The Affair
Here is a Season 8 story that might remind some of you of 87 Letters-at first, at least. But I deviate pretty far off track from there. Anyway, for the purposes of this story, Wilson lives. Hooray!
Also, if you like this one, thank the Mighty Z and survivachick. Because I was going to trash it and they encouraged me to post.
It was one of those nights when the universe seemed to be conspiring against her. Her budget meeting had gone late and then she hit every red light along the way and got stuck behind one of those annoying, white-knuckle drivers and by the time Cuddy got to the Hoboken Hilton, she was a bit stressed out and a little sweaty and she practically sprinted through the lobby to the elevator, not even caring how insane she probably looked.
“Your husband’s already up there waiting for you, Mrs. Gardiner,” the bellhop trilled, amused, as he watched her frantically pressing the button for the elevator. Finally, the damn door opened and she hit the button for 12th floor.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign was already up, but she knew to ignore it. It was a preview of what was about to come. Not what was happening now but what would be happening, hopefully, very soon.
She knocked.
He opened the door, naked under an half-open terry cloth robe, his hair still damp from the shower. She got a little excited, just looking at him.
“I’m sorry I’m-”
But before she had finished the thought, he grabbed her, pushed her up against the wall, ardently kissing her, his hands riding up her skirt. The transition from being in traffic, listening to Muzak in the elevator to having his hands, his naked body, roughly pressed against her was almost too much-she felt like she could orgasm just from the feel of his hands squeezing her breasts, his tongue curling in her ear. She followed in kind, wrapping her legs around him, biting him, mashing her mouth against his. There was something wild, unfettered about their sex-she came quickly, unable to hold back, even if she wanted to, and he was right behind her.
She was still dressed, although her blouse had been unbuttoned, her bra artlessly shoved aside and her skirt pushed up to her waist. He was completely naked.
“Well hello to you too,” she said, ironically, sliding down the wall.
“I’m not good with waiting. I guess I got a little…excited,” he admitted.
She closed her eyes.
“I liked it,” she said, luxuriously. “I feel spent. In a good way.”
“Hopefully not too spent,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “The night is young.”
“House, are you ever going to start acting your age?”
“Oh God, I hope not.”
#####
So this is how Cuddy came to be “Mrs. Gardiner” meeting House for sex and room service at the Hoboken Hilton once a week.
It had started with letters, dozens of them.
At first they came almost every day, and then, eventually, once a week. Surely, he knew there was a possibility she hadn’t read them, perhaps had even thrown them away. In the courtroom when the lawyer said, “Can you identify the man who drove his car through your living room?” she had angrily pointed at House and they had locked eyes for a moment and her expression meant to convey, “I will never forgive you for this.” He had bowed his head while being taken away in handcuffs and she had moved to Hoboken and tried to rebuild her life.
And yet, the letters came. And came. And came. She assumed they would stop. That he would give up, see the whole thing as an exercise in futility. Of course, she shouldn’t have been that surprised. House may have had zero patience but he was also the most intrepid, relentless man she knew when he really wanted something. Still, 172 unanswered letters was enough of a message. He should’ve given up. But he didn’t.
And it turned out, letter 173 was the one that did the trick. It was the letter that finally wore her down. She opened it.
“I keep hearing this high-pitched yelp coming from Mrs. Morgenthaler’s on the 5th floor. So either she’s keeping some sort exotic pet in her apartment, or she’s a lot kinkier than she looks. (Then again, those sensible shoes don’t exactly scream: They call me Mistress of Pain after dark.) Okay, off to bleach my brain because I now have THAT image stuck in my head. Talk soon.- H”
Despite herself, Cuddy laughed. Randomly, she picked another letter out of the pile.
“Saw a little girl at the hospital today who reminded me of R. You know how R used to march around the house like she was a drum majorette leading an imaginary marching band? Does she still do that? Probably not . . . Anyway, this kid was doing the same thing so I gave her a lollypop when her mom wasn’t looking. Talk soon.- H.”
Cuddy hadn’t thought about Rachel marching through the house like that in a while. She smiled. Went further back in the pile, to one of the earlier letters.
