Fandom: House MD
Challenge/Prompt: 7snogs, #1. Uniform
Copyright: It's not a songfic but I didn't want to use stars to break it up, so the italic thingamajigs are from "Can't Be Sure" by The Sundays.
Summary: The Vogler arc. Cuz House and Cuddy were so sleeping together durng it.
Author’s Notes: I am so cross! This should be better than it is but I am incapable of making it better. Part of my "channel five adverts" series, there's a Cameron one that exists and a Chase one in progress.
You could tell her you’re not in love with her, and that would be the truth. You could tell her you don’t need her, and that would also be true. And you could tell her that that first time wasn’t supposed to happen and that, too, wouldn’t be a lie. But then you’d have to face those blue eyes and have to explain why you kept letting it happen, over and over again, and whatever you said to her would definitely be untrue.
You’re falling apart - not that obviously, at least not to anyone but Wilson (and maybe Chase- he can be a perceptive little weasel when he feels inclined)- and it is all you can do to remember to breathe and she’s there, all smiles and lipstick and suits in colours no one should wear that somehow always manage to look good on her. But whatever. You are in tatters to a certain degree, and she isn’t.
And then she is. Vogler is ripping you all apart as he strides through the hospital and changes everything around and you watch Chase switch sides like the traitor he is, and you are on more Vicodin than ever and she really, really isn’t sleeping and suddenly everything is crazy, and hell, now you’re fucking Cuddy, and that doesn’t seem any less strange than anything else going on.
And did you know desire’s a terrible thing?
The first time was in her office, blinds drawn, door locked. You’d been shouting at each other for ten minutes over something like Vogler or your latest patient or your Vicodin habit or something else like that that you will argue over forever until one of you is dead, and then you were kissing with no obvious transition between the yelling and the taste of her lipstick.
“We can’t do this,” she said, pushing you away. “Vogler already thinks I’m sleeping with you- let’s not make this any worse.”
“If he already thinks I’m sleeping with you then it doesn’t actually matter,” you pointed out, a justification neither of you actually needed. And then, of course, you spoilt it by asking quietly: “Is this guilt sex for the detox thing?”
Cuddy’s look spoke volumes and after that neither of you actually talked very much.
It makes the world go blind
Anyway, the two of you have this thing where you want to stop but you, you know, can’t, and you’re not fucking her to save your job because you know that whatever you do you’re not endearing yourself to her any more than you were before. You don’t know why you both do it, you just do because it seems like the sort of thing you ought to do right now.
And yes, it does sound painful to hear.
You don’t tease her. It’s not about how long you can both hold off or how many times you can draw close to the edge before backing off or foreplay or taking time to appreciate what colour her eyes go when she’s about to come. It’s not about that at all. It’s about-
Is it a problem that you don’t know what it’s about?
And did you know desire’s a terrible thing?
“We’re in a war,” she says breathlessly, “You on one side, him on the other.”
“Ah,” you whisper with your lips against her neck, “But whose side are you on?”
Not yours. She doesn’t say it but you both hear it vividly loudly, because it’s true. She can’t pick you. And you don’t want her to.
“Does it kill you, what you’re doing to me?” you enquire, puncturing the enquiry with a thrust of your hips. Cuddy bites her lip as words fail her for a moment, and then smiles.
“Not nearly as much as you want it to,” she tells you, but that’s a lie, and you both know that too. It’s killing Cuddy having to suck up to Vogler hour after hour and she doesn’t want to fire your department or spend her days reading back through your patient files (especially the ones that you got bored on, and started detailing exactly how you were winning your current gameboy level. It was, however, when she found an essay on the merits of Cameron’s ass (with complimentary footnotes about Chase’s and derogatory ones about Foreman’s) in the middle of Sister Augustine’s file that she came striding up to diagnostics to scream at you).
You know that I really don’t mind
You don’t like Cuddy much, at least not in a Cameron-type way (although that’s probably all to the good, really), and you know damn well she doesn’t like you. This war you’ve got going with Vogler that has caught her hospital in the middle is resoundingly not amusing her and you don’t really blame her (but you don’t pity her enough to actually stop). However, you do appreciate her, even if it is only in a she-went-down-on-you-the-day-you-actuall
(You could stop at any time but you like the marks her fingernails leave in your back and the idea that you could bring them up at any time just to make her blush.)
(Besides, the look on Cameron’s face would be priceless.)
And it’s my life
Cameron quits which is surprisingly awkward, what with the lingering looks that won’t wash off all evening, and Foreman and Chase spending all their time snapping and snarling at each other. Under normal circumstances this would be entertaining, but unfortunately you’ve got something akin to guilt rushing around amusing itself and you haven’t got rid of it yet. It’s entirely Cameron’s fault, for all her fucking wide-eyed whispering affectionate stuff, giving you birthday and Christmas presents and getting entirely the wrong idea when you asked her to that monster truck rally thing (damn Wilson to hell). Buy a girl some candyfloss and she immediately assumes you want her ass. Honestly, what is it with these people?
“Are you thinking of Cameron?” Cuddy enquires later on that day when you’re half-sprawled in her chair and she’s on your lap and your thigh aches but for once that thought is at the back of your head (underneath another pile of thoughts that are mostly wethottightohGodrightthere and other things of that nature).
“She’s got nothing on your ass,” you reply, pulling her blouse aside to bite her shoulder just ‘cause you can, “What about you?”
“By all means, if it gets you off faster,” she mutters, “I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”
And though I can’t be sure what I want anymore
The day Wilson gets fired, you have Cuddy bent backwards over her desk with your fingers deep inside her and her skirt rucked up around her waist.
“So,” you murmur, “Wilson got fired because he was the only guy who wanted me to stay.”
Cuddy opens her eyes and they’re flushed vivid blue, pupils wide and dilated, but when she replies she only sounds a little breathy.
“I need one good reason why I should keep you,” she replies bluntly.
(So you twist your fingers and give her one.)
Of course, you both know now that it’s only a matter of time before you’re leaving, and you don’t admit that you’re a little bothered by the fact that she voted against you. Not because you want to matter to her but because… is it too much to ask? To get a vague vote of support from a woman who is supposed to at least tolerate you?
And sometimes you wish that you hadn’t complicated things so much.
It will come to me later
The last time that the two of you kiss she tastes like champagne. Vogler is… four hours gone, Jimmy is happily re-instated, Chase is privately shitting himself. The usual. And you’re checking Olive Kaplan’s scans one last time to make sure when Cuddy comes back into your office again. It’s dark outside, darker than anything has any right to be.
“If you had just worn your fucking labcoat-” she begins.
“Don’t start, Lisa,” you reply around the pen in your mouth.
“I think I have every right to ‘start’,” she snaps, “Since you cost the hospital all that money and it could have been avoided if you’d just toned down your anarchy for a couple of months. Doctors are supposed to wear their labcoats. It’s not a huge issue. Done that, kept your head down, and Vogler wouldn’t have known you from Adam. But no.”
“Lisa,” you say again, because you like the way she gets all disconcerted when you call her by her first name, “Shut up.”
It’s been a long day and you’re tired and your leg hurts and you will not- will not- allow her to kill your buzz just yet. Her mouth opens like she wants to continue screaming at you because she’s angry, so very, very angry, and you don’t want to hear it because you never do.
Your mouth crushes hers and you swallow her words and taste them mingled with the champagne but there’s nothing but blissful silence in your office, delicious silence. You think: this is better.
The next day you both go back to acting like nothing’s happened.