He had come to dread Tuesday nights. They had been his idea—a night off so both he and Cuddy could do whatever they wanted.
He was surprised at how quickly Cuddy had jumped at the proposal. She was usually so into the togetherness thing.
But Cuddy took full advantage of her Tuesdays off: Mommy and Me time with Rachel, book club or yoga or wheatgerm potlucks or whatever the hell it was that she did with "the girls." (And who were those "girls" anyway?)
He'd enjoyed the solo time at first—playing the piano, watching a Real Housewives marathon on TV, just sitting in glorious silence—but lately he'd felt a certain ache—not leg pain (although that seemed to curiously flair up on Tuesdays), but an ache of something missing—okay, someone missing. He missed the way she cupped her body so perfectly against his when they sat on the couch; the way she pretended to be interested in his Monster Truck rallies or poker tournaments on TV but always fell asleep, quickly and snugly, like a contented child. He made her feel safe. And she made him feel something almost resembling. . .happy?
Damn.
He was pondering the stupidity of his Tuesday night arrangement when the doorbell rang. He sprang up, already gloating. Didn't even bother to grab his cane as he limped across the room and opened the door.
"So you couldn't stay away!"
It was a beautiful brunette, but not the one he had anticipated.
Stacey.
"Hello Greg," she said.
He was so taken aback he had to physically step away from the door to compose himself.
Finally, he was able to speak: "So is Mark dying of another incurable illness?" he cracked.
"Mark left me," she said.
"Oh."
There was a silence. She was leaning against the door frame. Then she smiled sheepishly, "I brought wine!" she said, holding up a bottle and two glasses.
He realized he was supposed to invite her to come in.
He cocked his head toward the living room, motioning for her to enter.
"How'd you know I'd be home?" he asked.
"Greg, you're always home."
He realized this had once been true. . .
He obediently took the wine into the kitchen—it was an '04 Bordeaux, Stacey had always had good taste in wine—opened it with a corkscrew, and poured two glasses.
They sat on the couch.
"The fire feels nice," she said softly. Something about her voice, her demeanor. Jesus, was she hitting on him? He shook the thought away.
"So what happened?" he finally asked.
"What? With me and Mark?" she acted like she was surprised he had bothered to ask the question. "It was never the same after we left New Jersey. He never really trusted me again."
"Because of me?" he said. He was reminded of the time Cuddy came to visit him at home, right after he got back from Mayfield. ("Am I the reason you left the hospital?" she had asked. "No," he had said. It was only half a lie.)
"Partly because of you," Stacey admitted. "Partly because of me, because of him. It was complicated."
It was not in his nature to beat around the bush.
"So Stacey, not that it's not a nice surprise and all but what the hell are you doing here?"
"I don't know. Just drinking wine, talking to an old friend," she said.
She looked up at him expectantly.
"You look good Stacey," he said almost reflexively, and because it was true.
"So do you, Greg," she leaned over, touched his face, went to kiss him.
He surprised her, and even surprised himself a little, by pushing her away.
"I can't," he said.
"Why not? Just two old friends, taking comfort in each other," she said softly. She tried to kiss him again. This time, he ducked out from under her.
"I'm. . .I'm. . . with somebody."
Now she was really stunned.
"Is it. . .Cuddy?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"I always knew there was something there," she said. "Something more than a boss being protective of her star employee."
"I wish you had told me," he said, with a dry laugh. "Might've saved me a trip to the loony bin."
There was a long pause.
"Congratulations, Greg. I mean that. . .she's terrific."
He smiled, almost blushed.
"Yeah, she is, isn't she?"
He'd never really talked about Cuddy with anybody, outside of Wilson. And he felt strangely eager to share the details of his new life: He talked about her broken engagement to Lucas; how they'd managed to so far negotiate the minefield that was the employee-boss relationship at work; how he was even starting to care about that dim-witted toddler of hers.
He was close to babbling. And he suddenly realized how badly all of this must've made Stacey feel.
"Look, your timing is lousy," he said, taking her hand. "This same scenario. . .the wine, the glasses, that sweater. A year ago, it would've been game over."
"House?"
He looked up. She was standing there. Wearing a trench coat that he'd never seen before, a pair of what could only be described as fuck-me pumps, and carrying, yes, a bottle of champagne with two glasses.
And he had been holding Stacey's hand. Shit.
"Cuddy!" he said. He leapt up from the couch so fast, his leg almost buckled.
Stacey stood, too. "Hi Lisa. . . it's not what you think."
"What do you think I think?" Cuddy said. There was that familiar edge to her voice.
"Something intimate. But it's not," Stacey said firmly.
"No, it just looks like two old lovers, sharing wine, holding hands in front of a crackling fire," Cuddy spat. "You two have fun together."