“The worst thing about prison-well, aside from the cardboard food, the constant fear of getting my ass kicked by some goon with an “I Heart Adolf” tattoo, and the fact that I’m, well, IN PRISON-is that I have lots of time to think. Me alone with my thoughts right now is not a happy place to be. I have a solar system of regret. Cuddy, I can never say I’m sorry enough. - H.”
The early letters were all like that, apologies, self-flagellation, but eventually he gave up and just started telling her about his day-first in prison, then back at the hospital. In among the letters were two birthday cards for Rachel, and one for her-her next birthday was actually coming up in a few weeks. Then she found one letter, dated a few weeks back, that had a check in it for $100,000.
“I’m told this is the cost of rebuilding a dining room. Not sure what the cost of rebuilding a friendship is. Something tells me there isn’t enough money in the world . . .- H”
She stared at the letter for a few minutes, then picked up the phone.
“I’m not cashing it,” she said when he answered.
“Cuddy?” he choked out. She had changed her number so he was completely taken off guard. There was a rustling sound as he seemed to drop the phone, then catch it. Cuddy found it ever so slightly gratifying, to hear him get flustered like that.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m not cashing that check.”
“You read my letters,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “Well, saved them at least. I didn’t actually read them-until today.”
“You really should cash the check.”
“I don’t want or need your money, House.”
“I know you don’t. But it’ll make me feel better if you cash it.”
“And assuage your guilt?”
“Not even close. A raindrop in the sea of my guilt. But it’s a start.”
“I’m under no obligation to make you feel even slightly better about yourself.”
“It’s too late. You read my letters. You called.”
“I could hang up, right now.”
“Please! Don’t!” he blurted out. Then, more quietly: “Please don’t.”
Cuddy sighed, but didn’t hang up.
“Hi,” he said, sweetly.
She smiled, to herself.
“Hi House. I’d ask how are you, but I already know. I think I know more about your life now than I did when we were dating.”
“You try writing one-sided letters! I started feeling like I was talking to myself. Or at least a raging narcissist.”
“You? A narcissist?”
He laughed.
“Touché.” Then, after a pause: “How’s life?”
She snorted.
“Can you be more specific?”
“The new job?”
“Fine.”
“Rachel?”
“Good.”
“Your new house?”
“Nice.”
“Wow. I remember you using a lot more syllables back when we were dating.”
“I’m still not sure I want to be having this conversation.”
“But we are. And for that, I’m truly thankful.”
“Don’t get carried away. We’re just talking about a check. That I’ve already ripped up.”
“I’ll send you another one.”
“I don’t need your blood money.”
“Blood money, huh? Someone has been watching too many gangster films.”
She giggled a bit, despite herself.
“Shut up House.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh.”
“I should…go.”
“Can I call you?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Can I keep writing?”
“I can’t stop you.”
“And…will you call me again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But don’t hold your breath.”
“Too late. It’s already held. You should probably preemptively call 911.”
######
She didn’t call him again but she did write him once.
This time, he had sent her a birthday card with a gift. It was a beautiful necklace, delicate, simple-and vaguely familiar. Then she saw the note: “I seem to recall you lost a necklace like this back at Michigan.” Holy shit! How had he remembered? She had almost forgotten. The necklace had been a good luck charm/going away present from her grandparents. It had a little anchor on it, meant to represent the stability of family. She had lost it at a huge, rowdy house party. She had been inconsolable.
So she pulled out a piece of stationery and wrote: “Thank you for my birthday present. I loved it.” Then she decided “love” was too strong a word. She threw out the card and got another: “Thank you for my birthday present. It meant a lot.” Then she decided “It meant a lot” might give him the wrong impression. Finally she settled upon, “Thank you for my birthday present”-and left it at that. She sent it.
But after that, she found herself looking forward to House’s letters more and more. On more than one occasion, she considered calling him.
It was unnecessary. Fate intervened in the form of a medical conference that they both attended, in Arlington.
She saw his name in the conference brochure, avoided the seminars he was most likely to attend, but made the mistake-that later, upon reflection, she realized was more like a subconscious choice- of blowing off an awards banquet in favor of drinks and dinner at the bar. She’d already polished off a turkey burger and was on her second martini, when House came in, looking a bit abashed to see her. He stood in the entranceway, make darting eye contact with her, then gave a tiny shrug and started to leave.
