Hey gang: Long time no see! Que pasa?
Sorrrrrrrry about the long hiatus. I was actually trying to cut back on my fic output, for a variety of reasons (mostly because it's an unhealthy addiction and I should probably be in a 12-step program, LOL), but this break was particularly long because I experienced a personal loss and wasn't really up for writing.
Anyway, I'm back!
Many of you will recognize the inspiration for this fic right away. When I wrote the scene where Wilson bailed Cuddy out of jail in Can't Help it, I thought, "Doh! This would've been such a great House/Cuddy moment." So I went with it.
It was supposed to be a one-shot but it got too long. Not sure when I'll be able to finish the rest (hopefully this weekend), but I thought I'd post what I have, which is pretty substantial. Hope you enjoy!
And to those who propped me up and made me feel the love during this rough time (you know who you are), I can't thank you all enough. xoxo, atd
Cuddy was gazing into the jewelry case at Harlowe's department store, trying to decide if she really needed another Chan Luu bracelet, when she heard her name being called.
She turned.
It was Bev Murphy, a friend from yoga. She was accompanied by her somewhat hyperactive 4 year old son, Zach.
The two women embraced and began chatting breezily about the rainy weather they'd been having, the new tapas restaurant in town, and then—in lower voices—about a woman in yoga who had recently gained an alarming amount of weight.
After a while, little Zach. who had began tugging on his mother's pant leg, began yelling with increasing volume and intensity: "Mom! Mom! Moooooooom!" as Bev did her level best to ignore him.
(It was moments like this when Cuddy actually wondered if it was for the best that she had recently failed to conceive a child.)
Another hug—followed by a vague promise to "do lunch"—and Bev yanked her little boy toward the handbag department, hissing in his ear, "What did mommy tell you about letting her talk to her friends?"
Cuddy smiled a bit—Zach was cute despite the permanent sugar high—and went back to the bracelet, ultimately deciding against it.
She looked at her watch. About 7:30. She would stop by the gourmet market on the way home, pick up a quick dinner, and maybe even take a hot bubble bath tonight. A rare night of indulgence.
She had just made it to the exit, when an alarm sounded.
She looked around, wondering which sap had been caught with an accidental security tag still on their purchase, and then realized she was the only one in the doorway.
Cuddy rolled her eyes. She hadn't even bought anything. These stores really needed to get their sensors together.
She stopped, expecting to be waved ahead with a sheepish "no worries, it happens all the time" smile by some helpful store clerk. Instead, a security guard approached her.
"Ma'am, I need you to follow me," he said.
"What? Why?" Cuddy said, annoyed. "I didn't take anything. Your sensor must be broken."
"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," the guard said apologetically. "But you still need to follow me."
Cuddy looked around, half-angry, half-embarrassed.
Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she followed the guard into his cramped office.
"I'm sorry, but I need to look in your bag," he said.
"This is ridiculous," she said. She considered muttering something about constitutional rights, but figured it was just best to get things over with.
She opened the bag with a "told you so!" look on her face.
Much to her shock, a Chan Luu bracelet was in her purse.
Her mouth dropped open.
"I didn't! . . .I never! . . ." she sputtered.
"Care to explain how this bracelet got in your bag, ma'am?" His tone had changed. From slightly apologetic, to accusatory.
"I literally have no idea!" she said.
"Well, it didn't just walk in there itself, did it?" he said.
"No. . .it must've fallen in," she said. "I guess I accidentally hit it with my elbow or something." But even as she said it, the words seemed implausible. Then it dawned on her. "It was Zach!" she said. "My friend's son. He's four. He was fidgeting around. He must've dropped the bracelet in my bag."
"Your son, ma'am?"
"No, not my son. I just said: My friend's son."
The guard looked around the office theatrically.
"I don't see any little boys. I just see a $200 bracelet in your purse."
"Why would I steal a bracelet? I obviously have the money. . ."
"People steal for all sorts of reasons, ma'am. Rarely it's because of need."
"This is absurd. Look at me. Do I look like a criminal to you?"
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to call the police, Miss—what did you say your name was?"
"It's Cuddy. Doctor Lisa Cuddy."
