Some people want a cake. Some other a bouquet. Some a bottle of perfume, or a new fashionable garment but, that girl? Nah… All she wants is a FIC! And not any fic, on top of that: she wants sweet and fluffy.
That girl is oc7ober, Sophie, Zosia (Zofia if you're angry at her), Gizmo, gremlin, munchkin, kochana, choupinette when she's sweet, midget, bitch, dummy when she gets on my nerves…
She's impossible to ignore, and it's quite impossible to say no to her. I wish I could, but I just can't…
So today is her birthday (STO LAT, biatch) and I let her believe that I wouldn't write anything for her because (which was true) my muse has completely failed me lately. I asked her for a prompt, which, let's be honest, she's been totally incapable of providing and so I almost didn't write this fic. But then miraculously, that idea just popped into my head. Proof, if needed, that when it's Gizmo's birthday, even your muse comes back to join the party.
So here I am with this one-shot, as an unexpected birthday present for Zosia, but which I hope you will all enjoy, you who so kindly stepped in to read...
The summary pretty says it all, so I'll leave you to find out how the story unravels.
One last thing before I go: today is ATD's birthday and, if she ever have a peek in here, I want to wish her a HAPPY BIRTHDAY as well.
** WHAT IF **
That whole blind date thing turned out to be a ridiculously embarrassing fiasco and even though Don Herrick was a nice guy, and someone she would probably have had sex with - had House not interfered, that is – it is kind of obvious that she's not made for those stupid online dating sites. At all.
Besides, why would she need to stoop to participating in such humiliating, uncertain process when, Goddammit, she is an attractive woman? One that's got stamina! And she's assertive. She knows what she wants and she perfectly should be able to get it out there, on her own. She doesn't need to sit in front of a computer and wait for someone to pick her profile amongst hundreds of other ones that are probably made up or, if not, exaggeratedly advertising qualities that surely don't exist.
Cuddy puffs, and grumbles, and sighs heavily as she's seated alone in her office trying to get some work done. Except that her head is elsewhere. She is seated with her back to her desk, absent-mindedly looking through her bow window and spying on the people that walk by. Outside, winter has spread its wing upon Princeton, and although it's barely four in the afternoon, it's practically dark already. The streets look icy and it must be freezing, as evidenced by the little puffs of steam that come out of people's mouths as they hurry down the street with their shoulders hunched and their hands clutching their collars tightly around their necks. Unconsciously – not that it's remotely cold in her office, but just by pure mimicry – she shivers slightly as she observes the men and women that are out in the cold, going about their days.
"Where are they headed?" she thinks. Some of them are couples that walk hand in hand, looking happy despite the cold. She notices how their walking tempo is in sync, as if they were one and only body with four legs making their way among anonymous passers-by. Some others walk alone but their pace is determined and she wonders if they're expected somewhere. "Do they have a special someone to go to?" "Is that why they're hurrying?"
She sighs, thinking that she'd like to be one of those people, striding to return home to someone; someone that would wait for her; someone she would cuddle up against and that would make her feel safe. She deserves to have a 'someone' like that, too. He'd be tall, with a strapping body. Not necessarily dashingly handsome, but someone with masculine features, someone that would ooze virility and alpha-male confidence; someone that would look at her with blue eyes… piercing blue eyes; someone with a five o'clock shadow, maybe…
Whoa, what? No! She rolls her eyes, mentally slapping herself for allowing her mind to stray there: A tall, muscular, blue-eyed man with designer stubble? Ha. Very subtle, Lisa Cuddy, she scolds herself. Like she'd need someone like him in her life! Tut-tut...
Thankfully, she doesn't have time to analyze the meaning of that sudden thought any further, as the characteristic 'ping' of an incoming email jolts her back to reality and makes her jump in her seat. She swivels round in her chair and faces her computer screen again, sighing once more as she assesses that daydreaming is over and she must now focus on her work priorities. She checks her inbox but, oddly enough, there is no new email waiting for her there. Puzzled, she wonders if she's imagined hearing that sound when she suddenly remembers she's opened an internet window of singleballroomdancelovers-dot-com, but with the firm intention of deleting her account.
Intrigued, she displays the page on screen and bites her lower lip when she realizes that she has, indeed, received a private message from someone obviously trying to get in contact with her. Fuck, she thinks. She should have deleted her account. Why hasn't she done it sooner? Now she stares at the flashing "PM" logo in her profile, desperately trying to decide what to do. Should she open it? What point would it serve, anyway, since she's decided that she was done with that ridiculous site?
"There's no reason to check at all," she tells herself. "Let's pretend it isn't there, instead. Even better: Let's delete it! And when it's done, let's delete that account, once and for all, so that I can finally put all of that behind me and move on with my life."
She's about to, really, but then her phone starts ringing, startling her, and before she knows it, her index clutches on the mouse and she inadvertently clicks on the message, opening it. She groans in frustration and snatches the receiver out of its cradle, answering her call. It's just another emergency that requires her attention but, luckily, one that isn't too much catastrophic for her to have to go there and deal with the mess herself. She gives a few instructions to her caller over the phone and in five minutes time she manages to avert the crisis and solve the problem. However, she's been completely focused on what she needed to say to handle the situation and hasn't even glanced at her computer once during the call.
Now that she's hung up the phone, though, she stares at her screen again, and there it is, right in the middle of it, taunting her.
Knock, knock… Your profile caught my attention. Would like to chat with you, Ms. 'Partypants,' the message says.
She taps her fingers on her desk, staring at her screen. It is tempting… What's the risk, anyway? Her profile caught someone's attention. And what if that someone was exactly the one she's been dying to meet? What if, at the other end of the Internet connection, the perfect man was sitting in front of a computer, waiting for her to answer?
No, geez, she said she was done with those stupid sites and the whole blind date process! Done. With. It. Finished. Forgotten. She can do better than that. That person could be a psycho, for all she knows; or a stupid, hormone-driven adolescent looking for a quick fuck, with no strings attached. And she certainly isn't going to be the one enabling that.
Cuddy inwardly scolds herself for having opened the message in the first place, even if it was just by inadvertence. Resolutely, she grabs her computer mouse and directs the little arrow at the top right corner of her screen, ready to close the window but, before she can do it, "ding!" another message pops up on the screen.
I don't bite, you know… And I would really, really like to know you better.
Damn. She didn't need that, at all. She nervously nibbles her fingertip, unable to make a decision. She should close that Internet page. Now. Reason commands her to ignore the second message but, at the same time, her correspondent's username catches her attention: 'morethanmeetstheeye,' it reads. It's hackneyed, even a bit lame and yet, she can't help but like that pseudo for what it says about that mysterious person, or more precisely, for what it doesn't say about them… But she said she was going to delete her account and as tempting as it seems, she shouldn't let herself get carried away.
I'm sorry. I have work to do. I don't have time to chat right now.
She presses 'send' and doesn't have to wait or think about what's going to happen, as another message almost quite instantly pops on her screen, merely seconds after she's sent hers.
Oh, come on Partypants... Work's overrated! ;-)
Her mouth drops open, and even though she shouldn't bother replying, it's stronger than her: Her pride is piqued and she has to say something. Just for the sake of having the last word.
Maybe yours is, but not mine. Goodbye.
Who said my job was overrated? I'm just saying: why would u be online surfing a *dating* site right now if u didn't want to meet someone? So who knows? Maybe I'm super worth meeting…
Whoa! That's sassy, she thinks. Worth meeting? Ha, men, they're really all the same!
I'm not online surfing a dating site. Alright, maybe I am, but that's not… she instantly replies, her fingers typing almost furiously on the keyboard. She stops in the middle of her sentence, as she realizes she's justifying herself in front of a complete stranger. Listen, it's a mistake, she opts to say instead, deciding it's best to cut the conversation short. I'm sure you must be worth meeting for someone, Mr. 'morethanmeetstheeye' but I'm not sure I'm that someone. And I'm not sure you're the kind of man I'm looking for.
Ha. So you're admitting you're looking for someone!
Fuck. So much for trying to sound detached and uninterested! Now her mysterious admirer is probably going to think she's a desperate, ugly virgin with impossibly high standards, trying to meet Prince Charming.
