This fic is based on a prompt from my girl suzmum: "What if it had been Cuddy who had accompanied House to his father's funeral, rather than Wilson? Or if had been the three of them?" I went with the OT3 idea. As I said on Twitter, I almost hate to mess with a tender Hilson episode. But hey, everything's better with Cuddy, right?
Disclaimer: A few very brief snippets of dialogue are taken directly from the episode Birthmarks, written by Doris Egan and David Foster. No copyright infringement intended. I own neither the characters, nor the show House and have never profited from my fan fiction. (Except for in friendship and love. . .and the occasional hater.)
House woke up, shook the cobwebs out, and rubbed his eyes groggily until the unmistakable form of James Wilson snapped into focus.
He reached across the car and pinched him—hard—on the leg.
"Ow!" Wilson said, practically swerving off the road. "What the hell was that for?"
"I wanted to make sure I wasn't dreaming," House said.
"It's customary to pinch yourself in such moments," Wilson said.
House squinted at him.
"Why are you driving? Where are we going?"
"I'm driving because you were passed out so it seemed the more prudent option. And we're going to your father's funeral."
It all suddenly came back to House.
"No, we're not," he said.
"Actually, we are."
"Why? I hated the man. Showing up at his funeral would be the height of hypocrisy. And besides, since when do you care?"
"Blame Cuddy," Wilson said.
"It's for your own good," a female voice from the backseat said.
House turned.
"You drugged me!" he said to Cuddy, indignantly.
"Hey, in your world, drugging somebody is the ultimate expression of endearment."
"You know Cuddy, if you wanted to see my ass that badly, all you had to do was ask. . ."
"Just because you're obsessed with my ass that doesn't mean I'm obsessed with yours."
"Could've fooled me. The sedative would've worked just as well in my arm."
Cuddy's mouth formed an "O" in protest.
"You know it's much more effective in a large. . " she started.
"Knock it off, you two!" Wilson said, dad-style.
Both Cuddy and House stopped and looked at him.
"If the end of that threat is, 'Or I'll turn this car around,' don't let me stop you," House said.
"You need to go to your dad's funeral," Wilson said.
"No, it's the height of hyp—"
"Hypocrisy, blah, blah, blah, we know," Cuddy said. "But funerals aren't for the dead. They're for the living. In this case, your very much alive mother."
"She knows that Dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye," House said. "She hates hypocrisy almost as much as I do."
"This is the one time she will love your hypocrisy. You'll go, you'll hug her, you'll say a few nice words about your dad, and everyone will go back to their uneventful lives," Cuddy said.
"What if I have no nice words?" House said.
"He's your dad," Wilson said. "You must have something nice to say about him. If nothing else, surely you must be impressed with the fact that he had the biological where-with-all to create the magnificent speciman that is you."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," House said under his breath.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Cuddy said.
"He wasn't even my real dad," House said.
"What?" Cuddy and Wilson said, in unison.
"My mother had an affair—can't really say I blame her— and I am the blessed product of that affair. I figured it out when I was 12."
"And you have proof of this fact?" Wilson said, skeptically.
"Small things. Birthmarks, hereditary anomalies."
"Not. . .hereditary anomalies!" Wilson said, in mock shock.
"I know what I know. . ." House said stubbornly.
"And when I was a little girl, I was convinced my real parents were Mike and Carol Brady," Cuddy said.
House frowned at her.
"Those were characters on a TV show!"
"And probably just as plausible as your theory that your mom shtupped the milkman."
"A family friend," House said, idly.
"We're going to the funeral, House," Wilson said.
#####
After driving for a few hours, they stopped at a roadside diner for lunch.
Cuddy was hungry, but decided it was more important that Wilson and House have a little male bonding time on their own.
"You know, I have a lot of really important phone calls to make so I'm just going to stay in the car," she dissembled. "You boys go ahead."
Wilson looked at her: "You sure?"
She nodded. "Positive. I'm actually not that hungry."
She watched them walk toward the diner. Then she made a brief call to work (everything was running smoothly) and opened up her Facebook app. Eventually, she nodded off.
About an hour later, Wilson and House emerged from the diner.
She woke up, with a start, when they opened the car door. She tried to figure out if they had cleared the air. It was hard to tell. At least they seemed to be getting along pretty well.
"I got you this," House said, tossing a turkey sandwich at her. "Just in case you remembered during those really important phone calls that you were actually starving."
She caught the sandwich and began to eat without protest.
