Okay, deep cleansing breaths everybody. All my stories are 100% FDA-certified Huddy, but I always put an obstacle in the way. In this case, the obstacle is in the form of—wait for it—Wuddy. If that thought is just too horrifying for you to handle, so be it. I personally think Wuddy makes more sense than Luddy, but maybe that's just me. So the first part of this story is exclusively from Wilson's perspective. It show his mindset and how could do something like this to House (he's definitely the bad guy in this story, but hopefully you won't totally hate him).

The next (and final) part will jump around in perspectives more. Sorry about the cliffhanger, too. Worst Christmas fic ever? ;) - atd

This is the story of how James Wilson wanted the girl, got the girl, and lost the girl. But if he was really going to be honest with himself, she was never his to begin with.

All his life, he'd been the nice guy—the designated driver, the wingman, the giver of pep talks, the shoulder to cry on. If there were two slices of cake left, he would give the larger slice to someone else. If a lane was blocked on the highway, he'd slow down to let two cars get in front of him. That was just his nature. No wonder he was best friends with Gregory House. Giver and taker. Lock and key.

But he never saw Lisa Cuddy in those terms. Not at first at least.

As far as he saw it, both he and House wanted her. And he assumed she liked them back, in equal but different ways. House was the bad boy she wanted, despite herself, and he was the nice guy she might actually see a future with. (It was him, after all, not House, she had approached about possibly fathering her child.) It was a battle between equals. May the best man win.

He first realized that his assumptions were wrong when she and House kissed. It wasn't the fact of the kiss that surprised him—in truth, he was surprised that hadn't happened sooner. It was the circumstances behind it: Not in a moment of heated passion, in the middle of one of their infamous fights, but at a moment of vulnerability and reflection. Of course, it was possible that House was just taking advantage of Cuddy's fragile state of mind. But if so, why didn't he seal the deal? Why did he stop after "only a kiss"?

And House, of course, master deflector that he was, insisted the kiss meant nothing—sexual attraction meets opportunity, end of story, he said. He practically demanded that Wilson ask out Cuddy himself. So Wilson had marched down to Cuddy's office, fueled by a bit of jealousy, for sure, and made his move. Had she merely refused him that day it would have been bad enough. But it was worse. She didn't even take his proposition seriously. The thought of dating him hadn't even crossed her mind. As far as Cuddy was concerned, Wilson was a conduit to House, nothing more. Not a man, but a matchmaker.

So he tucked away his own desire for her, gallantly stepped aside, and dedicated himself to making his two best friends come clean about their feelings for each other—which was so very him, when you think about it. It was exhausting, too. So much denial, so many artificial road blocks, so many lost opportunities. And then House had his hallucination and his breakdown and suddenly . . . he was gone.

At first, Wilson hadn't seen this as his moment of sexual attraction meets opportunity. He was very upset about House and so was Cuddy. It was natural they would spend time together, consoling each other, replaying the events of the past few months, wondering how they had missed the signs.

And then one night, a switch of sorts just flipped inside him. He was meeting Cuddy at a bar after work (she knew that he and House had spoken on the phone that day, and wanted a full debriefing) and he saw the envious looks of other guys at the bar—so he was the lucky bastard meeting her—and he thought, Why NOT me?

Back in his high school days, he had often used his "sensitive guy" persona to get the girl. It worked this way: Typical teenage jerk does a girl wrong. Caring James Wilson swoops in to console her, all the while angling to get his hands under her blouse. It was surprisingly affective.

That had never been his intent with Cuddy. In his mind, she was already off-limits. She already belonged to House. (Although that first night, the night he dropped House off at Mayfield, she had wept in his arms, her breasts pressed up against his chest. "I just had no idea he was in so much pain," she kept saying. "I should've seen it.")

But as he approached her tonight at the bar—this beautiful, strong, sexy woman, sitting alone, waiting for him—the same thought kept creeping into his head: Why was he conceding Cuddy to House? When was the last time House sacrificed anything for him? Didn't House just take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it? If Wilson did pursue Cuddy, couldn't he just say he had learned from the best?