She squirms in her chair, feeling stupid and unmasked. Yes, she has high standards in men. So what? Is that so much to ask to want to be with someone sensitive that's not a total cad, and with whom she would share the same vision of life? At least one that's similar…
Another ding jerks her out of her reverie.
Ask me some questions. Give me at least a chance to prove to you that I can be a nice guy…
She inhales a sharp intake of breath and stares at her laptop screen, feeling destabilized. He's right, she thinks. She doesn't even know who that guy is. She didn't even let him introduce himself but she's already judged him. So what if he's nice, like he pretends he is? What if she gives him that chance and, eventually, she likes what she learns?
She's completely lost in thoughts and, in truth, already imagining what kind of questions would be best to ask first, in a witty, subtle way when the doors of her office open with a loud bang and a very annoying, very familiar limping silhouette – the last she expected to see right now – barges in and strides straight towards her, stopping just across her desk.
"Hey, boss!" the intruder chants, flashing that trademark smile of his that says 'half-devil, half lost puppy' at her.
"House, what do you want?"
She nervously grabs the top edge of her screen looking like she's been caught red-handed watching porn. Of course, he notices her discomfort quite instantly.
"Oops, sorry. Am I interrupting something?" he asks mischievously, taking a step towards her side of the desk.
Before he arrives beside her and gets a chance to glance at her screen, she slams it shut and lays her palm on top of it to keep it that way, just in case…
"I'm working," she replies, jutting her head up and staring defiantly at him.
"Oh, right, working… Hope you saved that document, or whatever chart you were working on, by the way. You know shutting down the screen of a laptop puts it into stand-by, right?"
"What do you want?" she repeats with her best assertive, bossy voice.
"I want a giant flat screen TV."
"Excuse me?"
"In my office, I mean. Those vicious anomalies that could be detected in time in order to save lots of patients' lives don't show up on my tiny TV screen."
"House, we've already had that conversation. Your monitor is fine enough to read scans-"
"It's not. I need high-def."
"Sure you do! But it's got nothing to do with reading scans! What you want is a bigger screen to watch your soaps."
House rolls his eyes dramatically and stares at her, mouth agape, faking to be shocked by her assumption.
"I'm a department head!" he puffs, with a flourish. "Department of diagnostic medicine. I diagnose people."
"Exactly: Which is why you need to look at their charts, lab results and other blood tests to make your diagnosis. Not at a giant flat screen TV," she replies, with a 'duh' face.
House narrows his eyes and studies her reaction, engaging in a staring contest with her. But she remains perfectly unfazed, as she sustains his gaze and opens her eyes wide, challengingly.
"Fine," he says after a while and, without further comment, he turns on his heel and starts to leave.
Cuddy imperceptibly sighs in relief when she sees him walk away and focuses back on her laptop, lifting the screen. But as it switches on, his voice startles her and she swiftly shuts it again.
"I hope you'll remember that I came here to warn you about the dangers of non HD monitors next time some poor, innocent kid dies because I wasn't able to detect the tumor that's killing him in time," he declares solemnly, pointing a finger in her direction.
She lets out a quiet laugh and shakes her head 'yes', derisively.
"Absolutely. Consider me fully warned of the impact of non HD monitors on your diagnosing efficiency. You can go now."
He rolls his eyes one last time, and leaves for good this time.
Finally alone in the quietness of her office, Cuddy wastes no time dwelling on the real motives of House's impromptu visit and hastily switches her computer on again.
Ask me some questions. Give me at least a chance to prove to you that I can be a nice guy…
The sentence is still there, in the middle of her screen, waiting to be answered. With a coy smile, she starts typing, suddenly eager to know more about her mysterious contact.
What do you do for a living?
She surprises herself waiting for his reply with a bit of anticipation, and even some sort of excitement. But, much to her disappointment, minutes pass and nothing pops up on her screen. She sighs and decides it's probably a sign of fate, telling her she should give up on the idea that interesting men exist out there, let alone in online dating sites when, suddenly…
I'm a musician.
Wow. A musician? She didn't expect that. It's uncommon, but… sort of sexy, in a way.
Really? That's unusual.
Not really actually. I mean, I do play music but I don't do that for a living.
Oh.
Yeah, sorry I lied.
Everybody lies.
Why do you say that?
Yes, why does she say that? That's not something she believes in. People tell lie, that's true, but not all of them. Right?
Never mind. It's just something someone I know often says.
Someone you know? Like… someone you like?
No. I mean, yes! I mean… not really. It's complicated.
Complicated how?
Can we please not talk about him?
So it's a guy…
Yes. But not *that* guy.
You seem disappointed.
Would I be here chatting with you if I were?
Touché.
So you said you do play music but that it's not your actual job?
Yes. I'm a teacher.
What do you teach?
Um… stuff.
Stuff? Like, what kind of stuff?
Scientific stuff.
Ah, that's funny.
What's funny?
I'm sort of into science myself.
Let me guess: You're an astronaut? Please say yes!
Ha-ha, no. Sorry.
Damn. There goes my question about how them, crazy kids make love in weightless conditions…
That'd have been a little premature to ask about that, don't you think?
So you know the answer? Have you…
No.
Too bad. So what do you do for a living?
I'm a doctor.
Really? What kind of doctor?
I'm an endocrinologist.
Endocrino-what?
I'm treating people with hormonal disorders.
Wow. That sucks.
What? How dare he say that? Pfff, she should have expected that kind of reaction. Eventually, it's only proof that men often feel threatened by her social status. She's a doctor, a female doctor on top of that. Too much power to handle, obviously. And that's exactly the reason why she didn't downright admit she was Dean of Medicine. Oh and, how she was right not to! If that guy can't even handle her being a doctor, then how would he have reacted if she'd confessed she was Dean in a hospital?
She sighs, feeling oddly disappointed.
I meant: that must suck for your patients…
She jumps in her seat at the sound of another one of his messages.
Sure, she writes because she doesn't really know what else to say in that moment.
Of course! What else did you think I meant?
She smirks and tilts her head to the side, staring at the question on her screen. Ok, how about she stops making quick assumptions and gives him the benefit of the doubt?
Nothing. Well ok, maybe I thought you said that my job sucked.
Huh? Why would I say that?
It's stupid, I know…
Not stupid. Let's just say, it's kind of a weird reaction…
I'm sorry. I'm not used to meeting men that deal well with… what I do.
C'mon! You're just a doctor! Not the president of the United States.
Thanks. Should I take that as a compliment?
She's smiling now, waiting for his answer.
You should. Doctor is cool. Means you're not a complete moron. I like that. Smart women are a real turn-on.
Even if they're ugly?
Are you?
What?
Ugly.
Who knows?
Nah. You're just trying to make me think you are. But I'm sure you're hot.
How would you know that?
I dunno. I can feel it. Or… you could send me a picture of you and then the mystery would be solved once and for all.
Or I could wait until you and I know each other better…
Too soon, uh?
Yeah.
She waits in front of her screen for his reaction but none comes and she realizes that he was probably just fishing for an easy date, followed by an easy lay and that her cautious reaction must have sounded like a buzz kill. But then, he sends her another message and she sighs in relief, almost in spite of herself.
Sorry. My students are calling me. There's some stuff I need to teach them, right now.
Oh. Ok.
Can we talk later?
Why not.
Good. Tonight? I'm afraid this is gonna take a while…
Tonight, yes. 9?
9 sounds good. C U, Partypants.
ttyl, morethanmeetstheeye.
She closes the window, unaware of the blissful smile on her face. It looks like maybe she's finally met someone that doesn't bore her to death after the first minutes of conversation. In truth, she's even already impatient to talk with him again because she's intrigued, in a good way. And that sensation – totally new and unexpected - feels refreshing…
She doesn't have time to bask in the blissfulness of that realization, though, because her phone rings again and she's painfully brought back to reality when her head of surgery yells into the receiver, complaining about House, that asshole, who's currently using an O.R that was booked for one of his regular surgeries, therefore messing with his entire schedule. And, of course, House hasn't deigned to inform him. His patient had a so-called rupture of whatever organ that Thomas suspects House himself probably damaged in the first place with yet another one of his reckless procedures.
