Wish You Were Here
This story is about as breezy and rom-com-ish as I get, which is saying a lot. The idea came from a prompt from my girl gnortn, who wanted to see House and Cuddy on the beach. Season 3ish. It was getting long, so I'm splitting it into 2 parts. Hope to post part 2 later today or tomorrow. xo, ATD
"So when were you planning on telling me?" House said, folding his arms.
Cuddy looked up from the mound of paperwork she was sifting through, sighed a bit.
"Tell you what?" she asked.
"That you were going on vacation?"
"Because I wanted to avoid the reaction I'm about to get in 3. . .2. . ."
"Who's the lucky fellow?" House said.
"1 . . . There is no lucky fellow, House."
"Don't tell me you're going on vacation alone Cuddy. Not even you are that pathetic."
"It so happens that I'm going with my sister Julia, her husband, and their two kids."
"I was wrong," said House. "You are that pathetic."
"It's not that bad," Cuddy said, defensively. "I love my sister's family. And I'll have plenty of me time."
"Me time when the kids are . . . on the beach?" House probed.
Cuddy raised her eyebrows, didn't answer.
"Hitting the slopes?"
"Nice try," she said.
"Taking a donkey to the bottom of the Grand Canyon?"
"I'm not telling you where I'm going on vacation, House."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll just find some way to twist it and use it against me."
"That doesn't sound like me," House said. "Much."
"Uh huh."
"Is this vacation really necessary?" House said.
Cuddy made a pouty face in mock sympathy.
"I know it's tough to lose mommy for 7 days House. But I have it all lined up for you. If you have administrative problems, you can talk to Dr. Cavanaugh. If you want to yell at someone, you can re-yell at your staff—it's all just white noise to them at this point. And if you want to compliment someone's ass, Nurse Jeffrey has graciously volunteered to be my proxy."
House smiled, amused. Then he said, 'That's not what I meant. I meant, a vacation is not necessary because vacations are for relaxing—something you are physically incapable of doing."
Cuddy took the bait.
"I can too!" she said.
"You're more tightly wound than a fly fish reel," House said. "Give me one example of you relaxing."
"I do yoga!" Cuddy sputtered.
"You do yoga because you can't relax. You need to carve out a specific time of the day to force you into relaxation."
"I relax after work," Cuddy sniffed. "You just don't see it."
"You're glued to your Blackberry after work. Or on your computer. Or wishing you were on your computer. Face it Cuddy. . . your life is your job and your job is your life and this vacation is just going to drive you slowly insane. As a friend, I'm telling you: Cancel now."
"As a friend?" Cuddy said.
"Yes."
"Your concern for my wellbeing is touching House. But if it's all the same to you, I'm going to try to muddle through my vacation, painful as it may be."
"Have it your way," House said, with a shrug. "Take a picture of yourself in a bikini. Or. . .a really tight ski sweater. Or while riding a donkey. And by riding a donkey I mean. . ."
"Go away, House."
"Miss you already."
######
The Grand Cayman Islands Beach Resort and Spa had access to a private beach, which suited Cuddy just fine because she hated crowds.
She lay back in her beach chair. She was on her own for the day—Julia, Michael and the kids were on a nature hike.
The cabana boy brought her a frothy frozen pina colada and fresh towels. The sun was nourishingly warm. She closed her eyes. Then opened them.
Shit! She really needed to get going on that grant proposal for clinic funding the minute she got back from the trip. She had a few ideas. . .maybe she should jot some down . . .
Relax, Lisa. The proposal can wait.
She closed her eyes again, listened to the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore. A seagull cawed. A few more minutes passed. . .
Huh. Had she been firm enough with legal about the hospital's position on that class action lawsuit? She really needed to stress that the hospital assumed no liability for those malfunctioning stents.
Calm down . . .you were firm.
She took a sip of her pina colada, tried to banish all Princeton Plainsboro thoughts from her head.
But. . crap. . .was that hospital fire drill scheduled for this week or next?
Better call Nurse Regina, just to make sure.
She rifled through her beach bag for her Blackberry. As she searched, a cloud blocked the sun, enveloping her chair in a large shadow.
She looked up, squinted in disbelief.
"Fifteen whole minutes before you went for the Blackberry, Cuddy . . .Impressive," a male voice said.
Turns out, the dark cloud hovering over her was none other than Dr. Gregory House.
He was wearing baggy board shorts, flip flops, an unbuttoned Hawaiian style shirt, and an annoyingly self-satisfied grin.
"You've got to be kidding me," she said.
"Surprise!" he said.
"How did you even find me?" Then she shook her head. "Wilson is so dead."
"Don't blame Wilson, blame yourself for emailing him your itinerary. As if I couldn't easily guess that his password is CaringDoc1."
"Why are you here, House?"