"Dr. Cuddy, we're going to be here for a while. You probably want to take a seat."
#######
She was arrested, booked, and granted one phone call, just like in the movies.
And for a second, she froze.
She couldn't call the hospital lawyer, because she wanted to keep this as private as possible.
Julia would get all judgmental, as she did.
Wilson would flit about in a panic, with no idea how to handle things.
She was simply be too mortified to call any of her friends or colleagues
There was really only one person to call, much to her horror.
So she dialed.
"I don't want any," House said into the phone.
"House, it's Cuddy. I need your help."
"Finally!" he joked. "Yes, you can have some of my sperm. And . . .what number are you calling from? Are you actually at the sperm bank? Because I'm not sure I'm in the mood. . .Unless you want to manually service. . ."
"House, I'm at the Trenton Police Department."
"Your lack of adequate sperm donations hardly constitutes a police emergency, Cuddy. Or are you looking for candidates among the cops? Firefighters I hear also make excellent. . ."
"House—focus! I'm at the police department because I've been arrested! I need you to post my bail."
There was a pause, and then a loud laugh.
"You're joking, right? What did you do? Nag somebody to death?"
"House. Why on earth would I joke about something like this? They claim I shoplifted. It's all a big mistake. I need you to come get me."
He suddenly realized she was serious: "Why'd you call me? I mean, why not Wilson? Or your sister?"
"I thought. . .maybe you had some experience with this sort of thing."
He sighed.
"I do," he said, gently. "You're going to have to spend the night in a holding cell, okay? Don't talk to anybody unless they talk to you first. Don't complain about anything or call attention to yourself in any way. Just stay calm and try to get some sleep. I'll be there first thing in the morning."
The tenderness in his voice almost made her lose it for a second. When House got serious, you knew things were really bad.
"Thanks House," she said, choking back a tear.
"You're re going to be okay, Cuddy," he said. And hung up.
####
"Lisa Cuddy," they called. "You've posted bail."
Despite House's suggestion, she had gotten little sleep. She had sat awake—twitchy and on edge—all night. Every time she managed to nod off, she woke with a start. She felt like one of those mafia guys who slept with a gun on his lap, knowing there was a hit out on him.
She was tired, dirty, hungry, and badly needed to pee.
House was waiting in the reception area.
When he saw her, he stifled a smile.
"Morning sunshine," he said.
"Don't laugh at me, House," she said, pointing. "It's not funny."
"I know it's not. Well, okay, maybe a little."
"Shut up," she said. "Let's just leave."
He jerked his head toward the desk clerk.
"You have to sign for your stuff," he said. "Unless you prefer to leave your wallet and shoes with the cops. The world's first reverse shoplifting."
She signed for her stuff and followed House to his car.
"You want to tell me what happened?" he said, opening the door for her.
"I was framed," she said. "By a sticky-fingered four year old."
He laughed.
"Never wise to make enemies out of criminal mastermind toddlers," he said.
She shrugged, put on her seatbelt.
He sniffed the air.
"You have a lovely bouquet this morning— a sort of Eau de Felon."
"Shut up," she moped, curling herself more deeply into the car seat.
He gave a small smile.
"You'll be home and in your own bed—and shower—in no time," he said, side-eyeing her, amused.
She suddenly bolted up, straight.
"No!" she said. "I can't go home."
"Cuddy, I know you put the 'aholic' in work-aholic, but you really need to go home and at least change and shower. Even by my somewhat suspect grooming standards. . ."
"No, I mean, I can't go to my house because my neighbor, Mrs. Morgenstern will see me."
"So what? Do you owe her money?"
"No," Cuddy said, closing her eyes. "She's like a one-woman neighborhood patrol. Nothing gets past her watchful eyes."
"Big deal. Let her think you have a wild social life."
"There's 'wild social life' and then there's looking like a homeless crackhead," Cuddy said, inspecting herself in the windshield mirror glumly.
"Good point." House chuckled.
"Did I mention that she's best friends with my mother?"
"Ha, your mom probably befriended her for her excellent Cuddy-spying skills."
"That's probably true," Cuddy sighed.
"So what's the plan then? We could sneak you through the back door."
