Title: ...To Make Me Feel This Way (Triquel to "What a Wicked Game to Play.." and "Work of the Devil")
Set During: Season 3
Disclaimer: No, I don't own House or Cuddy; if I did...well if I told you I'd have to kill you. :P
The pain is returning; burning a hole right through you. The drugs don’t seem to be enough anymore. They merely dull the ache they used to at least almost suppress. And the dreams; the dreams are killing you.
Your subconscious must be angry with you, furious even to throw such images into your sleep. Yes, you’re awful to her and yes, you’re awful to him but your brain has never done something like this before. You’ll have to have a talk with it later but now you have more “pressing” matters to attend to.
You burst into her office unannounced, a sight she is so very used to by now. She’s standing in front of her desk, already poised in administrative mode, ready to handle anything you hurl at her. Except perhaps…
You close the blinds before you even meet eyes and this time she can’t have a clue why you’re here. “House, you are a Doctor here. I can’t excuse you from treating patients because they annoy you or haven’t yet bowed down to the Great and Powerful Oz.” Ah, sweet victory. She has no idea what’s coming. “Oh, Cuddy” you begin in a tone that ‘only mimics’ flirtation, “that’s not why I’m here”.
Conversation seems pointless here, useless and tired and better things could be happening in its place. You walk; only it’s more like stalk, towards her as your eyes nearly bore holes in her skin. You move closer and closer, a few feet, a few inches, then nothingness. She’s forced to back straight into her desk and you’re right there with her. No apologies, just friction. A great motto to live by.
You’re so close she can’t even breathe. Every attempt is just pulling you in and not oxygen. It’s like breathing in poison; the more you try for air, the more it seeps in, strangling you and the more you desperately try to breathe because of it. An endless, painful cycle.
Your cane drops to the ground at your feet and she tries to pull farther away, tries to breathe but you just shove everything off her desk before lifting her onto it. One of her legs rests between your, sending delicious and devilish signals to both your brains, no doubt. You run a hand up her other leg so delicately it’s as if a ghost were touching her; the sensation so feather-light she’s not even sure she can actually feel it. Her skin is like fairy dust in your hands, you long to touch every glistening, little piece but it keeps escaping you, falling through your fingers so you just keep grasping for more.
Her mind went on overload the minute you touched her. And she still can’t seem to form any kind of sentence, although her lips are tirelessly trying to. Conversation=pointless…remember? Your lips drop down to hers, silencing her. It’s been far too long since you’ve relished this experience. You blame the clouding anger and the false truths it brought; that she was not a fitting course of treatment for this havoc wreaking pain. Now that you’ve seen anger, punched it in the nose and given it a swift cane to the balls, you know that she is a perfect course of treatment, not a cure but nonetheless a highly effective distracting agent and you wonder what other ailments she’s good for.
This pain in your fingers, hindered as they play an unwritten melody across her skin. Irritated eyes, she’s just the thing. One look at the skin and the lips and the curves of this woman and goodbye irritated feeling. Malfunctioning taste buds, here’s a kicker; a kiss is the perfect remedy to correct any taste related confusion. Actually, a kiss, or many, proves to be quite a miraculous healing technique.
So far the pain is losing this battle. Everything is set to heavy glow and the more you touch her, the more you kiss her, the more phosphorescent the light you emit becomes. Like fuel on the fire of an already catastrophic blaze for the perilous need of every inch of her skin.
God, how you’ve perfected this kiss. You’ve been here dozens upon dozens of times, each exploration seeming better than the last. But this kiss reigns superior, having reached a most unreachable level of perfection. Nothing could recreate this feeling again. But then, there’s always room for improvement, or at least a little practice.