Cuddy takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger, as her Chief Surgeon keeps reeling on and on about how this is inadmissible and he's sick and tired of House's bullying methods and he can't – and won't - tolerate that any longer…
# # # # #
It's taken Cuddy loads of diplomacy and even promises of new equipment the hospital can't really afford to calm Thomas down and defuse the crisis. Then she had to go see House and yell at him, too, though just for the sake of it, given that his emergency intervention miraculously revealed the underlying cause that was killing the patient while no doctors were able to diagnose what it was until he had one of his crazy hunches. House has listened to her with a slightly smug look on his face the whole time, and nodded docilely at everything she's said but she could see in his eyes that he clearly didn't give a damn. And, to be honest, she didn't either. Eventually he'd saved another life. As for Thomas, well, she knew he hated House with a passion, which was just as much as a pain in the ass for her as House's demeanors and all she wanted to do, then, was to go back home to talk with her intriguing stranger.
At seven in the evening, she's finally free to go and she drives home a little faster than usual, even occasionally exceeding the speed limit. She's fixing herself dinner, takes a quick shower then practically runs in her bed where she lies, making herself comfy under the quilt and, at nine 'o' clock sharp, she sits reeling with excitement, her computer on her lap.
He doesn't make her wait and she smiles when his message appears on her screen.
Knock, knock. You there?
Yes.
How was your day?
Exhausting.
Saved a lot of sick people?
Kind of. How about you? Did it go well with your students?
Eventually, yes.
What do you mean, eventually?
Well you know how things go with kids nowadays: They think they know everything until they screw up big time and Daddy has to come to the rescue.
Daddy?
That would be me.
Your students call you *daddy*?!
I didn't say that. It was just a metaphor.
A metaphor for what?
I don't know… Father figure? Mentor?
How old are they? Are they children?
In a way, yes, they are.
*In a way*?
They're not actually *children* per se, but they're babies, in a sense that they still have a lot to learn…
You seem to like teaching.
Um… I don't know. It's kind of boring sometimes.
How so?
Well, imagine that you already have the answer but you need to pretend that you don't so that it will help the kids understand what it is…
Sounds terrific!
Duh. Sounds exhausting!
Aww, you do like your students, don't you? How many do you teach?
Not many. I teach a very selective class.
Do they like you?
What do you mean, like me?
You know, are they happy to have you as their teacher?
Probably not. They don't really have a choice.
How come?
*Selective* class, hello?
You can't say that. I'm sure they like you a lot!
One of them sure does, yeah.
Girl?
How do you know?
I could have said 'guy' but then, it'd have embarrassed you if the answer was yes…
Very funny.
Come on, I was just joking… So that girl?
There's nothing to say about her. For some reason, she thinks she has the hots for me, which is obviously a very bad idea.
Is it… I don't know if I can ask you that.
Shoot.
Is it reciprocal?
No way!
In spite of herself, Cuddy sighs in relief. That's odd how the idea that her mysterious stranger could have fallen for one of his students made her feel almost… jealous? No. It's impossible. How could she feel that way so soon? She doesn't even know him. And yet, he sounds… what's the word? charming, definitely funny and – which is the strangest part – kind of familiar in a way.
Heh. What can you do? Teacher crush. It's a thing, she writes, smiling as she remembers her years in College.
Ooh, does that mean it's happened to you as well?
Another time, maybe…
But, you're not denying it, right? What's his name? When did it happen? High school? College?
You're very curious.
Don't blame me. You're the one who brought that 'hot for teacher' thing up.
Alright, maybe I did. Let's move on.
Fine. What do you want to talk about?
I don't know. You mentioned playing music earlier today. What instrument do you play?
Depends… What's your favorite instrument?
I like violin.
No kidding?
OMG! You play the violin?
Hell no!
Then why would you ask?
Because… violin, seriously?
What's wrong with that?
Ugh. Violin is for sissies.
No, it's not.
It is! Don't tell me you're into that boring baroque music?
What if I were?
Then you obviously don't know squat about music.
Because *you* do?
A little, yes.
You still didn't answer my question.
What question?
What instrument do you play?
Guitar.
Ok. That's not bad either.
Not bad? Oh please, that's awesome!
Before she has time to realize it, she hears herself giggling out loud alone in her room. He's definitely charming, she thinks. And yes, she likes that…
What kind of music do you play?
What kind of music do you like?
Nuh-uh, you already tricked me out of it once, not twice…
Alright, fine. Promise me you won't laugh then.
I promise.
I play Mexican music, you know? Like Mariachi style?
No kidding?
Hey, you promised you wouldn't mock me!
I'm not, I swear! Actually, I love Mariachi bands.
You do? Wow, talk about a coincidence…
Yes.
A good one, right?
A good one…
And… what if Mexican music wasn't really my specialty?
What do you mean? Did you just lie or do you play Mexican music for real?
No, I do. I do. I mean I can play it, a little. But I play other stuff, too.
Like what?
Blues.
Blues. You mean that sad, whiny music that's about misery, death and break-ups?
That's one way to look at it.
And what's the other way?
It's beautiful.
Misery is beautiful?
No, but the music is. Have you ever listened to some really good blues?
I think so, yes.
What kind?
I don't remember.
But did you like it?
Yes. Sorta.
Sorta? Pfff, you cannot *sorta* like the blues! You either love it or hate it.
Then I don't know.
Ok. You obviously need to go to a blues concert.
Do I?
Yes. I can take you to one if you want.
Too soon…
Again? Damn.
Yeah.
But we've already established that you're a doctor who likes violin and you know I'm a teacher who plays the guitar. What else do you need? We're practically best friends already!
Ha-ha. Not really.
I'm serious. What else would you need to know?
Well, for starter, I don't even know what your real name is…
Neither do I.
What's wrong with Partypants?
What's wrong with morethanmeetstheeye?
She takes a deep breath and stares at her screen, feeling her heart thump in her chest. It's happened so soon. They're already at that moment and the strangest thing is that it doesn't feel inappropriate. It feels good chatting with him. Besides, what's the risk if she tells him her name, really? She could make up one, anyway. Pretend to be a Sarah, or a Dorothy. But no, there's no reason why she should lie. She feels safe now. He makes her feel safe…
I'm Lisa.
Lisa… nice name.
Your turn, now.
Um, I'm not sure…
What? Oh come on! I just gave you my name!
Ha. Gotcha! You can call me John.
John?
What's wrong with John?
Nothing. It's just that you don't sound like a 'John'
Huh? How do Johns sound?
I don't know.
So what name do I sound like?
She can't explain what she feels in that instant – and even if she tried she's not sure she would make herself clear – but, yes, the truth is she didn't expect his name to be John. It's an odd, lingering feeling that she can't really rationalize but, somehow, something in the way he talks, the words he uses, how he questions her, it all reminds her of someone...
She frowns, feeling suddenly puzzled. "Where does that come from?" she thinks shaking her head. There it is, still taunting her and she can't put a name on it. But she doesn't have time to elaborate her thought further because…
Hello? Anybody out there?
Never mind. I was just teasing you…
You like to tease people, don't you?
She glances at the clock on her nightstand and realizes it's almost eleven already. Time has flown by so quickly without her noticing. Suddenly, she feels unexpectedly uneasy, as if things weren't supposed to be that easy and uncomplicated. Not that soon, anyway.
It's late. I should go to bed now, she writes.
And here I was, thinking that's where you've already been, lying naked this whole time…
You have a very vivid imagination.
You have no idea…
Good night, John.
Good night, Lisa.
# # # # #
And so, just like that, that mysterious John guy starts to become part of her life, every one of their online rendezvous quickly turning into one of the things Cuddy longs for the most. Each time she has a minute alone at PPTH – and God knows she doesn't have many – she practically runs to her office, locking herself in, and hastily turns on her computer to start another chat. John is not always available, but he's here often enough to make it a daily habit.
What she likes the most, though, are the long hours that they spend chatting together during the evenings, when she's alone at her place and she knows for sure that she won't get interrupted.
Where do you live? she's asked him once.
Princeton.
Me too.
Duh. I already know that. That's what your profile says.
But yours didn't specify that.
You've checked my profile?
