Poison In Our Veins
Title: Poison In Our Veins
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations
Characters: Cuddy/House, some mentions of Cuddy/Lucas
Author's Notes: This piece is an AU where Cuddy goes ahead and marries Lucas instead of dumping him. This fic also fulfills 50kinkyways prompt 32 Branding.
Disclaimer: The show doesn't belong to me.
Summary: Her husband has the matching wedding ring. House has everything else.
The weight of her cold wedding ring rubs against her skin as she knocks on his door. Propriety demands that she take it off, but Cuddy is determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she is ashamed.
Well… she’ll deny him the confirmation at least; two years of doing this, House has to know by now how she’s feeling… even if they never talk about it.
Even if they never stop.
Lucas is her husband, one of the few people House calls “friend,” and they would have to be horrible people not to feel the slightest bit of guilt. But then again, Lucas is her husband and House’s friend, and they continue to do this anyway.
By now though, the betrayal is in their blood, a fact of life, the need for these relatively brief encounters all encompassing. And it doesn’t feel like a choice anymore, even though she knows that it is.
Even though it must be.
She’s not sure how that is - or even how she got to this point. But she is incredibly aware of one thing: she is not a good wife.
Good wives do not cheat.
Good wives do not cheat repeatedly with the same person.
Good wives do not let their husbands believe they’ve fathered a child that is so clearly not theirs.
Good wives do not pray for their sons to look exactly like them; they do not worry about their baby’s eyes staying that particularly brilliant shade of blue, much less begin to invent a great grand something or other to defend those sweet irises to their spouse.
Good wives do not do any of the things that she has done.
And Cuddy knows this with every fiber of her being.
Just as she knows that she has no intention of stopping this, of retreating into - of settling for the comfortable life she has with Lucas.
She loves (and hates) House too much for that.
She loves (and hates) this too much.
She needs it.
Of course it helps, although not really, to know that House feels the same way. At least it means she’s not alone in her need. So it’s no surprise that when he opens the door, he yanks her close to him in one swift motion.
His fingers clutch at her wrist greedily, bruising her.
Marking her.
House does not care about Lucas seeing the fingerprint-shaped, discolored blotches of skin; obviously she cares but knows that her husband is painfully ignorant of her extramarital activities.
He believes her when she talks about relatives and meetings that do not exist. He believes her when she invents falls and accidents to explain her bruises.
He believes it all, because he loves and trusts her blindingly, as though the ring on her finger and the vows she took cut her off from the rest of the world.
As though she’s capable of being as good and virtuous as he is.
She hates knowing that she’s not. Even more she hates the fact that the perfect life Lucas has given her hasn’t deterred her from having an affair.
She hates that he hasn’t made her better.
Regardless, she has no intention of ending things with House.
Pulling her from her thoughts, he tugs her forward till the tips of her heels are firmly in the doorway. And then he kisses her - hard. His lips and tongue pry her mouth open, command a groan to snake through her throat. She doesn’t want to want this, she thinks, but she knows she does want it.
He’s warm and wet against her, his breath tickling the small expanse of skin between her nose and lips.
And she sighs into him, realizing with an ironically blinding clarity just how much she’s missed this.
Him.
It’s a little weird, because she’s seen him nearly every day of her life for years. And even in the four-month hiatus since they last had sex, she has seen him plenty of times.
Just not like this.
Just not in the way she has wanted to.
She didn’t plan on going without sex for so long, going without him for so long. But it would figure that House’s son would have a giant head and barrel through her birth canal in the same manner House rummages through her office for information on her personal life. And she’s needed the time to get through her pregnancy and a fourth degree perineal tear.
So to have him here in front of her, like this now….
It’s indescribable, the need and desire she feels for him.
Her hands rush to cup his aged face. He looks more tired and ragged than when she was last here. His stubble is rough against the soft pads of her fingertips, and her engagement ring, which has somehow turned itself around, scrapes the apple of his cheek.
In all likelihood, it won’t leave a mark, and though she feels possessive of him, she is okay with this fact. Cuddy knows that she doesn’t need to leave physical signs of her ownership.
House does, of course, but then she’s also the one with the husband and children. House has more to prove than she does, and if nipping, scratching, bruising her is the way to do it, he will. He’ll remind her any way he can that she is his, even if she goes home to someone else after they’ve fucked.
It makes her hate him.
She wants to tell him (but never does) that if he wanted her to be “his,” he should have made his move before she was with Lucas. He should have accepted her advances when she’d made them. He should have said something, done something in the decades before now, and in the very least, he should have asked her to make a choice.
But he didn’t, hasn’t, and Cuddy resents him for never doing that.
Not even once has he asked her to choose.
She knows that at one point, he had ordered Stacy to decide between him and her husband. She knows that there had been a time when being the mistress was unacceptable for House.
But he’s never done the same with Cuddy, and she’s at a loss as to why this is. Part of her, painfully aware of how he felt about Stacy, wonders if the answer is simply that House loved Stacy more. Another part of Cuddy, painfully aware of how she feels about him, suspects (hopes) that he loved Stacy less and that he is more complacent this time, because he’s afraid of losing Cuddy to one of his good friends.
Whatever the reason though, she’s aware of just how in the dark she is, and frankly, at this point, she’s not sure which answer she would prefer to hear.
As if it really matters.
Well, maybe it does but not to the family that she’s betraying by coming here again and again.
At that moment, House, wrenching her from her thoughts, yanks her into the apartment. He kicks the door shut the second she’s through the doorway, but the deafening thud barely registers with her as her slick, parted lips make way for his tongue.
House is neither sweet nor tentative as he shoves her against the door and his tongue practically down her throat.
The way she describes it in her mind, she knows, is not sexy. But then they aren’t, and this really isn’t.
At first, it might have been. The newness of the affair, the discovery that they were still amazing in bed together… that might have made it sexy then. It certainly had felt that way anyway; especially since, at the time, she felt as though she were reclaiming a piece of herself (that darker, needier, angrier, more… determined part she never liked to show Lucas), it felt like the best seduction.
Yeah, she decides, they were sexy then. With her perfectly matched lace panties and bras and House’s soft whispers of… love, it certainly was wonderful then.
But the way things were is not how they are now.
This is what happens when the newness of the affair fades away. They are what happens when you continue to love even though your resentment has reached the surface. They are what happens when the heart of the affair has died and that knowledge is never accepted.
They’re no longer loving. To emphasize that point in her mind, she tugs on his thinning curls a little too roughly, and he bites her bottom lip in return. What they have is angry, tough, the decrepit core of an affair whose seductive shell has melted away.
