Laundry Day
By HotlipsPierce
Disclaimer: I don't House, Wilson, Cuddy, Jell-O, Shostakovich, my computer, my car, etc., etc. You get the gist.
"House, open up!"
"Go away!"
"I'm not going anywhere until you open this door!"
"For Christ's sake, Wilson, you have a key! Open it yourself!" House couldn't understand why they went through this charade every time Wilson came to visit. What was there to prove? That the cripple could walk across a room? Of course, the way his leg was aching today, just the thought of walking that far made House reach across his piano for another Vicodin. As he brought his head down to concentrate on the Shostakovich piece he'd been dabbling with, he could hear the turning of the lock, the opening of the door, the stomping of the feet, and if he closed his eyes and turned his head just so, the look of annoyance on his friend's face. Without pausing in his music, he snapped, "What do you want?"
"Have you got your stuff together?"
"What?"
"It's the third Saturday of the month."
"Mazel tov."
Now it was Wilson's turn to ask, "What?"
"I dunno. Thought it was some Jewish thing of yours."
"House, it's Laundry Day."
"Go without me."
"You're the whole reason we have Laundry Day."
"Why? So the two of you can live guilt-free knowing I'll never suffocate under the depths of my own stinking underwear?"
"Something like that, yeah. Oh, c'mon, House, we've only been doing this for the past seven years. I doubt even your aging, drug-addled brain could forget a ritual like this."
Choosing to ignore the stab at his genius, House soldiered on in his contempt, "You're right, I didn't forget. I was just hoping that one of these days you would and just let me be filthy in peace."
"I think I heard Cuddy say something about Jell-O shots and red thongs."
This made House stop playing. A moment of silence passed between them before he declared, "Laundry bag's on the bed. I'll meet you in the car."
Wilson had been mildly surprised, though definitely not shocked at House's agility once the twin goals of alcohol and lacy lingerie were seemingly in reach. So what that all Cuddy had really said was that she'd made Jell-O chocolate pudding and locked her thongs in a safe, he thought as they made their way to 925 Watson Lane, he's in the car. I can claim that I misunderstood her later.
He looked over to find House watching anything and everything out the window, focusing on nothing, and he knew exactly what was on the diagnostician's mind. For all the good this ritualistic outing did, it was always a reminder of one very painful thing: that Stacy had left him. She'd driven him to his PT session like she had every Friday for the past fourteen weeks since his infarction. What House hadn't known at the time was that after dropping him off, Stacy had gone up to Wilson's office to ask if he could take his friend home after the appointment and if he would please give him this letter from her. She was so, so sorry, but apparently not sorry enough to keep herself from getting in her car and driving away, her bags presumably already packed and in the trunk.
As he pulled into Cuddy's driveway, Wilson remembered what he did after watching Stacy traipse out of House's life. He'd gone straight to Cuddy's office and explained to her as much as he knew about the situation. Perhaps she'd have some insight into what House's reaction would be; after all, he'd only known the guy a year, she'd been putting up with him since college. They both agreed that whatever was about to happen wouldn't be pretty, and that Wilson should keep an especially close watch over him during the next week. It was too bad that he wasn't rehabilitated enough to come back to work, but what good would he be? He was on heavy doses of Vicodin; what doctor could concentrate with that kind of drug coursing through his system? In any case, they decided to give him a week and would determine if further action was necessary the next Friday.
The week came and went, and the following Friday saw a very worried Wilson sitting before Cuddy. For every empty beer bottle he'd thrown away one day, two bottles of vodka would join them the next. House wouldn't even get off the couch, opting instead to lose himself in Vicodin and mindless soap operas. What more could they do? Cuddy had an idea.
The sudden pounding of cane against door jolted Wilson from his reverie. Before he knew it, the door had been flung open, pleasant smiles had been exchanged (or phony smirks, rather, in a certain someone's case), and soon he and Cuddy were watching House drag three weeks' worth of dirty clothes down the hall to her laundry room.
"Did it take much to get him going this morning?"
"No more than usual, which reminds me: If he happens to mention anything about Jell-O shots, just nod knowingly and give him his pudding."
They continued in quiet conversation until Cuddy eyed what looked suspiciously like one of her skirts being thrown into the hall, accompanied by a loud voice yelling in disgust, "Where the hell are your thongs?!"
