Unprotected: Prologue
Title: Unprotected
Pairing, Characters: House/Cuddy established. The DDX team.
Warning: Explicit content in some chapters. It is always safe to assume some angst.
Summary: This one asks the question, what would the sharkverse House and Cuddy relationship be, without sex?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction.
Comments welcome.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“But I’m his boss. And yours.”
“And I’m his primary care physician. And his employee.”
“Damn it, I know about the blood tests. I have a right to know -- ”
“HOUSE!!!!”
Lisa Cuddy stopped her interrogation of Eric Foreman in mid-sentence and rushed down the hall toward the much-too-familiar sound of outrage.
Her head of oncology was standing on the couch in his office, stammering incoherently and flinging his arm wildly in the direction of his desk.
“There you are!” April Townsend, the youngest member of the diagnostics team, pushed past Cuddy, dropped down, and crouched-walked toward the desk. “There you are,” she repeated, cooing it softly. “Be a good girl, now.” She disappeared behind the desk for a moment and came up cradling a small ball of twitchy brown fur in her arms.
“It’s okay,” she soothed. “It’s all right, Florecita, don’t be scared, Doctor Wilson didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“ME?!” Wilson demanded. “That thing almost gave me a heart attack, when it crawled up my shoe!”
“Is that a rat?” Cuddy didn’t even know why she was bothering to ask.
“Uh-huh. House gave her to Chase, but Chase can’t keep her.” April was petting the rodent’s head, her fingers dangerously close to its teeth.
“Why did House give Chase a rat,” Cuddy sighed. It was strange: she didn’t want to know, and yet, she did.
“It was a symbolic gesture. He lacks subtlety, sometimes.”
Wilson stepped off the couch and straightened his tie. “And why are you calling it Florecita.”
“It’s Spanish for -“
“Never mind what it’s called,” Cuddy snapped. “What possessed him to bring a rat into a hospital - don’t answer that, I know he’s insane, what I want to know is -- what possessed you, and apparently Chase, to encourage him?”
“Shhh.” April cupped her hand over the rat’s head and frowned reproachfully at Wilson. “Chase was calling her Fatso, but I thought that was highly insensitive. Not to mention inaccurate. She’s a little … husky, is all.”
“Are you sure she isn’t pregnant?” Wilson asked with a thoughtful scowl at the decidedly chubby creature now wriggling up Townsend’s chest toward her collar.
“Positive. We scanned her.”
“You did an ultrasound on a rat?”
Townsend glanced at Cuddy, who was wondering if her day could possibly get any stupider. “Did I say that? I meant we palpitated her abdomen.”
“Could she have a tumor?” Wilson persisted. “That bulge looks --”
“No, she just doesn’t miss too many meals if you know what I mean.”
“An appetite strong enough to produce that kind of ….” Wilson tsked. “It could be a sign of a metabolic disorder.”
“Stop trying to diagnose the vermin!” Cuddy shouted.
“Could I get that embroidered on a pillow?” His timing impeccable as ever, House had poked his head into the room.
He ignored the murderous gleam in Cuddy’s eye. “Uncle Sam wants you,” he declared, thrusting out his arm and jabbing his finger in her direction. “The sergeant major needs your signature to certify that the patient’s got a clean bill of health before they take him into federal custody.”
“Already?” Wilson asked.
“Thank God,” Cuddy breathed.
House buffed his nails on his shirt. He was banged up and bruised from boxing with his physical therapist, but his eyes were glittering triumphantly. “Around the hospital, you can just call me Greg.”
“You,” she glared, impervious for once to his boyish charms, “In my office, five minutes.”
“You do know, there are reporters in the lobby?” he pointed out cheerfully.
“Crap.” Cuddy’s head ached. “No, but the way this day is going, I should have.”
“They’re blocking my way to the clinic.”
“What a shame,” Wilson opined dryly.
“Don’t you dare set one foot down there.” Cuddy warned. “Don’t say anything, to anyone. If you make one more public statement, my PR department will quit. “
House nodded compliantly, zipped his lips, and made an exaggerated show of silencing his cell phone.