And she feels just as lackluster as their relationship.
She knows that it’s superficial. She knows that it’s nothing short of awful to let her vanity take away from the birth of her son. But knowing hasn’t stopped her from feeling as though her body isn’t what it used to be.
It isn’t what it used to be, she justifies to herself.
Over the past few months, she’s worked as hard as she knows how to lose the pregnancy weight, and she’s sure that she has; yet, her body is different than it was, and she’s sure about that as well. Her stomach is flat once more, but it’s not as toned. Her hips seem wider, the bones not as prominent as they were pre-baby. Her breasts are bigger, the areolas darker, the nipples more pronounced; they’re heavier, somehow, it seems, constantly laden with milk, no matter how long it has been since she last pumped or nursed. And all of those things - her stomach, hips, and breasts - seem marbled with stretch marks that have yet to disappear.
Yeah, this definitely isn’t sexy, she thinks.
Remorse suddenly tunneling in on her, Cuddy feels her stomach clench tightly; if it’s so unsexy, then she shouldn’t even be here; she should be with her husband and children, with the people who won’t ever care what she looks like.
But she isn’t.
She’s here.
With House.
He must sense in that moment that something is wrong. His hands, previously entangled with the belt of her white coat, are removed from her body, and his teeth, which were, as of seconds ago, buried in the flesh of her neck, ease up on her. In fact, he pulls away from her completely. Not even a sliver of his body is touching hers, and she frowns at that.
“Why did you stop?” she demands to know.
House looks at her knowingly. An arrogant smirk flits across his face as if to ask, “Are we really going to play that game?” Clearly he knows something is wrong.
Naturally though, Cuddy has no desire to confide in him, which allows him to come to his own conclusions. And being the arrogant son of a bitch he’s always been, he assumes the problem is himself. Admittedly in some ways, he is, but it’s not all about him. However, she’s not sure someone so self-centered could ever understand that, so she says nothing and is forced to sit through his obligatory response of “If you’ve grown bored of cheating, you can leave.”
The insult is obvious, impossible to deny much less ignore. But she knows him well enough to know that he’s giving her an opening. He senses her hesitation, her regret, so he offers her a chance to leave, to make a clean break.
And she supposes that this is why she’s stayed, returned, all this time: she is safe with him. They know one another.
He knows her.
That’s not to say that Lucas doesn’t get her, of course. He knows and understands her as well as she allows him to. He knows what she willingly tells and shows him, and maybe she’s fooling herself by thinking he’s never picked up on anything else, but she’s sure he hasn’t. She is convinced that he is content with the image she projects, with the person she wants him to believe that she is.
She is confident that he doesn’t know her like House does.
It’s not Lucas’ fault really. There just isn’t the same history. There simply isn’t the same desire to outwit, and because of that, there isn’t the same need to know all of the weaknesses and failures that make the other person act the way they do.
Maybe it is like that for other couples, but it’s not for Cuddy - not when she’s with Lucas.
And that’s precisely why she returns to House time and time again. She is that way with him. She is curious to learn what every little thing about him means, to know who he is in ways that he himself has no understanding of. And more importantly, he feels the same way about her, is the same way with her.
He likes to know everything he can about her; he refuses to accept what she shows him at face value.
And it’s annoying and frightening and troublesome and all sorts of other negative adjectives she doesn’t have the energy to name.
But what it also means is that he can notice that she’s not eating frozen yogurt with sprinkles on the twelfth of every month or that she’s not quite kissing him like she normally does and know something is wrong.
And there is comfort in that.
She doesn’t have to explain, doesn’t have to articulate that something’s wrong. He just knows that something is. She doesn’t have to pretend to be someone she’s not. He wouldn’t believe it. And she doesn’t have to worry about hurting his feelings by showing him the darker parts of herself. She has already hurt him and he her just by being who they are.
So when he presents to her an opportunity to leave, she thinks she only has one option.
To stay.
“If I’m bored, it’s because I’ve been here for nearly five minutes and I’m still wearing my clothes,” she replies challengingly. There’s a tiny smirk on her face to keep the remark from being too mean (as well as too desperate) - not that she really cares if it is too mean.
House scowls a little and tosses back, “So now you’re interested in a quickie.” He sounds a little put upon, and for the life of her, she doesn’t understand why.
“Don’t tell me you learned how to last more than five minutes.” Cuddy’s toying with him; if he’s going to be in a bad mood, then she’s at least going to enjoy it. He would do the same if the situation were reversed after all.
But he’s clearly not amused as he eyes her intently. “Careful now,” he warns in a dangerous voice. “You know how much I like making you beg.”
She has half a mind to keep the banter between them going but doesn’t. If she teases him too much, he’ll return the favor in bed. And right now, she wants nothing more than to feel him inside her.
So she says nothing and reaches for him instead. Her fingertips sliding through the graying strands of his hair, she cups the sides of his face. Her thumbs threaten to brush against his earlobes, and the contact makes House look so…
Content.
The dissatisfaction that is nearly always prevalent in his features evaporates at her touch, and she would smile at that fact if it didn’t unnerve her so much. Because although part of her is happy to know she can have this effect on him, the rest of her knows that it can’t be good to be the one to make him feel this way.
It can’t be right.
It isn’t right.
She should reserve this sort of attention for Lucas and Lucas alone, and House should have someone else to make him feel this way. That she doesn’t makes her feel guilty. That House doesn’t makes her feel compelled to continue, and she swallows the temptation to ask when someone touched him last (the answer, serious or not, would be appalling) and kisses him instead.
Her lips on his… it isn’t right, but it is. It’s wrong, but it would be equally wrong to deprive him of the joy she is clearly capable of giving him, she tells herself. And she knows how narcissistic that sounds, how narcissistic it is, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
Nobody else in the world does this for him. He doesn’t date; the prostitutes he pays don’t care, which means his only chance of having something that even remotely approaches a real relationship is Cuddy herself.
And though she is never forgetful of that knowledge, at the moment, it weighs heavily on her. It’s the reason she sighs when House manages to shove her coat off her shoulders and onto the floor.
As his fingertips skate along her bare neck, she wonders how it was even remotely possible for her to go this long without him. She’s nowhere near undressed, but already she can feel herself responding to his touch. She feels warm - molten - as though the very nearness of him has set her marrow ablaze - and her skin blushes as he pushes her against the front door.
Her fingers grip his t-shirt tightly in an effort to stop her head from colliding with the wooden barrier behind her. But he’s so insistent that it doesn’t really do her any good, and the sound of her skull smacking against the door fills her ears as House shoves a hand underneath her sweater.