Especially now that he was armed with such a potentially explosive piece of information.

#####

He hugged her hello, partly for his own benefit and partly to show off to those envious guys at the bar.

"Cold out there," he said, taking off his coat and rubbing his hands together. He ordered a gin and tonic.

"How he is?" she asked, getting right down to business.

Don't bother to ask how I am first, Wilson thought, somewhat self-pityingly.

"He's better," he said. "He's clean. No hallucinations. He hates group therapy but he has a psychiatrist he actually seems to respect."

"A doctor House respects? Next you'll have me believing in unicorns," Cuddy said, with a smile.

"I know! The wonders never cease," Wilson said. "So yeah, all told, he's doing quite well."

"Did you, um, tell him you were seeing me tonight?" she asked. The high school flashback, once again, was vivid: Talking to the pretty girl about the boy she had a crush on.

"No, I forgot to mention it," he said.

"Did my name come up at all?" she asked. She was trying to sound casual, but there was a slight whiff of neediness right around the edges of her voice.

"No but . . ."—he hesitated for a second, because he was about to drop his bombshell—"there's something else House told me."

"Yeah?" she said, taking a cautious sip of her martini. "What's that?"

"He's seeing someone," Wilson said, eyeing her.

"Yeah, you told me. That psychiatrist . . ."

"No. Seeing as in dating," Wilson clarified.

He watched her absorb the news: Shock and dismay that gave way to continued feigned nonchalance.

"Wow. Good for him," she managed to say. "A. . .fellow patient?"

"The sister-in –law of a patient, apparently," Wilson said, still studying her. "Her name is Lydia."

"Wow," she repeated. "I must say, I'm surprised."

"Me too," Wilson said. "Frankly, I think House is a little surprised himself. But it's good for him."

"Yes," she said, shaking her head, as if trying to shake away an unpleasant thought. "I just. . .never expected him to. . ."

"No," Wilson said. "Me neither."

Cuddy began biting on the plastic toothpick that had come in her drink. She was lost in thought for a moment.

Finally, she blurted out: "So do you think that hallucination he had. . .was meaningless?"

"Meaningless?" Wilson said.

"I mean, obviously it wasn't meaningless. But I mean, my role in the fantasy."

Wilson considered that for a second.

"I think House's unconscious desires have not caught up to his conscious ones."

She wrinkled her nose a bit.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," she said.

"I mean, in his fantasy he wants you to be his lover and protector. In real life, he . . . tells you your ass looks big"

Cuddy gave a grim laugh.

"I thought that maybe when he got out of Mayfield. . ." her voice trailed off.

"Maybe what?"

"I thought that maybe he and I would be together. Like, finally no more games, no more lies, no more bullshit. Just two adults in an actual grownup relationship." Then she laughed in a self-deprecating way. "Lydia has clearly thrown a wrench in my theory."

"Counting on House to behave like a normal human being is . . ."

"Ridiculous, I know."

Wilson put on his concerned voice:

"He's just jerked you around so many times over the years. I hate to see you hurt like this again."

"The funny thing is, I had resigned myself to the fact that House I were never going have a relationship," she said. "There was this one day. . .I kind of made my intentions clear. He responded by being a crude jerk, then overcompensating with an overly extravagant gift. When I went to thank him for the gift, he was in his office with a hooker. I mean, if that wasn't a sign from the heavens, I don't know what was. That was the day I said to myself, 'Lisa, you got to let him go.'"

"So what changed?" Wilson said.

"All this," Cuddy said. "The hallucination. My role in it. I thought, 'He really does love me. It can't be denied any more.' But now he's sleeping with some new woman. It's like, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 840 times, shame on me, right?"

She chuckled grimly.

Wilson cleared his throat a bit. Glanced at her hopefully.

"Life would be so much easier if you only. . . returned my affections."

She started a bit.