And? Haven't you checked mine?
Guilty as charged.
You didn't volunteer a lot of information, btw.
And yet, here you are, talking with me.
Yes. Maybe I shouldn't.
Maybe you shouldn't.
You could be a serial killer.
I could be.
Or a pervert.
Or a girl… Ha.
And I could be a man…
Lisa, why are you doing this?
What?
Talking with me. You don't know me. I could be all of these things you just said. And yet, you're still here, chatting with me, a perfect stranger. Why?
You're not a perfect stranger. You're a teacher who lives in Princeton and plays the guitar.
How do you know I'm not lying?
I don't... Are you?
No.
See? :-)
In truth, she feels kind of like a high school girl. She's excited like a teenager who's planning her prom night. She doesn't walk. She almost bounces from a place to another, her high heels clicking determinedly on the hospitals tiled floors. And she goes about her days, sporting that goofy smile half of the time – not that she's aware of it, though – while her staff shoots her suspicious side-glances as she passes by and waves at them without a comment.
Little by little, John and she have learned to know each other better, and so far there's not a single thing about him that she dislikes. It makes her feel a bit dizzy because she didn't expect an online 'thing' to become so vivid and, yes, real in so little time but the fact is they do click together. John is quick-witted and he always takes the hints, reading her between the lines. She feels understood. And he makes her laugh, too. Yes, John is a very funny man…
What's your favorite movie? he's asked one day.
I like "The Bridges of Madison County."
…
Hello? You still there?
Oops, sorry I think I inadvertently fell asleep half-way through reading the word "Bridges"...
Oh come on! Meryl Streep. Clint Eastwood. Great actors. Great storyline.
BORING!
Alright. What's *your* favorite movie, smartass?
Did you just call me smartass?
I'm sorry.
No, don't be. I like that. I bet you like to boss men around, don't you?
John…
What?
We agreed not to make sexual innuendos.
Who says it's a sexual innuendo? It's the 21st century, you know? Women do have power.
Nice try.
I'm serious! And something tells me you're a woman of power. Are you, Lisa?
Ahem. Favorite movie…
Fine. I like "Kill Bill."
Seriously?
What's wrong with that movie? Uma Thurman in tight leather pants – plus, lots of awesome duels.
And, lots of blood…
Oh please. Aren't you a doctor? Don't tell me you're afraid of blood.
A patient bleeding because they have surgery isn't exactly the same as someone bleeding because they just got their head chopped off.
Ah. So you actually saw "Kill Bill," uh?
Yeah. But I still prefer "The Bridges of Madison County."
Well, I guess it means you and I aren't going to see a movie together anytime soon…
# # # # #
Almost two weeks have passed of this little ritual of theirs and Cuddy has definitely entered the totally enthralled phase. At this point, she can't really pretend she's doing this just for the fun anymore. Nor does she fool herself, trying to reason that it's only a nice way to spend time and feel less alone. She's completely addicted. She needs her chat sessions with John just as much as a drug-addict needs their next dose.
One morning, as she's sitting in her office, shamelessly ignoring the professional emails that require her attention but chatting with him instead, the conversation suddenly takes an unexpected turn…
If you had a magic wand that could take you anywhere you want on the planet, where would you go? she inquires, already impatiently awaiting his answer.
I don't know. A lot of places I guess.
But which one first?
Is that a test?
No… Well, ok, maybe it is.
Ugh. So if I say Bora Bora and you're like one of those hippie girls that fancy India, does that mean we're incompatible?
Who said anything about compatibility?
We're chatting in an online *dating* site. Let's call a spade a spade…
Alright. So Bora Bora is your pick?
I didn't say that.
So what's your pick?
I dunno. Probably Europe.
Which country?
Um… France, maybe. They have this place there where there's a nine-hundred-year-old abbey built on a tidal island. It's in Normandy.
No way?!
Yes, way. It's called Mont Saint Michel.
I mean, no way Mont Saint Michel is *your* pick!
Why?
Because it is *my* pick…
No way!
See? Wow. I mean, of all the places in the world you could have picked, you chose Mont Saint Michel? That's incredible.
So what d'ya have to say about that compatibility thing now, uh?
Maybe that was just a coincidence…
Or maybe we really do like the same things.
Do I need to remind you of the favorite movie fiasco… or favorite dish? ;-P
T-bone steaks are the best!
How would I know? I'm a vegetarian.
I'll let you eat some of my French fries...
…
Lisa?
The same strange feeling that's been haunting her subconscious for days now suddenly pervades her again, hitting her full force this time. She's been trying to suppress it every time it's popped in her head, but it's there all the same, silently tormenting her and truth is, she's unable to erase it completely from her mind right now.
The way John talks, the words he uses. Violin is for sissies… Work's overrated… All those subtle sexual innuendos or the way he always teases her about her body, how she must look hot, how he pictures her naked in her bed…
No. It can't be, can it? But… he plays the guitar… And he's mentioned Mariachi bands, which happen to be her favorite, and now Mont Saint Michel? Let's be honest, who better than him knows her like that?
She stares, mouth agape at her screen and the taste of bile burns the back of her throat. She gulps and shakes herself out of her daze, squaring her shoulders.
I was thinking, she writes.
Thinking about what?
Have you ever been to Mont Saint Michel?
Nope. You?
No. But I'd really love to.
Yes, me too.
Why don't you go then?
Ha. My boss is holding me by the balls. She won't let me have a day off.
There you go! His boss is a she? Ok, she's seen enough. No, really, that's one coincidence too many.
Cuddy puffs and rolls her eyes, feeling mostly angry with herself. How could she possibly have been so gullible? Of course House had to play her in that way! God, he really has no limit. Well, at least now she knows what to do with her singleballroomdancelovers-dot-com account: Delete, delete, DELETE!
I have an emergency, she types quickly. Sorry, I must go.
Something bad happened?
Hopefully not. At least not yet.
Ok. Go save some hormonal imbalance kids.
Yes. ttyl.
xo
"XO?!" Is he serious? she thinks, staring at her now empty screen, after she's closed the window of her chat session with John.
She chews her thumbnail nervously as she tries to collect her thoughts. Ok, so he's probably had a good laugh but… all those things they've shared, they can't be all fake, right? The more she thinks about it, the more it seems obvious that there has to be some truth in the confidences he's made. He really is a musician. That, she knows for a fact. And he actually likes blues music. Plus, well, somehow he teaches his team how to become good diagnosticians. And he said it was scientific stuff… Also, he mentioned that girl who has the hots for him. That must be Cameron.
Yes, Cuddy thinks, it fits: Kill Bill, his favorite movie, T-bone steak, his favorite dish. Ha. Now she's sure that at some point, had she asked him about his favorite hobby, he'd have had a tongue slip and confessed how much he loves going to Monster Truck races!
And, suddenly, it gives her an idea.
Maybe she doesn't need to delete her account right away, after all. She picks up her phone and calls PPTH IT guy. She needs to be sure, first.
"Allan," she says when her employee answers her call. "Dr. Cuddy, here…. Listen, I'd need to have a look at the Internet history of every PPTH Department Heads over the past month, please... Yes. Can you track that for me, Allan?... Good….. No, just the Department Heads. And just this past month… Yes. But, I'd need that by the end of the day. The sooner the better… You can have it in an hour? Allan, you're the best… Thanks."
She hangs up and smiles. Then, she re-opens her Internet chat window and types:
False alarm.
Several minutes pass by as she waits for his answer and suddenly, the little 'ping' announces that he's back online.
Hey, that was quick.
You seem disappointed.
Me? Never!
What about you? Don't you have a class to teach right now?
She can't help noticing the imperceptible extra time it takes him to answer, now. That bastard.
No. I've send my students to the Library with an assignment.
About what?
You sure you really wanna talk about that?
Not really… So you're free right now?
Yes, totally free. No students. No class to teach. I have all the time in the world.
Good. Can I ask you a question, then?
Isn't that exactly what we've been doing this whole time?
I mean something a little bit more personal than your favorite dish or your favorite color…
Shoot. But, before you ask, FYI, the answer's no.
Huh?
No. I don't need Viagra.
Cuddy rolls her eyes and represses a laugh. Damn him, why does he have to be so… uniquely inappropriate?