"Love the bikini, Cuddy," he said, leering at her. "I prayed for a nude beach, but what you're wearing leaves so little to the imagination, it's the next best thing."
Rather hastily, Cuddy grabbed one of the towels the cabana boy had brought her and covered herself.
"Don't be like that," House said. He dragged over a reclining beach chair that was several feet away, and placed it so close to hers, they touched. "If we're gonna be beach buddies, you better get used to me seeing you in a bikini. By the way. . . I'm totally okay with you ogling my hot pecs."
"I'm actually dressing you with my eyes, House," Cuddy said. This was patently untrue. Cuddy had trained herself not to lust after House when he wore those snug t-shirts at work, but she'd always had a thing for his long, ropy physique. Seeing him like this was distracting.
"Have you ever considered instituting Bikini Fridays at the hospital?" he said, musingly. "It would be great for staff morale."
"Why are you here, House?"
"Taking a vacation," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Same as you."
"This is my vacation House. Go find your own."
"But I like yours. It's filled with. . . possibilities." He raised his eyebrows.
"Did it ever occur to you that one of the reasons I'm taking this vacation is to GET AWAY FROM YOU?"
"Actually, no," he said, considering it.
He grabbed a tub of tanning lotion that he had rolled up in his towel.
"You freckle easily in the sun, Cuddy. I think I need to apply another coat of cocoa butter."
"I'm good. . ." she said, standing up. "In fact, I'm leaving."
"So soon?"
"I have a yoga class at noon," she said.
"Good idea," House said. "All this relaxation can be stressful."
######
She found space on the grass next to another guest and lay out her yoga mat.
The teacher walked up, bowed to class. They bowed back.
"Namaste," they said in unison.
"Excuse me, namaste, coming through, namaste . . ."
Bowing the whole time, House wove his way through the assembled yoga students, found a tiny square patch of grass next to Cuddy and plopped down, laying his cane beside him.
He had no yoga mat.
"Namaste," he said to her.
"Go away," she hissed.
"Where's your Zen, Cuddy? As a guest of this resort, I am entitled to unlimited yoga classes. It says so right in the brochure."
"You read the brochure?" she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Let us begin," the yoga teacher said. "We're going to start with some simple breathing exercises. Breathe in, breathe out. If you like, you can use the traditional yogic chant of 'Om.'"
Trying to block out House, Cuddy closed her eyes.
"Ommmmm," she said.
"Bzzzzzzzz," House said.
Cuddy side-eyed him.
"What are you? A bumblebee?"
"My sound is just as arbitrary as yours," he said.
"Actually, 'om' is a sacred word from Hindu. . .nevermind." A few of the other students were shooting House and Cuddy dirty looks.
The teacher was now leading the class in sun salutations. Cuddy rose, as did the rest of the class, all except for House, of course. He stayed on the grass, looking up at Cuddy's ass as she bent forward.
"Get up, House. This isn't a spectator sport," Cuddy said.
"I'm not taking the class," he said. "I'm just auditing."
"I'm pretty sure that's not allowed," Cuddy said, as she bent into a downward dog.
"But the view is so great from down here."
"Bite me."
"Oooh, with pleasure."
More dirty looks.
The yogi noticed the commotion.
"What's going on back there?" she asked.
"He's not doing the poses," Cuddy whined.
"Narc," House mouthed at her. He held up his cane pathetically. "Sometimes my handicap makes me feel left out," he said, looking sad. "You don't mind if I just sit here and participate in my own way, do you?"
The teacher smiled benevolently at him.
"Of course not," she said. "There is no wrong way to do yoga."
"Namaste," said House. He bowed deeply at the teacher and gave Cuddy a tiny wink.
######
That night, Cuddy was sitting at the hotel's seafood restaurant with Julia, Michael, and two friends of theirs—a couple who owned a small chain of yogurt shops in New Jersey.
They had finished dinner and were moving on to after-dinner drinks and Todd, the yogurt king of Jersey, was talking about his new flavor.
"It's called English Vanilla. It's not as sweet as the French vanilla, but not exactly tart either. . .it's proving to be very popular."
Cuddy tried to stifle a yawn.
Just then, the waiter walked up to the table, handed Cuddy a note scribbled on a napkin.
"From the gentleman at the bar," the waiter said.
She didn't even have to look up to know that it was House.
She read the note:
"There's a fine line between being relaxed and falling into a boredom-induced coma. Lose the stiffs and come join me at the bar for a drink."
Cuddy bit her lip, laughed.
House swiveled in his bar stool, raised his glass at her. He was wearing a white linen shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and tan trousers. He had gotten sun—just enough to give him an uncharacteristically healthy glow. He looked annoyingly gorgeous.
She raised hers back.
Julia took note.
"Who's the guy?" she said.
"He's.. . no one. Just someone I met on the beach today."
"He's hot."
