House, M.D. Rumored

**A/N: So I'm pretty sure my multi-chapter muse has died, but the one-shots are up and running, which is perfectly fine with me. This was inspired by a completely random line in gidget89's Destination Unknown and is totally bribery for her to write more for me to read... There are random mentions of things up through 4x12 (mostly quick lines of dialogue), but everything's taken out of context so it's not too spoilery. Enjoy! And I'd love to hear what you thought!**

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**Rumored**

They were generally fleeting, always sexual—sometimes dragging Wilson or some other bit part into the mix, but mostly she and House were the only players. Usually they began buzzing sometime in the late morning but died down by the time evening rolled around. But every once in awhile, one would surface that would rise to nearly newsworthy levels, falling and shattering into pieces of past gossip that hit the halls like a handful of marbles dropped onto linoleum—bouncing and skittering in fifty different directions so that she would be slipping over them for days.

… _condom wrapper and an empty prescription bottle with his name on it…. Guess…. No, the Path Lab…. And all those glass windows, too! Who would've guessed the boss was an…._

This time, there was evidence, and the halls were vibrating, practically shimmering with speculation so that wherever she went it was as if a breeze followed her, turning heads and rustling whispers. The effort of not caring, the heat of curious—disbelieving, even once or twice jealous—stares, and the general insanity of Mondays were beginning to take their toll. She was uncomfortably warm, almost sticky, but as going without either her jacket or lab coat was clearly out of the question what with the way everyone was staring at her, there was nothing she could do but sweat it out—and try to will the elevator to arrive.

If she so much as saw House, there was a good chance, she'd—

Something brushed up against her—came closer, not moving, still pressing, and…. Dammit.

She couldn't see him, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment or finding her face close to his if she turned her head—but there was his scent and the rhythm of his breath: forced, almost raspy. And as his chin came to rest on her shoulder, she gave up all hope that one of her _other _employees—a patient, _anyone _else—was _thisclose _to sexually harassing her. His stubble scraped along the neckline of her top, the slight pressure almost ticklish—and he knew it. She tried nonchalantly to shrug him off—suppressing the urge to kill—anger flaring in small sparks that she could practically see out of the corners of her eyes.

The elevator mercifully announced its arrival with a ding, the doors opening—which was her cue to pitch towards them and his to pull her back, exclaiming just a little too loudly, "You'd think after everything we shared, you'd at least—"

His sentence abruptly ended in a yelp, her elbow jabbing squarely into his ribcage as she spun to face him, the pain crinkling in the corners of his eyes almost staying her anger.

… _thought about her in the shower. Dude, you __**know**__ that means…._

Almost.

"Stop fueling that damn rumor," she hissed, barely able to squelch a groan when she heard the elevator doors slide shut behind her.

"What? I stole your water bottle last week—that's sharing." There were those eyes—almost a puppy-dog innocence but for the hint of wolfishness lurking around the edges. "And you really should stop referring to our sex life as a rumor when you know as well as I do it's—"

"Imaginary?"

"Well there's a blow to a guy's ego." He managed to get this out with his best small wounded animal look—something cute and scruffy, too: soft fur and irresistibly big eyes—and surely there was _something _in their vicinity with two _X _chromosomes and enough missing brain cells to buy it, but it sure as hell wasn't her.

"Nothing's been able to get within ten feet of your ego in years." She stabbed impatiently at the button for the elevator, thought she heard him chuckle. "It's so swollen I'm surprised your head hasn't exploded."

"Lucky for you it hasn't. You know what they say about guys with big egos…."

"That they're asses?"

He made a face—a child's retaliation: _I am rubber and you are…. _"Someone's a little cranky. Must need a nap after all that _wild _sex."

… _**knew**__ she'd be a bondage chick. Those tight skirts and that…._

"Nonexistent."

"_Steamy_." He drew the word out, almost embodying it with his breath, the sound: a hissing _s _and long, droning _e_'s as endless as a sleepless summer night: all heat and humidity and crickets chirping seconds that never seemed to actually pass.