That's not what I wanted to ask you.
Of course it's not! But now you know all the same. Don't pretend you don't feel secretly relieved.
I feel immensely relieved…
Ha, see?
I didn't really mean that.
Suuure… So what's your question?
Have you ever been married?
No. Have you?
No.
A little white lie, yes, but six days don't really count, do they? Besides, this is not about her anymore, now. She needs to test him. Test how much he's really playing that game with her and what part of him is really sincere…
That's it? That's your question?
Have you ever been in love?
The deafening silence that follows her little bombshell could be cut in slices.
That's two questions.
Someone I know once said: "We're chatting in an online *dating* site. Let's call a spade a spade."
I don't see how that's relevant.
Maybe it is for me…
What would it change?
A lot of things. Maybe I need to know if you can commit…
What is it with you women always needing to talk about commitment?
So you don't want to answer my question?
She presses 'send' and smiles devilishly, waiting for him to chicken out any minute now.
Yes.
You're not gonna answer?
At least an entire minute flies by before another one of his answers pops up on her screen.
No. What I meant is yes, I've been in love.
Cuddy's eyebrows fly up in surprise. Ok, so he's not chickening out. But, that doesn't mean he's going to be honest. Let's see, she thinks, typing her next message…
Oh. Recent break-up?
Not exactly. Almost 10 years ago…
Stacy, she instantly thinks. Of course, she was the love of his life. She's not ready to admit it to herself but, truth is, his spontaneous confession about Stacy makes her feel bitter and… a bit jealous.
We kinda ran into each other again a couple years ago, another one of his messages says after a short while.
And?
And nothing. She's married now.
So nothing happened between you?
Something happened. Nothing happened… what does it change anyway? She's married. I haven't seen her ever since.
Are you sad about it?
Not really. I don't know.
Do you still think about her?
Sometimes. On her birthday… And other anniversaries…
She gulps, feeling uneasy. But it's stronger than her: She needs to ask.
Do you still love her?
Part of me always will, I guess…
A pang of sadness suddenly tugs at Cuddy's heartstrings and she feels her heart speed up in her chest.
But, eventually, I know we're incompatible so it's kind of pointless.
I'm sorry.
Don't be. I know I'm not.
That… woman… is she the only woman you've loved?
You're very curious today.
You don't have to answer if you don't want to.
No, that's ok. I understand this is part of that whole dating process, somehow.
It's not. Not necessarily, I mean.
Alright. If you must know, there is someone else…
What?
Not now, you idiot! But you asked me if that woman I was with is the only one I've loved. I'm telling you she isn't.
Oh.
The other one is… was… Well, I've met her a long time ago.
At Work?
In College.
Cuddy gulps and her hands freeze on her keyboard. Is he… is he talking about her?
So she's a teacher like you?
Why do you say that?
You just said you met her in College. I assume she was studying… whatever it is you were studying back then that led you to become a teacher.
Ah yes, you're right. She was studying Science, just like me…
And what happened?
We had sex.
…
Awesome sex.
Sex doesn't necessarily involve feelings
It did with her.
She sucks in a sharp intake of breath and stares at his message on her screen, stunned. She wasn't expecting that. Yes, they had sex, once. But it didn't mean anything. At least, he never told her it did. He ran away, instead, like a coward and she never saw him again. Well, not until he had his infarction, that is. But now, if he's playing her, why would he volunteer that kind of information? What's the point of sharing that memory with her?
Well, obviously, because he just wants to sound like the perfect, loveable man, that's all! Cuddy feels confused, and a little bit angry. She's been honest with him all this time, but him, what's his agenda? What does he want from her?
Did you two stay together a long time?
I wouldn't say that.
What does it mean?
I moved shortly after we hooked up.
So you never saw her again, but you're mentioning her as "one of the women you've loved"?
I didn't say I never saw her again.
So you did see her again?
Yes.
And then what happened?
Nothing.
Nothing?
You mean, did we have sex?
No… Well, did you?
No.
So what?
So I'm here chatting with you now…
That bad, uh?
I'd rather not talk about it.
…
Cuddy is so totally dumbstruck she finds herself unable to reply anything. I'd rather not talk about it? Does that mean what she thinks it means?
My turn now. Have you been in love, Lisa?
I don't think the time to talk about that is very appropriate.
It was perfectly appropriate a few minutes ago when *you* asked that same question to me.
Because *you* said that you had all the time in the world.
Unlike you, who are chatting with me in that very moment…
I could get called for an emergency any minute.
But you're not right now.
Yes.
You're called?
Yes, I've been in love.
Of course, you have! I bet you've broken dozens of men's hearts.
What makes you say that?
I don't know. A hunch. You sound like a woman who can get all the men she wants.
Would I be here chatting with you if I were?
You're a busy woman. Finding the right guy is complicated.
Yes.
So tell me about the men you've loved…
Why does it have to be plural form?
Wow. You only had one man in your life?
Are we talking about sex right now because then the answer's no: I didn't have only *one* man in my entire life.
Pheww. Thank God! So lots of men but only one you've loved?
Yes.
Cuddy looks at her screen but before she presses the 'send' button and throws her affirmative answer to the wolves, she holds back her hand, hesitating.
If she says that she's only loved one man, of course he's going to ask her who it was and then, will she be able to lie to him and make up a story about someone else or will she have the courage to hint at the identity of that man? A tall man with a strapping body and amazing blue eyes that indelibly stamped her after only one night spent together in College… a man that now walks with a cane and suffers chronic pain in his leg which makes him cynical, cantankerous and asocial; but a man who's the most incredibly intelligent person she's ever met, with a sarcastic sense of humor that yet hides a soft, tender side only she knows exist under the shield… A man who pretends not to care but who is always attentive to the slightest detail, notices everything and eventually never fails to open people's eyes with his patented, snappish remarks.
"Lisa... Jesus! What's wrong with you?" Cuddy scolds herself out loud. Of course she can't tell him that. She can't tell him anything. Period. She's incapable of lying. She hates lying in fact and, well, telling him the truth is clearly not an option because now that she knows who John really is, it will surely get her into trouble to drop that kind of intel in his inbox.
She quickly erases the word 'yes' from her screen and thinks about her other options.
I'd rather not talk about it, she types to end the conversation.
She doesn't want to go there. What she needs, instead, is to scare him away once and for all. Obviously, all that sudden and unexpected intimacy they've built over the past couple of weeks is just an illusion. Knowing House like she does, he's probably having a good laugh right now behind his screen, remembering all the girlie confessions she's made. Damn him! She hates his guts and she would punch his smug face if she ever got the chance…
But he hasn't lied to you, a little voice chants inside her head. He told you about Stacy. And he's funny, and charming, and touching…
She covers her face with her hands and groans in frustration.
What if all of this was for real? What if he knew that she knew? Would he stop pretending to be someone he's not? Or would he avoid her like the plague?
"Ha," she thinks, "either way that'd be the end of this stupid mascarade, anyway."
And there's only one way to find out…
# # # # #
House just wanted to teach her a lesson. Nothing more. To be honest, all that reckless online dating she's been into lately has gotten on his nerves. What if she met a complete nutjob, or worse, a pervert that would try to abuse her? Geez, women are so stupid when they're needy! So really, all he wanted to do was to demonstrate to her that her naivety could get her into serious trouble and, most of all, that she's way above and beyond that crap. Lisa Cuddy, blind dating? As if she needed that to seduce a man! Seriously, that woman is completely clueless if she isn't even aware of how attractive she is…
So he didn't have much choice, did he? And it was just for her own good, really. He needed to open her eyes and if he could gather some juicy, embarrassing details about her private life in the process then it would only make the game twice worthy of playing.
He'd planned everything: First, identify her profile among the other female members of that stupid site she was registered in - which would be a piece of cake - and then, try to lure her with sweet, fluffy confidences - which would definitely not be a piece of cake, but a challenge he was ready to take up - until, bam, she'd be enamored enough to make a mistake, like, going on a blind date with another perfect stranger that would happen to be him.