"Thanks," she said.
####
Three hours later, they arrived.
Cuddy glanced over at House. She saw his Adam's apple bob a bit in his neck as he swallowed hard. It was rare to see him look so nervous like this.
"I can't go in like this," House said, one last gambit. "I'm underdressed."
"Which is why we brought you a jacket and tie," Wilson said.
"You broke into my apartment too?"
"Your jacket was crumpled in a ball on the floor of your office," Cuddy said.
"Oh."
"And it's my tie," Wilson said.
"Oh God, not the paisley one. It's been known to cause spontaneous projectile vomiting."
"Hey, that's my favorite tie!" Wilson said. "But no. Not that one."
They got out of the car, popped the trunk, and handed House the clothing. The tie was the most basic one Wilson could find in his wardrobe—a simple black and gray stripe.
House put on the jacket, but he kept screwing up the tie. His hands were shaking.
"Let me," Cuddy said.
She took the tie and knotted it expertly, not commenting on how nervous he seemed.
Then she smoothed the tie against his chest.
"You're going to do great," she whispered.
House inhaled a bit, but said nothing.
They all walked into the funeral home.
Blythe was the first person they saw. Cuddy had never actually met her. She was a lovely woman—elegant, self-possessed, with warm sky-blue eyes that were almost as alert and intelligent as her son's. Cuddy considered the fact that, in his own twisted way, House was actually extremely respectful—and protective—of the women in his life. She now understood why.
"Greg! You came!" Blythe said, enveloping her son in a hug.
Then she turned to Wilson and Cuddy: "I can't thank you two enough."
Wilson, who knew Blythe a bit, gave her a hug and kiss.
Cuddy extended her hand: "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. House," she said.
"Thank you, dear," Blythe said, looking her over.
She turned back to House.
"Do you know what you're going to say yet, Greg?" she asked.
"I thought it would be better if we just let the minister. . ."
"Nonsense! You're his son. Of course you're going to say something," Blythe said, as if the matter were already settled.
Then she spotted the funeral director from across the room.
"I need a word with him," she said. "I'll see you all at the reception."
And she walked away.
"I . . . can't do this," House said, looking at the floor.
"It's not for him, it's for her," Cuddy said, firmly. "Just keep reminding yourself: This is for my mother. . . This is for my mother. . ."
House closed his eyes, nodded. Again, Cuddy was struck by the fact that he seemed a bit lost, almost helpless. She had an urge to actually take his arm and physically lead him to his seat in the chapel, but he managed on his own.
When it was his time to speak, he got up to the lectern and cleared his throat.
"There's a lot of people here today. Including some from the corps," House started. "And I notice that every one of them is either my father's rank or higher. And that doesn't surprise me. Because. . ." he looked up, saw Cuddy, who met his gaze and gave an disapproving shake of her head. "Because . . . he always commanded the respect of the people he worked with—a sign of a great leader."
Cuddy exhaled.
"Colonel John House was a man who believed in honor and God and country. He was a man a lot of men would be proud to call their father," House said. "Thank you."
(Cuddy had to hand it to him. A lot of men—House just didn't happen to be one of them. He had managed not to be a hypocrite, after all.)
After he shuffled off the lectern, House limped over to his father's open casket and bent forward, in what appeared to be a rather extravagant show of grief.
"You don't think he's. . ." Cuddy said to Wilson, out of the corner of her mouth.
"I do!" Wilson said.
"Wilson, do something!" Cuddy hissed.
Wilson got up to join House at the casket—now he was merely helping a stricken friend—but it was too late. House had already taken a skin sample off the corpse for a DNA test.
"Is nothing sacred to you?" Wilson whispered.
"He's dead. He won't miss it," House said.
And he limped quickly out of the chapel.
Both Wilson and Cuddy followed.
"Are you satisfied?" House said, once they were in the waiting room, out of hearing range . "Was I the dutiful son? Can we go back to Jersey now?"
"Yes," Wilson said.
"What? No!" Cuddy said. "We have to go the reception back at your mom's!"
"We can't," Wilson said. "If we don't leave now, there's no way we'll be able to make it back to Princeton tonight."
"Then we'll stay at a hotel," Cuddy said.
Wilson and House looked at each other skeptically.
"On the hospital's dime" Cuddy finished.
And it was decided.
