It started like any other Tuesday.
As usual, House was asking permission for an incredibly risky procedure—he basically wanted to induce cardiac arrest on the operating table just to see how the patient's aorta would react—and Cuddy was carefully weighing her response.
Back before they were dating, she never stressed over House's insane requests. She examined each case on its own merits, considered House's argument, factored in his extraordinary success rate—and came, swiftly and resolutely, to her decision.
She missed that confident version of Lisa Cuddy. Because lately, she had somewhat lost her nerve. There were suddenly too many factors involved: If she said yes, would people think she was being too easy on him because they were dating? If she said no, was she being too hard on him because they were dating?
And what about the personal fallout? House was always a major pain in the ass to live with when she vetoed one of his precious procedures. She needed a manual of some sort: Managing Your Genius, Maverick, Insanely Risk-Taking Boyfriend (For Dummies).
In this case—regrettably, in hindsight—she said yes. The patient, Bob Stewart, was dying. She truly believed that radical measures were appropriate. But shortly after House and his team opened him up—they'd barely started the procedure—Stewart had a massive heart attack on his own and died on the operating table.
It was quite possible—likely, in fact—that he was a goner anyway. But tell that to the patient's family. Tell that to the lawyers. And tell that to House. No doctor she knew took a patient's death harder than him. On those rare occasions he did lose a patient, he was inconsolable.
By the time she got home that night, the nanny had already put Rachel to bed. House was sitting in the dark, on the couch—a half-drained bottle of scotch sitting in front of him.
"Hi," she said tentatively.
"Hey," he said, not looking at her.
"You okay?"
"Yup," he said tersely. His voice made it clear that he didn't want to talk.
This might seem like her cue to leave him alone, give him some space, but there was something she knew: If House really wanted to drink alone, he could. There were places he could go: The bar at Sullivan's, for one, or even back to his old apartment (he still had it, for reasons increasingly unclear—he hadn't slept there in months.) No, House was sitting on her couch, drinking her scotch because, whether he acknowledged it to himself or not, he wanted to be near her.
So she sat down next to him. Put her hand on his, which was resting in his lap.
"It wasn't your fault," she said.
"I know," he said.
She put her head on his shoulder. They sat like that, in silence, for almost 20 minutes. Then, he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
She tilted her head, so he could kiss her mouth—which, he did, softly at first, then with more insistence.
He began to unbutton her blouse; reached under her bra to fondle her breasts, let his hands ease down her torso, to her waist, unzipped her skirt.
They made love, quietly and tenderly, right there on the couch.
Afterwards, she lay between his legs as he stroked her hair.
They still had barely spoken a word since she got home.
"I love you," he whispered, finally, into the dark.
####
As expected, the family sued the hospital for malpractice. There would be an official autopsy, an independent medical review, a meeting with the hospital lawyers.
The board also set up a special meeting with Cuddy. This was unusual.
She got home late the night of the board meeting.
House was already in bed playing video games. He was actually making airplane bomber sounds, like a little kid.
"I'm unstoppable!" he said, gleefully, as Cuddy sat at the edge of the bed, in a bit of a daze.
"Grab a console, baby. Let's go one on one. Loser gives the winner a blowjob."
She was quiet. She kicked off her shoes, slumped her shoulders a bit.
"Okay," House said, side-eyeing her. "Loser gives the winner oral sex. Happy now? Not that's there's any chance in hell you're beating me tonight."
She still didn't respond.
He dropped the video control, suddenly realizing that she was actually upset.
"Board meeting even suckier than usual?" he said, looking at her. "Suckier-er?"
Cuddy rubbed her temples, didn't speak.
"What happened?" he said warily. "Did they fire you?"
It was meant to be a joke. The notion was absurd.
"Not exactly," Cuddy said.
House sat up straight against the headboard.
"Talk to me."
"They gave me an ultimatum," she said, in a voice like she was still processing the news herself. "I can either break up with you or fire you."
"What? That's absurd."
