"Jackpot!"
It was almost too good to be true.
He'd always known that Cuddy kept a diary—she was simply too self involved to not record her every waking thought.
But surely she wouldn't be dumb enough to still have it on her work computer. Not when she knew about House's previous adventures in laptop larceny. (True, she had changed her password. But figuring out "Rachel's Mom" was hardly a CIA-level security breach.)
He half thought it was a prank. Scanned the first letters of each sentence to see if they spelled out F-U-C-K-Y-O-U-H-O-U-S-E.
But the diary was clearly real. It was too long—over 50,000 words—and too dull (for the most part) to be a fake.
He copied the file onto a disk, stealthily returned the computer to Cuddy's office, then popped the disk into his laptop. Then he stretched out his legs, and leaned back in his office chair.
This was going to be good.
He scanned the pages looking for something interesting (i.e., about him). The entries started 18 months ago, right before he and Cuddy had gotten together.
Yoga, blah, blah, blah. Nurse Jeffrey, blah, blah, blah. Cute Rachel moment. Another cute Rachel moment. Aaaaand another cute Rachel moment.
He stifled a yawn. Kept reading.
Found this:
Today Lucas asked me point blank if I was still in love with H. I said no. He accused me of lying. Not so much to him, but to myself. He said that H. would always come between us—and that he found it increasingly hard to compete. I denied it, of course, but was he right? Am I still in love with H.?
"Sorry, pal," House said to himself. "She was mine first."
He read ahead.
Went to H.'s office tonight. I miss him. I miss us—the challenges. The games. Even his stupid lewd comments. But he was in no mood to play. Seemed melancholy. I told him I wanted to be friends again and he said, "That's the last thing I want us to be." Where was this H. a year ago? That day in his office when he grabbed my boob—a frat boy prank when I was searching for real intimacy. Is it because he's off the vicodin? He's no longer masking his pain—emotionally or physically. I'm proud of him. And I'll support his sobriety, even if it means I can't be part of his life. But I wish things were different.
House guiltily regarded the half-empty bottle of vicodin that was on his desk.
Blinked. Went back to reading.
The most important two days of my life. . . I took the leap.
"Here we go," House said.
All a blur right now. I'll write more later. But I want to record a few impressions: Lucas's face when I told him it was over. Sad, but not surprised. Almost like he expected it.
H.'s scar: I touched it. Kissed it. I've never felt so close to him, or anyone. The scar is a symbol of us—of what we built, of how we've struggled, of all we mean to each other. I could practically live in that scar.
"Wow. Kinky," House said, rubbing his leg.
I'm scared but excited about this new chapter in my life. It would've been so easy to stay with Lucas, to play it safe. But then I would've been left with a lifetime of "what if?" I have to know if H. and I can work. I have to answer the single biggest question of my adult life.
"Spoiler alert," House muttered bitterly. "The answer is no." He turned back to the screen.
"I'm an insane choice for someone with a kid," H. said. And he's right. But I feel exhilarated, like I can take on the world—like we can take on the world together. I feel it in my bones that we're meant to be together. After all, sex this great has to mean something, right?
House grinned. "Atta girl," he said. Remembered that first day together, holed up in his apartment, like they were the only two people on earth.
He wanted to find more parts about sex. Skimmed.
Instead got to this.
H. came over for dinner tonight. I was so afraid of how he would be around Rachel. So much of being around a child is pretending to care, pretending that you're interested. But H. is incapable of those kinds of social niceties, even toward a 2 year old. So he didn't coo, he didn't coddle, he didn't ruffle her hair. But Rachel seemed to like him all the same. Maybe she appreciated that an adult was being real with her. She even sang a song for him. Looks like my little girl likes brilliant, complicated, damaged men as much I do. . .Uh oh. Got to watch out for that.
House smiled, thought about Rachel for a second and that dumb song. It had something to do with unicorns.
"What are you reading?"
He practically jumped out of his skin.