“You don’t have to run away, House,” she said after him.
“No?”
“You’ve written me 200 letters.”
“191, actually,” he replied, sitting next to her eagerly.
“You sent me a check for $100,000.”
“Which you ripped up…”
“You got me this necklace.” She pulled back her collar to reveal the necklace.
He blinked.
“It looks good on you,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Then again, a burlap sack would look good on you,” he added.
She gave a little laugh.
He looked pretty good himself: A few more lines in his face, a little less hair in that one bald spot he was always denying existed-but as blindingly handsome as ever.
“So here we are,” she said.
“Here we are,” he said, studying her. He gestured for the bartender and ordered a scotch.
“Are you, uh, enjoying the conference?” Cuddy said.
“I don’t want to talk about the conference,” he said.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“How much I’ve missed you.”
“House. . .” she scolded.
“Okay, let’s talk about the conference,” he said, all business. “Did you catch that lecture on Mydocardial Infarcation? Riveting stuff. I thought the second act lagged a bit, but by the end, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Those might’ve been tears of boredom, though.”
“I’ve missed you too, House,” she said, looking down.
“So does this mean we can finally be. . .”
“Cordial to each other,” Cuddy said.
“I’m pretty sure cordial is just to the left of ‘not talking to each other.’”
“Exactly,” Cuddy said. “Baby steps.”
But the more they drank, they more they talked, the more they laughed, it was clear they had moved way beyond cordial.
Cuddy did most of the talking-after all, the letters had given her a rather thorough debriefing of House’s life to date.
So she talked about her new job, her life in Hoboken with Rachel. He was mostly interested in the Rachel stuff, peppering her with questions about Rachel’s friends, her favorite TV shows (he nodded approvingly when Cuddy mentioned The Simpsons), what she liked to eat and learn at school.
And she liked talking to him. She had forgotten how heady an experience it was when he focused all his attention on you.
As the evening went on, they found themselves touching more and more-in tiny ways: shoulders brushing against each other, a hand tapped for emphasis. By the time the bartender told them it was closing time-they looked around, surprised to discover they were the only ones left-they were sitting close enough to kiss.
They both stood up, sheepishly.
“I’m so glad we…” House said.
“Me too, House,” she said.
Awkwardly, he went to shake her hand, but she caught him in a hug. He gripped her tightly, meaningfully, until she let go.
“That was extremely. . . cordial,” he said, smiling.
“That’s me,” she said, with a shrug. “The cordialest.”
His mouth twitched with a tiny, adoring smile.
They walked to the elevator together. He was on the 16th floor. She was on the 12th.
As the elevator ascended, she was having unbidden fantasies of grabbing him, kissing him, slamming him against the elevator wall.
And then she saw his face, slightly red: He was clearly having similar thoughts.
When the door opened on her floor, he gave her a longing look.
“Good night, House,” she said, firmly.
He nodded, in a resigned sort of way.
“Good night, Cuddy,” he said, as the door closed on his disappointed face.
#####
Cuddy had had sex with four different men since she broke up with House.
There had been Shaun, the studly, 27-year-old contractor who she had hired to refinish the hardwood floors of her new house.
There was Tony, a handsome-but too slick for her taste-lawyer she had met through mutual friends.
There was Ron, a sensitive ex boyfriend she had bumped into a book reading.
And there was Benjamin, a pediatric oncologist at New Jersey General, where she now worked. He had asked her out a few weeks after she started as VP of Administration. (“Would you ever consider dating a colleague?” he asked. You have no idea, she had thought.) They had dated for six months and parted as friends.
In each case, the sex had been satisfying, in its own way. Cuddy liked sex and she wasn’t afraid to indulge in it. But it was nothing like her sex life with House. In many ways, she was her best self around House: She felt smarter, wittier, sexier, for sure. But also, more orgasmic. It was like his body was specifically calibrated to turn her on.
So she found herself lying in that giant, useless king-sized bed at the Arlington Hilton, touching herself, thinking of him and she finally thought, fuck it. The real thing is four floors away.
“Gregory House’s room,” she said to the front desk.