As he practically scrambles to cop a feel, Cuddy tells him in exasperation, "Be careful.” She doesn’t mind it being rough, but going home with a concussion because he’s too horny to care about hurting her is hardly her idea of a good time.
And she’s about to admonish him some more when his thumb and index finger pinch her nursing bra-clad nipple. And all of a sudden, the peevishness she’s feeling evaporates, the emotion being replaced by a heavy wave of arousal coursing through her veins.
She gasps loudly, her grip on his t-shirt instinctively tightening.
“You like that?” he asks as he presses a kiss to her jaw. His voice is lower than usual, more gravelly than normal, making her doubt that they’ll even make it to the bedroom this time.
She knows there’s no point in denying it. “Yes.”
So predictably he moves his hand back down towards the hem of her sweater. She never expected anything else to happen, of course; as he is in every other area of his life, he likes to be a complete pain in the ass. He enjoys teasing and delaying her pleasure until she’s frustrated and borderline desperate. But the fact of the matter is that she rarely finds it in herself to be actually angry about it; after all, the longer he takes, the better the sex is…
The longer she can stay here.
That shouldn’t be a selling point, but she supposes if being able to avoid her clueless husband and her chicken pox-riddled daughter and her colic-y son were something she didn’t like, she wouldn’t be betraying all of them to begin with.
And that thought is so depressing that she hurls herself into the escape all of this provides. Her mouth seeking his, she pleads softly against his lips, “Please.”
Her eyelashes flutter shut as she feels his blue eyes narrow on her as though she’s suddenly said something meaningful. She doesn’t think she has, but given the way he’s looking at her, it feels like she did. And she’s not brave enough to face the judgment he’ll surely give her.
But she thinks she should know better by now; she should know that he has no trouble making it known how he feels. So it comes as no surprise that he practically chuckles as he says knowingly, “You missed me.”
Her eyes pop open widely. “Excuse me?”
He smiles at her, probably amused at the fact that she hasn’t deduced what he seems to understand instinctively. “If you’re saying please this soon, you must have missed me.”
“Hardly.”
“Right. It’s got to be so much fun dealing with a man who stalks people for a living and a daughter who -”
“Don’t,” Cuddy warns, shoving House away from her. “Don’t you dare bring Rachel into this. This has nothing to do with her.”
Intrigued, he looks at her, the weight of his gaze making her feel ashamed. “You’re going to tell me that it was just a coincidence that you came to me the same week she -”
“What part of ‘don’t’ do you not understand?” She’s snapping at him, and even to her own ears, she sounds more upset than outright angry.
And she supposes that’s why he uncharacteristically backs off the subject. He can clearly see that this line of questioning is making her unhappy, and though she doubts he cares about hurting her feelings, she does not doubt that he fears her leaving now because of it.
“Fine,” he capitulates with a roll of his eyes. “We won’t talk about it.” But it’s easy to say that now, she knows, when he’s pushed at that boundary and she can’t say anything back.
Not that she won’t try.
Shaking her head, she says insistently, “I don’t have sex with you, because being a mother is -”
“What part of ‘don’t’ do you not understand?” he asks, tossing her question back at her abruptly.
And she’s so annoyed that she immediately replies, “This was a mistake. I should go.”
Her voice hurries through the words she feels she has to say, and her gaze casts itself downward. Her eyes searching for her coat, she tells herself that she’s not trying to avoid House or his long-standing theory that she uses him the same way he once relied on Vicodin.
But she’s hardly convinced.
So it’s no surprise that he doesn’t take her words at face value. “It’s not a mistake,” he insists in a voice that sounds shockingly gentle, given that it’s House. “You should stay.”
One of his hands brushes a dark strand of her hair out of her face. The act, one she wasn’t expecting, is tender - or what she would describe as tender if it were coming from anyone other than House.
Confused, she abruptly looks up into his blue eyes, because she wants to know what he’s thinking by doing that.
Searching his face for answers, she’s surprised by what she sees.
Concern.
Regret.
Love.
It’s not what she was expecting. It’s not something she even really thought he was capable of feeling for her. But there it is on his face. There it is - all the proof she needs to know just how much he cares.
In the back of her mind, she understands that it’s probably not a good idea to call attention to it. But she’s so shocked that she can’t help herself from saying stupidly, “You missed me.”
Cuddy expects a denial, which is why she’s surprised when he says honestly, “I did.” Then he elaborates. “I missed your boobs anyway.”
“Of course,” she says dryly.
“And ever since you’ve gone into the dairy business….”
He doesn’t finish the thought when she places two fingers on his mouth. She’s grateful he shuts up.
Still, she can’t help but say, “Maybe you should keep your mouth closed for the rest of this.”
House raises an eyebrow. “Really?” He bows his head just enough to kiss her palm then pulls away. “I do some pretty good work with my mouth.”
“Show me,” she challenges.
“Sorry. You just told me to keep my mouth closed, so -”
“And you already failed to do that.”
They share a smile, which somehow melts into a kiss, their bodies inching closer together once more. The moment of disagreement between them dissolves, and it’s not surprising. They are so good at blurring the lines. House should be the person she has the most boundaries with, but that’s not the case. She’s not sure how she could even begin to make it so.
His hands ease the thought out of her. As he pulls the sweater off of her, he says, as though he’s preparing to examine something carefully, “Let me see you.”
Cuddy stifles a wave of self-consciousness with the cruel thought that, even in her current state, her body is still better than anyone else’s he’s seen lately. She becomes less confident when he throws the shirt off to the side and begins appraising her flesh intensely. She waits for a snide remark to come her way, for the backhanded display of support Lucas has relied on since she’s given birth - that she’ll lose the weight. She’s surprised when House remains silent and takes her bra off.
His fingertips softly glide along her new curves, a thumb tentatively stroking the nipple that has begun to leak milk. She can see the curiosity in his eyes, a contrast to the embarrassment she’s trying very hard not to feel. He wipes away the fluid, brings his thumb up to his mouth, and tastes.
“Well?” she blurts out before she has a chance to stop herself.
“Looks good, tastes good. But that’s always been true for you.” There’s no particular conviction behind the words. It’s not a matter of dishonesty; he obviously just finds the question banal and has no interest in enthusiastically reassuring her that she’s beautiful.
She would consider doubting his attraction, but he reserves his enthusiasm for the way he forces the rest of her clothes off, and it’s confirmation enough.
He strokes her clit until she no longer cares how he regards her body. He just has to keep going to make her happy. He does, pushing three, or maybe only two, fingers inside of her.