"Jesus Wilson! A little throat clearing or a knock or something to warn a guy."
"I did knock. You were so engrossed you didn't hear me. What are you reading?"
Wilson tried to peer around to the front of the computer.
"It's Cuddy's diary," House said. "Really juicy stuff."
Wilson frowned. "Fine. If you don't want to tell me, just say so."
"I don't want to tell you," House said.
"You want to get a beer?"
"No, I think I'm going take this super top secret document home and finish reading it," House said.
"Raincheck?" Wilson said, filled with hope, as ever.
"Definitely," House said.
#####
At home, he poured himself a glass of scotch, sat on the couch, and prayed for something less "self-help book" and more "Penthouse Forum."
Dominika was gone for the night. Clubbing with her boyfriend. She'd be home late, if at all.
He read this:
Sex with H. is a revelation. He's so much more tender than I would've expected. So vulnerable.
Vulnerable? He frowned. Christ.
He impatiently skimmed forward. Finally got to this.
Lying in bed, touching myself, thinking about H.
Eureka!
God, I want to be with him tonight, I want his hands all over my body, I want to hear him whisper my name. I want him to fill me up, to be inside me. But I can't smother him. Intuitively, I know I have to give him space. So looks like tonight, it's me and Mr. Pinky. LOL.
Mr. Pinky was Cuddy's vibrator. It wasn't quite Penthouse Forum but it would have to do. House put his hand down his pants. Thought about Cuddy, all alone in her bed, masturbating to the thought of him. Went to the bathroom, masturbated himself. Came back. Took a gulp of scotch and continued reading.
The nurses gossip about us. Ask me what House is like as a boyfriend. I tell them its none of their business. But they can see me smiling all the time. They can see how happy I am.
House grinned again, despite himself. I made her happy, he thought proudly. For a little while at least, I made her happy.
Then he read this:
Work has become a minefield. How do I balance my duties as an administrator and my duties as a girlfriend? If only H. would meet me halfway. But he never compromises, on anything. Sometimes, I just want to run away together. To some remote island. Just me and H. and Rachel. But who am trying to kid? He'd miss his puzzles. I'd miss the power…We have to find a way to make this work in Princeton. This is the real world and we have to live in it.
It only got worse from there.
His neediness is vast, like an ocean. It fills up all the empty space. I take care of Rachel, I take care of the hospital, I take care of H. But who takes care of me?
"I could've taken care of you," House thought grimly, "if you'd just given me a chance."
His mind flashed to Cuddy lying alone in that hospital bed, thinking she was dying. Waiting and waiting and waiting for him to come. He sighed.
"Mr. Doctor House, you want the sex?"
It was Dominika, home from her club. Staggering a bit in her do-me pumps and a skin-tight dress.
"Why not?" he said—quite possibly the most diffident response to that question in the history of mankind.
And so he had sex with his fake wife while thinking about the real woman who used to sleep in his bed, the woman he had loved and disappointed, the one who got away.
######
"I need your expense report, House. Today."
Cuddy looked pissed.
For a second, he felt like they had shared something intimate last night. But then he remembered that they hadn't. In fact, they hadn't talked—not in any meaningful way—since the split.
Guilt wasn't normally in his repertoire. It was for chumps. But he was suddenly uncomfortable in her presence. He felt his face redden. He compensated, in his usual way.
"Do you mind if I submit it in rubles?" he asked.
She grimaced.
"So your whore is doing your expense reports now?"
"She's not a whore. She's my wife. Well, wife/whore. Whwife. And she's actually a well known mathematician in the Mother Land."
Cuddy shook her head.
"Look, I don't care if your whore does it, if the accountant for the Russian mafia does it, if Alan Greenspan himself does it—just get it to me by tomorrow. It's a month overdue."
"She also scrubs windows. And by scrubs windows, I mean. . ."
But Cuddy had already walked out of his office and didn't wait to hear the second half of his joke.
