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true north strong and free (house/cuddy friendship)
title: true north strong and free
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
janitorsxcloset challenge #3
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing
rating: PG
author's note: forshutterbug12, because I know she likes house/cuddy and I offered her a fic because being lonely sucks. <3 hope this is okay. post s4 finale fic, no spoilers 'cause I'm not reading them. <3
Cuddy was not expecting to see House on her morning run; as far as she knew House was unfamiliar with early mornings in the same way fish were unfamiliar with shopping malls. And yet as she rounded the corner there he was, sitting on top of a rickety picnic table near the resevoir with his long legs bent at odd angles, feet perched on the bench and a ragged denim jacket over his shoulders.
She slowed to a brisk walk, taking the opportunity for a cool-down as she loped toward him. "My grandmother would have told you tables were for glasses, not for little boys' asses."
"Your grandmother had quite the mouth on her. Was she the original girl from Nantucket?" House replied, not looking at her. His eyes were distant, a thousand-yard stare into the morning; he watched the fog burn off over the reservoir, but turned to ogle at her as she leaned into a cooldown stretch with one foot joining his own on the bench seat.
She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn't really mind - it was just her part in the play. In her heart she was glad to feel his gaze tracing her curves, because at least he was there, all six feet plus of his lecherous, broken glory, rather than doing another dance with death again.
As much as he infuriated her, she cared too much for him to let him go just yet.
"What are you doing up so early?"
"Late." he corrected, turning his gaze back to the foggy horizon.
"Late, then."
"Couldn't sleep."
So many questions burned on her tongue, but she bit back the impulse to ask them and stretched out her other leg instead, looking surreptitiously at him from under sweaty curls. He was worrying at a folded sweatshirt on his lap, his long hands kneading at it, betraying his tightly shielded emotions.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out and caught one of those restless hands. "What's that?"
"Wilson's." His voice was as far away as his eyes, perhaps further. "I should give it back to him - he left it at my apartment."
It was Wilson's sweatshirt, she realized; the grey McGill one she remembered seeing when she dropped by his place - any number of his places, including spheres he'd shared with House - grey with red silkscreeing, a frayed hem or two showing its age and experience.
She levered herself up on the table, leaning closer to him, and caught faint wisps of layered scent. A man's cologne, something sharp and clean. A woman's delicate floral. Two distinct smells.
Wilson.
Amber.
"I should really give it back to him." House repeated, not looking at her, not moving.
She trailed the hand to his shoulder, let it fall there for a moment and sighed. Said nothing. There was nothing much to say.
A red maple leaf drifted down from the tree above them, landed on the folded cloth. He traced the ragged edges of the leaf and watched the sun burn through the fog, his finger trailing angles and dips, around and around and around.
author:
phinniaprompt:
janitorsxcloset challenge #3disclaimer: a wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing
rating: PG
author's note: for
shutterbug12, because I know she likes house/cuddy and I offered her a fic because being lonely sucks. <3 hope this is okay. post s4 finale fic, no spoilers 'cause I'm not reading them. <3Cuddy was not expecting to see House on her morning run; as far as she knew House was unfamiliar with early mornings in the same way fish were unfamiliar with shopping malls. And yet as she rounded the corner there he was, sitting on top of a rickety picnic table near the resevoir with his long legs bent at odd angles, feet perched on the bench and a ragged denim jacket over his shoulders.
She slowed to a brisk walk, taking the opportunity for a cool-down as she loped toward him. "My grandmother would have told you tables were for glasses, not for little boys' asses."
"Your grandmother had quite the mouth on her. Was she the original girl from Nantucket?" House replied, not looking at her. His eyes were distant, a thousand-yard stare into the morning; he watched the fog burn off over the reservoir, but turned to ogle at her as she leaned into a cooldown stretch with one foot joining his own on the bench seat.
She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn't really mind - it was just her part in the play. In her heart she was glad to feel his gaze tracing her curves, because at least he was there, all six feet plus of his lecherous, broken glory, rather than doing another dance with death again.
As much as he infuriated her, she cared too much for him to let him go just yet.
"What are you doing up so early?"
"Late." he corrected, turning his gaze back to the foggy horizon.
"Late, then."
"Couldn't sleep."
So many questions burned on her tongue, but she bit back the impulse to ask them and stretched out her other leg instead, looking surreptitiously at him from under sweaty curls. He was worrying at a folded sweatshirt on his lap, his long hands kneading at it, betraying his tightly shielded emotions.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out and caught one of those restless hands. "What's that?"
"Wilson's." His voice was as far away as his eyes, perhaps further. "I should give it back to him - he left it at my apartment."
It was Wilson's sweatshirt, she realized; the grey McGill one she remembered seeing when she dropped by his place - any number of his places, including spheres he'd shared with House - grey with red silkscreeing, a frayed hem or two showing its age and experience.
She levered herself up on the table, leaning closer to him, and caught faint wisps of layered scent. A man's cologne, something sharp and clean. A woman's delicate floral. Two distinct smells.
Wilson.
Amber.
"I should really give it back to him." House repeated, not looking at her, not moving.
She trailed the hand to his shoulder, let it fall there for a moment and sighed. Said nothing. There was nothing much to say.
A red maple leaf drifted down from the tree above them, landed on the folded cloth. He traced the ragged edges of the leaf and watched the sun burn through the fog, his finger trailing angles and dips, around and around and around.
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I love the repetition of "I should give it back" from House. He can't give back what he'd really like to, and what's left unspoken just aches in those lines.
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Definitely in a good way, though. Poor House.
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