At hotels they were taught not to ask questions. So even though it was 2 am, she was connected to his room. He answered right away.
“Are you asleep?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“Room 1207,” she said. And hung up.
When she answered the door, she could tell that it was taking Herculean self-control for him not to immediately dive for her. He was already a little out of breath; he licked his lips, unconsciously.
“Come here,” she said. And then he did dive for her, burying his face between her breasts.
Sex with House had always been a little taboo. He was the bad boy student at Michigan, then her bad boy employee. She was the good girl, the rule follower. The sense of transgression, she supposed, just added to the turn on. But this was different.
She was having sex with a man she had vowed to hate for life, to never forgive. And his tongue was lapping between her legs and she was arching her back and grabbing fistfuls of blanket and . . .my God. If this was wrong, she didn’t want to be right.
“Thank you,” he had whispered into her neck, after they’d had sex twice.
She knew she was the one who should’ve been thanking him for making her feel that good. Instead, she said, “You’re welcome.”
He pulled her toward him.
“I can’t tell you how hap-”
“You should go,” she said, quickly. She was already coming out of the fog of orgasm, regretting her behavior.
“Oh,” he said, hurt, letting go. “Okay.”
He got out of bed, fumbled for his clothing and his cane in the dark.
“So this is it?” he said, once he was dressed.
“I never said that.”
“You’re kicking me out at 3:30 in the morning,” he said. “I don’t feel especially welcome.”
“What did you expect House?” she said, turning on the light on the nightstand and looking at him. “That we would cuddle all night? Have breakfast in bed together?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, under his breath.
“Look, I’m confused, okay?” she said. “I need some time to process what just…happened.”
“There’s nothing to be confused about. I love you. I never stopped loving you.”
“But I stopped loving you,” she said.
He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“No,” he said stubbornly. “You didn’t. You wish you did. You wish you didn’t love me. But you can’t help it.”
He was throwing her own words back in her face; an annoying habit from a man who remembered everything.
“You don’t know a thing about how I feel.”
“You called me at 2 in the morning!”
“For sex. Sex isn’t love, House.”
“For us it is.”
She closed her eyes.
“Go back to your room House.”
His posture changed: from defiant to desperate.
“Will you call me when you get back to New Jersey?” he said. “Please.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
#####
But House was right. Cuddy found herself fantasizing about him in board meetings, touching herself under the covers in bed, recreating every moment of their lovemaking over and over again.
A week after she got back from Arlington, she called him, “Can you be in Hoboken tonight?”
“Yes,” he said quickly.
“Hoboken Hilton. Room 1207.”
It went on like this for months. Sex, followed by regret, followed by kicking him out, insisting she’d never see him again. Then, a week later, there was always another phone call, another hastily arranged rendezvous.
Finally, at one point, House said, “Can we stop pretending we’re not having an affair?”
He was sitting up in bed, wearing just boxers. His hair was messy because she had just messed it and he looked sated and sleepy but in a happy sort of way.
“I guess we are,” she admitted.
“Finally,” he said. “So when can I take you out? Come to the house? See Rachel?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said. “I said affair. Not dating. This is sex. Nothing more.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” she said, firmly.
He sighed.
“But I want all of you. Not just sex.”
“This is as much of me as I can give right now. “ Then she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And you can’t tell anyone-not even Wilson.”
He folded his arms.
“I haven’t told anyone,” he mumbled.
“Good.”
“If we’re sneaking around, we might consider using an alias,” he said, with a slightly bitter edge to his voice. “You’re an important woman in this town. People…talk.”
“You’re right,” she said, biting a nail. “Any ideas?”
“Hey, you’re the one making all the rules.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Really? Like Pride and Prejudice Darcy? Probably the second most overused alias, after Smith. And don’t suggest Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff either.”
“You’re right. How about…Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.”
“As in Chauncey Gardiner? From Being There?” he asked, impressed.
“As in Hubbell Gardiner, from The Way We Were,” she replied.
He shook his head. “Of course.”
“Hey, that’s a great movie!”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“I’m a dude-in case you’d forgotten.”
She raised her eyebrows dirtily.
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” she said.