"My what?" she exclaimed as she ran into her laundry room, eyes widening as she surveyed all of her own laundry strewn about the floor. In the middle of it all was a man with the expression of a puppy but definitely with the thoughts of a much more evil creature.
"Your panties, Cuddy. I was told there would be red ones waiting just for me. Where would they be?"
"Who told you a thing like that?" His focus darted from her to a point just over her shoulder. She turned and saw Wilson, who was all of a sudden immensely taken with the paint job on her ceiling.
"Jell-O shots and red thongs – those were my terms for being dragged out here."
Throwing her head back and closing her eyes, Cuddy reluctantly reminded herself that all this had been her idea. Why couldn't she have crippled a gentleman? Sighing, she resigned herself to her fate. "Who wants pudding?"
As she puttered about her kitchen, Cuddy watched "her boys" flip through TV channels on her couch. She hated to admit it, but apart from hospital business, those two were her entire life, and even then she only kept up with them because they worked at the hospital. In all her work to ascend to the top of her profession, somewhere along the way she'd forgotten to make close friends. However, House and Wilson had wormed their way into her personal space, and heaven help the soul who would try to take them away from her. They completed her – Wilson was sweet and helpful and always made sure she made time to enjoy life just a little. House, on the other hand, kept her mind sharp and her tongue sharper; he simultaneously brought out her wild side and her maternal side. The way she would catch them checking her out, more often House than Wilson, made her feel sexier with each passing day. Put the two together and minus House's drug addiction, she saw the perfect man sitting on her sofa. However, reality rudely intruded and bluntly reminded her that there were, in fact, two very separate men reclining on that couch putting their dirty shoes on her just-cleaned coffee table, and both of them craved the chocolate pudding she'd hastily thrown together last night.
When it was just she, Cuddy never even attempted to cook or bake or whatever it was her mother told her good women were supposed to stay home and do. A quick peek into her freezer would find a treasure trove of little frozen meals, ready to microwave at a moment's notice. Nevertheless, when it came to her Saturdays with Wilson and House, she always tried to do something special for them. It had been that way since that Friday in her office with Wilson.
She wasn't astonished to hear how badly House had taken Stacy leaving him. Put in that same situation, she would have dared anyone to react differently. Although she could understand Stacy's position, parts of Cuddy just couldn't forgive her for the way she left, for her horrible timing. Way to kick a guy when he's down, Stacy, old pal. As Wilson described to her the mess House's place had become, a plan had started to formulate in Cuddy's mind. When he mentioned how he seriously doubted House had enough clean clothes for the next week, she knew what she had to do.
It seemed obvious enough to her. House most likely hadn't done his own laundry in five years, and memories of Michigan reminded her that he hadn't been very good at cleaning his clothes even back then. What's more, Cuddy was certain that his little apartment didn't have a washer and dryer; her brand new house, on the other hand, had a laundry room one might even call spacious. She recalled explaining to Wilson that washing clothes for one person takes long enough. Imagine if they were doing three times' as much? She and Wilson would be able to keep their eyes on House all day, and in the process, give him clothes to wear.
The next day hadn't gone well at all. After spending the past week in miserable silence, House had come quite literally kicking and screaming to her home. He'd spent the entire time bitching about how there wasn't anything to good to drink in Cuddy's house – she'd been especially careful to hide all her liquor – and besides, why would he willingly spend any time in the presence of the bitch who'd ruined his life? His ranting had hurt her deeply, but she understood that it was really just the Vicodin and the pain and the grief talking. Cuddy stood her ground; she refused to be pushed away. He hated her for it at the time, but she was sure he'd respect her for later on. At least she hoped that's what would happen.
Cuddy hadn't realized she'd been staring into space until chocolate-coated fingers snapped before her eyes. "I know I'm hot, Cuddles, but you can't be daydreaming about doing me all the time. There's laundry to be done."
And with a roll of her eyes, she was back in the present. "You mean like the sheets that we constantly have to wash because of all your wet dreams about me?"
"Does your vibrator with my name on it need a good hosing down? Because we can do that, too."
"And how is your hooker? Still worried about you calling my name out in bed?"
"Oh? You've changed your name to Carmen Electra? Nice." With that last barb, he smirked and walked away, imagining Cuddy checking out his ass. That's what he liked to tell himself every time she summoned him to her office – she was only doing it so that she could have the pleasure of watching him leave.