#######
That night, he poured more scotch and settled in with Cuddy's diary. Dominika was in his bedroom, listening to some sort of godawful Russian disco music. She had the headphones on and the door closed, but he could still hear the pulsating beat.
He put some Coltrane on to drown out the noise. Started reading, with some dread. It was like watching a movie where you know the lead character is going to get offed at the end.
Feeling so alone right now. Am I dying? I'm so scared. The tranquilizers aren't helping. I'm literally shaking. Where the hell is H.?
House involuntarily shuddered. Skipped ahead.
I've got to stop crying. Rachel can't see me like this. Breaking up with H. was the hardest thing I've ever done. But it was the right thing to do. I know it was. I wish it didn't hurt so much. I wish I was stronger. I need to be stronger, for her sake.
"You're plenty strong, Cuddy," House thought to himself, taking a swig.
He read on.
Wilson is begging me to give H. a second chance. But if Wilson really cared about me, he wouldn't pressure me. Of course, Wilson will always be loyal to H. first. It's who he is.
House raised his glass in a toast to his absent best friend. Kept reading.
Only once before was I on the receiving end of H.'s rage like this. It's overwhelming, truly terrifying. I know he wants to hurt me as much as I hurt him, but it won't work. He will not break me. In a strange way, he's actually helping me. His abuse diminishes my guilt over his vicodin use, his emotional meltdown. If he wants to remind me why I broke up with him, he's doing a damn good job.
"Well, shit," House muttered. Not quite the response he had been looking for.
He read on: More stuff about what an ass House was being at work. House actually cringed at some of the recaps. Really? Motorized airplanes while she was giving a tour to some trustees? Fake "Out of Order" signs on the bathroom doors? Handing out cigars and spreading a false rumor that Dominika was pregnant with his child?
"God, I'm a dick," he said.
Then he read this:
Can't seem to find the Star of David necklace Dad gave me. Afraid it fell under the bed at H.'s. I want it back but can't ask him for it. He's not in the mood to do me any favors right now. He'll find some way to use it against me.
Jesus Cuddy, I'm not that much of an asshole, he thought. He went into his bedroom, startling Dominika, and crawled under the bed, searching for the necklace.
Dominika's face appeared, upside down. "You want the sex, Mr. Doctor House?" she asked.
He thought about that day, under the bed with Cuddy. The beginning of the end.
"No," he said wearily. "But you take the bed. I'm not going to get any sleep tonight anyway."
######
"I think this is yours?"
He stood in Cuddy's office, dangling the necklace in front of her.
Her eyes lit up.
"My necklace!" She smiled at him for the first time in months. "Where did you find it?"
"It was under the bed. I was reliving the good ol' days."
She ignored his comment.
He handed her the necklace. She stared at it, like she couldn't believe it was real.
"Thank you, House. This actually means a lot to me."
"No big deal," he said with a shrug. And left.
######
He read this that night:
In my fantasy, we can have some sort of truce. He'll come to me and apologize for his behavior, say that he's sorry he let me down, that he understands why I had to leave him. Then and only then can we start to rebuild our friendship. . . It's a pipe dream, I know, but a girl can hope.
######
The next day, in line at the cafeteria. He bumped his tray into hers.
"I'm sorry I let you down," he said quietly.
"What?" she said.
Her voice was accusatory.
"The rain," he said quickly. "It's really coming down."
She slightly cocked her head. "Really? It wasn't even cloudy this morning."
"Flash flood," he said, took a bagel without paying for it, and limped back to his office.
######
He had reached the end of her diary. He went back over the good parts: I want his hands all over my body. . . To fill me up. . .They can see how happy I am.
He waited a week, then broke into her office to pick up the latest installment.
#####
I've met someone. His name is Paul Goldblatt and he's a venture capitalist and he looks like that doctor guy on Grey's Anatomy, the one they call McDreamy.
House rolled his eyes. Kept reading.