Then she got up out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, much to his dismay, and opened the TV cabinet. “They have a DVD player. I’m bringing the movie next week.”
Next week.
To be continued…
Also, if you like this one, thank the Mighty Z and survivachick. Because I was going to trash it and they encouraged me to post.
It was one of those nights when the universe seemed to be conspiring against her. Her budget meeting had gone late and then she hit every red light along the way and got stuck behind one of those annoying, white-knuckle drivers and by the time Cuddy got to the Hoboken Hilton, she was a bit stressed out and a little sweaty and she practically sprinted through the lobby to the elevator, not even caring how insane she probably looked.
“Your husband’s already up there waiting for you, Mrs. Gardiner,” the bellhop trilled, amused, as he watched her frantically pressing the button for the elevator. Finally, the damn door opened and she hit the button for 12th floor.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign was already up, but she knew to ignore it. It was a preview of what was about to come. Not what was happening now but what would be happening, hopefully, very soon.
She knocked.
He opened the door, naked under an half-open terry cloth robe, his hair still damp from the shower. She got a little excited, just looking at him.
“I’m sorry I’m-”
But before she had finished the thought, he grabbed her, pushed her up against the wall, ardently kissing her, his hands riding up her skirt. The transition from being in traffic, listening to Muzak in the elevator to having his hands, his naked body, roughly pressed against her was almost too much-she felt like she could orgasm just from the feel of his hands squeezing her breasts, his tongue curling in her ear. She followed in kind, wrapping her legs around him, biting him, mashing her mouth against his. There was something wild, unfettered about their sex-she came quickly, unable to hold back, even if she wanted to, and he was right behind her.
She was still dressed, although her blouse had been unbuttoned, her bra artlessly shoved aside and her skirt pushed up to her waist. He was completely naked.
“Well hello to you too,” she said, ironically, sliding down the wall.
“I’m not good with waiting. I guess I got a little…excited,” he admitted.
She closed her eyes.
“I liked it,” she said, luxuriously. “I feel spent. In a good way.”
“Hopefully not too spent,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “The night is young.”
“House, are you ever going to start acting your age?”
“Oh God, I hope not.”
#####
So this is how Cuddy came to be “Mrs. Gardiner” meeting House for sex and room service at the Hoboken Hilton once a week.
It had started with letters, dozens of them.
At first they came almost every day, and then, eventually, once a week. Surely, he knew there was a possibility she hadn’t read them, perhaps had even thrown them away. In the courtroom when the lawyer said, “Can you identify the man who drove his car through your living room?” she had angrily pointed at House and they had locked eyes for a moment and her expression meant to convey, “I will never forgive you for this.” He had bowed his head while being taken away in handcuffs and she had moved to Hoboken and tried to rebuild her life.
And yet, the letters came. And came. And came. She assumed they would stop. That he would give up, see the whole thing as an exercise in futility. Of course, she shouldn’t have been that surprised. House may have had zero patience but he was also the most intrepid, relentless man she knew when he really wanted something. Still, 172 unanswered letters was enough of a message. He should’ve given up. But he didn’t.
And it turned out, letter 173 was the one that did the trick. It was the letter that finally wore her down. She opened it.
“I keep hearing this high-pitched yelp coming from Mrs. Morgenthaler’s on the 5th floor. So either she’s keeping some sort exotic pet in her apartment, or she’s a lot kinkier than she looks. (Then again, those sensible shoes don’t exactly scream: They call me Mistress of Pain after dark.) Okay, off to bleach my brain because I now have THAT image stuck in my head. Talk soon.- H”
Despite herself, Cuddy laughed. Randomly, she picked another letter out of the pile.
“Saw a little girl at the hospital today who reminded me of R. You know how R used to march around the house like she was a drum majorette leading an imaginary marching band? Does she still do that? Probably not . . . Anyway, this kid was doing the same thing so I gave her a lollypop when her mom wasn’t looking. Talk soon.- H.”
Cuddy hadn’t thought about Rachel marching through the house like that in a while. She smiled. Went further back in the pile, to one of the earlier letters.
