful habit of three marriages that stops him from yanking them back. He rubs his eyes with one hand and reaches for his watch, only to find it isn't carefully propped next to his cell phone and his keys. Habit was the last thing on his mind last night. He gets out of the bed and grabs his shorts before he turns around to look at them. Maybe he already knew, from waking up on the edge of the bed, that they'd be next to each other, in each other's arms. That doesn't make it easy to see it confirmed. House is taking up most of the center of the bed, calmly and deeply asleep. Cuddy's curled up next to him, using him as a pillow, lying carelessly across his left leg. Wilson takes his clothes out to the living room and dresses quietly, putting himself back together as if last night didn't happen. Habit, again.
His clothes are wrinkled, though, and he missed a sock somewhere in the pile of clothes. He finds his watch in the pocket of his coat, hanging neatly in Cuddy's closet, and he blushes at the amount of premeditation that suggests. He wasn't thinking about sex last night, arriving here. He wasn't hoping. The watch is awkward on his wrist and too often he jams it into one pocket or another. It's an easy thing to misplace. He puts it back on as a reminder.
There's not much left to do, then, except to slip out. He doesn't know if he's welcome. He doesn't know if he wants to stay, even if he is.
But he's short a sock, and it's not like he won't have to face House and Cuddy at work. Best, maybe, to get the awkwardness over with under controlled circumstances--something that's not likely at the hospital, not with House involved.
By the time Cuddy shows up, dressed for her morning run, Wilson has figured out the organizational system of her kitchen, and the coffee's just finished brewing. He hasn't done anything fancy; set out some bagels that need to be eaten soon, by the look of them, beside a container of cream cheese. He's gotten desperate enough to start chopping vegetables and shredding some cheddar for an omelette.
He smiles sheepishly at her over the bowl where he's cracking eggs. "I looked around," he says.
Cuddy raises her eyebrows, but she lets him pour her a mug of coffee and then finds him a spatula while he pours the eggs into a frying pan. They don't talk, really, and it's a relief when Cuddy starts running water in the sink to rinse their dishes from last night's dinner.
House, as always, has perfect timing when it comes to food. He comes in as Wilson's dividing up the omelette onto three plates, dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, barefoot. He's grizzled and his hair is sticking out in messy spikes. Wilson licks his lips and frowns at his plate. It's too much like their mornings when he lived at House's place, and he doesn't know what to do with that. Not this morning.
House pulls out a chair and sits down heavily, then waves a sock in Wilson's face. Wilson takes it, exasperated, trying not to wonder if House hid it on purpose. It's pointless to think that maybe House wanted him to stay. Easier to think that House wanted him to cook.
"This is excellent," Cuddy says, after taking her time to savour a bite. Wilson smiles at her and mumbles a thank you.
House dumps pepper on his portion and starts shovelling it into his mouth without a word. Cuddy smiles over his head at Wilson, and he can't tell if she's trying to share her fond irritation with him, or if it's something more possessive. He's going to get a headache if he tries to second-guess himself, so he retreats to eating.
He's never had a stranger morning. He can't recall a meal, ever, when House didn't talk; but House is brooding, silent, not looking at either of them. Wilson starts thinking up topics to discuss with Cuddy, but all he's got to fall back on is work: Brown's incompetence or the upcoming board meeting. He panics quietly, while Cuddy seems entranced by the bottom of her coffee mug. House grunts his approval after he's cleared his plate, and heads back to Cuddy's bedroom, presumably for the rest of his clothes.
"Thank you," Cuddy says, when he helps her clear the dishes, and Wilson almost jumps at her voice. Again, he doesn't know what he's supposed to hear: thank you for the breakfast? For the sex? For not saying anything in front of House?
He doesn't know. He thinks of checking himself into a psych ward somewhere very far away; it's got to be more restful than this. When House appears again, he's fully dressed, down to his sneakers. He glances at Wilson and Cuddy, where they're cleaning up the kitchen, and then starts for the door.
"Um, I guess I'll..." Wilson starts, and Cuddy doesn't argue.
They leave together. Wilson accepts Cuddy's kiss on his cheek with a smile. House heads down the steps for his motorcycle, ignoring both of them. Wilson follows him, wondering when the hell he's going to say something. Joke about Wilson being gay, about double-teaming, about Cuddy's breasts, about anything.
House stops beside the bike. Wilson stands beside him, but neither of them are really looking at the other. Then House slides his gaze sideways, as if he's not even certain about meeting Wilson's eyes. Wilson holds his breath, waiting for the jab, the sly remark. Instead, House brushes against him as he turns to the bike, almost accidentally, except his thumb touches, warm and fleeting, against Wilson's wrist.
Wilson has no time to react before House grabs his helmet and pulls it on. With a quick rev of the bike's engine, he's out on the street, speeding away, leaving Wilson standing beside his careful car, in his careful suit, the morning after a threesome with his boss and his best friend.
He still has no idea what's going on, but he's suddenly hopeful, in a way that's not careful at all.
4.