"It's not absurd. They cited evidence since we've been dating. Three patient deaths: The mother who gave her baby cancer. The man with smallpox. And now this. They said it was proof that I can't supervise you—that you're out of control."
"Patients die. Surely an administrative board of a hospital is aware of that fact."
"Your patients don't die. Not this often."
"I've had a bad run," House admitted. "Completely unrelated to our relationship."
"Tell that to the board," she said.
"They can't do that, though, right? They can't make you fire me?"
"Actually," Cuddy said. "They can. It was right there in the love contract we signed: If the board deems that our personal relationship is affecting either of our job performances, they reserve the right to terminate our contract at any time."
"We'll fight it! We'll get lawyers," House said, stubbornly.
"What? I'm going to sue my own hospital?" Cuddy said, wearily. "Besides, it won't work. We signed the contracts."
"I was so blissed out on endorphins that day I would've signed anything," House said. "I would've signed away my life's savings."
Cuddy gave a sad smile.
"Me too," she said.
House scratched his head.
"So I guess I start looking for a new job, huh?" he said.
She shot him a look.
"Over my dead body!" she said.
"What other option do we have?"
"If I fire you, it'll ruin our relationship. We'll never be able to recover from it."
"I wouldn't blame you."
"You say that, now. But what if you can't get another job? You're a risky proposition. Or what if you do get another job, but you hate it? You'll always secretly blame me."
He knew, on some level, that she had a point. For a change, he was the one being emotional, not logical.
"What then?" he said. "The board said you had two options: Fire me or break up with me." His eyes widened as a horrible thought crossed his mind. "You're not planning on breaking up with me, are you?"
"Of course not," she said. "I just thought maybe we could. . .take a break. Just while this case is being litigated. Once the final autopsy report comes back and it's clear you had nothing to do with Bob Stewart's death, we can go back to the board, ask them to reconsider. But until then, we should. . ."
"Break up," House sniped.
"I'm not saying that! I love you. I've never been happier."
"But. . .?"
"I'm just saying you should move out and we should stay away from each other for a while."
"Sounds suspiciously like a breakup to me."
"That's not what I meant. Not a breakup. A temporary break. While we wait for this to blow over."
House grit his teeth.
"If that's what you want," he said, getting defensive.
"No, of course it's not what I want. I. . .don't know what else to do."
He got up from the bed, roughly pulled his duffel bag out of the closet.
"I'll pack up my shit," he said.
"House," she said. "Don't be like this."
"Like what?" he said. "Cowardly? Submissive? Letting a group of middle aged fascists control my life? Oh no wait, that's you."
And suddenly, it did feel like a breakup.
####
"Who stole your lunch money?" Wilson said, with a chuckle, sitting across from House in the cafeteria.
House, who had a far-off look in his eyes, didn't even notice him.
"Ground control to Major House," Wilson said, waving a hand in front of him.
House looked up.
"Oh hey," he said, blinking a bit.
"What's wrong with you? You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I haven't," House said, putting his head in his hands.
"What's wrong?" Wilson chuckled. "Cuddy got you in the dog house?"
"The dog house would be preferable to where I am right now. At least the dog house is hypothetically on Cuddy's property."
"What?!" Wilson sputtered. "She kicked you out?"
"Three days ago," House said.
"Impossible! I was with you two last weekend—you could barely keep your hands off each other."
"Technically, it's a break, not a breakup," House said, keeping his voice low. "The ass-rotting cocksuckers—that's my new nickname for the board—issued an ultimatum: Fire me or dump me. She chose dump me."
"Cuddy wouldn't do that."
"And yet, she did." He sighed a bit, then said in a near whisper: "She says it's just temporary. Until the Stewart case blows over. She's convinced the ass-rotting cocksuckers will come to their senses. In the meantime, I have no girlfriend."
"How can the board even do that? Isn't it. . .illegal?"