“The worst thing about prison-well, aside from the cardboard food, the constant fear of getting my ass kicked by some goon with an “I Heart Adolf” tattoo, and the fact that I’m, well, IN PRISON-is that I have lots of time to think. Me alone with my thoughts right now is not a happy place to be. I have a solar system of regret. Cuddy, I can never say I’m sorry enough. - H.”
The early letters were all like that, apologies, self-flagellation, but eventually he gave up and just started telling her about his day-first in prison, then back at the hospital. In among the letters were two birthday cards for Rachel, and one for her-her next birthday was actually coming up in a few weeks. Then she found one letter, dated a few weeks back, that had a check in it for $100,000.
“I’m told this is the cost of rebuilding a dining room. Not sure what the cost of rebuilding a friendship is. Something tells me there isn’t enough money in the world . . .- H”
She stared at the letter for a few minutes, then picked up the phone.
“I’m not cashing it,” she said when he answered.
“Cuddy?” he choked out. She had changed her number so he was completely taken off guard. There was a rustling sound as he seemed to drop the phone, then catch it. Cuddy found it ever so slightly gratifying, to hear him get flustered like that.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m not cashing that check.”
“You read my letters,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “Well, saved them at least. I didn’t actually read them-until today.”
“You really should cash the check.”
“I don’t want or need your money, House.”
“I know you don’t. But it’ll make me feel better if you cash it.”
“And assuage your guilt?”
“Not even close. A raindrop in the sea of my guilt. But it’s a start.”
“I’m under no obligation to make you feel even slightly better about yourself.”
“It’s too late. You read my letters. You called.”
“I could hang up, right now.”
“Please! Don’t!” he blurted out. Then, more quietly: “Please don’t.”
Cuddy sighed, but didn’t hang up.
“Hi,” he said, sweetly.
She smiled, to herself.
“Hi House. I’d ask how are you, but I already know. I think I know more about your life now than I did when we were dating.”
“You try writing one-sided letters! I started feeling like I was talking to myself. Or at least a raging narcissist.”
“You? A narcissist?”
He laughed.
“Touché.” Then, after a pause: “How’s life?”
She snorted.
“Can you be more specific?”
“The new job?”
“Fine.”
“Rachel?”
“Good.”
“Your new house?”
“Nice.”
“Wow. I remember you using a lot more syllables back when we were dating.”
“I’m still not sure I want to be having this conversation.”
“But we are. And for that, I’m truly thankful.”
“Don’t get carried away. We’re just talking about a check. That I’ve already ripped up.”
“I’ll send you another one.”
“I don’t need your blood money.”
“Blood money, huh? Someone has been watching too many gangster films.”
She giggled a bit, despite herself.
“Shut up House.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh.”
“I should…go.”
“Can I call you?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Can I keep writing?”
“I can’t stop you.”
“And…will you call me again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But don’t hold your breath.”
“Too late. It’s already held. You should probably preemptively call 911.”
######
She didn’t call him again but she did write him once.
This time, he had sent her a birthday card with a gift. It was a beautiful necklace, delicate, simple-and vaguely familiar. Then she saw the note: “I seem to recall you lost a necklace like this back at Michigan.” Holy shit! How had he remembered? She had almost forgotten. The necklace had been a good luck charm/going away present from her grandparents. It had a little anchor on it, meant to represent the stability of family. She had lost it at a huge, rowdy house party. She had been inconsolable.
So she pulled out a piece of stationery and wrote: “Thank you for my birthday present. I loved it.” Then she decided “love” was too strong a word. She threw out the card and got another: “Thank you for my birthday present. It meant a lot.” Then she decided “It meant a lot” might give him the wrong impression. Finally she settled upon, “Thank you for my birthday present”-and left it at that. She sent it.
But after that, she found herself looking forward to House’s letters more and more. On more than one occasion, she considered calling him.
It was unnecessary. Fate intervened in the form of a medical conference that they both attended, in Arlington.
She saw his name in the conference brochure, avoided the seminars he was most likely to attend, but made the mistake-that later, upon reflection, she realized was more like a subconscious choice- of blowing off an awards banquet in favor of drinks and dinner at the bar. She’d already polished off a turkey burger and was on her second martini, when House came in, looking a bit abashed to see her. He stood in the entranceway, make darting eye contact with her, then gave a tiny shrug and started to leave.