"All in your mind!" The rush of air behind the words resulted in something that sounded with not enough conviction and a little too much desperation, the accompanying gesture almost a flail. Clearly loving this—as was their small audience—House quirked an eyebrow, all that was necessary to instantly call into question everything she'd just said.

"Orgasm-induced amnesia," he mused to no one in particular, though there was snickering from somewhere nearby. "I'm so good she doesn't even remember."

"Nothing to remember," she managed to bite out quickly, which helped nothing at all but at least did no real damage. Against House, she would've been more effective stooping down to his level—backs turned, eight paces; winner is whoever's clever comment knocks the other off their feet, and draw: _Nothing memorable about it._

If nothing else, it would have bought her time, but the last thing she needed was for anyone to hear her even partially confirming that there was or had been anything going on—least of all, _him_.

"House—"

"God, remember? Or were you shouting at someone else when you—" He stumbled slightly as she maneuvered roughly around him and took off down the hall. "You can run but you can't hide."

… _was sitting inside her locked office. Again. Now either he's got a key, or…._

"I can when you can't follow me." She ducked into the side stairwell—sanctuary, thank God; the closest thing she had to a bell tower. It wasn't until she'd reached the first landing that she felt the heavy, jolting vibrations—his footsteps plodding slowly up the stairs behind her. He was being unusually obstinate today—either his patient was dying or he had an agenda, and, quite frankly, she didn't know which she'd prefer. Turning, she folded her arms, tried to sound authoritative, even menacing, but wasn't quite able to edge far past plain exasperation. "What are you doing?"

"Walking up the stairs. Thought it was pretty obvious."

His jaw was set, teeth gritted—but even so he winced with every other slow, heavy step, clutching at his cane and the railing as he tried to take the weight off his leg. Sighing, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, she descended the few steps to meet him. Her fingers curled around his bicep, the muscle there hard and flexing—blue-fire-hot, even through his jacket, and she wondered how she had ever been able to touch him without those protective layers of cotton and polyester….

House shook her off immediately, as if it were a reflex, warding off anything that touched him lest it latched on and he actually began to care. There wasn't much strength behind it—more a shrug than anything—and she blamed her heels and fingertips for slipping, her own stupidity for not having expected this, when his quick motion still threw her off balance. But then his arm was around her waist, the warmth of it gripping her before the muscle did—strong, solid, and oddly comforting given that it had nearly sent her tumbling in the first place.

"I'm not helpless," he muttered bitterly—an explanation, a determined statement of fact, almost an apology—shooting her a sideways glance. He retracted his arm as soon as she had her footing, and she leaned back against the wall, the opposite railing, watching him ease onto the step with a grimace as he pulled his leg up to rub at his thigh.

Neither of them said a word as she pushed against the railing, stepping forward and sinking down beside him. There was space between them—she made sure of that—but still all it took was a quick flick of the wrist to slip her hand into his coat pocket and find that ever-present prescription bottle. She tipped two pills into her hand, grabbing his and pressing the Vicodin into his palm. His forehead furrowed into a question mark, his hand searching his pocket, and she waited until he came up empty before holding the bottle out to him.

"Been taking lessons from the Artful Dodger?" he asked, snatching the bottle and throwing his head back to swallow the pills she had handed him.

The stairwell echoed with footsteps—someone ascending a single flight somewhere above them—and she waited until they disappeared before nodding at the hand he had clenched back around his leg. "What were you thinking?"

… _do you_ _**think**__ they did in Singapore? That's one helluva long flight…._

"You're the one who took the stairs."

Mentioning that _he_ was the one who had decided to follow _her _would have been pointless and juvenile, dragging this stupid argument long past the point where it had become dirty and frayed. He would blame her ass for calling out to him in that skirt, she would point to his adolescence and lack of self-restraint, him to her whorishness and the lack of fabric that made up her shirt….

"Your leg's been bothering you more lately," she finally murmured. It was as logical a progression for them as anything else—one comment leaping right to another, the connections unnecessary because everything always made such insanely perfect sense.