"You think?" Cuddy said, trying to sound breezy about it.
"Um, yeah. Like dangerously so. Go talk to him."
"Okay," she said, shrugging, and feeling bad for lying to her sister. (Of course, explaining the truth: That it was her insane employee/one-time fling who had followed her to the Cayman Islands in a stalkerish sort of way—and that, instead of being totally mortified like any normal person would, she found the whole thing kind exciting and flattering—would just be way too complicated.) "Be right back."
She strode up to him.
He smiled triumphantly.
"Dry Belvedere martini, two olives," he said to the bartender.
He knows my drink.
She slid into the barstool next to him.
"Having fun?" she said.
"Always," he said.
He eyed her flowy sun dress approvingly.
"You should dress this way more often," he said. "It's flattering."
"I thought you preferred my bikini."
"That too," he said, taking a long swig of his scotch. "I like it all. Vacation Cuddy is working for me."
So is Vacation House.
He peered over at Cuddy's table.
"I recognize Julia and Michael from the pictures on your desk," he said. "But who's Clark and Ellen Griswold?"
"That's Todd and Susan Waters. Brace yourself—they own Fro-Go Yogurt."
"Wow. In the presence of greatness."
"Ask me anything about yogurt," Cuddy said. "I know it all. Are you aware that the first frozen yogurt stand was in Boston in 1974? And were you aware that it has 20 percent fewer calories than ice cream and 30 percent less fat?"
"Fascinating."
"I know. . . and you thought I was bored. Huh!"
He smiled at her.
"Let's get out of here," he said, conspiratorially.
She laughed.
"I can't," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because. . ."
I'm afraid to be alone with you because I don't know if I'll be able to control myself.
" . . . my dinner companions are waiting for me," she said.
As if on cue, Todd and Susan waved.
House and Cuddy waved back.
Cuddy gulped down the rest of her drink, popped up.
"I don't suppose you want to join us?" she asked gamely.
"Naa," said House, looking at his watch. "I just remembered that I have some very important flossing that I need to do."
"Your loss," she said, facing him. "I think Todd is about to explain the difference between sprinkles and jimmies."
House put his hands lightly on her waist. (Cuddy wasn't sure what annoyed her more—the presumption of his gesture or the fact that it was turning her on.)
"If you wanna come up later for a nightcap," he whispered in her ear. "I'm in room 308."
"Don't wait up," she said, adding breezily: "Thanks for the drink."
"Three. Oh. Eight!" he shouted after her.
She sashayed back to her friends, knowing he was watching her, and not caring. God damn it, that asshole could be cute when he tried.
When she got back to the table, Julia informed everyone she had to go to the bathroom and gestured for Cuddy to follow.
Girl talk.
"So?" Julia said, once they were alone. They were standing in front of the mirror, freshening their makeup. "What's his name?"
"Greg," Cuddy said.
"Ironic," Julia said. "Just like your boy wonder." (Cuddy talked about her high-maintenance star employee all the time.)
"So is he nice?"
"I wouldn't necessarily say nice," Cuddy said, blotting her lipstick. "Interesting."
"I can't believe you didn't leave with him," Julia said. "I've never seen you look so into someone ever."
"Don't exaggerate."
"I'm serious. Even Todd noticed. He said, 'Those two might need a yogurt to cool off.'"
"He did not!"
Julia laughed grimly.
"I'm afraid he did."
######
The next day, she was walking with Julia, Michael, and the kids into town when a scooter zoomed up alongside them.
It was House.
"Hello, fellow travelers," House said.
Everyone waved hi.
"Where you headed?"
"Brunch," Cuddy said.
"I never understood brunch," House said. "Pick a meal."
"That's what I'm always saying!" Michael said.
He and House exchanged a bro nod.
House turned to Julia.
"Would you mind terribly if I stole your sister for the afternoon?"
"That's totally up to her," Julia said.
House looked at Cuddy.
"What do you say?"
"Would I have to get on that thing?" she said, gesturing to the scooter, skeptically. She was wearing a long print skirt, a bikini top, and a light white cotton blouse that was tied at the waist.
"Afraid so," he said. "But I'll be gentle."
Cuddy scratched her head, glanced at Julia, who was giving her an encouraging look. If only she knew. . .
"Okay!" she said.
She hopped on the back of the scooter.
"Don't get into too much trouble, you two!" Julia said cheerfully.
And they zoomed off.
It was as if House was a native of the island—he drove down side streets, dirty roads, and alleys, made sharp turns and ignored signs intended for tourists.
Finally, they arrived at a rather bustling outdoor market. There were vendors selling all sorts of food—meat pies and jerk chicken and plantains—and hand-crafted jewelry and clothing. A steel drum band was playing reggae-style music. Rather noticeably, there weren't many tourists around.
"I hate all that touristy shit," House said.