“You don’t have to run away, House,” she said after him.
“No?”
“You’ve written me 200 letters.”
“191, actually,” he replied, sitting next to her eagerly.
“You sent me a check for $100,000.”
“Which you ripped up…”
“You got me this necklace.” She pulled back her collar to reveal the necklace.
He blinked.
“It looks good on you,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Then again, a burlap sack would look good on you,” he added.
She gave a little laugh.
He looked pretty good himself: A few more lines in his face, a little less hair in that one bald spot he was always denying existed-but as blindingly handsome as ever.
“So here we are,” she said.
“Here we are,” he said, studying her. He gestured for the bartender and ordered a scotch.
“Are you, uh, enjoying the conference?” Cuddy said.
“I don’t want to talk about the conference,” he said.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“How much I’ve missed you.”
“House. . .” she scolded.
“Okay, let’s talk about the conference,” he said, all business. “Did you catch that lecture on Mydocardial Infarcation? Riveting stuff. I thought the second act lagged a bit, but by the end, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Those might’ve been tears of boredom, though.”
“I’ve missed you too, House,” she said, looking down.
“So does this mean we can finally be. . .”
“Cordial to each other,” Cuddy said.
“I’m pretty sure cordial is just to the left of ‘not talking to each other.’”
“Exactly,” Cuddy said. “Baby steps.”
But the more they drank, they more they talked, the more they laughed, it was clear they had moved way beyond cordial.
Cuddy did most of the talking-after all, the letters had given her a rather thorough debriefing of House’s life to date.
So she talked about her new job, her life in Hoboken with Rachel. He was mostly interested in the Rachel stuff, peppering her with questions about Rachel’s friends, her favorite TV shows (he nodded approvingly when Cuddy mentioned The Simpsons), what she liked to eat and learn at school.
And she liked talking to him. She had forgotten how heady an experience it was when he focused all his attention on you.
As the evening went on, they found themselves touching more and more-in tiny ways: shoulders brushing against each other, a hand tapped for emphasis. By the time the bartender told them it was closing time-they looked around, surprised to discover they were the only ones left-they were sitting close enough to kiss.
They both stood up, sheepishly.
“I’m so glad we…” House said.
“Me too, House,” she said.
Awkwardly, he went to shake her hand, but she caught him in a hug. He gripped her tightly, meaningfully, until she let go.
“That was extremely. . . cordial,” he said, smiling.
“That’s me,” she said, with a shrug. “The cordialest.”
His mouth twitched with a tiny, adoring smile.
They walked to the elevator together. He was on the 16th floor. She was on the 12th.
As the elevator ascended, she was having unbidden fantasies of grabbing him, kissing him, slamming him against the elevator wall.
And then she saw his face, slightly red: He was clearly having similar thoughts.
When the door opened on her floor, he gave her a longing look.
“Good night, House,” she said, firmly.
He nodded, in a resigned sort of way.
“Good night, Cuddy,” he said, as the door closed on his disappointed face.
#####
Cuddy had had sex with four different men since she broke up with House.
There had been Shaun, the studly, 27-year-old contractor who she had hired to refinish the hardwood floors of her new house.
There was Tony, a handsome-but too slick for her taste-lawyer she had met through mutual friends.
There was Ron, a sensitive ex boyfriend she had bumped into a book reading.
And there was Benjamin, a pediatric oncologist at New Jersey General, where she now worked. He had asked her out a few weeks after she started as VP of Administration. (“Would you ever consider dating a colleague?” he asked. You have no idea, she had thought.) They had dated for six months and parted as friends.
In each case, the sex had been satisfying, in its own way. Cuddy liked sex and she wasn’t afraid to indulge in it. But it was nothing like her sex life with House. In many ways, she was her best self around House: She felt smarter, wittier, sexier, for sure. But also, more orgasmic. It was like his body was specifically calibrated to turn her on.
So she found herself lying in that giant, useless king-sized bed at the Arlington Hilton, touching herself, thinking of him and she finally thought, fuck it. The real thing is four floors away.
“Gregory House’s room,” she said to the front desk.
At hotels they were taught not to ask questions. So even though it was 2 am, she was connected to his room. He answered right away.