"And you either haven't been sleeping well or have a newfound love for concealer." He was grinning now, the expression illuminating all the perverse twists and turns and leaps in his brain like a sudden flash of lightning—there and gone, leaving only a rumble of thunder and a flickering afterimage in its wake. But she'd known him for far too long, that quick glimpse all she needed. With her, lack of sleep translated to stress, a mind that wouldn't stop whirring. With House, all paths had a single destination—generally horizontal and on a soft surface, though she didn't doubt that he'd done his fair share of experimentation. "Got some new batteries or just a really good batch of zucchini?"

"Jealous?"

He gave her a look—something between horror and awe that almost had her laughing. "Are you really saying you've gone _completely _vegetarian?"

"I'm not _saying_ anything." She added a raised brow here, almost a pout, and that mocking edge to her voice—and it was nearly perfect, the way he blinked and visibly gulped.

"Then I'm gonna have to jump to my own conclusions…."

"You would have anyway."

… _both went in there and shut the blinds. What d'they expect us to think, that she's actually __**firing**__ him?..._

Letting her lab coat fall open, she rested her elbows on the stairs behind her and canted back, stretching her legs out beside his. She was going to have to set up a meeting with Maintenance—there was no reason it should be so damn hot in the building, though House didn't seem at all bothered by it. He turned to face her, staring silently for all of two seconds.

"You're _that_ desperate but you won't—"

She cut him off quickly—had to. "_No_."

He shifted, always fidgeting, drumming the long fingers of one hand up and down his thigh as if practicing invisible scales, and if she tried, she could practically hear the individual notes—as impatient and present as he always was, vibrating with insistence and constant energy. His fingers stopped suddenly, the chord would have hung in the air, suspended and quivering.

"You can't say no and then… _lean_ like that."

The edge of the step bit into her back, but she made no effort to straighten. However she sat, stood, did practically anything, he was going to stare at her breasts—her ass, her clavicle, the goddamned point of her chin: it never seemed to matter; he could always make one part of her feel overexposed. She had learned to accept the fact, knew how to guide the path of his eyes if she had to: a gesture here, a tilt there—it was all geometry, a matter of millimeters and degrees, but lately….

"And how exactly am I supposed to sit so that you won't ogle me?"

She was supposed to be beating him, one-upping him, whatever she wanted to call this, but the way he was watching her said otherwise: a heat that incinerated even the air molecules between them—whether in anger, defiance, or that strange possessiveness—so that the scent of burning ozone was almost dizzying and there really _was_ nothing else in the world. Times like this, his unguarded intensity made her wildly uncomfortable, as though she could feel the flames from his stare searing straight into her subconscious, uncovering thoughts and memories she had long since forgotten—or was still trying to forget.

… _almost sweet the way he stares at her when he thinks no one's looking…. Oh, relax—I said __**almost**__…._

"Like you're not _asking_ for it," he responded easily, eyes roving over her. "But I'll probably ogle you anyway. Old habits—not much else going on in the stairwell."

"_You're_ asking for it." Swinging back whatever words were spoken so they had little more than a different backspin—childish, teasing, irritating—was _his _game, not hers. But now she was playing it. Beautiful.

"Anger's a good look for you. Sexy."

"_Pained_ is a good look for you." She had already ceded the moral high ground and might as well keep up with him, nudged at his good leg with her heel—just hard enough for him to maybe take it as a threat, though the way he lazily swatted at her, grinning all the while….

"Are you as turned on by this as I am?"

"By what?" Making sure her foot was no longer touching his—he could twist this into whatever games he wanted but footsie wasn't going to be one of them—she threw an exasperated glance at their surroundings. "Your immaturity—or the emergency lights and the fire extinguisher?"

"So that's a yes?" It was almost hopeful. "I'd say we should get a room, but if you can manage to be quiet about it…."

"Tempting, but no. And you wouldn't last two minutes on these stairs."

"That much of a screamer, huh?" The words themselves were perfect, but the tone somehow tripped up their usual beat. He was fiddling with his cane, not looking up until the tip of it slipped, sliding into her ankle. When he spoke, it was quietly slow, almost thoughtful, all playfulness pushed aside. "You were a little violent, maybe, but… I didn't think it was all that bad."