House wakes up with his arms splayed out towards the corners of the bed. His wrists are sore, and his biceps ache like the morning after a good workout. He yawns, and shivers a bit, because the sheets are rucked down around his waist, and for once Cuddy's not trying to smother him with her breasts. He pulls his arms down, almost surprised that he can, and rubs at his wrists. He smells coffee, and blinks, surprised that he didn't wake up first. He shifts to his side, knowing what he'll see before he looks. Doesn't stop it from grabbing hold of him, somewhere behind his sternum, and squeezing. Cuddy's curled in an armchair across the room, her legs tucked up underneath her, dressed--if you can call it that--in her black robe, and breathing in the steam from her mug. He can see the line of her breast where the robe gapes a little at the top, and her legs are crossed so that he can almost see all the way up her thighs. Somehow it's even more tantalizing than seeing her naked.
"God," he says. "I want...your coffee."
"And you're officially middle-aged," Cuddy says. "That's so depressing." But she smiles, wide and glinting mischief, and whatever's got its grip on House's breastbone grabs harder and twists. He rolls far enough to grab his pills and uses the morning ritual of telling his leg to back off to avoid having to think.
"Didn't let me get my revenge," he says, lying back and yawning at the ceiling. "Not fair."
"Early bird gets the handcuffs," Cuddy says.
"Mrm," he says, and plays with the idea of what he'd have done if he'd woken up first. He's sure he could have gotten her tied down before she knew what was happening, and her outraged glare when she woke up, naked, straining against the cuffs...
Christ, that's inspiring.
House yawns again, and reaches under the covers. "Get over here," he says, roughly, when he finds that his body's decided to be cooperative for once.
Cuddy rolls her eyes. "It's like violins and roses," she says. "Do you use that line on all the girls?"
"Works better on the boys, for some reason." He smirks up at her, still jacking himself slowly under the covers. "Cuddy. Come on."
"Oh, even better," she says, but she uncurls from her chair.
House watches her, lazily, as she sets her coffee down and stalks to the bed, letting the robe fall as she comes. She's fucking beautiful, and they've gotten to this place, where he can ask and she'll say yes; where between them they have mornings and not just mornings after.
She's so warm, when she lies next to him, takes his face in her hands so that she can kiss him. Handcuffs or not, she must still have him tied to the bed, somehow, because he doesn't think he'll ever be able to go.
5.
Cuddy wakes up alone.
She stretches idly before she even opens her eyes, enjoying having the entire bed to herself. In the last month, House has spent the night more than he hasn't, and it's almost strange to wake up without worrying about jarring his leg or wrestling back some covers for herself.
She smiles as she gets dressed, thinking about House's reaction to her blouse, which, if she bends just right, shows hints of a bra that he was very enthusiastic about. How the mighty have fallen. She's not supposed to be looking forward to House's comments about her breasts. She's supposed to glare him down every time he dares.
She's pretty sure that by now, he gets off more on her glare than her breasts. No one at work cares, or notices, more than they should. Nothing's changed as far as they know, and only Wilson blushes a little more around them when House jokes about her cracking the whip.
She's nearly on her way out the door when her cell phone buzzes in her purse. She takes it out of her purse and glances at the time. House knows her schedule. Calling now is exactly like him, but she finds herself answering anyway.
"It's Shark Week," he says. "What the hell is an unprovoked shark attack? If you're in their water, you deserve what you get."
Cuddy shakes her head, trying not to laugh enough that he'll hear. "Was that the point of this call?"
"Blood in the water, innocent swimmers maimed for life," he says. "Thought of you."
She can't help smiling. "Did you have a reason for calling?" she repeats, letting herself sound annoyed, knowing he'll hear right through it.
"Since I can't see your cleavage from here, probably not," he answers, and she hears the sound of his breath as he hesitates, almost speaking.
Cuddy wishes, suddenly, that she could see him. Probably sitting in the living room, legs up on the coffee table, the hand holding his cell propped on the arm of the couch, idly watching something pointless and violent on TV (and protesting that violence is the point, or else that it's impossible to have a point if the show isn't porn). She imagines him pouting a bit, that solemn-serious look he gets when he thinks no one's watching.
"House," she says, "I do have to go to work sometime today," because goading usually works where asking doesn't.
"What can I do to convince you to be late?" he asks, his voice dropping and turning rough.
Cuddy smiles. "You're not that convincing, House."
"I haven't noticed you saying no to me lately."
"You haven't tried to treat a patient like your personal guinea pig lately," she answers.
"Well, my man-sized Habitrail wouldn't fit in the hospital. The running wheel, though--"
She can hear his grin over the phone. It's like high school, the pauses that are even more significant than the words.
"You gonna go?" he teases. He knows she's already late.
"Some time," she says.
"Yeah." He clears his throat, and Cuddy can almost hear the words on the tip of his tongue, the reason he called even though she'll see him at work in less than an hour, even though they'll probably end up back at her place, together, tonight. Whatever it is, he leaves it hanging, and just says, "Yeah," again, like it means everything in the world. Maybe, from House, it does.
She listens to his breathing, imagines him saying gruffly, "Love you," before he snaps his phone shut as obnoxiously as only House can. She closes her eyes and shakes her head at herself. It's not going to happen.
But she doesn't hang up, and neither does he.