#####
The house was your typical McMansion—beige carpet, lots of Ethan Allen furniture, framed paintings of steeplechases and landscapes on the walls. Cuddy couldn't exactly imagine House growing up in a place such as this, but then again, she remembered he once told her that he'd moved around quite a bit as a kid.
"That was a lovely ceremony," Cuddy said to Blythe when she saw her.
"Thank you, dear. Yes it was," Blythe agreed. Then she pat House on the arm. "My Greg always makes me proud."
"I'll leave you to the rest of your guests," Cuddy said, and, before House could protest, she disappeared into the crowd.
Blythe watched her walk away.
"Why didn't you tell me your boss was so beautiful?" she said.
"It doesn't generally come up in conversation," House said with a shrug.
"Is she single?" Blythe said, mirthfully.
"Very," House said. "She scares the hell out of most men."
"But not you, right?" Blythe said. Then she added: "You should ask her out, Greg."
He chuckled.
"Mom, are you trying to fix me up at Dad's funeral?"
"Why not? You obviously like her," she said, still teasing.
"I never said that I. . ."
"Now, Greg, A mother knows these things."
He rolled his eyes a bit, but didn't deny it.
"Now go get your grieving mother a glass of wine," Blythe said.
As he started to walk away, she added: "Oh and in case you were wondering, she likes you, too."
#####
About an hour later, Cuddy was looking for the bathroom, when she accidentally turned into the master bedroom.
There she saw House standing alone looking forlorn, staring at a photograph atop the dresser.
He looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red.
"Sorry," she said.
She started to back out.
"He must've been about 35 in this photo," House said softly.
She tentatively stepped toward him, peered at the photo.
It was a black and white shot of John House, smart in his crisp marine uniform, holding the hand of a little boy, about 9 or 10. The boy had slightly overgrown blond hair—it looked like it had recently been combed in an attempt to tame it—and was puffing out his chest a bit, mimicking the body language of his father. He was gripping his father's hand tightly.
"Oh my God, look how cute you were. What happened?" Cuddy joked.
"I grew up," House said sadly. Then he added, "I'm almost 15 years older than my dad was when we took that photo."
There was a brief silence.
"Look at you standing so straight," Cuddy finally said, still smiling at the boy in the photo. "You look so proud to be holding his hand."
"I was," House remembered.
"He looks proud, too," Cuddy said.
"You think?" House said. There was the tiniest trace of hopefulness in his voice
"Yes."
Almost surprising herself, she took his hand. He didn't pull away. Instead, they stood there, side-by-side, contemplating the photo.
#####
They found a Holiday Inn on the Interstate. The parking lot was completely empty.
"Looks like they might have a vacancy—or 400," House cracked.
Wilson asked for three rooms, but Cuddy corrected him.
"You boys can sleep in a double room. I said the hospital was paying—I didn't say I was Mommy Warbucks." (In truth, the hospital could afford three rooms. This was still part of Operation Restore the Friendship of Wilson and House.)
"Wilson snores," House said. "Better if you and I share a room."
"Nice try," Cuddy said.
House shrugged.
The clerk told them about the hotel's complimentary buffet breakfast, plus outdoor pool and heated hot tub.
"Oooh, a hot tub," House said, once they were in the elevator, heading to their rooms. "Who's in?"
"Those things are gross," Wilson said. "They're like repositories of disease. And besides, people have sex in them!"
"I'm sure they clean the water. . .occasionally," House cracked. Then he added: "They put so many chemicals in those things, bacteria couldn't survive in there for a second."
"Thanks, but I'll pass," Cuddy said.
"Hot tubs make my leg feel better," House said, pathetically.
"Then knock yourself out," Wilson said.
"Are you two actually going to leave me alone on the night of my father's funeral?"
Cuddy and Wilson exchanged a look.
"I don't have a swim suit," Cuddy said, lamely.
"Funny coincidence that," House. "I also neglected to pack my swimsuit right before you drugged me."
"So the hot tub is out."
"We're all wearing underwear, are we not?" House said.
"That's not fair!" Cuddy protested. "You guys have boxers. I'm wearing a"—then she whispered, as though about to say a dirty word—"thong."
"Every straight dude at PPTH knows exactly what you look like in your underwear, Cuddy," House said.
"What?"
"You probably shouldn't stand in direct sunlight when you wear that one gray dress. The fabric is a bit. . .sheer."
"How come you never told me that before?"
"And ruin everyone's fun? Amirite, Wilson?"
"I assure you I never noticed," Wilson started.
