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It's been seven years since summer.
Seven years of exchanging annoying heat for the cold dry taste of air conditioning, seven years of sleeping alone on sticky sheets and choking on muggy air, seven years of unproductive, ineffective, pointless sweat.
Seven fucking years.
It's the first real summer since the infarction.
House runs.
Panting, breath sharp and coppery in his throat, new Nikes slapping 6/8 time into the cement, t-shirt stripped off and tucked into the waistband of his shorts. Dehydrated, calves aching, blinking salt out of his eyes, heart thumping allegro against his ribs. It's August, everywhere, all around him. Humid and blazing bright, with shadows scattered under the maples. Sun soaks the park, scorching his shoulders brown, the heat digging into his muscles and his spine, until his skin grows tight. He runs through the sprinklers hissing and sputtering over the green prickly lawns, shock-cold water dripping down his bare chest. He grins hard, tasting the spray on his next breath: fresh dirt and cut grass. He wipes his forearm across his face, smells sweat and sunblock merging in his skin. He's running faster than yesterday, faster than last week. He's chasing down every lost summer, and he thinks by now he must be gaining. He pushes rhythm into his body, a beat into every step. He runs faster. Farther. No goal, no destination.
Until he runs out of the park and recognizes the street.
He slows to a jog, his pulse racing in his wrists, his chest, his throat. He's still grinning. It's August. She isn't expecting him.
Car in the driveway. She's home.
He rings the doorbell and bends over, hands propped on knees, dizzy and gasping, probably very close to puking. He's never felt better in his life.
When the door opens, he straightens up too fast, leaving him light-headed and reeling. When he sees her he feels like he's been sucker-punched in the sternum.
"House," she says. "What are you--"
"Can't breathe," he says, and it's true. She's wearing a sundress, something silky and so light he can imagine he can see through it, the shadow of her areolae catching his gaze under the white fabric, one thin strap sliding to the point of her shoulder, almost off. Her hair is pinned back, one damp curl falling free and clinging to her summer-tan throat. Jesus, Cuddy, he thinks, and wonders if she'll rescue him if he passes out.
"I'll get you some water," she says. She leaves him on her step but doesn't close the door. He follows her to her kitchen. Clean and bright, white tile and chrome. She turns around and breathes a startled gasp to find him behind her--padding lightly in his Nikes, no fucking cane to give him away--and he grins at her because it's summer and she's wearing next to nothing and he wants her, sudden and furious, oh fuck he wants her. She gives him the water. Their fingers touch quickly on the cool glass.
He tilts his head back to drink, closing his eyes. The water pours down his throat like crystal, cold enough to ache. Half of it he lets spill over his lips to draw wet lines down his neck and chest, drenching his nearly-sunburnt skin.
"You're dripping," Cuddy tells him.
House shakes his head, spraying sweat from the tips of his hair, plastered to his forehead, and laughs. "Let me take a shower," he says, "and I'll drip more."
Cuddy tries to hold back, but amusement crinkles the corners of her eyes, and then she's lost the battle and she's glorious when she smiles, affection and exasperation. Staring at him, at the rivulets of water sliding down his chest, and, yeah, her eyes have darkened, she's breathing just a little faster, and House laughs again and kisses her.
She tastes of sun and mint, her mouth soft and surprised at first, and then wet and hot as summer under his. He's still holding the glass in one hand. The other hovers over her shoulder, fingertips brushing whispers from her neck to her arm, until that spaghetti strap falls loose from her warm skin. She gasps.
"Let me take a shower," he murmurs, low, into her lips, and then along her throat.
"House," she says, frowning slightly, wanting to object, to find some reason to say no. But there isn't any; and he takes her hand as she backs along the hallway to her room, still kissing him. She whispers, "Fast," and shoves him into the bathroom.
House turns on the water as hot as he can stand it and steps under the spray. Steam fills the bathroom, heavy in his lungs, turning his breath husky. He's dissolving, his cramped muscles softening, exercise and exhaustion falling into each other until he feels like he can't move. He scrubs off the sweat with a bar of soap, rubbing away the soreness of the run, the perfect hurt of effort. He stretches, arms reaching over head. He extends from his calves through his thighs to his abs to his biceps to his fingers, relaxing at last with a breath that comes from every cell in his body. He's shaking when he gets out, his skin radiating heat. His heartbeat is still racing and he's half-hard, and he steps out of the bathroom without even pausing to grab a towel.
Fuck, the look on Cuddy's face when she sees him, the tremor he can hear when her breath catches. He takes her chin in one hand and kisses her again, warm and eager. Her dress brushes his damp skin, until it's wet and transparent where he's touched her and he sees that she's not wearing anything underneath. He finds the zip at the back of the dress and pulls it down, slow enough to leave them both aching, until the dress slips down her body and they're naked, standing in a pool of silk. Cuddy breathes long and slow into his mouth when he cups her breast in his hand, finding her nipple and teasing it hard. He's sweating again, sweltering in the heat of her bedroom. She's kissed away whatever reason he had left and it's only movement now, the sway of her hips brushing against his cock, the glide of her hands along his back and his ass.
This is summer. The heat in his body, from the shower, from the run; the drowsy energy of his arousal. Cuddy's skin tastes of salt, her pubic hair brushes against his thigh, and she is letting him touch her.
House hitches her legs around his waist, both of them, and lifts her up, laughing at her surprise. His body works. He's whole. Cuddy settles against him and he groans, his erection trapped between them. He doesn't know how long he can stand it, the press of her clit against his cock, the wet slide of her cunt, but she is kissing him, holding his face in her hands, her legs wrapped around him, and he wants her, like this, as endless as August. He lifts her higher, his biceps burning, and kisses her breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth, balancing her easily when she moves against him, wanting more.
Fuck, he needs to be inside her. "Condom?" he mutters into her skin. When she doesn't answer, he pulls back to look at her.
Cuddy meets his gaze and asks, "Does it matter?"
House wonders if she's been waiting for this moment in a way he hasn't been, if she's told herself that if he offers then she will accept. Maybe she's watched for him, all these last weeks, while he was running. "No," he says, "it doesn't," and carries her to the bed.
"God, now," she says, and he moves on top of her until he's in, deep and still. She pauses, and he breathes raggedly, pleasure surging through him so intensely--so painlessly--that he can only say her name, and it comes out "Lise," instead of how it should. She clutches hard at his shoulder but pretends not to notice, and then she rolls her hips up to meet him. He moves, then, thrusting slow and shallow, until she arches her back and tightens around him. She gasps in his ear, "Oh," on every breath, high and desperate. A moment later he feels her come. He kisses her lower lip, her chin, her closed eyes, and waits; her muscles tighten around him and he trembles, short quick pushes that make her tip her head back and moan.
Sweat glides between them. House slides forward again, their breathing and the soft wet sounds of his thrusts filling the bedroom. Cuddy runs her hands down his back, her ankles still locked behind his thighs, and pulls him closer. Pulls him in, until he can't breathe, until his muscles tighten harder than they ever did during the run, and he comes, so fucking good, and Cuddy doesn't let him go until he's done.
He should move. He can't. His body's so tired that he feels nearly drunk, and the world breaks over him in waves. He could be floating in a blood-warm ocean, eyes closed, dreaming. Cuddy doesn't seem to mind his weight. Finally, he rolls away, to let her up, but she only sighs and settles next to him again. They sweat gently into each other's skin, overheated and sticky but it's worth it, it means something this time. House forces his eyes open, enough to see Cuddy's smile, and kisses her once more.
Then, wrapped in her body and her sheets, House falls asleep and dreams of fall.