It instantly hurts.
Before she can even hiss in pain or ask him to stop, he withdraws. His wet fingers sympathetically resting on her hip, he asks, “That hurt?”
“What the hell do you think? Don’t go that fast.”
She’s snapping at him, but he is far less rude with his remarks. “Sorry.” Surprisingly he is. “I didn’t know.”
“Well neither did I,” she says defensively.
“Kind of assumed things down there would be -”
“You might want to be careful about how you finish that sentence.”
He tries again. “Last I heard, the baby -”
“Don’t, House.”
“Your OB did a good job is all I’m saying.”
He’s not wrong, apparently; her body has recovered nicely, but she braces herself for a crude remark about her vagina anyway. She doesn’t get one, which leaves her feeling oddly let down.
Instead he reassures her, “I’ll go slower.” He seems concerned, as though he’s afraid she wants him to stop.
Now she is the one reassuring. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came here for.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, pushing her down the hallway, one of his hands grabbing at her ass. “I’m just saying: we’ll get around that.”
It’s comical really, in a sad sort of way. They have ignored every professional rule and regulation in place guarding against this type of relationship between employer and employee. Lucas didn’t stop them. Pregnancy didn’t stop them. Why would a little temporary discomfort do what her husband and children could not?
Cuddy thinks about leaving… then lies down on House’s mattress. She knows this has to end. But she decides when he’s between her thighs - caressing her, licking her, loving her - that the end will not be today. Today, she needs him too much, wants him too much.
He keeps his word to her. He gets them past the newness of sex post-baby. His tongue laves over her clit. He whispers against her body how beautiful she is, finally saying exactly what she wants to hear. He brings her to orgasm only using his mouth, his hands rubbing her knees encouragingly.
Every sweet word he has ever spared her is suddenly given freely. He talks about how tight she is, how perfect she is, how much he has dreamed about doing this, when he slides a finger in her once more. This time there’s no pain, just the deeply protected desire for more of him.
“I want you,” she confesses, as he presses an affectionate kiss to her mound.
“Soon,” he promises, adding another finger. Her body stretches around the intrusion, gives into the feeling. At this point, she wouldn’t care if he thrust into her violently. She would take the pain in order to be closer to him.
The thought sends her into a second orgasm.
He pauses to suck the come off his fingers.
She whimpers at the loss of contact. “Don’t.”
“I can’t help it. You taste too good.”
She spread her legs wider. “Please.”
He considers the situation for a moment, then asks, “Think you can take more than fingers? You’re wet but -”
“Yes.” She doesn’t care if it’s true or not.
He does. “Touch yourself while I get undressed.” It’s one of the few orders he’s given her that she doesn’t hesitate to follow. As he takes his clothes off, one of her hands moves down to her cunt. A little fearful, she cautiously slides her fingers inside of herself. “How does that feel?”
The question is so clinical she resents it even being asked. “Don’t ruin the mood,” she chastises. Or tries to anyway. It’s kind of difficult to admonish when she’s working her way toward coming again.
“That good, huh?” She turns her head away when he smirks. She looks back when she sees his jeans go flying out of her peripheral vision. His body has had no reason to change these last several months, but she’s eyeing him anyway. He asks again, “That good, huh?”
“Don’t be arrogant.” She cries out loudly as soon as she says the words. She comes again, although weakly.
“So many rules.” He pulls her hand away from her pussy before she’s even had a chance to recover. He hasn’t exaggerated how much he likes the way she tastes, his tongue wasting no time at passing over her fingertips. When he’s finished, he teases, “Don’t do this. Don’t do that. I’m not sure how I’m gonna remember all of that.”
Guiding his penis toward her entrance, he slips just the head of his cock inside her. “Got any study tips?” he asks playfully.
She laughs more than she should, half-delirious from the pleasure coursing through her body. It’s dangerous, the way this is making her feel. She’s remembering that this hasn’t all been miserable - and it’s not just the sex she wants. She likes him, his company.
She wants him.
And when he’s finally fully inside her, she feels more aware than ever of how tied to him she will always be.
They have a child together.
House doesn’t say he loves her, and she doesn’t say anything to him. But it’s obvious. They’re having sex like two people in love - considerate and slow, passion roiling beneath the surface hotly, threatening to burn them both. They have another bond that she won’t ever have with Lucas, no matter how kind and good he is, no matter how much he lavishes her children with affection.
Her husband has the matching wedding ring.
House has everything else.
His thrusts build up in speed but never to the point where it hurts. When they come together, the ache she feels deep inside her is anything but physical.
When he rests against her afterward and then spoons next to her, the phantom pain is shared. She waits for him to ask about their son; he hasn’t yet, and she knows the question must be on the tip of his tongue. He’s so curious that how could it not be? He remains silent though.
It’s obvious why. The source of their collective pain is her, her choices. She would hesitate to answer the question in all likelihood, and that rejection would only confirm for him that she didn’t believe he was good enough. She wouldn’t know how to adequately prove to him that the issue has never been his goodness, so the misconception would continue.
“I have to go,” she says after a moment, her voice tight. The hand lovingly running over her stomach pauses, pulls away.
“‘Kay.”
He doesn’t watch her get dressed. He doesn’t see her out. He just lies there, unable to look at her leave him one more time.
When she gets home, she has enough intelligence to use a tissue to wipe off House’s semen as best as she can. Sitting in the driveway, she eyes her labia long enough to decide that she doesn’t look completely fucked. The detachment with which she is able to do this is easy to embrace, even though some part of her beneath the surface registers guilt. Before she goes through the front door, she makes sure the emotion isn’t noticeable.
The effort isn’t necessary. It never has been. The stain on her character seems obvious to her, but Lucas doesn’t see. He happily kisses her when she finds him half-heartedly watching cartoons with Rachel who is barely awake beside him on the couch. A bottle of calamine lotion and a handful of used cotton balls are strewn about the coffee table. He looks tired but not accusing.
Completely oblivious, he whispers that he’s relieved the doctor finally gave Cuddy the okay to have sex, that he can’t wait until the kids are in bed.
She wishes she hadn’t told him.
But she smiles sweetly and pretends to be eager as well.
She is good at pretending.
The lie is not visibly difficult to maintain that night when he’s touching her. When his dick is inside her, he doesn’t know that he’s the second man to have done this to her today. She closes her eyes to make sure he’ll never know the truth. After he’s finished, after he doesn’t make her come, after she lies about not being ready and makes him feel better about his performance, the effort necessary to keep the façade going becomes too much.