"Remember that ridiculous love contract that Cuddy and I signed? Apparently, it was forged in blood by the devil himself. The small print has small print. And one of the stipulations was: They can fuck with our lives however and whenever they see fit."
"Wow, that really sucks," Wilson said, sympathetically. "Anything I can do?"
"Not hover," House said. "Unless you want to get smacked in the face."
Wilson unconsciously backed up just a bit.
"So noted," he said.
#####
Cuddy had given House his space, until he cooled off a bit. But now she found herself in House's office.
"Is it safe for you to be seen with me?" he sneered.
"I am your boss still. We're allowed to have some contact."
"I'd prefer we didn't," House said.
He could be such an ass sometimes, she thought.
"This contact isn't optional," Cuddy said. "We're needed in Human Resources. They have to. . . void our old love contract and have us sign a new one."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"Do they want me to get a 'Property of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital' tattoo on my ass, too?"
"Come on, House. Let's just get this over with."
He rolled his eyes, got up and grudgingly followed her down the hall.
They sat across from the HR guy, who looked as smug as ever.
"We're here to void out these love contracts," he said, officiously. "What should I check off as the official reason for the breakup?"
"Is blackmail one of the options?" House said.
"Irreconcilable differences," Cuddy said, kicking him.
"Fine," HR guy said, checking the box.
"So according to this new contract, there will be no punitive or retaliatory measures on either side. Is that correct?"
"She just kicked me," House said. "Does that count?"
"My foot slipped," Cuddy said.
"I'll take that as a yes," the HR guy said, writing something on his sheet.
"Obviously, for this new contract to be honored, there needs to be no contact between the two of you outside of work, except for hospital sanctioned functions."
"You're in luck.," House said. "I haven't been to a hospital sanctioned function in my entire life
HR guy raised an eyebrow at him, wrote something down.
"And obviously, no contact of an. . . intimate nature."
"What about hospital-sanctioned intimacy? Is that okay?"
"I meant, uh, no sex."
"You're creepy," House said. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"We're broken up," Cuddy said firmly. "There will be no sex, sanctioned or otherwise."
"This guy seems awfully fascinated by our sex life," House said. "We made a video once. I could sell it to you at above-market value."
"There was no video!" Cuddy said, kicking him again. "He's just kidding."
"She kicked me again. Isn't she already in violation of our contract?"
"Sign here," HR guy said, thrusting the paperwork in their faces.
After, in the hallway, Cuddy caught up with House, who was limping away purposefully.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That sucked."
"This whole thing sucks."
"It's not permanent, I swear."
"I seem to recall you once saying the same thing about the excruciating pain in my leg, come to think of it," House sniped.
This was a particularly low blow. House knew that Cuddy had lots of lingering guilt about her role in his infarction.
She smarted a bit, but recovered.
"Is your leg bothering you a lot?" she said, worried.
"I'm pretty sure that inquiring after my leg falls under the category of intimate contact," he said. And limped away.
####
Everything having to do with the Stewart lawsuit was frozen until the official autopsy results from the coroner's office came in.
And so they waited.
Cuddy saw the temporary breakup as a necessary evil, something they would have to weather together that might ultimately make them stronger as a couple.
House saw it as an affront, a sign that Cuddy didn't love him enough, the ultimate betrayal.
So he sulked.
He ignored her in the hall; he sent Chase to ask for any medical okays; he squirmed and avoided eye contact whenever they were forced to be together.
And she could see he looked like shit—he had lost weight, his eyes were bloodshot, his stubble was coming dangerously close to turning into a full-fledged beard—but she didn't quite know what to do about it. Except for, well, to do what she always did when she had a problem with House.
"How's he doing?" she asked Wilson over lunch.
"He's miserable," Wilson said.
"That makes two of us," she admitted.
"Cuddy, there has to be a better way."
"I'm all ears."
"Go to the board as a united front. Threaten to quit together. They're not going to want to lose their hotshot diagnostician and their rising star dean at the same time."
"Wilson, I'm a mother. I can't play Russian Roulette with my career."
