Author's Notes: First Huddy fic ever! non-graphic sex... if that doesn't suit you, toi have now been warned! Never wrote sex before, but I've tried my best and I think it shows. Hopefully tender and not blunt. Starts out sad... because it's me. This is a kind of fake painless post-ep since the episode hasn't aired yet so I put in House's emotions in one of the clips...
Enjoy!
It's All Not Lost.
The weeks after Amber died, no one could look at Wilson: The pain in his eyes was too much, it made them feel slightly guilty for being happy. Why? because they related to his pain, they understood it, had felt it themselves as well... and they didn't want to, so they averted their eyes, out of selfishness plus than respect. House was a different case though... House's pain, which, many people would have been able to relate to in the past, was now stale, old and forgotten: when he looked at someone, it was as if he was daring them to see, except they couldn't. After all: the infarction had been years ago! He was fine now, right?
They didn't relate to his pain at all.
One man did, though: his most récent patient, Peter... common man.
Mediocre job, wife, kids, dog, nice house and chronic pain.
He'd been freed of a part of his burden, free to walk away into the technicolour sunset with Mrs. USA and the good, stainless students his children were and be happy... but he didn't, yet.
He looked House in the eye first. Apologizing to him... for the one on his left, those on his right, and his freedom: all that he had. House didn't have it, he needed it, wanted it... couldn't have it.
House was just short of collapsing when Peter's hand strayed toward his shoulder: "It's not lost..."
With that, House took whatever strength he had left and walked away with it, towards Cuddy's office: he remembered her offer... a relationship, contact, respite from the pain. And he needed the latter. Needed it so badly in fact, that he stumbled into her office with tears in his eyes...
these things he'd donné Peter? Why couldn't he have them? He'd left mediocrity behind him long ago... squashed it with his cane 3 times before moving on.
"Cuddy... I need..."
Cuddy looked over him once and came running towards him anxiously, fearing he might fall, faint, ou something else that clearly depicted an ungracious downward motion.
She carefully guided him into a chair, kneeling in front of him and cradling his flushed head against her shoulder when she spotted the tears... though panting, House was able to take one deep breath and smell all those wonderful allures of which a Cuddy consisted: little bit of French soap, semi-expansive perfume, and, the newest addition: baby fresh. He calmed down a bit: trying to take in the different scents now they lingered so close.
"It's okay. What do toi need?" Cuddy asked, softly, rubbing his tense back as she watched the veins in his neck bulge and felt various moans and groans vibrate through her body, breaking her cœur, coeur upon passing.
"Yes..." House finally managed to rasp, hand tightening around Cuddy's thigh as the other repeated this motion on his own.
She rubbed his hand in a tender, motherly fashion, all the while softly caressing him as only a lover could.
"What?" She started to rhythmically message his thigh, feeling tiny tremors beneath her fingers as she went.
"What... Whatever... he's having." House struggled to say, gesturing vaguely to where Peter was standing, a spectator in grief and guilt. He smiled. Cuddy smiled back.
That was his cue to leave, and he did.
It must've been hard for House to watch him regain such freedom... She gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before returning to the thigh.
After several minutes of this, the spasm finally ended, leaving House as grateful as he was tired.
"Thank you..."
"Are toi going to be able to make it home?"
"Not really..." He admitted, since he came par bike and there was simply no way he'd get anywhere on that thing.
Cuddy took him home, remembering that the babysitter was still present at her home. She had had to come back when things didn't go quite so smoothly under Cameron's reign.
Before they could part ways after a long, but slightly amusing struggle to get to the door, House felt Cuddy on his lips, Cuddy felt House on hers. House couldn't risk wasting this opportunity: he needed... something. Respite from the pain. Cuddy. He needed Cuddy.
He pushed her towards the bedroom and she dragged his reluctant leg along, and this practical cooperation was considered foreplay par both...