Of course, it wouldn't be a real date, per se, but he would definitely show up just for the priceless pleasure of being a witness to her humiliation. Then she would maybe give up on the crazy idea of finding Prince Charming online! Not that he's upset, or even jealous that she can – God forbid – but, as his friend, it's his duty to warn her about the dangers she's facing. No, really, that's his only goal. Nothing more… He'd planned everything and there was no reason why it wouldn't work.
Except that, there is obviously one thing he hasn't planned at all and that's his reaction.
Still, playing John was a walk in the park in the beginning. A nice guy, with a nice job, good listener, with a rather good sense of humor – women love men with a good sense of humor - it's been a role almost too easy to play! He's sparsely added some info about his real life, like, the fact that one of his students has the hots for him, or that he plays the guitar – because women love guys with a wild side – but it's been perfectly controlled. Until, little by little, he's gotten somehow trapped at his own game. And he blames her for that: Yes, truth is, Cuddy is not just a woman with a sexy body. She's smart, and witty, and fun. More than once, he's surprised himself laughing at her answers because she really gives as good as she gets.
What a complete moron!
He was supposed to stick to the plan, Goddammit! What the Hell has happened, he can't say but there she was, that bewitching witch, with her magic wand and her favorite movies and her touching cluelessness about blues, and her genuine interest about his feelings and before he knew it, he was talking about his break-up with Stacy and reminiscing the times in College when he had a serious crush on her.
One more day of this stupid chit-chatting and he would have confessed that he rides a bike and walks with a cane because he had an infarction that almost killed him a little less than a decade ago!
Not to mention that he's now sitting in his office and he's just asked her to tell him about the men she's loved! Geez, what exactly does he expect? How is that even relevant to his plan? He doesn't need to know about that, does he?
And yet, she's confessed that she's apparently only loved one man and as he's staring at that sentence on his screen, there's only one question that invades his mind: What if he was that man she's talking about?
"Get a grip, House! You're here to teach her a lesson. That is the plan. Everything else is completely useless information," he groans, rubbing his forehead forcefully with his palm.
The game needs to end. Now. He's collected enough information to embarrass her for at least an entire month and isn't that exactly what he wants? He tries to think about a way out when, suddenly, it just pops up on his screen in the form of a question that she's asking him…
I'd like to meet you.
Ooh, that is unhoped-for, he thinks as he types his answer quickly.
Really? Isn't that a little premature?
Yes, play it cool, House. Just let her beg and show how desperately needy she is.
Why? We've been talking for days now. It's not as if we were just complete strangers.
You're right. Sometimes, I feel like I've known you for a long time…
Me too.
So where would you want to meet?
I don't know. Do you have a suggestion?
Lady first.
Alright, so I was thinking about that café on 6th that's opened recently. Do you know it?
Um, no. What's the name?
Chez Jeanne.
French café, uh?
Well, since it seems obvious that you and I aren't going to France anytime soon, why not enjoy a bit of France there?
Sounds good. When?
I don't know. How about this Friday, 7pm?
This Friday, sure! I think I can make it.
Perfect! See you there.
Um… You sure you're not forgetting a little detail, like, how would I recognize you?
Oops, you're right. See? I'm not lying when I say I feel like I already know you…
So, are you going to wear a carnation at your buttonhole?
Isn't that supposed to be what the guy does?
You want me to wear a carnation in my lapel?
Why not?
Alright. Fine. I suppose you're also going to tell me what color?
Red would be great.
Of course. Red. Your favorite color…
See you Friday, John.
See you Friday, Lisa.
# # # # #
Friday, at 7pm sharp, Cuddy arrives at Chez Jeanne and is lucky enough to find a table to sit. The place is not too crowded but it's filling quite fast as it is both the end of the work day and the beginning of the weekend and more and more people are gathering into small groups to spend a happy, carefree moment between friends.
She takes her coat off and hangs it to the back of her chair, and she starts waiting serenely for House to show up. But maybe he won't show up after all, she thinks, after she's spent almost ten minutes staring at the front door, only to see people that aren't House entering the café and joining friends with a happy smile on their faces. She sighs as she realizes option two is visibly the one that he's chosen: Avoid her like the plague.
Well, of course, what else should she expect from him? she tells herself, trying to downplay her disappointment.
She's contemplating whether or not she should stay and buy herself a cocktail to celebrate the end of that stupid game between them when, suddenly, the doorbell chimes announcing the arrival of a new patron in the bar. She holds her breath, almost unconsciously, and stares expectantly at the door, until she recognizes his unmistakable, limping silhouette.
He's wearing a long, charcoal, woolen coat and he wiggles on the doorstep to shake some snowflakes off of his shoulders. Then, he offhandedly starts scanning the room.
She instantly casts her eyes down, pretending to be absorbed by the menu, knowing perfectly well that, as soon as he'll have spotted her, he will walk to her table.
"Ahem," he harrumphs loudly only moments later to catch her attention.
She smiles slightly with her head tilted down before glancing up at him.
"Why, Dr. Cuddy!" he exclaims cheerily. "What a complete surprise!"
"House! God, there is really no place in this town where I can enjoy a little peace without you showing up, is there?" she says, perfectly faking to be upset, while inside, she's relieved and happy to see him here.
"Why are you here?" he asks, ignoring her comment.
"I'm waiting for someone."
"Meeting a rich donor?"
"That's none of your business."
"Ooh, definitely code for: the donor is, in fact, a hot date."
"There is no code, House. What about you? Are you here alone?"
"So far, I am. Give me at least five minutes!" he jokes, rolling his eyes.
"Why don't you sit down with me until the … person I'm waiting for arrives?" she offers with a killer smile. "First drink's on me."
"Oh no, no: I wouldn't want to interrupt your date. That would be awkward."
"Well, he's obviously not here yet. And, I don't mind you keeping me company until he arrives."
"I'm not sure I-"
"Just sit down!" she orders with her bossy voice, pointing at the chair in front of her with her chin.
"Fine. But if your date shows up and he sees me with you, I'm not responsible for the fact that he'll probably run away, thinking you're a slut."
"We'll see."
House narrows his eyes at her and hangs his cane to the chair's backrest before taking his coat off and finally sitting down across from her.
"So why exactly are you here?" she asks, leaning forward and cradling her chin in her hand.
"Me? Uh… I was just passing by. Long day at work. I thought some Jack Daniels would help."
"Cut the crap, House! You never come to that bar."
"Duh! I love that bar. I come here very often! Shirley!" he shouts with a flourish, hailing a waitress that passes by. "The usual!"
The waitress turns around and stares at him, frowning. Sighing, she grabs the pen she's put behind her ear and walks towards them, holding her notepad in her hand.
"Hi, my name's Jen," she says with a smirk, looking House straight in the eyes. "Sir, what can I get you?"
House rolls his eyes dramatically and turns to face Cuddy, leaning forward in a conspiratorial way.
"Shirley's having a bit of a schizophrenic personality disorder," he whispers. "Such a waste of talent, I know."
Cuddy puffs and shakes her head in dismay.
"Ahem. Have you guys chosen, yet?" the waitress says, getting impatient.
"No. Not yet," Cuddy replies, turning to face her and flashing her most impeccably perfunctory smile at her. "Give us a few more minutes."
"Alright," the young girl grumbles, walking away.
"I know what you're thinking," House says, following the waitress with his eyes. "It's so sudden. One minute she was fine and then-"
"House!" Cuddy interrupts, snapping her finger under his nose. "I know you never come here. And you wanna know how I know?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Because I asked Wilson."
"Pfff. As if he knew all the bars I usually spend time in!"
"I asked him because I wanted to make sure I wouldn't accidentally bump into you here," she carries on, ignoring his antics.
"And then fate decided otherwise, obviously."
"Precisely: Even though you don't know that bar, in the end, you're still here; which can only mean two things: Either you're here to ruin my date or, you're here because you're my date…"
House stares at her dumbstruck, looking rather uneasy.
"So? Which one is it, John?"
"Huh?" he exclaims gulping, as his cheeks become slightly flushed in embarrassment. "Have you been sniffing some illegal stuff in the pharmacy, again? Coz, FYI, my name is Greg. Not John."
She tilts her head to the side and arches her eyebrows in a quizzical way, staring challengingly at him with her eyes wide.
