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for therapeute

Written by: silvia_duchessa
Written for: therapeute
Rating: R
Title: It's Like They're Married

House rolled over in bed, groaning, his peaceful slumber and dreams about Cuddy in a slutty Santa outfit interrupted by the blaring ringing of his phone.

Speak of the devil.

He considered ignoring the call, knowing it would only mean work, and he was much more attracted to the idea of enjoying a lie in whilst the pain in his leg was unusually low. He’d discovered, though, that a significant downside to sharing a house with the Dean of Medicine was (amongst others) that she, or his team, would simply appear in his bedroom. No peace for the wicked.

“Yeah?” he grunted into the phone, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“House,” barked Cuddy down the phone. “It’s 10.30.”

“Thanks for that update. I’ll be enjoying the rest of my lie in now.”

“House!” House paused, groaning as he put the phone back to his ear. “You have a case. Thirty-three year old male with…”

A description of symptoms, several rejected theories and a handful of insults later, Cuddy won the battle and an already-conspiring House was on his way to the hospital.


House limped down the corridor to his conference room, seeing his team, as usual, already assembled, with cups of coffee and files placed sporadically around the table.

“Thirty-three year old male with…” began Taub as House barged through the door.

“Yeah, yeah, already done that bit,” said House, waving his words away. He chucked his coat on the hanger and grabbed a pastry from the table.

“It’s TB,” said Thirteen.

“It’s not TB!” insisted Taub, clearly picking up a previous argument.

“Foreman,” House shouted across the table, looking up at the doctor for his opinion. “And don’t be biased just ‘cause Thirteen won’t let you join her lesbian threesomes anymore…”


Cuddy pushed the door to her office open with her hip, scanning one of the files in her arms. She glanced up at her desk, and stopped, frowning. There, in the middle of the burnished wood, was a large bunch of red roses. A slow smile spread on Cuddy’s face at the gesture, wondering who they were from. Surely not…

She fingered the flowers, searching for a card. Nothing.

“Hmm,” she said to herself, frowning. A secret admirer? Or more mind games from House?

As she put them into a vase and went back to her work, she tried not to admit to herself how much she wanted it to be the latter.


House didn’t hear the click clack of Cuddy’s fuck-me heels as she made her way towards his office over the sound of his mini TV, but continued to ignore her in favour of his soap as she walked through the doors to the centre of the room.

“House,” she said, and he looked up, less because he actually cared what she was getting at him for now, but more because he was curious to see what inappropriate, skin-tight, low-cut clothing she had put on today. He smiled slightly at the cream top with a sweeping neckline he had almost ripped off her a few days ago.

“How’s your case going?” Cuddy asked, looking down at her shoes momentarily.

“They’re off doing some blood tests,” House said, waving his arm vaguely at the corridor and wondering what Cuddy was putting off saying. There was a pause.

“I got some roses,” she told him, changing her stance slightly and lifting her chin up as if ready to deflect the mocking she would surely get at something so romantic. House said nothing, but looked away, his face a mask.

“Were they from you?” Cuddy asked hesitantly.

“Yep,” House replied suddenly, his gaze snapping back to Cuddy’s. He could see her weighing up whether to believe him or not.

“OK,” she said, smiling slightly in amusement, and turned to go. Just as she walked out the door, she turned, and said:

“Thank you.”

House nodded, and leant back in his chair, swinging his feet up onto his desk as he frowned in thought.


Wilson looked up briefly as House marched into his office, slumping down into the chair opposite him.

“Haven’t you got a case?” he remarked, reading through some paperwork.

“The team are running some tests.”

“Still?” said Wilson in disbelief.

“I’m trying to teach them independence,” House told him, and Wilson smirked.

“Cuddy got sent some roses,” House said suddenly, and Wilson looked up.

“Not from you?” he checked, looking curious.

“No,” said House quickly. “Why would I give her roses?!” he asked in amazement, trying to shake of the awkwardness he felt at the idea of something so romantic.

“Well you two live together without killing each other,” Wilson remarked as House stared out the window. “Anything’s possible. Who does Cuddy think they’re from?”

“Me. I’m going to use it as a bargaining tool,” he said, looking back at his friend, who was unsurprised.


Cuddy was queuing for lunch when the smell of a familiar aftershave washed over her (she reminded herself to find some interesting use for that at some point) and House plonked his tray down next to hers, loading it up with food.

“Shirts like that are asking for sexual harassment lawsuits,” he told her, grabbing a packet of crisps.

“Is that your excuse?” Cuddy asked him with a raised eyebrow and slight smirk.

House’s eyes glinted back at her in mischief before he picked up his tray and said to the cashier, “She’ll pay,” nodding at Cuddy. “Our money comes from the same account,” he shrugged when she opened her mouth to protest.