She didn’t realize her mistake, or that he’d been the one to tip off the reporters, until the second time her call went straight to his voicemail.
When she caught up with him he was in their garage, tinkering with something or other under the hood of his car.
“Cute,” she said in greeting. She meant it as an accusation, but she had to admit that he did look kind of cute, standing there looking serious in a white t-shirt, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth. Rachel, standing on an upturned carton next to him and holding a wrench and a bottle of water, looked even more adorable.
He did not ask her about her day. He did not kiss her hello.
He held out his hand to Rachel and she put the water bottle in it. After a few swigs, he returned it.
“What’s wrong with your car?” Cuddy asked.
“It’s the starter,” Rachel said ominously.
“You know, Fang, I think you’re right,” House said, scratching his chin. There were grease smudges on his fingers.
“What is the starter called?” Cuddy asked. House could hold forth for hours on the intricacies of the internal combustion engine, and it drive him crazy that as far as she was concerned everything in there was grungy and complicated and boring.
He made an obvious effort not to call her a moron. “It’s called ‘the starter’.”
“Well, excuse me, but how was I supposed to know that?” she defended. “It’s not like the brakes are called ‘the stoppers.’”
House gave her one of the “you are such a girl” eye-rolls he'd perfected on Wilson, and pulled a rag from the back pocket of his jeans.
“So about those blood panels Taub and Foreman ordered on ‘Terrick Gordon’,” she said.
“Later, Cuddy.”
She watched him wipe his hands, move Rachel, slam the hood down, and walk into the house.
Yeah, she thought grimly, later. He could bet his ass on that.
He’d changed clothes at work: he’d gone in wearing blue jeans and a white dress shirt over a green t-shirt; later, in Wilson’s office, he’d been in a blue t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. This factoid she added to her arsenal of grievances and accusations as he made dinner, chatted with Rachel, and slunk off into the living room to play piano, carrying another bottle of water.
He didn’t volunteer any information, and he still didn’t kiss her.
She honestly meant to confront him with facts, with an assertion of her authority and a lecture about trust, but it surprised neither of them when finally, after seething her way through the meal and Rachel’s bath and bedtime routine, her anxiety and anger came out in a single outburst:
“What the hell is going on and why are you shutting me out?”
House barely looked up from the piano keys. With a deep sigh, he removed three vials from the pocket of his jeans, and tossed them to her. Cuddy caught them, and blinked numbly down at the labels:
Zidovudine
Indinavar
Saquinivar.
Prescribing physician: Eric Foreman.
Patient: Gregory House.
“Our patient was HIV positive,” he said, and she felt the horror of it seeping into her consciousness along with the tune of the old melody he was coaxing out of the piano. “He spat blood in my face and some of it made contact with my eyes and my cut lip.”
“Oh, God.”
“Incidence from occupational exposure is less than 1 percent,” House said simply, moving his head from side to side as he played.
“Oh, God.” Cuddy was trying to keep her mind running ahead of her thoughts of disaster.
“Calm down,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Seriously? All this time of our entire working relationship being based on it, and you still don’t know the implications of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’?” he sneered. He was still playing. “The army will figure it out soon enough. Or, they wont.”
“I meant about your direct exposure to a level IV hazard while at work in my hospital, you ass.”
“Foreman, being Foreman, filed the report.” She wished he’d stop playing that song. “By the way, I won’t be able to interact with patients until I’m cleared.”
“When were you planning on telling me you might die, or did you think you’d just let me read the memo about your not being able to do clinic duty?”
“I didn’t think it would escape your notice that we won’t be exchanging body fluids for the next six weeks,” he smirked, infuriatingly calm.
“So you think that except for the imposition on our sex life, this shouldn’t matter to me?”
“It doesn’t have to be a major imposition,” he shrugged, pausing to take another drink of water. “If not being able to have sex with me is going to make you this pissy for the next six weeks, I’m willing to get … creative.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Cuddy said, narrowing her eyes. “Trust me, I’m not going to have any trouble resisting you.”