He shrugged, was trying for unaffected—that _nothing can penetrate my tough-guy armor_ look he usually wore like a second skin. Maybe there was a chink in it somewhere, maybe she had simply known him for far too long, but his tough charade was as transparent a just-cleaned glass, seemed liable to crack as easily, too, if she hit it with just the right amount of force. And it would be the easiest thing in the world to put an end to all this, drop him and watch as he shattered then grind what was left of him under her heel.

No longer anything sharp on which to cut herself—but nothing to see her own reflection in either.

"It wasn't," she finally murmured, sitting up slowly and resting an elbow on her knee, her head on her hand. He had yet to make a joke, and if one of them didn't keep talking, memory would begin to seep into the void: the insistence of his tongue, the rough pads of his fingertips, the frenzied fumbling towards ecstasy…. "That… can't happen again."

If she hadn't seen the way his chin dropped, eyes cast downward, she wouldn't have thought he heard her at all.

"What—physically? Because that sounds like a challenge."

"No. And yes." Physically, hypothetically, emotionally—all that intimacy and closeness and still waking up alone…. She rubbed a hand over her face, ran it through her hair. "Just—"

The tip of House's cane came to rest on the top of her foot, only the slightest pressure, making the implication just as gentle—not interrupting or trying to shut her up, just _stop talking_; almost a _please_. Everything he said or did hinged on metaphor—the cane on her foot was a hand on hers, an arm draped over her shoulder, maybe even….

… _shouted it like she was trying to take away the only thing he ever cared about: _You can't stop our_…._

"Want me to write you a prescription?"

At least she was able to narrow her eyes this time, almost a glare, and in a matter of seconds they'd be sniping at each other with their usual ferocity: either the universe's most compatible pairing or some harried couple forever teetering on the brink of divorce, caught there because although everything else might be wrong between them, something—no matter how small—was just _so _right.

"You can't prescribe sex, House. For me or anyone else."

He sighed loudly, as if _she _were the one making _his _life more difficult. "Sleeping pills," he offered softly, and then, "Whatever kind of sleep you _are_ getting, it sure isn't beauty rest."

Always a charmer, but if he ever changed, the world would spin right off its axis, and she wouldn't be the same either.

"I'm fine," she half-chuckled, straightening up and still trying for stern. "You should be in the clinic."

"And you should be running this whole hospital. _Now_ who's slacking off?"

Balance restored. Completely.

He rose with a grunt, didn't help her up, but she hadn't been expecting it, picking herself up and brushing off her skirt and hands. Ascending the few steps to the landing, she paused, mentally kicking herself but giving in to the impulse to glance back over her shoulder when she hadn't heard House move behind her. Realization dawned slowly, mid-step, and she whirled around to fully face him, stretching out her hand. "Hand them over."

House slapped her palm in an awkward high-five that left it stinging and frowned when she didn't immediately retract her hand. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Right.

"Pocket. Now."

… _what she puts up with they __**better **__be having sex. And it better be fuckin' __**spectacular**__…._

Reaching into his pocket with a sigh and that _Oh, you've caught me_ look, House extended a handful of… lollipops? The wrappers crinkled, a corner sticking into her skin as he dumped them onto her outstretched palm. He pouted as he met her gaze again, as if she had in fact taken candy from a baby. "Low blood sugar."

Rolling her eyes and handing the candy back to him, she jerked her chin at his jacket. "Inside pocket."

"Wanna just frisk me? It'll probably be quicker." He offered up the suggestion as if he was doing her a favor, and it took a hitched breath on her part to disguise an almost-laugh.

"You'd just love that, wouldn't you?"

For a moment, her only answer was a partial-smirk as House busied himself unwrapping one of his lollipops and stuck it in his mouth. "Wouldn't be the highlight of my day, but I could suffer through it."

"Saint House, the Martyr," she narrated dryly. "Let all the women feel him up."

"Well, somebody's—" His eyes widened as she pulled at his jacket herself. "Straight to stripping, Madam Cuddy? Never knew you were into the kinky role-playing—all these years we could've been having so much more fun."

Shooting him a glare—and trying not to smile—she dipped her hand into his breast pocket. The foil squares—some opened, some not—and stretch of rubber she had expected, but the suspiciously slimy film that coated them was, to put it mildly, something of an unpleasant surprise. Her hand stilled and she lifted her eyes accusatorily to his. "You…."