"Mrs. Morgenstern has eyes in the back of her head. She's like the KGB. There no way to get in my house without being seen. Trust me on this."
"What then?"
"We could go back to your place."
He almost slammed on the brakes in shock.
"My place?"
"Why not? You have a shower, right? Towels? A bed?"
Somehow, the thought of Cuddy in his shower and on his bed made him feel funny.
"I don't have a change of clothes for you. Those rumors about me being a crossdresser are false"
"I have a change of clothes at the office. I'll just take a nap, take a shower, and wear what I'm wearing until I get to work."
She looked down at her rumpled, soiled clothing in dismay.
"Maybe I could at least borrow an iron?"
House snorted loudly.
"Of course," she said. "How stupid me. You don't own an iron. Maybe you should just take me straight to the office."
"No," House said firmly. "Mi casa es su casa. Just let me clear out the hookers and hypodermic needles first." He eyed her, to see if she smiled at his joke. She didn't.
He drove quickly toward his apartment.
#######
She had been to his place before, but never for any extended period of time.
Considering how sloppy he always looked, his apartment was surprisingly clean.
The bathroom was scrubbed, with stainless steel hardware so polished, you could see your face in it. He handed her a towel. It was white and fluffy.
"Shower's there," he said, pointing. "I don't have any of those girly potions you like. But I have, uh, soap."
"Good," she said.
He nodded at her. Then stood there, expectantly, his hands jammed in his pockets.
"I think I've got it from here, House," she said, with a tiny smile.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, right," he said. "But I'm an excellent back washer, in case you need any assistance."
"Good to know," she said. "But I'm good."
He reluctantly backed away.
"I'll be right outside that door, in case you change your mind," he said, closing the door behind him.
Cuddy waited until she was sure he was gone and kicked off her pumps. Then she took off her grubby business suit, leaving it in a heap on the floor.
She turned on the water to near scalding. It immediately had a calming effect. She smiled at House's choice of grooming supplies: A sort of old-fashioned looking bottle of liquid that apparently worked as both soap and shampoo. Conditioner was, needless to say, too much to ask for. She squirted some of the soap in her hands. It smelled slightly of mint.
She couldn't help feeling a little . . . funny about being naked, rubbing soap all over her body, with House just a few feet away, right outside the door. It was a heady combination of being both worried that he would barge in on her and feeling slightly bummed that he didn't.
She tried to focus on anything else besides House stepping onto the bath mat, taking off his jeans and t-shirt, getting into the shower, and putting his strong arms around her.
Well, there was always the disgusting court case that loomed before her. According to the guard at Harlowe's, she'd probably get off with a fine, maybe some community service.
"No one actually spends more than one night in jail for a first offense of shoplifting," he said.
"Except I didn't shoplift!" Cuddy countered.
"Oh yeah," he said skeptically. "That."
But even that troubling thought was blocked out by a sudden feeling of exhaustion that overcame her. It had been the longest night of her life. She could barely stand in the shower. She turned off the water, wrapped herself tightly in a towel, and stepped onto the bath mat.
She looked at her dirty pile of clothing. She felt way too clean and refreshed to even think about putting them back on. She hoped against hope that House had a bathrobe on a hook. No such luck.
So, making sure the towel was secure, she stepped out of the bathroom.
House was sitting on his couch. When he saw her, his mouth dropped open for a second. Then he recovered.
"Remind me to buy smaller towels," he said, inspecting her up and down.
"Adorable, House," she said.
He smiled.
"Feel better?"
"Feel exhausted. Can I maybe borrow a tee-shirt and a pair of sweats to take a nap in?"
"Just for the record, I have zero problem—socially or politically—with you sleeping in the nude," he said.
"House."
He smiled again.
"Coming right up," he said.
He limped into the bedroom, came back with a pair of sweatpants and one of his old graphic tees.
She went into the bathroom and changed. The sweats were swimming on her.
"C'mere," he said.
He pulled her toward him, his hands firm around her hips. She gasped for a moment. Then he did some sort of move where he folded over the waistband and tied a fancy knot with the drawstring to make the pants tighter.
"Better?" he said.
"Better," she admitted.
"I'll be here when you wake up," he said.