Part 1
Pairing, Characters: House/Cuddy established. The DDX team.
Warning: Explicit content in some chapters. It is always safe to assume some angst.
Summary: This one asks the question, what would the sharkverse House and Cuddy relationship be, without sex?
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction.
Comments welcome.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“But I’m his boss. And yours.”
“And I’m his primary care physician. And his employee.”
“Damn it, I know about the blood tests. I have a right to know -- ”
“HOUSE!!!!”
Lisa Cuddy stopped her interrogation of Eric Foreman in mid-sentence and rushed down the hall toward the much-too-familiar sound of outrage.
Her head of oncology was standing on the couch in his office, stammering incoherently and flinging his arm wildly in the direction of his desk.
“There you are!” April Townsend, the youngest member of the diagnostics team, pushed past Cuddy, dropped down, and crouched-walked toward the desk. “There you are,” she repeated, cooing it softly. “Be a good girl, now.” She disappeared behind the desk for a moment and came up cradling a small ball of twitchy brown fur in her arms.
“It’s okay,” she soothed. “It’s all right, Florecita, don’t be scared, Doctor Wilson didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“ME?!” Wilson demanded. “That thing almost gave me a heart attack, when it crawled up my shoe!”
“Is that a rat?” Cuddy didn’t even know why she was bothering to ask.
“Uh-huh. House gave her to Chase, but Chase can’t keep her.” April was petting the rodent’s head, her fingers dangerously close to its teeth.
“Why did House give Chase a rat,” Cuddy sighed. It was strange: she didn’t want to know, and yet, she did.
“It was a symbolic gesture. He lacks subtlety, sometimes.”
Wilson stepped off the couch and straightened his tie. “And why are you calling it Florecita.”
“It’s Spanish for -“
“Never mind what it’s called,” Cuddy snapped. “What possessed him to bring a rat into a hospital - don’t answer that, I know he’s insane, what I want to know is -- what possessed you, and apparently Chase, to encourage him?”
“Shhh.” April cupped her hand over the rat’s head and frowned reproachfully at Wilson. “Chase was calling her Fatso, but I thought that was highly insensitive. Not to mention inaccurate. She’s a little … husky, is all.”
“Are you sure she isn’t pregnant?” Wilson asked with a thoughtful scowl at the decidedly chubby creature now wriggling up Townsend’s chest toward her collar.
“Positive. We scanned her.”
“You did an ultrasound on a rat?”
Townsend glanced at Cuddy, who was wondering if her day could possibly get any stupider. “Did I say that? I meant we palpitated her abdomen.”
“Could she have a tumor?” Wilson persisted. “That bulge looks --”
“No, she just doesn’t miss too many meals if you know what I mean.”
“An appetite strong enough to produce that kind of ….” Wilson tsked. “It could be a sign of a metabolic disorder.”
“Stop trying to diagnose the vermin!” Cuddy shouted.
“Could I get that embroidered on a pillow?” His timing impeccable as ever, House had poked his head into the room.
He ignored the murderous gleam in Cuddy’s eye. “Uncle Sam wants you,” he declared, thrusting out his arm and jabbing his finger in her direction. “The sergeant major needs your signature to certify that the patient’s got a clean bill of health before they take him into federal custody.”
“Already?” Wilson asked.
“Thank God,” Cuddy breathed.
House buffed his nails on his shirt. He was banged up and bruised from boxing with his physical therapist, but his eyes were glittering triumphantly. “Around the hospital, you can just call me Greg.”
“You,” she glared, impervious for once to his boyish charms, “In my office, five minutes.”
“You do know, there are reporters in the lobby?” he pointed out cheerfully.
“Crap.” Cuddy’s head ached. “No, but the way this day is going, I should have.”
“They’re blocking my way to the clinic.”
“What a shame,” Wilson opined dryly.
“Don’t you dare set one foot down there.” Cuddy warned. “Don’t say anything, to anyone. If you make one more public statement, my PR department will quit. “
House nodded compliantly, zipped his lips, and made an exaggerated show of silencing his cell phone.