House lowered his chin, watching her hand. The inches between them had collapsed to finger-widths, those fingers getting smaller and smaller. This lack of distance itself should have been a warning sign, and though she was vaguely aware of her brain shooting up flares and sending out smoke signals to call for retreat, she was too focused on his mouth to pay it much attention. The smirk that had alighted there was evil incarnate, would twist into a serpent and convince her to do his bidding if she didn't look away. But there she was, watching, still waiting, until two hot fingers clamped around her wrist and pulled her hand from his pocket, tracing soft circles over her pulse—though those might have been nothing more than a product of her suddenly overactive imagination.

… _owes him half a lap dance. __**Half**_. _How much you wanna bet that the first half was on her desk, right on top of the monthly budget…._

"Vaseline," he finally mumbled around the lollipop still in his still-smirking mouth, dropping her wrist so that her hand brushed against his jacket as it loosely fell into the space between them.

She dumbly used the first of those precious seconds he allowed her for outraged rebuttal to stare silently at her hand, then his, slid her slick fingertips together before wiping them on the hem of his jacket. An evil genius with a teenager's mentality and the bitterness of an eighty-five-year-old—it was nothing she didn't already know. "I told you to stop—"

"You told me to stop _fueling_ the rumors—you didn't say anything about lubrication." He paused, as if giving her a chance to respond, but barreled on the second she opened her mouth. "I'm doing you a favor."

"If strategically planting "used" condoms around the hospital is doing me a favor—"

"Everyone thinks we're having sex anyway—"

"And whose fault is that?"

"—I'm just showing them we're responsible about it." He watched with amusement as she flexed her fingers and pulled at his coat, dipping into his pockets one last time. "Klepto."

"My hospital, my clinic, my candy," she murmured, swiping a lollipop from the tamest of his stashes, not really knowing what possessed her—rebellion, nostalgia, the fact that she had skipped lunch. The candy was almost disgustingly sweet, and she resisted the urge to pull it immediately from her mouth, instead letting the sugar and fake cherry flavor dance on the tip of her tongue, reminiscent of laughter and sunburn and endless summers.

"You can't pin this all on me." There was the clanking screech of a door again, and footsteps—more than a single pair this time, with voices accompanying and drawing nearer. "Recipe for sexual tension calls for at least—"

Her voice was too low to interrupt him, but leaning in achieved just that—so close that her lollipop brushed his lip when she pulled it from her mouth, his tongue darting to the spot automatically and her eyes held there. "There's nothing _sexual_ about…."

… _really think that only __**one**_ _night he gave her everything she…._

_Oh, please,_ he said, without saying anything at all, and if she were going to make her escape, the first steps would have to be put into motion now—enough time for her to rush down the stairs past him and out the door. He knew it a well as she did—probably better, because he grabbed her wrist and held it aloft even before the thought finished forming.

Her hand jolted and there was a clink as House clicked his lollipop against hers, the tacky surfaces sticking for an instant before pulling apart. A rush of… annoyance, she'd like to think, though it felt strangely more like affection, uncoiled within her belly and radiated warmly outward—and if things were different, if they could steal more of these quiet moments and he would always still be there in the morning….

"Cheers."

He had released her arm but she had yet to move. The footsteps stopped, the voices lowering to whispers, and she could hear the rumors percolating already: the stairwell, his hand, her flushed face, lollipops and what they stood for and where to…..

"Cheers," she agreed softly with a small smile, almost reluctantly breaking the moment to turn and continue up the stairs.

"Anytime you need a _consult_…" House was calling loudly after her, letting the end of his sentence drip with possibilities. "Or your panties back…."

She heard a snort and a scuffle, caught a glimpse of pink scrubs disappearing through a closing door and the crackle of excited chatter behind it—whoever had stumbled upon them in the stairwell obviously deeming it their personal mission to spread the new gossip as quickly as possible. She simply shook her head and sighed, continuing her slow climb upward and twirling the lollipop stick between her fingers as she listened to House shuffling down the stairs below her.

Let them talk.


End file.