"He's lying," House said. "So what do you say?"
Cuddy peered at Wilson.
"I'll do it if he does it," she said.
"Nobody wants to see my pasty white flesh," Wilson said.
"Trust me, I won't be looking at you," House said. "And neither will Cuddy."
Cuddy kicked him.
Wilson shrugged.
"Okay, I'm in."
######
Fifteen minutes later, all wearing terrycloth robes, they made their way down to the hot tub. It was a nice night, cool but not cold. The black sky was dotted with stars.
House was the first to take off his robe. He wore white-boxer briefs—and, of course, everything about him was impressive, from his surprisingly fit physique (a fairly well defined chest, ropy arm muscles, a long narrow waist) to his ability to fill out a pair of underpants.
When he eased into the water, he let out a long sigh and closed his eyes in ecstasy.
Cuddy felt a stir of sorts and looked away.
Wilson was next. As promised, he was a bit pale—and managed to somehow be both skinny and a slightly flabby at the same time— but he was still pretty well-maintained for a guy in his early 40s.
"You're right," Wilson said, sliding into the tub. "That does feel good."
Now they both looked expectantly at Cuddy.
Her first instinct was to tell them to look away, but what really was the point?
She took off her robe and joined them in the water. She was wearing a black bra and a red lace thong.
"Put your tongue back in your mouth, James," House cracked.
"I swear, I wasn't!" Wilson protested.
"Why the hell not?" House said. "If there was a Hot Boss of the Month calendar, she'd be Miss January. And also Miss February. And Miss March. And Miss. . ."
"We get it House," Cuddy said, trying to suppress a smile.
House smirked at her.
"Isn't this nice?" he said, sighing again and draping his arms across the back of the tub.
"It is," Wilson said. "It's been a long day, for all of us. We deserved this."
"Especially me," House said.
"Especially you," Wilson agreed.
They were quiet for a moment, listening to the hum of the hot tub's motor, the gentle whir of the bubbles.
"We should get one of these for the hospital," House said.
"Oh yes, a completely justifiable expense," Cuddy said.
"Why not? The whirlpool is a known tool in physical therapy."
"Maybe we should think about upgrading our 15-year-old X-ray machines before we think about a therapeutic hot tub," Cuddy said.
"Hey, if I'd known that all it took to get you in your underwear was a hot tub, I'd have bought one myself years ago."
"Shut up, House!" Cuddy said. And she splashed a bit of water his way.
"Oh no, now you've done it!" House said. He splashed back. But whereas her splash was a tiny polite wave, his was more like a tsunami.
"Stop it!" Cuddy said, in a giggly sort of way.
"Make me!" House said.
She swam up to him and went to grab his wrists but instead, he caught her in a bear hug and pulled her, back first, between his legs.
"You're such a jerk," she said, squirming against his touch.
"You know you love it," he said, manhandling her.
She tried to splash water at him, but he had her in a pretty good grip. Instead, he splashed her.
She screamed playfully.
"I hate you!" she said.
Wilson, who had been watching this whole tableaux, now got out of the tub.
"I think I'm calling it a night," he said, in a disappointed sort of way.
House and Cuddy both froze, like children who been caught doing something naughty. They had briefly forgotten he was there.
"You sure?" Cuddy said. House had let her out of his grips—and she had managed to swim back to her side of the tub.
"Yeah, I'm pretty tired," Wilson said, rubbing his eyes in an exaggerated display of exhaustion.
"Goodnight," Cuddy said.
"Don't wait up," House said.
After Wilson moped away, House turned to Cuddy with a devilish grin.
"Alone at last," he said, raising his eyebrows.
"What you think is about to happen is not about to happen, House," Cuddy said, firmly.
"What do I think is about to happen?" he said, mirthfully.
"You think we're going to have sex in this hot tub," she said.
"What a great idea!" he said.
"We. . . can't," she said.
"Why not?"
"Well, we're in public, for one thing," she said.
"There isn't a soul in sight," he said.
"And I'm your boss."
"That hasn't stopped half the male CEOs across America from having their way with their secretaries."
Appealing to her feminist pride. A smart tactic.
"Also, you're grieving," she said, unconvincingly.
"So comfort me," he said, wading toward her.
Now he positioned himself between her legs.
"Hi," he said, with a grin. He lifted her chin.
"House, don't. . ." she said.
"Don't what?" he said. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. The tip of his tongue was meltingly soft and hot in her mouth.