"No," she said. "It's 11 am. You have a case. You should go to the hospital."
It was true. His pager had sounded at least 5 times in the last hour.
"How will you get to the hospital?"
"I'll call a cab."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Go to work. I'll see you in a few hours."
He hesitated.
"Okay," he said.
"And House?"
"Yeah Cuddy."
"Thanks."
He nodded at her, and left.
She walked into the bedroom, set her cell phone alarm to wake her up in two hours and fell asleep literally the minute her head hit the pillow.
She was so exhausted, it didn't quite process how strange it was to be sleeping in his bed, a tasteful shade of taupe, with pleasingly scratchy gray pillows made of a thick cotton, that smelled faintly of his musk.
She woke up, disoriented at first, then remembered where she was. What a surreal night! She wandered into the kitchen.
House had left a set of keys with a note for her on the table:
Was in the mood to ride my bike.
You can drive my car to work.
But don't steal it.
-House
She looked out the window. It was raining.
#######
Here was the thing about House: He could be so tender, so considerate one minute—to the point where Cuddy found herself asking, "Why on earth aren't I in a relationship with him?"— and back to his usual asshole ways the next.
Over the course of the next few days, he took every opportunity to mock and bait her.
At a differential, he refused to hand her a file until she washed her hands.
"She has sticky fingers," he explained to his team.
At lunch with her and Wilson, he said that he was testing new ring tones on his phone.
"Do you like this one?" he said—playing "Back on the Chain Gang"—"or this one?"—"Jailhouse Rock."
"I've always loved the Pretenders," Wilson said, munching on his sandwich.
Another lunch, just the two of them this time, he insisted on calling her "Winona"—as in famed celebrity shoplifter Winona Ryder—the whole time.
Then, a few days after House sprung her from jail, she was sitting in her office, when a cop, in full uniform barged in.
"Dr. Cuddy?" the cop said.
She looked up, shocked—and more than slightly alarmed.
"I've got a warrant here . . ."
"A warrant?"
"Yes . . . for your heart."
And he proceeded to turn on a small radio in his back pocket—a thumping dance beat—and start to disrobe.
Her mouth dropped open.
"Are you out of your mind?" she said.
"I'm just working my beat, ma'am," he said, unbuttoning his shirt and swiveling his hips.
"Stop!" she yelled.
"In the name of love?" he asked, in that smarmy stripper sort of way.
"No. Just stop!"
"Or I'll shoot?" he said, unbuckling his belt, with a wink.
"No! Literally, stop."
Mid hip-gyration, he froze.
"Oh," he said, getting it.
He turned off the music and began pulling up his pants.
"You do realize that this is a place of business, don't you?" Cuddy said, glaring at him.
"Your assistant said you were the one who hired me," he sputtered.
"Me?"
"Yeah, he said you had a thing for cops and had some sort of fantasy about a stripper cop in your office."
"My assistant is a woman," Cuddy said. House was so dead.
"I'm still getting paid, right?" the stripper said, as he buttoned his shirt. "The contract stipulates I get paid whether I complete the routine or not."
Cuddy stared at him. Finally, she rolled her eyes, pulled out her checkbook: "How much do I owe you?"
#######
A few weeks later, Cuddy wandered into the DDx room. House's team was sitting around the table, looking bored. Chase was flipping through a magazine. Cameron was twirling her hair. Foreman actually yawned.
When they noticed her, they all straightened up and tried to look busy.
"Where's House?" she said.
"He lost a patient two days ago," Cameron said.
"I know he did," Cuddy said. "That's why I'm here. We have some paperwork to go over."
"House always calls in 'sick' the day after a patient dies," Chase said. He put the word "sick" in air quotes.
"By sick, he means he goes on a bender," Foreman explained.
"I'm well aware of that," Cuddy said. "That was yesterday. What I want to know is why isn't he here today?"
"I guess he took this death particularly hard," Cameron said.
Cuddy frowned.
"Why?"
"He's actually lot more sensitive than you think," Cameron said.
Everyone shot her a look.
"Maybe he. . .actually connected with this patient," she stammered.
"This is House we're talking about," Foreman said. "He doesn't do connection."