“That’s what you think,” she remarked dryly, handing over a fistful of notes to the cashier. No sooner had she placed her tray down opposite him than his pager went off.

“Patient’s crashed,” he said, glancing at it, and, grabbing as much food as possible from the tray, he limped out of the canteen. Wilson sat down in the vacated seat as Cuddy helped herself to the food House had left.

“Hey,” he said.

“I got some roses,” she told him, licking her fingers.

“They’re not from House,” he replied, before taking a bite of his sandwich. Cuddy raised an eyebrow.

“I think he’s double-bluffing,” she said, resting her chin on her hand, darkly-painted nails glinting in the artificial light.

“House never does anything that obviously romantic,” Wilson said, looking doubtful.

Cuddy smiled slightly. “Maybe he has ulterior motives?”


“It could still be an infection,” said Thirteen, leaning forward onto the long glass table in the conference room. The door opened and Cuddy walked into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

“We already checked the white cell count,” Taub told her,

“Yeah, but it could be hidden by-“

“What are you doing here?” House asked Cuddy bluntly, interrupting Thirteen.

“I just came to see how the case is going,” she said innocently, moving towards House.

“Thirteen thinks it’s an infection,” he told her, trying not to stare at her chest too obviously, as she leant over him to read the file on the table.

“Her white cell count isn’t high enough,” Cuddy said as her eyes scanned the numbers in front of her.

“Thirteen was just about to explain her theory that bypasses this rather obvious fact,” he said patronisingly, “Before you so rudely interrupted.”

“I’m just taking an interest,” Cuddy told him as he flipped over a page in the file. Thirteen raised an eyebrow at the other two as they all leaned back in the chairs and waited for their bosses to finish flirting.

“Can you take an interest without invading my personal space so much?” House asked in exaggerated annoyance.

“I’m just reading the file.”

“No, you’re flashing everyone in this room.”

Cuddy stopped reading, and turned her head round to look at House. He wondered briefly how much she’d kill him if he kissed her right now. Probably a lot, and he really did hate clinic duty. “Jealous?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and enjoying House’s momentary look of surprise at her outright flirtatiousness.

“They’re like a married couple,” muttered Taub darkly, and the other two smirked.

“I know it wasn’t you,” Cuddy told House triumphantly with a soft, sexy edge in her voice that made him really wish they were not in public right now. House said nothing, but did not lift his gaze from her or wipe the slight smile on his lips until she had backed away and left the room.

“So,” said House, turning back to his team expectantly.

“He’s got an infection in his brain, PML.” Thirteen told him, leaning forward again. “From the Efalizumab we used to treat the psoriasis” House nodded, conceding him.

“Do a brain biopsy to confirm,” he said gravely.

“He’s on immune suppressants; he’ll never survive!” interjected Foreman. There was a pause, then House leapt up, grabbed his cane, and without a word, hurried out of the conference room and down the corridor.

Approaching the clinic he saw Cuddy was standing by the desk, talking agitatedly to a nurse. Quietly slipping in through the door, he hurried across the edge of the room and ducked into an empty examination room. He leant his cane against the wall, and limped (surprisingly easily; his leg was definitely unusually pain free lately) to the middle of the room, where he pulled out a lighter from his pocket and held the flame underneath the smoke detector. A few seconds later water exploded from the ceiling, and, pocketing his lighter, he poked his head around the door.

Cuddy was standing in the middle of the chaos, holding her hands up at the sudden downpour. She hurriedly directed the patients outside as nurses and doctors rushed around trying to clear the files and paperwork away. House ambled over to her, looking around in affected dismay at the clinic.

“Having a wet t-shirt competition?” he smirked, as he reached the harassed Dean of Medicine who was shepherding a pregnant woman out of the door. He nodded at her soaked, now see-through top.

“House, either help, or go away,” she snapped, hurrying across to the desk to help the nurses. Her blush did not escape him.

“I need permission for a brain biopsy,” he continued, following her,

“What?!” she shouted, above the noise of rushing water and shrieking patients.

“I need a brain biopsy!” House repeated, louder, as Cuddy dived for a falling pile of dry paperwork. “Cuddy?”

“House, fine, yes! Just go!” she yelled. House nodded, and turned on his heel, grinning as he walked out of the clinic.


House hurried after the patient being wheeled along the corridor by his team, but when then reached the OT, Chase was coming out through the double doors.

“Sorry guys,” he said, holding his hands up. “Cuddy says no.”

“What?!” demanded House in outrage. “But she just told me yes!”

“And she just told me no,” repeated Chase. “And all the others surgeons as well. Or we’re fired.” House ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. Then he turned on his heel and stormed back down the corridor towards the elevator.