"That was . . .nice," she said, despite herself.
"This will be nicer," he said. Now he pressed her up against the back of the hot tub and kissed her again, his tongue more insistent, his hands roaming her wet skin.
She kissed back, turned on beyond reason, her own hands roaming his back and chest, her legs, weightless, wrapping around him.
"Oh, the things you do to me, woman," he said, kissing the base of her neck, her cleavage. As his mouth migrated hungrily down her form, he fumbled to pull his girth out of his own boxer shorts.
"House, no! We can't!" Cuddy said.
He withdrew—he was a man who respected the word no. But he looked at her incredulously.
"You're kidding," he said. He was slightly out of breath.
"I mean…we need a condom," Cuddy said.
He exhaled, in a "thank God" sort of way.
"I told you, no living organism can live in this tub," he said, moving toward her again, his hand fingering the edge of her thong. "And that includes my sperm."
She pressed her hand up against his chest to stop him from kissing her.
"I'm not some 16 year old girl you're impressing with your bullshit chemistry theory. I'm a doctor—same as you. And we both know perfectly well I can pregnant in this hot tub as easily as I can in a bed."
"Circle of life then," he said, still not quite thinking straight. "My father died so our as-yet-to-be-conceived fetus can live."
"House!" she said. "Don't tell me a man like yourself doesn't have condoms with him at all times?"
"I do have condoms. But they're in my wallet in my pants in my room. You know what else is in my room? James Wilson. He might get a little suspicious if I come, take my condoms, and leave."
"I'm sure you'll figure something out House," she said, getting out of the tub. He stared at her ass, her lean back, the muscles of her arms that coiled as she lifted herself out of the tub. He had never wanted someone so badly in his life.
She wrapped herself in her robe and gave him the kind of dirty grin that masturbation was invented for.
"Room 905," she said. "Don't keep me waiting."
#####
Annoyingly, Wilson was still awake.
"Back so soon?" he said.
"Actually, Cuddy wants a Diet Coke from the vending machine, but she has no change," House improvised, badly. "So I need my wallet."
He looked on the floor, where he had last thrown his pants. No sign of them. He actually began to crawl on the floor and look under the bed.
"Someone stole my pants!" he said, frantically.
"No one stole your pants," Wilson said. "I hung them up in the closet."
"Jesus Wilson," House said, yanking his pants off the hanger and putting them on hastily. "Don't help!"
He limped quickly toward the door.
"You seem awfully eager to get Cuddy her Diet Coke," Wilson said, amused.
"She's extremely thirsty," House said.
As he left, he said, "Don't wait up."
"Yeah, you said that already."
House practically sprinted to Cuddy's room.
When she opened the door, he leaned against the doorframe, dangling a three-pack of condoms.
"Three, huh?" she said. "Very ambitious."
"Not if we start right away," he said, with a grin.
She was still wearing the robe, but he could see that she was naked underneath it. This woman was going to be the death of him.
"Then what are we waiting for?" she said, and she grabbed him by the belt buckle and pulled him inside.
#####
At 5 a.m., House crept back to his room. He tried to be super quiet, but he accidentally kicked an end table and Wilson woke up.
Wilson turned on the lamp on his nightstand, glanced at the clock.
"Did you buy her a troth of Diet Coke?" he said, ironically.
"We stayed up late—talking," House said.
"Just talking?" Wilson said.
"What else?"
"I don't know House. You two were looking awfully cozy in the hot tub."
"We're friends. We were just letting off some steam."
"So nothing happened?"
"Nothing. Like I said, we talked."
"Then why do you look so incredibly proud of yourself?"
"Because I'm an excellent conversationalist."
EPILOGUE
Two days later, House made his way to Cuddy's office. They hadn't had any alone time since that night at the Holiday Inn.
She gave him a soft smile.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi back," he replied.
"How are you feeling?" she said.
"Okay," he said with a nod. "I'm feeling okay."
Then he scratched his head.
"I have this box? Of my dad's stuff? War medals, antique weapons, old letters, that kind of thing. I was, uh, thinking of going through it tonight."
She looked at him. She didn't quite know what he wanted her to say. So she guessed.
"I'd like to see that stuff," she said. "If you don't mind."
He swallowed hard.
"I don't mind," he said, fiddling with his cane. "I mean, if you really want to see it."
"I really do," she said.
He nodded again.
"Maybe 8 o clock?"
"It's a date," she said.
"Yeah."
THE END