She took off toward the door. He limped after her.
"Cuddy!" he yelled helplessly.
But it was too late. She was in the hallway. As she rushed away, her coat billowed a bit. He could see that she was wearing a teddy, and nothing else.
######
Cuddy considered picking up Rachel from her mother's on the way home, but decided against it. There might be crying or, at the bare minimum, the throwing of things. She was better off alone tonight.
Of all the ways she contemplated things ending with House—and she'd thought about it a lot, mostly because it the thing she feared most in this world—infidelity wasn't one of them. She thought he might go back on the pills, or be cruel to Rachel in some inexcusable way, or do something so outrageously unethical at work that she'd have no choice but to fire him.
But Stacey? The one woman, the only woman that threatened her.
She lay in her bed, playing the scene over and over again in her head.
The fire, the wine, the way Stacey was looking at him. . .
And to add to the misery, her own little failed seduction scene. Had he noticed that was wearing no clothes? The trenchcoat. The shoes? Oh God.
Now she did cry, feeling sorry for herself, feeling betrayed, embarrassed, angry.
She was crying so loudly, she almost didn't hear the pebble being thrown against the window.
She knew House well enough not to fear it was an intruder.
She opened the window. He was standing there, in her yard.
"We need to talk," he said quietly.
"Go away, House," she said, hastily brushing away her tears.
"Not until we talk," he whispered.
"Why are you whispering?" she asked, annoyed.
"I didn't want to wake up Rachel," he said.
If she wasn't so pissed, it would almost be sweet.
"She's not here, you moron. I thought I was spending the night with you." She chuckled grimly. "How wrong I was."
"It's not too late," he said.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Cuddy, nothing happened."
"I'm sorry if my timing ruined the mood."
"Nothing happened because of you. Because I'm in love with you." He didn't say it that often. He wasn't exactly the lovey dovey type. But she also knew what a skilled liar he was.
"House. I'm tired. I'm angry. I just want to be left alone. Can we please talk about this tomorrow?"
She closed the window and turned off the lights.
A few minutes later, she crept back to the window and peered outside. He was gone.
#####
House could barely sleep that night. His leg was killing him. He polished off the wine that Stacey had brought and then started in on the scotch.
He couldn't help but to appreciate the grim irony of the evening. A year ago, he would've been ecstatic at the prospect of Stacey showing up unannounced, practically throwing herself at him. Now, she had created a major crisis for him.
"Women," he muttered out loud.
He fell asleep, with an open bottle on the bed, contemplating his lousy luck.
He was late to work the next day, predictably. His head was throbbing. He had at least 4 days worth of a beard. His clothing was horribly rumpled, even by his own standards. He half sleep-walked into his office.
Taub, Chase, Foreman, and Masters were nowhere to be found.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
"House," a voice whispered. It was coming from the storage closet. "Get in here."
He obeyed. Cuddy was up against a wall of supplies, wearing a tight skirt, straddling a chair, in a way he could only hope was meant to turn him on. Otherwise, this woman had no clue of her power over him.
"Close the door," she said.
This was either really good. . .or really bad.
"I just want to say. . .I'm sorry," she said.
"You're what?"
"Stacey called me at home this morning. She told me what happened. She said, and I quote, that you're like a school boy in love."
He was speechless.
"I feel like a jerk," she said. "I jumped to conclusions."
"Yes you did," he said. Was he pressing his luck?
"I'm a horrible girlfriend." She was smiling flirtatiously. She wasn't mad. He could breathe again.
"So how are you going to make it up to me?" he asked, now fully enjoying this.
"Sit down and I'll show you," she said.
He was hungover and tired but he wasn't dead. He could feel his boner against his pants.
Cuddy hiked up her skirt, sat on his lap. Good God, a lapdance at 11 in the morning.
"What if. . . somebody comes?" he said, although he was well beyond caring at this point. "Masters might feel compelled to take notes."
"I told them to make themselves scarce until after lunch. Said that we had some serious administrative matters to attend to."
As she talked, she was grinding on his lap, slowly and torturously, still fully dressed.
He went to unbutton her blouse.
"Uh-uh-uh, no sex in the champagne room," she scolded.
"This is a storage closet," he corrected.
"Not today it isn't."
She reached down and pulled out the champagne and two glasses from last night. A peace offering.
"I didn't bring your sword," she said, in mock sadness.
House looked down at his pants.
"I did," he said.
They laughed.
By now she had unbuttoned his pants, and was mounting him. He held her tightly when they had sex, as she moaned very, very bad things into his ear. That was his Cuddy, hospital administrator by day, porn star by night. (Or in this case, hospital administrator by day, porn star by day.)
"Cuddy," he choked out, after they were done. "Can we call off these ridiculous separate Tuesdays?"
"House, I though you'd never ask."