"Do I look like I'm stupid?" she says.
"Uh, do I need to answer that question right away?"
"Actually you don't. Because I have proof! I asked the IT guy to track the Internet history of all my Department Heads over the past month. You've been surfing singleballroomdancelovers-dot-com on a daily basis for a couple weeks now."
Taken off guard, his eyes grow wide and he inhales a sharp intake of breath, trying to hide his surprise.
"How do you know it's me?" he says, however sassily.
"It's your IP address. Your IP address, your computer," she answers with a 'duh' face.
For a second, a look of defeat passes behind his eyes but he quickly pulls himself together and squares his shoulders, staring challengingly at her.
"I'm not always sitting behind my computer, your know? I have patients to treat!" he argues to defend himself. "For all you know, you've been chatting with Foreman this whole time."
"Foreman doesn't know about that site. You, on the other hand, do. You heard Don mention it when you showed up the other day to ruin my date with him."
"Don?"
"Eastern Lube guy. Don't act like you don't remember him," she says, with a warning edge to her voice. "House, I know it's you."
"You don't know what you're talking about!" he exclaims theatrically.
"I perfectly know what I'm talking about: You're the guy I'm here to meet."
"Nooo. I'm the guy who's here to see you being stood up by the guy you're here to meet. That's different."
"Ha. So you're admitting that you're here to ruin my date?"
"Alright. I'm here to ruin your date, which apparently won't even require my intervention given that your guy is not showing up, after all. So goodbye Cuddy, see you tomorrow: Same clinic, same crotches to swab?" he says, starting to get up.
She swiftly bends over the table and grabs his wrist, pulling him down to his seat again.
"What if my guy was already here?"
House conspicuously looks around him, turning his head in every direction and staring at the patrons in the bar.
"Ooh, you mean, like, seated here, somewhere? Which one is it?" he asks, facing her again.
She smiles fondly and locks eyes with him, staring at him in silence but conveying her answer with the intensity of her gaze.
He swiftly glances above his shoulder, faking not to understand. Her fond smile grows bigger and she tentatively covers his hand with hers, bringing his attention back to her.
"Your shirt is ironed," she says softly.
"And?" he says, swiftly removing his hand from hers as if he'd been burnt.
"You never wear ironed shirts. Especially not when you want to ruin my dates."
"So what? You're basing your assumption that I'm your date on the fact that my shirt is ironed? Wow. You're more desperate than I thought," he tries to joke, frowning disapprovingly at her.
"House, why don't you admit that you came here for me?"
"I already did that."
"I mean, that you came to meet me; that you are John. The man I have a date with…"
"God, you're stubborn!"
"Not more than you are. Tell me: Why did you do that? What were you trying to prove?"
"Fine. You really wanna know?" he snaps resentfully, visibly irate to have been unmasked.
"I really wanna know."
"Because… Geez, Cuddy! Do you realize what you're doing?"
"What am I doing?"
"Online dating is… dangerous, for fuck's sake! You put personal info out there and you chat with guys that you've never even seen-"
"Aww, so you're worried about me?"
"Duh. Me, worried? Get out of here! If you end up hand-cuffed and naked in a shabby motel, that's your problem, not mine."
She smiles coyly at him and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and studying him, amused.
"Does that mean you won't come to my rescue to remove my cuffs?"
"Jesus, you think this is a joke?" he huffs angrily.
"I don't know. You tell me."
"Look, you want to meet a guy? Fine, I get it. But seriously, you should be more careful. Men are jerks."
"Not all of them."
"I'm a man. And what I'm saying is: Chit-chatting is not our foremost goal. Trust me."
"Maybe chit-chatting isn't mine, either," she says cockily, tilting her head to the side.
His eyes widen in shock and he stares at her looking completely astonished.
"Oh, c'mon House, I'm joking!" she says, laughing. "Of course, I'm careful. What do you think? I'm a big girl, you know. And I'm perfectly aware that people who register in online dating sites don't all necessarily look for a soul mate."
She scrutinizes him but, except for that little sparkle of anger that burns in his gaze, his face remains totally inscrutable.
"But they're not all like that," she adds after a short while. "Actually, you'd be surprised by the number of interesting and totally harmless guys you can meet online. Like… John, for example."
"You see, that's my point: John doesn't exist!" he exclaims, upset. "You let yourself carried away by some cliché confidences that every man knows will eventually get them into the girl's pants."
"What if those confidences weren't cliché? What if they were true?"
"True? Goddammit, Cuddy: I told you my name was John, for crying out loud!"
"And? Your dad's name is John, so that was not a total lie. You weren't going to tell me your real name, anyway, were you?"
"And what about the fact that I said I was a teacher? How's that not a total lie, uh?"
"Well, technically, you said you're teaching scientific stuff to a very selective class… which, when you look at it, isn't that far from the truth. I mean, your team, they're students, in a way. And you're like their teacher, somehow. You even hinted at Cameron having a crush on you. You can't lie, House. Just admit it. All this time, even when you pretended to be someone else, that was always you, talking…"
"No, I was just trying to-"
"You said… things," she whispers more than she says and, in that instant, even she starts to feel uneasy, and she quickly averts her gaze to hide her emotion, "about your feelings for a girl that you've met a long time ago…"
"CLI-CHÉ!"
"Are you going to pretend that girl wasn't… me?"
"Ugh, pluh-ease. You think you're the only chick I scored in Med School?"
She sucks in a sharp breath, stomaching his barb.
"Fine. What's her name, then?"
"It's err… wait, it starts with a-"
"You're lying."
"Sandra," he blurts out.
"There's no Sandra. Or maybe there is, but she meant nothing. You're just lying now to cover a truth you've confessed to me when you were hidden behind your computer screen, but you're incapable of admitting it to my face. Why?"
She stares intensely at him, almost with a beseeching gaze but he remains silent, just staring self-consciously back at her.
"I know you like me, House."
His mouth falls agape and his eyes widen in shock.
"That's ok," she adds, with a bit of a simpering airs, "because I like you, too."
House rolls his eyes, faking to be appalled.
"Sure you do! Right now, you're so desperate, you'd basically like anything with a penis," he tries to joke, hardly hiding his discomfort.
She shakes her head, glaring a bit at him, but mostly for the sake of it while, at the same time, she reaches for his hand on the table and softly brushes his knuckles with her fingertips. This time, however, he doesn't take it away and welcomes her caress without saying a word.
"True. I'm not complaining about that," she croons with a low voice, shooting him a very knowing, totally unabashed glance that makes him instantly squirm in his seat. "But you and I both know there's more to it than meets the eye…"
She smiles, proud of her little inside joke as he stares at both their interlaced hands, looking touchingly lost.
"Cuddy, you're making a mistake," he finally says with his head bowed.
"I'm not. I like you, House. Why are you so afraid to hear it?" she insists stubbornly.
"Because this isn't me you like! You like John."
"You are John! Geez, don't you see it? I don't care about John. Eventually, I only liked him because it was you."
"Are you being intentionally dense? I was playing a role. Everything I said was faked!"
"No, it wasn't. No other man but you would have used specific details like Mariachi bands or Mont Saint Michel to seduce me."
"Duh. Even a five-year-old could do the math: I mean, you have at least two pictures of Mont Saint Michel in your office! One of them being your screensaver. A place in France, for Christ's sake! And you don't even have family there…"
"How do you know?" she says with a mischievous smile.
He opens his mouth to reply but thinks better of it and stubbornly sets his lips instead, glowering at her.
"And, FYI," he adds after a moment of silence, leaning slightly forward, "I hate Mariachi bands."
"Then why pretend that you know how to play Mexican music on your guitar?"
"Because you like that stupid music!" he exclaims realizing, but too late, that he's been too prompt to react and that his little outburst has just proven Cuddy's point.
She looks him straight in the eyes, but instead of gloating, like he thought she would, she just smiles fondly at him. And she looks so adorable. God, it should be forbidden to be that sexy and unnerving at the same time.
Feeling overwhelmed by too many conflicting emotions, House looks down, unable to sustain her gaze as he tries to gather up the courage to say 'no' to what her eyes are so intensely asking him right now. He takes a deep breath and even though he doesn't look at her, her face is still imprinted in his mind. And he sees her: Her coy smile, Her incredible eyes. Her lips… Fuck, how is he supposed to win that battle?