She didn’t realize her mistake, or that he’d been the one to tip off the reporters, until the second time her call went straight to his voicemail.
When she caught up with him he was in their garage, tinkering with something or other under the hood of his car.
“Cute,” she said in greeting. She meant it as an accusation, but she had to admit that he did look kind of cute, standing there looking serious in a white t-shirt, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth. Rachel, standing on an upturned carton next to him and holding a wrench and a bottle of water, looked even more adorable.
He did not ask her about her day. He did not kiss her hello.
He held out his hand to Rachel and she put the water bottle in it. After a few swigs, he returned it.
“What’s wrong with your car?” Cuddy asked.
“It’s the starter,” Rachel said ominously.
“You know, Fang, I think you’re right,” House said, scratching his chin. There were grease smudges on his fingers.
“What is the starter called?” Cuddy asked. House could hold forth for hours on the intricacies of the internal combustion engine, and it drive him crazy that as far as she was concerned everything in there was grungy and complicated and boring.
He made an obvious effort not to call her a moron. “It’s called ‘the starter’.”
“Well, excuse me, but how was I supposed to know that?” she defended. “It’s not like the brakes are called ‘the stoppers.’”
House gave her one of the “you are such a girl” eye-rolls he'd perfected on Wilson, and pulled a rag from the back pocket of his jeans.
“So about those blood panels Taub and Foreman ordered on ‘Terrick Gordon’,” she said.
“Later, Cuddy.”
She watched him wipe his hands, move Rachel, slam the hood down, and walk into the house.
Yeah, she thought grimly, later. He could bet his ass on that.
He’d changed clothes at work: he’d gone in wearing blue jeans and a white dress shirt over a green t-shirt; later, in Wilson’s office, he’d been in a blue t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. This factoid she added to her arsenal of grievances and accusations as he made dinner, chatted with Rachel, and slunk off into the living room to play piano, carrying another bottle of water.
He didn’t volunteer any information, and he still didn’t kiss her.
She honestly meant to confront him with facts, with an assertion of her authority and a lecture about trust, but it surprised neither of them when finally, after seething her way through the meal and Rachel’s bath and bedtime routine, her anxiety and anger came out in a single outburst:
“What the hell is going on and why are you shutting me out?”
House barely looked up from the piano keys. With a deep sigh, he removed three vials from the pocket of his jeans, and tossed them to her. Cuddy caught them, and blinked numbly down at the labels:
Zidovudine
Indinavar
Saquinivar.
Prescribing physician: Eric Foreman.
Patient: Gregory House.
“Our patient was HIV positive,” he said, and she felt the horror of it seeping into her consciousness along with the tune of the old melody he was coaxing out of the piano. “He spat blood in my face and some of it made contact with my eyes and my cut lip.”
“Oh, God.”
“Incidence from occupational exposure is less than 1 percent,” House said simply, moving his head from side to side as he played.
“Oh, God.” Cuddy was trying to keep her mind running ahead of her thoughts of disaster.
“Calm down,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Seriously? All this time of our entire working relationship being based on it, and you still don’t know the implications of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’?” he sneered. He was still playing. “The army will figure it out soon enough. Or, they wont.”
“I meant about your direct exposure to a level IV hazard while at work in my hospital, you ass.”
“Foreman, being Foreman, filed the report.” She wished he’d stop playing that song. “By the way, I won’t be able to interact with patients until I’m cleared.”
“When were you planning on telling me you might die, or did you think you’d just let me read the memo about your not being able to do clinic duty?”
“I didn’t think it would escape your notice that we won’t be exchanging body fluids for the next six weeks,” he smirked, infuriatingly calm.
“So you think that except for the imposition on our sex life, this shouldn’t matter to me?”
“It doesn’t have to be a major imposition,” he shrugged, pausing to take another drink of water. “If not being able to have sex with me is going to make you this pissy for the next six weeks, I’m willing to get … creative.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Cuddy said, narrowing her eyes. “Trust me, I’m not going to have any trouble resisting you.”
Part 1