Her hands shaking, she puts on her clothes and blurts out, before she can convince herself otherwise:
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Read the epilogue
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations
Characters: Cuddy/House, some mentions of Cuddy/Lucas
Author's Notes: This piece is an AU where Cuddy goes ahead and marries Lucas instead of dumping him. This fic also fulfills 50kinkyways prompt 32 Branding.
Disclaimer: The show doesn't belong to me.
Summary: Her husband has the matching wedding ring. House has everything else.
The weight of her cold wedding ring rubs against her skin as she knocks on his door. Propriety demands that she take it off, but Cuddy is determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she is ashamed.
Well… she’ll deny him the confirmation at least; two years of doing this, House has to know by now how she’s feeling… even if they never talk about it.
Even if they never stop.
Lucas is her husband, one of the few people House calls “friend,” and they would have to be horrible people not to feel the slightest bit of guilt. But then again, Lucas is her husband and House’s friend, and they continue to do this anyway.
By now though, the betrayal is in their blood, a fact of life, the need for these relatively brief encounters all encompassing. And it doesn’t feel like a choice anymore, even though she knows that it is.
Even though it must be.
She’s not sure how that is - or even how she got to this point. But she is incredibly aware of one thing: she is not a good wife.
Good wives do not cheat.
Good wives do not cheat repeatedly with the same person.
Good wives do not let their husbands believe they’ve fathered a child that is so clearly not theirs.
Good wives do not pray for their sons to look exactly like them; they do not worry about their baby’s eyes staying that particularly brilliant shade of blue, much less begin to invent a great grand something or other to defend those sweet irises to their spouse.
Good wives do not do any of the things that she has done.
And Cuddy knows this with every fiber of her being.
Just as she knows that she has no intention of stopping this, of retreating into - of settling for the comfortable life she has with Lucas.
She loves (and hates) House too much for that.
She loves (and hates) this too much.
She needs it.
Of course it helps, although not really, to know that House feels the same way. At least it means she’s not alone in her need. So it’s no surprise that when he opens the door, he yanks her close to him in one swift motion.
His fingers clutch at her wrist greedily, bruising her.
Marking her.
House does not care about Lucas seeing the fingerprint-shaped, discolored blotches of skin; obviously she cares but knows that her husband is painfully ignorant of her extramarital activities.
He believes her when she talks about relatives and meetings that do not exist. He believes her when she invents falls and accidents to explain her bruises.
He believes it all, because he loves and trusts her blindingly, as though the ring on her finger and the vows she took cut her off from the rest of the world.
As though she’s capable of being as good and virtuous as he is.
She hates knowing that she’s not. Even more she hates the fact that the perfect life Lucas has given her hasn’t deterred her from having an affair.
She hates that he hasn’t made her better.
Regardless, she has no intention of ending things with House.
Pulling her from her thoughts, he tugs her forward till the tips of her heels are firmly in the doorway. And then he kisses her - hard. His lips and tongue pry her mouth open, command a groan to snake through her throat. She doesn’t want to want this, she thinks, but she knows she does want it.
He’s warm and wet against her, his breath tickling the small expanse of skin between her nose and lips.
And she sighs into him, realizing with an ironically blinding clarity just how much she’s missed this.
Him.
It’s a little weird, because she’s seen him nearly every day of her life for years. And even in the four-month hiatus since they last had sex, she has seen him plenty of times.
Just not like this.
Just not in the way she has wanted to.
She didn’t plan on going without sex for so long, going without him for so long. But it would figure that House’s son would have a giant head and barrel through her birth canal in the same manner House rummages through her office for information on her personal life. And she’s needed the time to get through her pregnancy and a fourth degree perineal tear.
So to have him here in front of her, like this now….
It’s indescribable, the need and desire she feels for him.
Her hands rush to cup his aged face. He looks more tired and ragged than when she was last here. His stubble is rough against the soft pads of her fingertips, and her engagement ring, which has somehow turned itself around, scrapes the apple of his cheek.
In all likelihood, it won’t leave a mark, and though she feels possessive of him, she is okay with this fact. Cuddy knows that she doesn’t need to leave physical signs of her ownership.
House does, of course, but then she’s also the one with the husband and children. House has more to prove than she does, and if nipping, scratching, bruising her is the way to do it, he will. He’ll remind her any way he can that she is his, even if she goes home to someone else after they’ve fucked.
It makes her hate him.
She wants to tell him (but never does) that if he wanted her to be “his,” he should have made his move before she was with Lucas. He should have accepted her advances when she’d made them. He should have said something, done something in the decades before now, and in the very least, he should have asked her to make a choice.
But he didn’t, hasn’t, and Cuddy resents him for never doing that.
Not even once has he asked her to choose.
She knows that at one point, he had ordered Stacy to decide between him and her husband. She knows that there had been a time when being the mistress was unacceptable for House.
But he’s never done the same with Cuddy, and she’s at a loss as to why this is. Part of her, painfully aware of how he felt about Stacy, wonders if the answer is simply that House loved Stacy more. Another part of Cuddy, painfully aware of how she feels about him, suspects (hopes) that he loved Stacy less and that he is more complacent this time, because he’s afraid of losing Cuddy to one of his good friends.
Whatever the reason though, she’s aware of just how in the dark she is, and frankly, at this point, she’s not sure which answer she would prefer to hear.
As if it really matters.
Well, maybe it does but not to the family that she’s betraying by coming here again and again.
At that moment, House, wrenching her from her thoughts, yanks her into the apartment. He kicks the door shut the second she’s through the doorway, but the deafening thud barely registers with her as her slick, parted lips make way for his tongue.
House is neither sweet nor tentative as he shoves her against the door and his tongue practically down her throat.
The way she describes it in her mind, she knows, is not sexy. But then they aren’t, and this really isn’t.
At first, it might have been. The newness of the affair, the discovery that they were still amazing in bed together… that might have made it sexy then. It certainly had felt that way anyway; especially since, at the time, she felt as though she were reclaiming a piece of herself (that darker, needier, angrier, more… determined part she never liked to show Lucas), it felt like the best seduction.
Yeah, she decides, they were sexy then. With her perfectly matched lace panties and bras and House’s soft whispers of… love, it certainly was wonderful then.
But the way things were is not how they are now.
This is what happens when the newness of the affair fades away. They are what happens when you continue to love even though your resentment has reached the surface. They are what happens when the heart of the affair has died and that knowledge is never accepted.
They’re no longer loving. To emphasize that point in her mind, she tugs on his thinning curls a little too roughly, and he bites her bottom lip in return. What they have is angry, tough, the decrepit core of an affair whose seductive shell has melted away.