"House?" she calls in a soft voice.
He jerks his head up and their eyes, equally – and finally – burning with lust, meet again. The answer to her silent question is right there, in his big, blue eyes but he can't say it. So he gulps instead and waits, conspicuously silent, as if he weren't ready to allow himself to take that step unless she takes it first.
"Let's get out of here," she says, a bit short of breath.
"Why?"
"You know why."
He nods, almost imperceptibly and she flashes a beguiling smile at him.
"I could be a serial killer," he warns, staring at her, hinting at that conversation they had when they were still chatting as Lisa and John.
"Or a pervert," she replies without missing a beat, smiling mischievously at him to let him know that she's understood his innuendo.
"And, you could be a man," he shoots back, grinning.
"There's only one way to find out..."
"Peeing contest?"
She laughs throatily and pushes her chair back to stand up. When she is standing by his side, she looks down at him with a fond smile, waiting for him to get up as well.
"My place?" she suggests.
"Mine's closer," he says with a gruff voice and, in that instant, the little sparkle of mischief in his eyes is impossible to miss.
He stands up and, after he's put his coat on and retrieved his cane from the chair's backrest, he takes her by the hand and they both stride towards the exit with a determined pace.
# # # # #
The first round is hot and completely wild.
They've barely made it to his living room before they're overwhelmed by the forceful yearning that took hold of them almost the moment they've stepped into her car. Unable to wait one more minute, they literally throw their bodies at each other in a fit of tremendously disorganized passion, wrapping their arms around every curve and angle they can find, groping, pulling and tugging as their hips rub demandingly against each other's groin, impatiently claiming each other.
Thank God for skirts that can be hiked up hastily and flimsy panties that can be just pushed aside without needing to be removed, they don't have to wait too long before they can finally let out all that pent-up sexual energy they've been trying – and failing - to ignore for too long.
House fucks her on his desk, right by the coat rack in his entry. A few things need to be removed to clear the surface and he sends them flying to the ground as cautiously as his impatience allows him to care in that instant; which means he's probably shattered more than one or two items to pieces in the process but he clearly doesn't give a damn.
The second his fingers brush her wet slit, his mind is single-tracked on one thing and one thing only: he needs to be inside her. Cuddy wraps her legs around his waist as he quickly and impatiently unzips his jeans, pushes his boxers down and when his cock is finally free, he stabs into her tight sex in one rough and mighty thrust, hitting the hilt of her core and eliciting a squeal from her. In response she digs her nails into his shoulder blades, anchoring herself to him as he grabs her firmly by the waist to keep her close to his hips.
It doesn't last long because they're both too feverishly aroused and impatient to get off but it's unforgettable and incredible all the same. The sound of her pants, loud and heavy against the side of his face is what House will probably remember the most for decades to come. Or maybe it is the amazingly gracious curve of her neck as she tilts her head back to gasp for air when he pounds into her harder and faster with every thrust and he fears he's going to pass out from lust overdose because it feels too good, and it's too much and he's not sure he can handle all of it at the same time.
What Cuddy knows she will never forget is the touch of his fingers on her hips, digging into her flesh, almost with bruising force, each time he tries to pull her closer to him and there's not an inch of empty space between them because he keeps her so tightly squeezed against him, she feels like their bodies only make one. That and the low, gravelly sound of his groans against the shell of her ear, and the taste of his tongue on her tongue as he smothers her with kisses and she fears she's going to pass out from lust overdose because it feels too good, and it's too much and she's not sure she can handle all of it at the same time.
House comes first and when the first spurts of his semen starts filling her, he hunches his shoulders, as if he was in pain breaking the connection with her lips and Cuddy instantly cups his face in her hands to pull him to her again and she kisses him, relentlessly, to collect his moans of pleasure in her mouth until there's no sound but the one of his heavy breathings against the pulp of her lips.
Second round is tender, unhurried, and almost quiet. After their first high, they discard their clothes one by one and, without sharing a word, they walk – more like stumble - enfolded in each other's embrace towards his bedroom. They kiss and they trip as they peel each other off of their clothes: His shirt, her high heels, her skirt, his pants, her cardigan, his socks, her bra, his sneakers, her panties, his boxers… when they step into his bedroom, they're both naked and still wrapped in each other's arms and all of their clothes lie randomly on the wooden floor all the way from the hallway to the edge of his bed.
They stop there, staring at each other in awe and House cradles her face in his large hands, leaning down to kiss her. She closes her eyes and she parts her lips and he teases her with his tongue, as she wraps her arms around his neck and gives in to his kiss. He's taking his time but, eventually, he makes her step back to look at her. She bites her lower lip and follows his hand with her eyes at it tentatively raises to cup one of her breasts. She sucks in a sharp breath when he envelops her plump curve in his palm and she reaches out to take his shaft in her hand. A few deft caresses up and down his length are enough to get him hard again and as soon as he is, she wraps her arms around his waist, resting her hands on the small of his back to press him against her. House seizes her by the shoulders and pulls her away from him and slowly but firmly motions her to lie down on his bed, which she does, waiting for him to join her with eyes hooded with lust.
She studies him as he stands in his naked glory in front of her, the proof of his desire for her obvious between his thighs. She doesn't intend to stare, but she does, and when her gaze accidentally lingers on his scar, he hastily covers it with his hand, in an incredibly touching fit that makes her heart swell with tenderness. Then he cautiously bends down and positions himself on top of her and when their bodies are finally aligned he takes his length in his hand and guides himself inside her. Slowly.
When he's sheathed deep inside her core and she can feel her inner walls clench around him tightly, she gasps and her mouth stays agape, as he buries his face in her neck and starts moving his hips at a leisurely pace, in and out of her, rocking like a tidal wave that takes her far and far away from the shore. As he keeps thrusting every hard inch of him inside of her, she combs his hair with her fingers and he kisses her on the round shape of her shoulder then everywhere on her face, and minute after minute, they seek after their pleasure, in absolute sync, building another orgasm that already promises to be so different than the first one but undeniably more powerful than anything they both expected.
When Cuddy is close, she presses her lips against his ear and she murmurs his name over and over again and each time it sends shivers down his spine and he moans, breathless, against her skin and what they both feel in that instant is immense and unique and totally indescribable.
Afterwards, they remain enclosed in each other's embrace, arms and legs entwined and Cuddy runs her fingertips through his chest hair while House strokes up and down the side of her arm softly. The silence lasts several long minutes but it doesn't feel awkward. It's just the mute sound of absolute fulfillment that they relish peacefully without daring to interrupt it.
"Good thing John didn't show up after all," House says after a while, finally breaking the silence. "Not everyone one can handle a woman that puts out on the first date with such greedy demands."
Cuddy's hand freezes on his chest and she props herself up on her elbow to look at him.
"First," she says, pursing her lips, "John doesn't exist. And second, I'm not putting out on the first date."
"Ha. I happen to know for a fact that you do. There's a precedent, if you remember."
"I do," she replies, smiling fondly at the memory of their first hookup in Med School, "which is why you're not making any sense right now because, technically, today is not a first date."
He lifts his head off of the pillow a little and rests his chin on his collarbone to look down at her.
"Technically, today is not even a date at all," he says cockily. "May I remind you that you said you were going to buy the first drinks but, actually, we left that bar without ordering anything?"
She bites her lower lip and looks adorably contrite for a second.
"We've never dated," she says, as if talking to herself and the sound of her sorry voice makes House want to laugh but he holds it back and stares fondly at her instead.
"Tomorrow's another day," he suggests tentatively, avoiding her gaze so that she won't catch the glimpse of uncertainty that has passed in his eyes as he's said it.
A broad grin instantly flickers across her lips and she flips over to lie on her stomach and cradles her face in her hands, looking at him with mischief.
"I think I remember you offering to take me to a blues concert," she croons.
"You wanna go to a blues concert?" he says, his eyebrows arched in surprise.
"Sure!"
He squints at her for a short while and rubs his chin with his thumb, pretending to give it a thought.
"It's a date!" he finally says, pulling her in his arms again.
** THE END **