They walked around together and Cuddy couldn't help it. She felt like she was hanging out with her boyfriend. She had to stop herself from taking his hand. They stopped at one booth where the vendor was selling straw hats and he made her try a bunch on and then bought her one. Later, they passed a patch of beautiful purple flowers, dotted with pale pink and white.
"Oooh, these are so beautiful," Cuddy said.
"They're Kahlalia Flowers, indigenous to the region," House said.
He was such a know-it-all.
"I'd like to fill my office with these every day," Cuddy sighed dreamily.
"That's gonna be tough because it's illegal to take the seeds across the border. Unless. . .well, I know a guy who knows a guy who could get you some."
"You know a guy? In the Cayman Islands?"
"There are guys everywhere, Cuddy," House said.
Cuddy chuckled. "Thanks anyway, House," she said. "But I'd just as soon not get busted for illegal seed smuggling."
"I figured so much," House said, with a shrug.
They got lunch—a platter of jerk chicken with peas and rice— and stopped to listen to the steel drum band.
Some local women were dancing to the music and they gestured for Cuddy to join them, but she declined.
"She's too uptight to dance," House explained.
Cuddy glared at him, took off her blouse somewhat defiantly, tossed it at him—she was now just wearing that bikini top and long skirt—and joined the women, raising her hands above her head and shaking her hips to the music. She was laughing, in a light-hearted sort of way.
The crowd cheered her on.
House watched her, with a mixture of amusement, surprise, and longing. He'd never seen this side of Cuddy—girlish, playful, sexy. The contrast between power-suited alpha bitch Cuddy and hip-shaking Caribbean queen Cuddy was almost too much to take. He wanted to be inside this woman in the worst way.
The song ended and Cuddy gave a little curtsey to her new fans.
She skipped back over to House triumphantly. Her cheeks were flushed. He still had her shirt, but had no intention of giving it back (he had shoved it in his knapsack.) Her taut stomach was glistening with a fine mist of sweat.
"Who's uptight now?" she said.
"Certainly not you," he said.
"And don't you forget it."
"No ma'am."
They continued to walk, until they came across an elderly woman with her hair wrapped elaborately in a scarf, who offered to tell Cuddy's fortune.
"I don't think that's a very . . ."
"How much?" House said, pulling out his wallet.
"$50 American dollars," the woman said.
"That's highway robbery!" House complained, but he handed over the money.
The old woman led them toward a little booth behind a curtain she had set up, with two chairs and a small table. She beckoned Cuddy to join her behind the curtain.
House started to follow.
"No," the woman said. "Boyfriend can't come."
"You must be quite a psychic because I'm not her boyfriend," House said.
"Whatever you are. Can't come. Need complete privacy."
House rolled his eyes. If he'd known he couldn't witness Cuddy's reading, he wouldn't have shelled out the cash.
Cuddy shrugged, smiled apologetically and followed the old woman into her lair.
The woman, whose name was Miss Rita, held out her hands, palms up, and gestured for Cuddy to do the same.
She took Cuddy's hands, inspected them.
"You are very good at your job," she said. "People respect you. They admire your strength. They even fear you a little."
"Thank you," Cuddy said.
The old woman ignored her.
"But you are very unfulfilled in matters of the heart."
Cuddy shrugged in a "who isn't?" sort of way.
"You've had little success with men, because you always pick the wrong man."
"Tell me about it," Cuddy said.
"You think you want a man like yourself. A man who is reasonable, professional, who follows rules. But what you need is someone who has adventure in his heart, who cares not what other people think. A man who scares you a little, who challenges you, who excites you. . ."
Cuddy narrowed her eyes, looked over her shoulder.
"Did House put you up to this?"
"Who's House?" Miss Rita said, continuing to peer at Cuddy's hand.
The old woman went on to read Cuddy's lifeline—long—and predict her financial prospects for the future—solid—and repeated that Cuddy could have personal success to go along with professional success if she would only learn to let go. Then she thanked her for the session, told her to tell her friends about Miss Rita, and said goodbye.
House was waiting under a palm tree. He had bought—or perhaps bartered for—a small wooden flute-type instrument and he was blowing into it, trying to get a good sound.
He looked up when he saw her.
"Good lord, woman, I thought I was going to have to call the American Embassy," he said. "Or Scully. . .How was your session. Is your future so bright you gotta wear shades?"
"Don't play dumb House," Cuddy said.
"Huh?"
"How much did you pay that woman to say those things to me."
"50 American bucks. Or, as I like to call it, my first expense report when I get back to Jersey."
"And there was no money on the side?" Cuddy said. "No little conversation where you told her exactly what to say to me?"
House scratched his head.
"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. Why? What did she say?"
She squinted at him, skeptically, then shook her head.
"Nothing. Forget it. It's getting late. Let's get back to the hotel."
#####