And she feels just as lackluster as their relationship.
She knows that it’s superficial. She knows that it’s nothing short of awful to let her vanity take away from the birth of her son. But knowing hasn’t stopped her from feeling as though her body isn’t what it used to be.
It isn’t what it used to be, she justifies to herself.
Over the past few months, she’s worked as hard as she knows how to lose the pregnancy weight, and she’s sure that she has; yet, her body is different than it was, and she’s sure about that as well. Her stomach is flat once more, but it’s not as toned. Her hips seem wider, the bones not as prominent as they were pre-baby. Her breasts are bigger, the areolas darker, the nipples more pronounced; they’re heavier, somehow, it seems, constantly laden with milk, no matter how long it has been since she last pumped or nursed. And all of those things - her stomach, hips, and breasts - seem marbled with stretch marks that have yet to disappear.
Yeah, this definitely isn’t sexy, she thinks.
Remorse suddenly tunneling in on her, Cuddy feels her stomach clench tightly; if it’s so unsexy, then she shouldn’t even be here; she should be with her husband and children, with the people who won’t ever care what she looks like.
But she isn’t.
She’s here.
With House.
He must sense in that moment that something is wrong. His hands, previously entangled with the belt of her white coat, are removed from her body, and his teeth, which were, as of seconds ago, buried in the flesh of her neck, ease up on her. In fact, he pulls away from her completely. Not even a sliver of his body is touching hers, and she frowns at that.
“Why did you stop?” she demands to know.
House looks at her knowingly. An arrogant smirk flits across his face as if to ask, “Are we really going to play that game?” Clearly he knows something is wrong.
Naturally though, Cuddy has no desire to confide in him, which allows him to come to his own conclusions. And being the arrogant son of a bitch he’s always been, he assumes the problem is himself. Admittedly in some ways, he is, but it’s not all about him. However, she’s not sure someone so self-centered could ever understand that, so she says nothing and is forced to sit through his obligatory response of “If you’ve grown bored of cheating, you can leave.”
The insult is obvious, impossible to deny much less ignore. But she knows him well enough to know that he’s giving her an opening. He senses her hesitation, her regret, so he offers her a chance to leave, to make a clean break.
And she supposes that this is why she’s stayed, returned, all this time: she is safe with him. They know one another.
He knows her.
That’s not to say that Lucas doesn’t get her, of course. He knows and understands her as well as she allows him to. He knows what she willingly tells and shows him, and maybe she’s fooling herself by thinking he’s never picked up on anything else, but she’s sure he hasn’t. She is convinced that he is content with the image she projects, with the person she wants him to believe that she is.
She is confident that he doesn’t know her like House does.
It’s not Lucas’ fault really. There just isn’t the same history. There simply isn’t the same desire to outwit, and because of that, there isn’t the same need to know all of the weaknesses and failures that make the other person act the way they do.
Maybe it is like that for other couples, but it’s not for Cuddy - not when she’s with Lucas.
And that’s precisely why she returns to House time and time again. She is that way with him. She is curious to learn what every little thing about him means, to know who he is in ways that he himself has no understanding of. And more importantly, he feels the same way about her, is the same way with her.
He likes to know everything he can about her; he refuses to accept what she shows him at face value.
And it’s annoying and frightening and troublesome and all sorts of other negative adjectives she doesn’t have the energy to name.
But what it also means is that he can notice that she’s not eating frozen yogurt with sprinkles on the twelfth of every month or that she’s not quite kissing him like she normally does and know something is wrong.
And there is comfort in that.
She doesn’t have to explain, doesn’t have to articulate that something’s wrong. He just knows that something is. She doesn’t have to pretend to be someone she’s not. He wouldn’t believe it. And she doesn’t have to worry about hurting his feelings by showing him the darker parts of herself. She has already hurt him and he her just by being who they are.
So when he presents to her an opportunity to leave, she thinks she only has one option.
To stay.
“If I’m bored, it’s because I’ve been here for nearly five minutes and I’m still wearing my clothes,” she replies challengingly. There’s a tiny smirk on her face to keep the remark from being too mean (as well as too desperate) - not that she really cares if it is too mean.
House scowls a little and tosses back, “So now you’re interested in a quickie.” He sounds a little put upon, and for the life of her, she doesn’t understand why.
“Don’t tell me you learned how to last more than five minutes.” Cuddy’s toying with him; if he’s going to be in a bad mood, then she’s at least going to enjoy it. He would do the same if the situation were reversed after all.
But he’s clearly not amused as he eyes her intently. “Careful now,” he warns in a dangerous voice. “You know how much I like making you beg.”
She has half a mind to keep the banter between them going but doesn’t. If she teases him too much, he’ll return the favor in bed. And right now, she wants nothing more than to feel him inside her.
So she says nothing and reaches for him instead. Her fingertips sliding through the graying strands of his hair, she cups the sides of his face. Her thumbs threaten to brush against his earlobes, and the contact makes House look so…
Content.
The dissatisfaction that is nearly always prevalent in his features evaporates at her touch, and she would smile at that fact if it didn’t unnerve her so much. Because although part of her is happy to know she can have this effect on him, the rest of her knows that it can’t be good to be the one to make him feel this way.
It can’t be right.
It isn’t right.
She should reserve this sort of attention for Lucas and Lucas alone, and House should have someone else to make him feel this way. That she doesn’t makes her feel guilty. That House doesn’t makes her feel compelled to continue, and she swallows the temptation to ask when someone touched him last (the answer, serious or not, would be appalling) and kisses him instead.
Her lips on his… it isn’t right, but it is. It’s wrong, but it would be equally wrong to deprive him of the joy she is clearly capable of giving him, she tells herself. And she knows how narcissistic that sounds, how narcissistic it is, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
Nobody else in the world does this for him. He doesn’t date; the prostitutes he pays don’t care, which means his only chance of having something that even remotely approaches a real relationship is Cuddy herself.
And though she is never forgetful of that knowledge, at the moment, it weighs heavily on her. It’s the reason she sighs when House manages to shove her coat off her shoulders and onto the floor.
As his fingertips skate along her bare neck, she wonders how it was even remotely possible for her to go this long without him. She’s nowhere near undressed, but already she can feel herself responding to his touch. She feels warm - molten - as though the very nearness of him has set her marrow ablaze - and her skin blushes as he pushes her against the front door.
Her fingers grip his t-shirt tightly in an effort to stop her head from colliding with the wooden barrier behind her. But he’s so insistent that it doesn’t really do her any good, and the sound of her skull smacking against the door fills her ears as House shoves a hand underneath her sweater.