Judy in Human Resources has been trying to fix us up for months. I just wasn't ready. Now I'm glad I waited. He's confident and charming and comfortable in his own skin in a way that gives me inner peace. And he loves children! The first time we went out, we kissed good night and I actually felt weak in my knees. I'm making him dinner tonight and Mom is watching Rachel. Is tonight the night?
Oh Cuddy, Cuddy, Cuddy, what are you doing?
He read on, anxiously.
Paul is an amazing lover. Different from H.—more understated, less eager to please. Of course, he's got nothing he needs to compensate for.
House practically spit out his scotch. "That bitch!" he said out loud. He looked down despairingly at his pajama bottoms. What happened to "I want him fill me up"? She'd never complained before.
He's funny, smart, sexy, well-adjusted. I think I've found the man who is finally going to make me forget Dr. Gregory House once and for all.
Well, fuck me. He scrolled forward.
But he had reached the end of the page.
########
He saw her the next day at work. Was it his imagination or was her blouse a little more lowcut, her hair a little more fussed over, her makeup a little fresher? And was she. . .glowing?
"Big plans tonight, Dr. Cuddy?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I'm just going to spend the night curled up with my hooker, watching The Real Housewives of Jersey, and taking unprescribed narcotics. Oh no wait. . .that's you."
"Cute. But seriously. . .you smell like you're in heat. Hot date?"
"Wow. Words can't express how none of your business that is, House."
"I'll take that as a yes," he said.
"You can take it any way you like, House," she said. "I really don't care."
######
He wanted to break into her office and read her diary that night, but there was no point. Sometimes she went days without posting. He'd wait a week, even if it killed him.
So he did the next best thing: Went to Wilson's office.
"Is Cuddy seeing someone?" he demanded.
"You mean, like a therapist?"
"No, like a man. Like a new boyfriend. Someone with great hair."
Wilson put on his concerned voice: "If she is, she hasn't told me about it."
"Doesn't she seem to be in an exceptionally good mood lately?" House asked.
"Cuddy? Really? Because I'd say between the two of you it's been like a production of Les Miserables in this hospital."
He looked up, proud of his joke. House didn't give him the satisfaction of smiling.
"Keep an eye on her, Wilson. She's up to something."
######
A week later, he finally had his hands on her diary.
Scrolled through lots of boring stuff about a board meeting, then something about Rachel having a fever, then something about HIPAA complaint.
Then he got to this:
Paul and I are going away this weekend, to Mont Saint-Michel. It's my dream vacation and the most romantic place on earth. It's the right place, the right time, with the right man. To think I almost went with H. . .
It was Friday. She would already be on the plane. House felt physically sick to his stomach. Stumbled to the bathroom, tried to throw up, but couldn't.
Then he went rummaging through his drawer for his passport.
#######
He wasn't totally sure what he planned to do when he got there. Ruin her weekend, at a minimum. And maybe, just maybe, convince her to take him back.
It was completely illogical, of course:
Hey baby, I read your diary, invaded your most private thoughts, and humiliated you in front of your new boyfriend. Wanna get back together?
Not exactly a means of establishing a new trust.
But he felt driven, slightly crazed. There was no way Cuddy was going to have a romantic weekend with this guy. Not at the place they had talked about vacationing together. Not at the place he had once thought, in a weak moment—after some particularly great sex, with Cuddy curled up asleep in his arms—that he might spend his honeymoon.
#########
After a 7 hour flight, he rented a crappy little Renault at the airport and drove 5 more hours to Mont Saint-Michel. He was exhausted, hungry, anxious. Of course, there was huge flight of stairs to get to the front desk ("Mont" did mean mountain, after all). He limped up, holding the guard rail for dear life. It was 2 in the morning, French time.
He rang the bell at the front desk.
An elderly man came out, looked very surprised to see him.
"Do you speak English?" House asked.
"A little," the man said, indicating with his thumb and forefinger just how little he spoke.
"I'm looking for one of your guests: Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"
"Monsieur, I am not at liberty to tell you who is staying in this hotel."