Several minutes later he burst into Cuddy’s office, yelling, “What the heck are you doing messing around with my patient?!”

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I’d actually allow you to run a brain biopsy on your patient in his condition? Even if you try and distract me by... drenching the whole clinic,” she said, gesturing with her hands in annoyance as she got up from her desk.

“My patient needs a biopsy,” House insisted angrily.

“It’s not gonna happen House,” Cuddy said, leaning against the front of her desk. “You’ll just have to find another way.”

“There is no other way; he needs that biopsy!” House shouted, moving forward. He stopped; he was right in front of her. Cuddy momentarily regretted giving into her lust for him, because at times like this, it was near impossible not to rip his clothes off then and there.

“Your boobs are wonky.” And with that House swept from her office, leaving Cuddy self-consciously examining her chest.


Cuddy and Wilson stood talking in a corridor on the third floor when House’s team raced past, rushing a patient to the operating theatre,

“Treatment worked but he’s bleeding internally!” shouted Taub as he pumped oxygen into the patient.

“Has House said anything to you about the roses?” Cuddy asked Wilson in a low, curious voice.

“He says they’re not from him,” said Wilson, holding his hands up in defence. Cuddy raised an eyebrow, pouting slightly.

“I really do think he might have sent them…” she mused.

“Well whoever sent them has lost out,” Wilson pointed remarked. “Because you’ve been thinking about him all day.”


Cuddy pulled on her coat, shaking out her dark curls. Gathering her bag and paperwork, she left her office and made her way out of the clinic and out of the hospital. As she crossed the foyer, the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle and when she looked up at the balcony, she was unsurprised to see House standing there, leaning on the banister as he watched her. She paused, holding his gaze for a moment, before she let a small, mischievous smile grace her features, and walked out of the building.


It was late by the time House arrived home. He saw her through the window as he approached the building, curled up on the sofa with a mug of coffee and a pile of papers, and paused, remembering that night all those months ago when he had driven to her house and seen her just like that. Remembering, too, how he couldn’t face her, and had walked away. For a brief moment he couldn’t believe that they were together; that he could go in there and sweep her off her feet and she would love it. That she loved him.

House blinked, and moved up the pathway, pushing open the door. He limped into the kitchen to investigate any possibility of leftovers and found an inventive concoction in the fridge that was a reminder of his early culinary creativity. He turned round with the pot in his hand to see Cuddy leaning against the door, her thin wrap pulled tightly around her so every smooth curve on her body was wonderfully pronounced as she watched him.

“What was it?” she asked, her voice temptingly low and husky.

“Another infection,” House said, dumping the contents of the pot into a saucepan.

“Right,” said Cuddy There was a pause, the tension in the room so much higher now it was just the two of them. No escape, no excuse. “They weren’t from you, were they?” House didn’t say anything. “You were just taking the credit.” Something in her voice struck House, but when he turned round she was not annoyed; a smile tweaked at her mouth and laughter danced in her eyes.

“It was a good distraction,” he said, moving round the island countertop in the middle of the kitchen. The tension mounted, and he wondered exactly when she would crumble. “So I could get away with riskier procedures. And no clinic duty.”

“That’s not true either,” said Cuddy in a low voice, moving towards him too. They stood opposite, a few inches apart. “Because you knew I was less likely to let you as I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

House smiled, and in that moment of admission the game they’d been playing reached it’s climax, the tension broke and their mouths crushed together, Cuddy’s hands running through House’s hair as he pushed her roughly against the countertop. This was why she gave in, Cuddy remembered. The feeling of his mouth attacking hers and his hands everywhere at once and the fire spreading through her body. Her nimble fingers pushed off his jacket and she leapt back onto the countertop, wrapping her legs around his waist. House pressed into her and the low moan that escaped her lips sent delicious vibrations down through his body, spreading to his very fingertips until his whole body was tingling with anticipation.

Cuddy lifted her arms as House pulled yet another low-cut top she had produced after the downpour in the clinic from her. He ran kisses down her neck, his teeth leaving small red marks and his stubble grazing her pale skin. She was inexorably his. Cuddy’s fingers worked at House’s shirt, pulling it from his chest and revelling in the feeling of her skin on his. House pushed her back onto the countertop, leaning over her as he kissed her neck, her collarbone, her bra… a short, lustful scream escaped Cuddy’s lips and her hands moved instinctively to her trousers, tugging at the zip as House nipped and sucked. Then suddenly he pulled back, an uncomfortable wave of cold air rushing onto Cuddy and she almost moaned at the lack of contact. House’s hands ripped her trousers from her body, and they both screamed as he pushed her back against the countertop, all thoughts disappearing from their respective, obsessive, over-analytical minds except for one; there was never anywhere they’d rather be than here.

The End

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