"Whatever the case, it's probably for the best that he stays away," Chase said nervously. "For all parties involved."
"House is enough of a jerk when he's happy," Foreman agreed. "When he's depressed, he's deadly."
Cuddy folded her arms.
"Okay," she said. "But if he's not back by tomorrow, we have a serious problem."
But the next day, House still hadn't come to work.
"This is unusual," Chase admitted. "He's never gone more than a day before."
"Cameron, go get him," Cuddy said.
"Me?" Cameron said. She was slightly afraid of going to House's place when he was in a bad way, but equally flattered that Cuddy had assigned her this important task. Even Cuddy could see that she and House had a special relationship.
"Yes," Cuddy said. "He's less likely to deck you."
Both Chase and Foreman shrugged in agreement.
"What am I supposed to say to him?"
"Tell him that Cuddy sent you and it's time for him to get off his self-pitying ass and come back to work."
Cameron left for her important mission, but not before stopping in the ladies room to check her makeup and brush her hair.
Later that day, Cuddy swung back by the DDx room. Still no House.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"He, uh, wouldn't leave his apartment," Cameron said. Then she added: "Or his room."
"What do you mean he wouldn't leave his room?'
"He told me to go away."
"Did you convey my message?"
"More or less," Cameron muttered.
"What was the less part?"
"I may not have technically used the phrase 'self-pitying ass.''"
Cuddy shook her head.
"Did his royal highness say when he planned on gracing us with his presence?"
"He said tomorrow."
Cuddy rolled her eyes.
"Fine," she said.
She returned the next day. Still no House.
"Now where is he?" she demanded.
"He called in sick again," Cameron said.
"You've got to be joking," Cuddy said.
And she stormed out.
She marched straight to Wilson's office.
"I need you to go get him," she said.
"Who?"
"You know who," she said.
"House?"
"No, Jimmy Hoffa. Of course, House."
"He's grieving."
"His grandmother didn't die Wilson. His patient did."
"And House didn't solve the case. You know how much that throws off his equilibrium."
"One day of moping maybe I could understand. We're on our fourth day."
"It is a bit indulgent, even by his standards," Wilson admitted.
"Go get him," Cuddy said.
"Me?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that. Yes, you. His best friend. Tell him to come back to work or he's on probation."
"Isn't that a little. . .extreme?"
"He's a doctor. He can't go all Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas on me every time he loses a patient. It's not sustainable."
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
"BRING HIM BACK, Wilson."
"Okay," Wilson peeped, slightly afraid of her.
But two hours later, he returned, looking chagrined—and sans House.
"Where is he?" Cuddy said, annoyed.
"He wouldn't let me in."
"He what?"
"He wouldn't even open the door for me."
"Don't you have a spare key? I'm certain that at least once you've had to let him in when some bartender took away his keys."
Wilson considered lying. Then decided against it.
"I have his key. I just didn't think to bring it with me," he said.
Cuddy looked at him, frustrated.
Finally, she held out her hand.
"Gimme," she said.
"Give you what?"
"His key. I'm going in."
"Are you sure that's prudent?"
"We're way past prudent at this point. Gimme."
Wilson cocked his head a bit, sighed and reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out a key and tossed it to her.
She caught it.
"If you want something done right, do it yourself," she muttered, on her way out the door.
######
She knocked loudly.
"No one's home!" House yelled.
"House, it's me. Cuddy."
A pause.
"Uh oh. . . I'm in trouble," he said.
"You will be, if you don't open this door. Let me in."
Another pause.
"I'm sick. Go away. I promise I'll be back tomorrow."
"Actually, you'll be back today. I'm done indulging you, House."
"Leave me alone!"
She sighed, fished in her purse for the key and opened the door.
She places the package she was carrying on the dining room table and then, without hesitating, she entered his bedroom.
House was lying in bed, wearing a somewhat stained white tee-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair unruly, his beard three-days overgrown. There were two empty bottle of whiskey on the bed. The room was stale and smelled of alcohol.
When he saw her, he actually jumped.
"Good God woman!" he said. "I could've been naked."
"A chance I was willing to take."
"Actually, we could replay this scene, with you naked," he said musingly. "It'll sell better to the male 18 to 35 demographic."