House's veste landed somewhere between the 77th and 34th keys of the piano, Cuddy's manteau striking a much higher note.
House's T-shirt was thrown against the wall, Cuddy's haut, retour au début following obediently on the opposite wall... the bra tumbled down onto the couch, a passionate Kiss still lingering on its fabric.
House halted now. The scar. His huge, ugly scar. She'd only seen it as his attending... not as... this. He seemed... genuinely scared.
He needn't be.
She unfastened his belt, looking for permission to proceed at each hole, unzipping his jeans...
She lowered them slowly, savouring each moment as if unveiling a masterpiece... and well, she'd indeed created it.
When it was fully uncovered, she looked at it once, shrugged, and kissed his fears away. It was supposed to be ugly... anything pretty would take away from the pain that radiated from there every day... it was only fair.
Once both had undone themselves of any offending piece of clothing, Cuddy carefully climbed into House's bed... on her turn indulging herself in the scent of his musk that came wafting out of the soft fabric. She smelled him as she'd always hoped to know him. Pain ensured this would be a slow process, but they both underwent it with pleasure as the cane that House had hung on the headboard banged against it... were it every 30 seconds.
The vial of Vicodin House always kept on the night stand tumbled to the floor as a hand, coming out from underneath a Raiponce heap of human, knocked it off... House's normal lifelines littered the floor, but he didn't notice.
He was, for once, otherwise occupied.
They explored each other, enjoying these mild physical sensations simply because they could...
Half an heure later, both were panting in a shared puddle of sweat. Cuddy's dark curls caressed House's chest as she enjoyed his slightly erratic heartbeat with one of her own.
House put his arms around her, nuzzling her neck with an actual giggle of relief as he tasted the familiar and now worn off chemical fraise flavour for the hundredth time...
"Are toi okay now?" Cuddy asked, laughing.
"Yeah."
Her hand found his cheek...
and all was not lost.
Hope crept in as stars took their place in the sky... it nestled between them under the covers as they slept;
both smiling.
House hadn't felt any pain the whole time...
He needed Cuddy.
So how did I do? Please let me know! Hope toi enjoyed it!
Enjoy!
It's All Not Lost.
The weeks after Amber died, no one could look at Wilson: The pain in his eyes was too much, it made them feel slightly guilty for being happy. Why? because they related to his pain, they understood it, had felt it themselves as well... and they didn't want to, so they averted their eyes, out of selfishness plus than respect. House was a different case though... House's pain, which, many people would have been able to relate to in the past, was now stale, old and forgotten: when he looked at someone, it was as if he was daring them to see, except they couldn't. After all: the infarction had been years ago! He was fine now, right?
They didn't relate to his pain at all.
One man did, though: his most récent patient, Peter... common man.
Mediocre job, wife, kids, dog, nice house and chronic pain.
He'd been freed of a part of his burden, free to walk away into the technicolour sunset with Mrs. USA and the good, stainless students his children were and be happy... but he didn't, yet.
He looked House in the eye first. Apologizing to him... for the one on his left, those on his right, and his freedom: all that he had. House didn't have it, he needed it, wanted it... couldn't have it.
House was just short of collapsing when Peter's hand strayed toward his shoulder: "It's not lost..."
With that, House took whatever strength he had left and walked away with it, towards Cuddy's office: he remembered her offer... a relationship, contact, respite from the pain. And he needed the latter. Needed it so badly in fact, that he stumbled into her office with tears in his eyes...
these things he'd donné Peter? Why couldn't he have them? He'd left mediocrity behind him long ago... squashed it with his cane 3 times before moving on.
"Cuddy... I need..."
Cuddy looked over him once and came running towards him anxiously, fearing he might fall, faint, ou something else that clearly depicted an ungracious downward motion.
She carefully guided him into a chair, kneeling in front of him and cradling his flushed head against her shoulder when she spotted the tears... though panting, House was able to take one deep breath and smell all those wonderful allures of which a Cuddy consisted: little bit of French soap, semi-expansive perfume, and, the newest addition: baby fresh. He calmed down a bit: trying to take in the different scents now they lingered so close.