As he practically scrambles to cop a feel, Cuddy tells him in exasperation, "Be careful.” She doesn’t mind it being rough, but going home with a concussion because he’s too horny to care about hurting her is hardly her idea of a good time.
And she’s about to admonish him some more when his thumb and index finger pinch her nursing bra-clad nipple. And all of a sudden, the peevishness she’s feeling evaporates, the emotion being replaced by a heavy wave of arousal coursing through her veins.
She gasps loudly, her grip on his t-shirt instinctively tightening.
“You like that?” he asks as he presses a kiss to her jaw. His voice is lower than usual, more gravelly than normal, making her doubt that they’ll even make it to the bedroom this time.
She knows there’s no point in denying it. “Yes.”
So predictably he moves his hand back down towards the hem of her sweater. She never expected anything else to happen, of course; as he is in every other area of his life, he likes to be a complete pain in the ass. He enjoys teasing and delaying her pleasure until she’s frustrated and borderline desperate. But the fact of the matter is that she rarely finds it in herself to be actually angry about it; after all, the longer he takes, the better the sex is…
The longer she can stay here.
That shouldn’t be a selling point, but she supposes if being able to avoid her clueless husband and her chicken pox-riddled daughter and her colic-y son were something she didn’t like, she wouldn’t be betraying all of them to begin with.
And that thought is so depressing that she hurls herself into the escape all of this provides. Her mouth seeking his, she pleads softly against his lips, “Please.”
Her eyelashes flutter shut as she feels his blue eyes narrow on her as though she’s suddenly said something meaningful. She doesn’t think she has, but given the way he’s looking at her, it feels like she did. And she’s not brave enough to face the judgment he’ll surely give her.
But she thinks she should know better by now; she should know that he has no trouble making it known how he feels. So it comes as no surprise that he practically chuckles as he says knowingly, “You missed me.”
Her eyes pop open widely. “Excuse me?”
He smiles at her, probably amused at the fact that she hasn’t deduced what he seems to understand instinctively. “If you’re saying please this soon, you must have missed me.”
“Hardly.”
“Right. It’s got to be so much fun dealing with a man who stalks people for a living and a daughter who -”
“Don’t,” Cuddy warns, shoving House away from her. “Don’t you dare bring Rachel into this. This has nothing to do with her.”
Intrigued, he looks at her, the weight of his gaze making her feel ashamed. “You’re going to tell me that it was just a coincidence that you came to me the same week she -”
“What part of ‘don’t’ do you not understand?” She’s snapping at him, and even to her own ears, she sounds more upset than outright angry.
And she supposes that’s why he uncharacteristically backs off the subject. He can clearly see that this line of questioning is making her unhappy, and though she doubts he cares about hurting her feelings, she does not doubt that he fears her leaving now because of it.
“Fine,” he capitulates with a roll of his eyes. “We won’t talk about it.” But it’s easy to say that now, she knows, when he’s pushed at that boundary and she can’t say anything back.
Not that she won’t try.
Shaking her head, she says insistently, “I don’t have sex with you, because being a mother is -”
“What part of ‘don’t’ do you not understand?” he asks, tossing her question back at her abruptly.
And she’s so annoyed that she immediately replies, “This was a mistake. I should go.”
Her voice hurries through the words she feels she has to say, and her gaze casts itself downward. Her eyes searching for her coat, she tells herself that she’s not trying to avoid House or his long-standing theory that she uses him the same way he once relied on Vicodin.
But she’s hardly convinced.
So it’s no surprise that he doesn’t take her words at face value. “It’s not a mistake,” he insists in a voice that sounds shockingly gentle, given that it’s House. “You should stay.”
One of his hands brushes a dark strand of her hair out of her face. The act, one she wasn’t expecting, is tender - or what she would describe as tender if it were coming from anyone other than House.
Confused, she abruptly looks up into his blue eyes, because she wants to know what he’s thinking by doing that.
Searching his face for answers, she’s surprised by what she sees.
Concern.
Regret.
Love.
It’s not what she was expecting. It’s not something she even really thought he was capable of feeling for her. But there it is on his face. There it is - all the proof she needs to know just how much he cares.
In the back of her mind, she understands that it’s probably not a good idea to call attention to it. But she’s so shocked that she can’t help herself from saying stupidly, “You missed me.”
Cuddy expects a denial, which is why she’s surprised when he says honestly, “I did.” Then he elaborates. “I missed your boobs anyway.”
“Of course,” she says dryly.
“And ever since you’ve gone into the dairy business….”
He doesn’t finish the thought when she places two fingers on his mouth. She’s grateful he shuts up.
Still, she can’t help but say, “Maybe you should keep your mouth closed for the rest of this.”
House raises an eyebrow. “Really?” He bows his head just enough to kiss her palm then pulls away. “I do some pretty good work with my mouth.”
“Show me,” she challenges.
“Sorry. You just told me to keep my mouth closed, so -”
“And you already failed to do that.”
They share a smile, which somehow melts into a kiss, their bodies inching closer together once more. The moment of disagreement between them dissolves, and it’s not surprising. They are so good at blurring the lines. House should be the person she has the most boundaries with, but that’s not the case. She’s not sure how she could even begin to make it so.
His hands ease the thought out of her. As he pulls the sweater off of her, he says, as though he’s preparing to examine something carefully, “Let me see you.”
Cuddy stifles a wave of self-consciousness with the cruel thought that, even in her current state, her body is still better than anyone else’s he’s seen lately. She becomes less confident when he throws the shirt off to the side and begins appraising her flesh intensely. She waits for a snide remark to come her way, for the backhanded display of support Lucas has relied on since she’s given birth - that she’ll lose the weight. She’s surprised when House remains silent and takes her bra off.
His fingertips softly glide along her new curves, a thumb tentatively stroking the nipple that has begun to leak milk. She can see the curiosity in his eyes, a contrast to the embarrassment she’s trying very hard not to feel. He wipes away the fluid, brings his thumb up to his mouth, and tastes.
“Well?” she blurts out before she has a chance to stop herself.
“Looks good, tastes good. But that’s always been true for you.” There’s no particular conviction behind the words. It’s not a matter of dishonesty; he obviously just finds the question banal and has no interest in enthusiastically reassuring her that she’s beautiful.
She would consider doubting his attraction, but he reserves his enthusiasm for the way he forces the rest of her clothes off, and it’s confirmation enough.
He strokes her clit until she no longer cares how he regards her body. He just has to keep going to make her happy. He does, pushing three, or maybe only two, fingers inside of her.
It instantly hurts.