Situating himself on a chair in the laundry room, House began to study his surroundings. Wilson had already sorted all of their clothes – blouses that were unmistakably Cuddy's in one corner, Wilson's sweatshirts in another, his own vintage t-shirts in yet another, and all of their jeans put together in the middle of the room. Leaning the chair back against a wall, House closed his eyes and allowed himself to revel in his momentary solitude.
In all honesty, House was eternally grateful to Cuddy and Wilson for everything they did for him. Without them, he probably would have spent today wallowing in his own stinking self-pity. He also was acutely aware that without them he'd have been dead almost a decade ago.
Their first Laundry Day had been a pitiful comedy of errors. House had been in top jackass form that day, and it had ended with Cuddy in tears and Wilson in lecture-mode. However, his two friends were determined not to let him fall to pieces, so they repeated the exercise again the next Saturday, and again the Saturday after that, and every Saturday for the next six months. Even after he started working again, there was Wilson, every Saturday, 10 A.M. sharp. They would spend the day snacking on some confection that Cuddy had whipped together and talking about everything that wasn't PPTH-related, with the possible exception of the occasional "Weirdest Thing You've Seen in the Clinic" contest.
After six months, though, the newest Mrs. Wilson had a problem with her husband doing his own laundry in another woman's house with their "pet cripple." House never did like Julie. Soon, they decided that once a month was enough. Although he'd publicly stated that he was fine with going a few weeks at a time without getting devil and drama queen cooties on all his stuff, House had privately smarted at the loss of what he had quietly considered an enjoyable activity.
House guessed that his favorite part about this whole deal was the fact that it was never mentioned at work, and nothing at work ever factored into it. Cuddy and Wilson knew better than to do that. If they'd ever let it slip that House got out of his apartment every now and then, they would never hear the end of it. Cameron would've wanted in on it, and House would have never won that $40 for knowing where Cuddy's hide-a-key was. And no matter what sorts of charges had been brought against House in the weeks before, he was always welcome in the Cuddy home. Keeping him in touch with humanity was just too important to let lawsuits get in the way. Yes, Greg House was forever thankful to James Wilson and Lisa Cuddy. Not that he was going to tell them that, though. No, his gratitude was a puzzle they'd have to figure out for themselves.
"You could help, you know."
"Hmmm…?"
"I mean, I know your leg hurts and everything, but does that keep you from scooping detergent into the machine?"
House looked up to find Cuddy staring at him with an amused smirk. Returning the expression, he reached out a hand so that she could help him up. "If you insist, Mistress."
"Yes, the Mistress insists."
" 'Yes, the Mistress insists, Master' you mean."
"Don't count on it, and don't put too much in like you did last week."
"Extra soap means extra clean."
"Extra soap means extra work when the washing machine overflows."
"You're such a pessimist."
"You're a pot calling the kettle black."
He let her win that round, if only because they were in her house. If House won their arguments every time, it wouldn't be any fun. Well, scratch that, it would be fun for House, but Cuddy probably wouldn't want to play anymore, which would be too bad. She's beautiful when she's riled up.
When the dryer signaled for the last time that it was done with its load, the three piled their clothes into their respective baskets or bags and made their way to the door.
"Thank you, again, Lisa for letting us use your washer and dryer."
"Anytime, James. Thank you for eating my pudding." After giving Wilson a quick hug, Cuddy looked over to House, who seemed to be trying to blend in with the wall. "Let me guess: you had a crappy time, and we should never do this again."
"And your sugar-free pudding sucked."
"I understand."
"See you next month."
"See you next month."
A/N: Okay, so I hoped you liked it, and let's see if I can answer some of your questions before you ask them:
A couple of you wanted a companion piece/sequel to Why Can't I Stop Thinking, and let me tell you what happened: I can't. I seriously started to, but the thought of staying inside House's head for an entire one-shot scared the bejesus out of me, and I just stopped. So there.
A Week in Texas, which I haven't updated since (cough) September (cough) is currently on hold until I make it behave like I want it to. Hopefully I can give you the next chapter before next semester starts.
Again, I hope you enjoyed this one, and feedback is greatly appreciated. Seriously, reviews are to me what Vicodin is to House. Thank you.