"She's my wife," House said. It was a lie he had devised on the plane for just this purpose. "And I think she's having an affair. I've been traveling all day."
The old man regarded House warily. The day's growth of beard, stale breath, and wrinkled clothing certainly gave off the whiff of a desperate man.
He reluctantly regarded his ledger.
"I am sorry, Monsieur. There is nobody by that name staying here."
"What about Paul. Uh, Paul Goldblatt?"
The man looked down.
"No, Monsieur."
"Are you sure?"
"Oui! Tres, tres sure."
House suddenly had a bolt of memory. Thanksgiving. Standing in the doorway of Cuddy's sister's house.
It hit him like a ton of bricks. He had been played.
The look on his face must've registered his shock.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur. Perhaps it is good that your wife is not here, yes? Perhaps she changed her mind?"
House nodded mutely. Finally he said, "I guess I'll take a room for the night."
The old man laughed, like House had just said something very stupid.
"Monsieur, Mont Saint-Michel is booked up several months in advance. We have no rooms."
House rubbed his neck wearily. "Can I at least get something to eat?"
"This is not—how you say—the Holiday Inn, Monsieur. The kitchen is closed for the night."
House thought about the long drive back to the airport, the long flight, the wasted trip, the fact that Cuddy had completely torpedoed him.
"Thanks for you help," he said sadly. And started limping toward the door.
"Monsieur," the old man said. He had gone into the back room and emerged with a brown bag. "My wife packed me this snack. I believe you need it more than I do."
House was too hungry and tired to protest. He peered in the bag. It had a ham sandwich on a baguette and an apple.
"Thanks," he said. "You know, you French people really get a bum rap."
########
On Monday, she came to his office to gloat.
"Monsieur House, I presume?" she asked.
He was still angry, humiliated. But he had to acknowledge her victory.
"Touché," he said dryly.
She sat down in the chair.
"You're an idiot," she said.
"Rubbing it in is not very sportsmanlike."
"I never thought you'd actually go to Mont Saint Michel. I was just trying to make you jealous."
"Jealousy is for amateurs," he said wearily. "I am a man of action."
She shook her head.
"What exactly did you plan to do when you got there?"
"I hadn't thought ahead that far."
She bit her nail, looked at him.
"You know you had it coming. My diary, House? Really? That's a new low, even for you."
"How long have you known?" he said.
"The necklace made me suspicious. 'I'm sorry I let you down' was the clincher."
"I didn't think you heard that," he said.
"I wasn't sure what I heard. It took me a while to process it."
"So Paul?"
"You mean McDreamy?" she said, smiling. "A total figment of my imagination."
"So you weren't displeased with my. . uh. . dimensions?"
Cuddy shook her head, laughing. "Men are so predictable. I write about Paul giving me emotional and spiritual support and this is what you worry about. No House. My imaginary boyfriend does not have a bigger penis than you do."
"Good," he said.
"So was it nice?" she said. There was something almost dreamy in her voice.
"Was what nice?"
"Mont Saint Michel, of course."
"I dunno. It was dark. I was tired. It seemed kind of like a big castle. The guy at the front desk gave me a sandwich."
He realized he was making no sense. He was still exhausted from his weekend's travels.
Cuddy sighed.
"House. . .can we just call a truce?" she said finally. "I'm sick of all this hostility between us."
"Me too," he said. "Okay, a truce."
He held out his hand. She took it, but instead of shaking it, she surprised him by pressing it to her lips.
"Goodnight House," she said, slowly letting go.
"Cuddy?"
"Yes House?"
"I really am sorry I let you down."
She continued to look at him. It was clear she was trying to work something out in her mind.
"House, I made you take a 15 hour journey to the end of the earth, the least I can do is buy you dinner. Hungry?"
"Dear diary," quoted House. "My vanquishing of House was so thorough and overwhelming, I took pity on him and bought him dinner."
She laughed.
"More like this. Dear Diary: Why can't I ever get Gregory House out of my heart?"
They left his office together.