"House sees it as you choosing your job over him."
"I'm not! I'm trying to find a way to have both. If push comes to shove, I will choose House. But I don't think we're there yet."
"As far as House is concerned, push came to shove the minute you kicked him out of the house."
Cuddy sighed.
"You don't think he's. . .using, do you?"
"I actually have no idea."
"Why not? You're his best friend. I'm counting on you to keep him propped up during all of this."
"He's been avoiding me," Wilson admitted.
"And you've let him?"
"You know how House is when he's really upset," Wilson said, thoughtfully. "No one can console him."
######
Cuddy didn't know what was worse: The fact that House was furious at her or the fact that she missed him so much.
She missed the rush and challenge of their daily repartee, the unexpected tenderness she felt when she saw him bonding with Rachel ("he had to go away on business for a few weeks," was her—admittedly lame—explanation to Rachel). She missed having someone she was excited to see when she got home. (Granted, House wasn't a "how was your day, honey?" kind of guy—but he was almost better; he didn't pretend to be interested in things; if he seemed to be interested it's because he actually was.) She missed having his arms around her in bed.
And of course, she missed the sex. Oh God, she missed the sex.
Missing House felt like a physical ache.
So she put on a skimpy nightgown, got into bed, and called him.
"Are you sure our phones aren't being bugged by the Princeton Plainsboro Gestapo?" he said sarcastically, when he answered.
"God, I hope not," she said.
"What do you want, Cuddy?"
"Just to hear your voice. How are you?"
"Just ducky, you?"
"Miserable," she said.
"Oh, we're being honest today?" he said. "I didn't get the memo."
"I miss you," she said.
"I miss you, too," he said, testily. "So what are we going to do about it?"
"The official autopsy report comes in 14 days. We can hold on that long."
"This is bullshit Cuddy," House said. And he started to hang up.
"Wait!" she said.
"What," he said, sharply.
"I've been . . .thinking about you."
"Oh good, you haven't forgotten who I am. Congratulations."
"I'm actually thinking about you right now," she said.
There was a pause.
"Where are you?" he said cautiously, finally getting it.
"I'm lying in my—in our—bed," she replied.
Another, longer pause.
"What are you wearing?"
"That nightgown you bought me."
"The one with the lace?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Are you . . . touching yourself?" Now his voice was low, husky.
She closed her eyes. Put her hand on her own chest.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Where?"
"My breasts," she said.
"Over or under the fabric?"
"Over it. I'm sort of swirling the silk over my breasts."
"Are your nipples hard?"
"Yes," she said.
"Put your finger in your mouth," he said. "Get it wet."
Cuddy did as she was told.
"Now reach under the fabric, touch your nipples. Tell me how they feel."
"They're getting wet," she said. "They feel like firm but soft buds. I'm playing with them now. They're just dying to be sucked."
"God yes," he said.
She heard him fumble a bit with the zipper to his jeans.
"Are you touching yourself?" she asked.
"Yeah," he grunted.
"Are you hard?"
"As a rock."
She was turned on herself, but more than that—just happy to be feeling close to him again.
"Where do you want me to touch next. . .?" she whispered.
####
She wasn't sure how House would treat her when he saw her the next day.
Was the phone sex merely a temporary détente? Would he act like it never happened at all?
That afternoon, she saw him approach her from down the hall. He didn't make eye contact.
Well, shit.
But then, just as he limped past her, his pinky lightly grazed the side of her hand.
She looked down, smiled.
So they started having phone sex, every night.
This was problematic, for two reasons:
One, if the hospital ever found out, and decided to sue them for breach of contract, they could subpoena the phone records. (Forty-five minute phone calls after midnight on 4 consecutive nights was hard to pass off as business.)
Two, phone sex was for people who didn't see each other every day at work. They were getting increasingly frustrated.
House's personal frustration must've reached a boiling point because a few days after their cellular sexcapades had begun, Cuddy was walking down the hall when a pair of strong hands grabbed her and pulled her into the supply closet.
