House was getting annoyed.
He had been sitting in his office all day waiting for Cuddy to show up and express her gratitude over the desk.
He expected her to be emotional, gushy, maybe even shed some tears.
His plan was to shrug it off, tease her for overreacting—it was just a piece of furniture, after all—and maybe end with a joke about how he could come up with some creative uses for the desk if she wanted to re-pay him.
But there was one tiny snag to his plan: Cuddy was nowhere to be found.
Twice, he heard the "clop clop clop" of high heels approaching his office. Both times he prepared himself for Cuddy's arrival, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. The first time it was Thirteen. The second time it was Meg, from accounting.
Both of them said, "What's wrong?" when they saw the look on his face.
Was it possible that Cuddy didn't realize the desk was from him? Naaa. Of course she did. She wasn't a moron. The only other possible person who could've known about the desk—and its significance to her—was her mother. And Mrs. Cuddy had no idea that her daughter was redecorating.
He frowned, looked at his watch: 2:30. Fuck it. He was taking matters into his own hands.
"And this is my room," Lisa said, with a slightly shy smile.
House looked around. Ah, the great, eternal mysteries of girls' dorm rooms—with their Manet posters and tapestries and tubes of lipgloss and other magic elixirs; that strange mixture of innocence and sexuality that so tantalized him. Boys' rooms, of course, smelled horrible—like sweaty gym socks mingled with bad cologne. But Lisa's room smelled like citrus and exotic spices and, well, her.
"This is the paper I was telling you about," Lisa said, handing him her term paper. "It could really use a second set of eyes."
He took the paper, then took note of her grownup desk.
"Mighty impressive desk you have there for a first year med student," he said, mirthfully.
"Yeah. . ." she said.
"It takes up half the room. Wouldn't a smaller, less, um, chairwoman-of-the-boardy type desk be more appropriate?"
She looked at him, her eyes flashing.
"I like the desk because it reminds me of where I want to be in 15 years. A department head, with a large office, a staff of minions, and a fabulous, mid-century modern desk."
She jut her lip out, adorably.
He want to yank off her U of Michigan tee, clear off that desk and have his way with her—immediately.
But something about Lisa Cuddy intimidated him—it was like he desired her too much. It freaked him out.
So instead he said, "I like a woman with a plan."
"Nice desk," he said, standing in Cuddy's office now, his arms folded.
She was busily poring over some paperwork—or at least pretending to be busily poring over some paperwork—and didn't bother to look up.
"Thanks."
"Thanks what? Thanks for complimenting the desk or for. . ."
She put down her pen.
"I know you got me the desk, House," she said stiffly.
"Oh."
"Thank you," she forced herself to say. "It was very. . .sweet of you."
"Sweet of me? Do you know how many favors I had to call in? How many mountains I had to move? How much maintenance overtime you're going to have to pay? I even had to deal with"—he shuddered a bit—"your mother."
"And I thanked you. What else do you want me to say?"
This was hardly the emotional scene he had anticipated.
He stepped toward her.
"Cuddy, I know you're pissed about my, shall we say, less than gentlemanly behavior yesterday. . ."
Cuddy snorted.
"But don't you think you're overreacting a little bit? I don't think the punishment fits the crime. In fact, I might even argue that the peace offering far surpasses the crime."
"Which of your crimes are you referring to?" she said.
"Huh?"
"You figure it out House. I have work to do."
And she looked back down and made it clear that she was done with him.
######
House slumped into the couch in Wilson's office, sighed.
Wilson didn't look up.
What the hell: Was he invisible today?
He sighed again, quite loudly this time.
"Something on your mind, House?" Wilson said, ironically.
"Cuddy's desk," House said.
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
House frowned at him.
"No, her actual desk. I gave it to her."
"So you're the one who gave her the desk?" Wilson said, impressed.
"Yeah. . ." House said, furrowing his brow. "How did you know it was a gift anyway?"
"I was with Cuddy when she first saw it. She got a dreamy look in her eyes."
"Dreamy?"
"Yeah, dreamy. Like something had made her both nostalgic and happy."
"Exactly the emotion I was going for. So what the hell happ. . ." He stopped, midsentence, as a horrible thought took root.
"What time was this?"
Wilson shrugged.
"I dunno. About 6 o clock."
"Shit," House said.
"Shit?"
"Crap," House said.
"Crap?"
House popped up.
"Thanks for the talk Wilson. It's been very illuminating."
Wilson watched him limp out, puzzled as ever.
"Glad to be of help," he said.
#####
"I can explain," House said.
"Explain what?" Cuddy said.
She was putting papers in her briefcase, getting ready to leave for the day.
"The young lady who was in my office yesterday."
"I didn't see anyone I would call a lady," Cuddy said. "Nice tattoos, by the way. Keep it classy, House."
"She was an. . .actress."
"Yes, I'm sure she's a graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts."
"Okay, she's a hooker. But I had employed her as an actress—to teach a lesson to Taub and Kutner."
"I didn't see Taub and Kutner," Cuddy said, starting to walk out. "I just saw you, leering at her."
"They were off licking their wounds. And she and I were just . . . basking in our victory."
"Looked like you were about to bask in something else."
"Nothing happened between us. . ."
She stopped, in the doorway.
"You think I was born yesterday House?" Then she whispered. "I know what you do with hookers."
"I didn't. . ." He stopped. There was no point in lying to her.
"I fucked up," he said.
"Again."
"But you liked the desk. . .?" he asked hopefully.
"A lot," she said. "In fact, I was coming to tell you—maybe show you— just how much."
"Show me?" he gulped. Shit. Shit. Shit. . .
"Forget it," she said.
"I'm an idiot."
"The thing that bugs me, House," Cuddy said. "She was standing an inch away from you—and you weren't backing away, you weren't deflecting. How is that you're able to be more intimate with Bridget the Wonder Skank than you are with me?"
"I. . ."
But before he could form the words, she walked out.
#####
The next day, Cuddy arrived in her office, sat down at her desk.
She noticed it immediately.
A framed black and white photo of her, from Michigan. She was lying on the grass in the Commons, in a tank top and short shorts, her legs bent behind her, reading a book.
It was a beautiful photo. The sun was streaming through her hair and her skin glowed and she looked so young, so pretty, so full of life.
She didn't remember that day. . . or anyone taking that photo.
There was an envelope, with a note.
She read it:
"Sometimes it's just easier to admire certain things from afar.
Working on that.
- H"
She folded the note and smiled.