Before she can even hiss in pain or ask him to stop, he withdraws. His wet fingers sympathetically resting on her hip, he asks, “That hurt?”
“What the hell do you think? Don’t go that fast.”
She’s snapping at him, but he is far less rude with his remarks. “Sorry.” Surprisingly he is. “I didn’t know.”
“Well neither did I,” she says defensively.
“Kind of assumed things down there would be -”
“You might want to be careful about how you finish that sentence.”
He tries again. “Last I heard, the baby -”
“Don’t, House.”
“Your OB did a good job is all I’m saying.”
He’s not wrong, apparently; her body has recovered nicely, but she braces herself for a crude remark about her vagina anyway. She doesn’t get one, which leaves her feeling oddly let down.
Instead he reassures her, “I’ll go slower.” He seems concerned, as though he’s afraid she wants him to stop.
Now she is the one reassuring. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came here for.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, pushing her down the hallway, one of his hands grabbing at her ass. “I’m just saying: we’ll get around that.”
It’s comical really, in a sad sort of way. They have ignored every professional rule and regulation in place guarding against this type of relationship between employer and employee. Lucas didn’t stop them. Pregnancy didn’t stop them. Why would a little temporary discomfort do what her husband and children could not?
Cuddy thinks about leaving… then lies down on House’s mattress. She knows this has to end. But she decides when he’s between her thighs - caressing her, licking her, loving her - that the end will not be today. Today, she needs him too much, wants him too much.
He keeps his word to her. He gets them past the newness of sex post-baby. His tongue laves over her clit. He whispers against her body how beautiful she is, finally saying exactly what she wants to hear. He brings her to orgasm only using his mouth, his hands rubbing her knees encouragingly.
Every sweet word he has ever spared her is suddenly given freely. He talks about how tight she is, how perfect she is, how much he has dreamed about doing this, when he slides a finger in her once more. This time there’s no pain, just the deeply protected desire for more of him.
“I want you,” she confesses, as he presses an affectionate kiss to her mound.
“Soon,” he promises, adding another finger. Her body stretches around the intrusion, gives into the feeling. At this point, she wouldn’t care if he thrust into her violently. She would take the pain in order to be closer to him.
The thought sends her into a second orgasm.
He pauses to suck the come off his fingers.
She whimpers at the loss of contact. “Don’t.”
“I can’t help it. You taste too good.”
She spread her legs wider. “Please.”
He considers the situation for a moment, then asks, “Think you can take more than fingers? You’re wet but -”
“Yes.” She doesn’t care if it’s true or not.
He does. “Touch yourself while I get undressed.” It’s one of the few orders he’s given her that she doesn’t hesitate to follow. As he takes his clothes off, one of her hands moves down to her cunt. A little fearful, she cautiously slides her fingers inside of herself. “How does that feel?”
The question is so clinical she resents it even being asked. “Don’t ruin the mood,” she chastises. Or tries to anyway. It’s kind of difficult to admonish when she’s working her way toward coming again.
“That good, huh?” She turns her head away when he smirks. She looks back when she sees his jeans go flying out of her peripheral vision. His body has had no reason to change these last several months, but she’s eyeing him anyway. He asks again, “That good, huh?”
“Don’t be arrogant.” She cries out loudly as soon as she says the words. She comes again, although weakly.
“So many rules.” He pulls her hand away from her pussy before she’s even had a chance to recover. He hasn’t exaggerated how much he likes the way she tastes, his tongue wasting no time at passing over her fingertips. When he’s finished, he teases, “Don’t do this. Don’t do that. I’m not sure how I’m gonna remember all of that.”
Guiding his penis toward her entrance, he slips just the head of his cock inside her. “Got any study tips?” he asks playfully.
She laughs more than she should, half-delirious from the pleasure coursing through her body. It’s dangerous, the way this is making her feel. She’s remembering that this hasn’t all been miserable - and it’s not just the sex she wants. She likes him, his company.
She wants him.
And when he’s finally fully inside her, she feels more aware than ever of how tied to him she will always be.
They have a child together.
House doesn’t say he loves her, and she doesn’t say anything to him. But it’s obvious. They’re having sex like two people in love - considerate and slow, passion roiling beneath the surface hotly, threatening to burn them both. They have another bond that she won’t ever have with Lucas, no matter how kind and good he is, no matter how much he lavishes her children with affection.
Her husband has the matching wedding ring.
House has everything else.
His thrusts build up in speed but never to the point where it hurts. When they come together, the ache she feels deep inside her is anything but physical.
When he rests against her afterward and then spoons next to her, the phantom pain is shared. She waits for him to ask about their son; he hasn’t yet, and she knows the question must be on the tip of his tongue. He’s so curious that how could it not be? He remains silent though.
It’s obvious why. The source of their collective pain is her, her choices. She would hesitate to answer the question in all likelihood, and that rejection would only confirm for him that she didn’t believe he was good enough. She wouldn’t know how to adequately prove to him that the issue has never been his goodness, so the misconception would continue.
“I have to go,” she says after a moment, her voice tight. The hand lovingly running over her stomach pauses, pulls away.
“‘Kay.”
He doesn’t watch her get dressed. He doesn’t see her out. He just lies there, unable to look at her leave him one more time.
When she gets home, she has enough intelligence to use a tissue to wipe off House’s semen as best as she can. Sitting in the driveway, she eyes her labia long enough to decide that she doesn’t look completely fucked. The detachment with which she is able to do this is easy to embrace, even though some part of her beneath the surface registers guilt. Before she goes through the front door, she makes sure the emotion isn’t noticeable.
The effort isn’t necessary. It never has been. The stain on her character seems obvious to her, but Lucas doesn’t see. He happily kisses her when she finds him half-heartedly watching cartoons with Rachel who is barely awake beside him on the couch. A bottle of calamine lotion and a handful of used cotton balls are strewn about the coffee table. He looks tired but not accusing.
Completely oblivious, he whispers that he’s relieved the doctor finally gave Cuddy the okay to have sex, that he can’t wait until the kids are in bed.
She wishes she hadn’t told him.
But she smiles sweetly and pretends to be eager as well.
She is good at pretending.
The lie is not visibly difficult to maintain that night when he’s touching her. When his dick is inside her, he doesn’t know that he’s the second man to have done this to her today. She closes her eyes to make sure he’ll never know the truth. After he’s finished, after he doesn’t make her come, after she lies about not being ready and makes him feel better about his performance, the effort necessary to keep the façade going becomes too much.
Her hands shaking, she puts on her clothes and blurts out, before she can convince herself otherwise:
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Read the epilogue