Cuddy ignored him, opened a window.
"It smells like a distillery in here," she said.
"How'd you even get in? Adding breaking and entering to your growing list of criminal skills?"
"Wilson gave me a key," she said.
House rolled his eyes.
"He's such a Judas."
"House, I need you to get up, get dressed, and get over yourself."
"I'm sick!" he said. "Can't a guy be sick?"
"If you're sick, why are you rolling around in bed with two bottles of Jack Daniels?"
"Feed a cold, drown a fever?" he said.
She pulled the covers off him, like she was the mother of a teenage boy, trying to rouse him for school.
"Hey!" House said, yanking them back.
Cuddy pursed her lips.
"You've got two hours to get your ass out of bed and get to the hospital or I'm putting you on formal probation."
He glared at her,
"You wouldn't."
"Just watch me."
Now he took the covers and put them over his head.
"Go away," he said. His voice was muffled.
She looked at him, sighed. Then she made her way to the kitchen. It was a mess. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the countertops were sticky.
She started to clean up. Then she peered into the fridge, for some inspiration. She turned on the stove.
A few minutes later, House bellowed: "Why are you still here?"
"I'm making you lunch. You need to eat," Cuddy said.
"Why?"
"Maybe you missed that day in medical school, but human beings need food to survive."
"I mean, why are you making it for me?"
"Because I'm worried about you, House."
"Why?"
"Because I care about you," she said.
"You didn't seem to care about me 15 minutes ago, when you threatened to fire me."
"That was Cuddy your boss. This is Cuddy your friend."
"Since when are we friends?" he said, skeptically.
"Since when aren't we friends?" she countered.
She had managed to make some grilled cheese and tomato soup. Comfort food. She found a tray, brought it into the bedroom.
"Sit up," she said.
He sat up, obediently. She placed the tray on his lap.
"Eat," she said.
He looked at her.
"Thanks," he said, somewhat mopily.
"You'd do the same for me," she said.
"No, I wouldn't," he said.
"You already did," Cuddy said. "The night I was arrested? Face it, House. We're stuck with each other."
The corner of his mouth flinched into a tiny smile. He took a spoonful of soup.
Cuddy sat at the edge of the bed.
"Why do you let yourself get like this?" she said, cautiously.
"I hate being wrong."
"You weren't wrong," she said. "You just ran out of time. You would've figured out what was wrong with your patient eventually."
"I'm sure that's a great comfort to his grieving widow," House said.
"You don't care about his grieving widow. You care about solving the puzzle."
"And I didn't."
"Even if you had, he would've died. The autopsy showed. . ."
"Subacute sclerosing panencephalitis," House said. "Brought on by a childhood bout with the measles."
Cuddy eyed him.
"Exactly," she said. "So you did solve it."
House shrugged.
"I used his death as a huge clue," House said.
"The patients who see you are always already dying," Cuddy said. "It's amazing how many you save. Super-human even."
"I'm sure that's also a great comfort to his grieving widow."
"Why do you keep mentioning his widow?"
House blinked, hesitated.
"She came into my office and thanked me. Her husband had just died. I'd barely spent a minute with a guy and when I did see him, I'm pretty sure I was rude to him. And she thanked me."
So that was why he was so upset. House actually felt guilty.
She put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, House," she said.
"It's no big deal," he said. (Which was a dumb thing to say, considering the booze, the depression, and the fact that he hadn't left his room in three days, but she let it slide.)
"Just focus on the all the people whose lives you've saved who hate you anyway!" she teased. "That's got to give you some comfort."
He gave a tiny sad laugh.
"It does," he said.
Cuddy looked at her watch.
"Shit! I have to go back to the office," she said. "Can I count on you to finish eating this and come to work?'
House nodded slowly.
"Yeah," he said.
"Good," Cuddy said. "Also. . . I left you a present on the dining room table. Actually, more of a suggestion than a present."
She had an urge to kiss him on the forehead, but decided that was too intimate a gesture even with this newly acknowledged closeness between them. Instead, she brushed a stray piece of hair off his forehead.
"You're going to be okay, House," she said.
To be continued. . .