"It's okay. What do toi need?" Cuddy asked, softly, rubbing his tense back as she watched the veins in his neck bulge and felt various moans and groans vibrate through her body, breaking her cœur, coeur upon passing.
"Yes..." House finally managed to rasp, hand tightening around Cuddy's thigh as the other repeated this motion on his own.
She rubbed his hand in a tender, motherly fashion, all the while softly caressing him as only a lover could.
"What?" She started to rhythmically message his thigh, feeling tiny tremors beneath her fingers as she went.
"What... Whatever... he's having." House struggled to say, gesturing vaguely to where Peter was standing, a spectator in grief and guilt. He smiled. Cuddy smiled back.
That was his cue to leave, and he did.
It must've been hard for House to watch him regain such freedom... She gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before returning to the thigh.
After several minutes of this, the spasm finally ended, leaving House as grateful as he was tired.
"Thank you..."
"Are toi going to be able to make it home?"
"Not really..." He admitted, since he came par bike and there was simply no way he'd get anywhere on that thing.
Cuddy took him home, remembering that the babysitter was still present at her home. She had had to come back when things didn't go quite so smoothly under Cameron's reign.
Before they could part ways after a long, but slightly amusing struggle to get to the door, House felt Cuddy on his lips, Cuddy felt House on hers. House couldn't risk wasting this opportunity: he needed... something. Respite from the pain. Cuddy. He needed Cuddy.
He pushed her towards the bedroom and she dragged his reluctant leg along, and this practical cooperation was considered foreplay par both...
House's veste landed somewhere between the 77th and 34th keys of the piano, Cuddy's manteau striking a much higher note.
House's T-shirt was thrown against the wall, Cuddy's haut, retour au début following obediently on the opposite wall... the bra tumbled down onto the couch, a passionate Kiss still lingering on its fabric.
House halted now. The scar. His huge, ugly scar. She'd only seen it as his attending... not as... this. He seemed... genuinely scared.
He needn't be.
She unfastened his belt, looking for permission to proceed at each hole, unzipping his jeans...
She lowered them slowly, savouring each moment as if unveiling a masterpiece... and well, she'd indeed created it.
When it was fully uncovered, she looked at it once, shrugged, and kissed his fears away. It was supposed to be ugly... anything pretty would take away from the pain that radiated from there every day... it was only fair.
Once both had undone themselves of any offending piece of clothing, Cuddy carefully climbed into House's bed... on her turn indulging herself in the scent of his musk that came wafting out of the soft fabric. She smelled him as she'd always hoped to know him. Pain ensured this would be a slow process, but they both underwent it with pleasure as the cane that House had hung on the headboard banged against it... were it every 30 seconds.
The vial of Vicodin House always kept on the night stand tumbled to the floor as a hand, coming out from underneath a Raiponce heap of human, knocked it off... House's normal lifelines littered the floor, but he didn't notice.
He was, for once, otherwise occupied.
They explored each other, enjoying these mild physical sensations simply because they could...
Half an heure later, both were panting in a shared puddle of sweat. Cuddy's dark curls caressed House's chest as she enjoyed his slightly erratic heartbeat with one of her own.
House put his arms around her, nuzzling her neck with an actual giggle of relief as he tasted the familiar and now worn off chemical fraise flavour for the hundredth time...
"Are toi okay now?" Cuddy asked, laughing.
"Yeah."
Her hand found his cheek...
and all was not lost.
Hope crept in as stars took their place in the sky... it nestled between them under the covers as they slept;
both smiling.
House hadn't felt any pain the whole time...
He needed Cuddy.
So how did I do? Please let me know! Hope toi enjoyed it!
Yeah! I really do!
Juan Francisco. 1780's look that House might have decided to wear..