"What?"

"I mean…you have to know I've had…feelings for you for quite some time," he said.

"Stop messing with me," she said.

"I'm not," Wilson said. "You really had no idea?"

She looked at him.

"I mean I. . . maybe a few times I caught you looking at me, but I just figured I looked good that day."

"Do you remember that day in your office—the day after you and House kissed?"

"You were messing with me," she said, musingly. "Pretending you were asking me out to get me to own up to my feelings about House." She stopped, suddenly getting it.

"You weren't messing with me then either," she said.

"No," Wilson said.

"Wilson. . . I . . .I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. It's no big deal. It's not like I can't be friends with you. Look, here we are! Friends!" He gave a sheepish smile. "I just. . .wish things could be different, you know? For you and for me. Sometimes I feel like we both spend so much time and energy worrying about House, we forget to worry about our owns needs."

"You know what, Wilson?" Cuddy said. "I think you're right."

She raised her glass. "To worrying about our own needs," she said.

And they clinked.

After that, the conversation turned to other things—work stuff, Rachel's potty training, this new BBC TV show they were both watching. And then Wilson walked Cuddy to her car.

"I had fun," Wilson said.

"Me too," Cuddy said.

"I hope that what I said in there didn't freak you out too much," he said.

"It didn't," she said. And then, much to his shock (and great delight), she leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

"What was that?" he said.

"That was my way of saying, 'Thank you for being a friend.'"

"That felt like more than just a 'thank you for being a friend' kiss."

"I don't know," she said, smiling. "Maybe it was."

######

So they began seeing each other. Their nights out became more like dates, with Wilson picking her up and kissing her goodnight. They talked about House, but less. And then one night, she invited him inside and then invited him into her bedroom and they made love.

For Wilson, sex with Cuddy was . . . revelatory. At first, he had to use his own high school trick—doing complicated math equations in his head—to keep from being the 2-minute man. Eventually, he got more relaxed about things. As for Cuddy? Well, suffice it to say, he never got any complaints.

The day House got out of Mayfield, they began talking about how they were going to break the news to him. On the one hand, sneaking behind House's back was never a good move. On the other, he seemed so vulnerable right now. Newly out of the institution, newly off drugs, still acclimating to life back at his old job, in his old apartment, which clearly still had ghosts for him. (Under different circumstances, Wilson might have asked House to move in with him for a bit. But, of course, that was clearly impossible.)

A week or so after House got home from Mayfield, Wilson and Cuddy lay side-by-side in his bed, discussing their strategy for telling House.

"I think we should do it together," Wilson said.

"I don't know," Cuddy said. "Don't you think he'll feel kind of ambushed? Ganged up on?"

"Yeah, maybe you're right. . ." Wilson said.

They were so deep in conversation, so focused on the best way to break the news, neither heard the key in the front door, nor the footsteps.

And then the door to Wilson's bedroom opened and House was standing there.

"Wilson, you old crone. Why are you asleep at 8 o clock at night?" he said, cheerfully.

Then he saw there was a woman in Wilson's bed.

"Oh shit," he said, flinching and holding his hand in front of his face, in mock dismay.

And then, he looked again, blinked several times, and realized that the woman was Cuddy. His face went white. His mouth hung open. He just stood there, unable able to move his legs.

"Sorry," he finally mumbled.

And he turned and left.

"House!" Cuddy yelled, starting to go after him. Wilson grabbed her arm.

"Let him go," he said.

"We need to talk to him, to explain," she said, somewhat desperately.

"He's better off on his own," Wilson said. "You know how he is. Let him stew for the night. We can talk to him tomorrow."

"I don't know, Wilson. I'm afraid he might do something . . . rash."

"He'll be okay," Wilson said evenly. "I promise."

Cuddy gave him a skeptical look.

"Okay," she said. "If you say so."

"I do," he said. He leaned over to give her a reassuring kiss, but she recoiled a bit.

"What a fucking disaster," she said, putting her head in her hands.

######