“Are you asleep?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“Room 1207,” she said. And hung up.
When she answered the door, she could tell that it was taking Herculean self-control for him not to immediately dive for her. He was already a little out of breath; he licked his lips, unconsciously.
“Come here,” she said. And then he did dive for her, burying his face between her breasts.
Sex with House had always been a little taboo. He was the bad boy student at Michigan, then her bad boy employee. She was the good girl, the rule follower. The sense of transgression, she supposed, just added to the turn on. But this was different.
She was having sex with a man she had vowed to hate for life, to never forgive. And his tongue was lapping between her legs and she was arching her back and grabbing fistfuls of blanket and . . .my God. If this was wrong, she didn’t want to be right.
“Thank you,” he had whispered into her neck, after they’d had sex twice.
She knew she was the one who should’ve been thanking him for making her feel that good. Instead, she said, “You’re welcome.”
He pulled her toward him.
“I can’t tell you how hap-”
“You should go,” she said, quickly. She was already coming out of the fog of orgasm, regretting her behavior.
“Oh,” he said, hurt, letting go. “Okay.”
He got out of bed, fumbled for his clothing and his cane in the dark.
“So this is it?” he said, once he was dressed.
“I never said that.”
“You’re kicking me out at 3:30 in the morning,” he said. “I don’t feel especially welcome.”
“What did you expect House?” she said, turning on the light on the nightstand and looking at him. “That we would cuddle all night? Have breakfast in bed together?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, under his breath.
“Look, I’m confused, okay?” she said. “I need some time to process what just…happened.”
“There’s nothing to be confused about. I love you. I never stopped loving you.”
“But I stopped loving you,” she said.
He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“No,” he said stubbornly. “You didn’t. You wish you did. You wish you didn’t love me. But you can’t help it.”
He was throwing her own words back in her face; an annoying habit from a man who remembered everything.
“You don’t know a thing about how I feel.”
“You called me at 2 in the morning!”
“For sex. Sex isn’t love, House.”
“For us it is.”
She closed her eyes.
“Go back to your room House.”
His posture changed: from defiant to desperate.
“Will you call me when you get back to New Jersey?” he said. “Please.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
#####
But House was right. Cuddy found herself fantasizing about him in board meetings, touching herself under the covers in bed, recreating every moment of their lovemaking over and over again.
A week after she got back from Arlington, she called him, “Can you be in Hoboken tonight?”
“Yes,” he said quickly.
“Hoboken Hilton. Room 1207.”
It went on like this for months. Sex, followed by regret, followed by kicking him out, insisting she’d never see him again. Then, a week later, there was always another phone call, another hastily arranged rendezvous.
Finally, at one point, House said, “Can we stop pretending we’re not having an affair?”
He was sitting up in bed, wearing just boxers. His hair was messy because she had just messed it and he looked sated and sleepy but in a happy sort of way.
“I guess we are,” she admitted.
“Finally,” he said. “So when can I take you out? Come to the house? See Rachel?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said. “I said affair. Not dating. This is sex. Nothing more.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” she said, firmly.
He sighed.
“But I want all of you. Not just sex.”
“This is as much of me as I can give right now. “ Then she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And you can’t tell anyone-not even Wilson.”
He folded his arms.
“I haven’t told anyone,” he mumbled.
“Good.”
“If we’re sneaking around, we might consider using an alias,” he said, with a slightly bitter edge to his voice. “You’re an important woman in this town. People…talk.”
“You’re right,” she said, biting a nail. “Any ideas?”
“Hey, you’re the one making all the rules.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Really? Like Pride and Prejudice Darcy? Probably the second most overused alias, after Smith. And don’t suggest Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff either.”
“You’re right. How about…Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.”
“As in Chauncey Gardiner? From Being There?” he asked, impressed.
“As in Hubbell Gardiner, from The Way We Were,” she replied.
He shook his head. “Of course.”
“Hey, that’s a great movie!”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“I’m a dude-in case you’d forgotten.”
She raised her eyebrows dirtily.
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” she said.
Then she got up out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, much to his dismay, and opened the TV cabinet. “They have a DVD player. I’m bringing the movie next week.”
Next week.
To be continued…