House pinned her up against a wall and began kissing her ravenously.
"You feel so good," he said, his hands all over her.
"So do you," she admitted, wrapping her leg around him, biting his lip.
It wasn't until House began unbuckling his pants that she came to her senses.
"We can't!" she said, pushing him away.
He looked, for a second, like he was about to explode. Then he closed his eyes tightly and punched the wall in frustration.
"Fuck!" he shouted. Then, for good measure, he repeated himself: "Fuck!"
"I know," she said, thinking it through. "How bout this: Tonight, 10 o clock, the Old Vine Motel."
"Thank God," he said.
######
There was something sexy about motels, she had to admit. The felt illicit, charged with sex and possibility.
And it felt so good to be back in his arms, breathing with him, inside him.
Afterwards, House wouldn't let her leave. He wanted to cuddle.
She agreed to stay for 20 more minutes. He smelled her hair, stroked her arm.
"How's the rug rat?" he asked.
He didn't know it—or maybe he did—but he had just hit her sweet spot. House asking about Rachel was the ultimate turn-on to her.
"She's fine. Her teacher had the class draw the United States flag and she put a skull and crossbone on hers."
"She did not!" House said, trying not to betray his own paternal pride.
"Yes," Cuddy chuckled. "Needless to say, I got a phone call from the school."
"That's my girl," House said.
Cuddy kissed him softly on the mouth.
"She misses you," she said.
"I miss her, too," he said. "Please just fire my ass so I can come home."
"Soon," Cuddy said, and she decided that 20 minutes was long enough for one more roll in the hay.
#####
The autopsy report came in. As expected, Bob Stewart had died of a massive heart attack.
Several independent review boards agreed: The attack had nothing to do with House's surgical procedure. He was cleared of all malfeasance.
Shortly after that report, the Stewart family settled quickly—and inexpensively—out of court.
And Cuddy went to the board.
"I've been seeing House again," she admitted. "Actually, I never really stopped seeing him. Because I . . .love him."
"That's in direct violation of your agreement," the chairman said.
"I know," Cuddy said. "But in light of the Stewart verdict, I thought you might reconsider your ruling."
"No," the chairman said.
"No?" Cuddy said, feeling her face get red. "Why?"
"Because we feel this hospital runs more smoothly when Dr. House is just your employee and not your paramour."
"You don't get to make that choice for me."
"The contract you signed says otherwise."
Cuddy jutted out her chin.
"Then I quit," she said.
#####
That night, she showed up at House's apartment unexpectedly.
"Isn't this a little risky?" he said, peering into the hall.
"That's immaterial," she said. "Because I quit."
"You quit?" he said, shocked, letting her in. "Cuddy, that's crazy."
"I was sick of being the board's bitch. They have no right to interfere with my personal life."
"Finally!" he said. "But if you don't work at the hospital, I sure as hell don't want to work there."
Cuddy gave a sly, triumphant smile.
"Who said I no longer work at the hospital?"
House squinted at her.
"They didn't accept your resignation?"
Cuddy shook her head.
"Turns out, the bastards never thought I'd call their bluff. They had no intention of firing me—or you for that matter. Their plan, all along, was to create a rift between us. And I played right into their hands."
"So they just completely rolled over?"
"Not completely. New rule: Every time I approve one of your cockamamie procedures, I have to defend myself, in writing, in triplicate. And you know what that means?" she said, walking up to him, putting her arms around him.
"That Taub is going to be doing a lot more paperwork?" he said.
She laughed, buried her face in his shirt.
"Exactly," she said. "So, you ready to come home, doctor?"
"Naaa," he said, stretching theatrically. "I think I'll stick around here for a few more weeks. I've got my own bed, my own booze, none of those annoying Cuddy women."
She kicked him.
"Ow! You've got to stop with the kicking, Cuddy."
"Make me!" she said, flirtatiously.
He gave her a dirty grin.
"Oh, you just wait until we get home."
THE END