Disclaimer: I am not a writer for House, but everything I know about Wilson accidental advice plot anvils I learned from them.
House felt like he'd been hit by a truck. His temples were throbbing. His mouth was dry.
He popped one eye open and managed to focus on a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water that had been left for him on the nightstand.
He sat up, tipped the bottle directly in his mouth—shook out four pills and swallowed them with water.
Then he put on his flannel robe and limped into the kitchen.
Rachel was in her high chair, eating a truly nauseating combination of Cheerios and scrambled eggs.
Cuddy was at the sink doing dishes.
"Morning," House said, slipping into a chair.
Wordlessly, Cuddy placed a mug of strong coffee in front of him.
"Thanks," he said, looking at her gratefully.
She didn't reply.
"Mama got a ward!" Rachel announced gleefully, at top volume. "Mama got a ward!"
"I know, Rach. That's great," he said, putting his head in his hands and groaning a bit. "Your mama did great."
"Honey, why don't you go play quietly in your room for a while?" Cuddy said, lifting Rachel out of the highchair. "House isn't feeling too well."
"Okay mama," Rachel said, scampering off.
"Thanks," he repeated.
"That wasn't for you, it was for her. I don't like her seeing you like this," Cuddy said. "Children sense things."
House watched as Cuddy scrubbed a grease stain on a pot with particular vengeance. It was like she was taking out all her anger at him on that pot.
"Come sit with me for a second before you assassinate that pot," he said, patting the chair next to him.
"I can't," she said. "I'm already late for work."
"Just give me 5 minutes, Cuddy. Please."
She frowned for a second, then dried her hands on a dish towel and sat.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know you are House. You're always sorry."
"I fucked up. I should've been there. I wish I had been there."
"Me too," she said softly.
"Was it at least nice?"
"It sucked," she said. "I spent the first part of the evening looking for you, the second part of the evening furious at you, and the third part of the evening worried about you."
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"I just wish that I could count on you, House. Ever. I mean, like once. You know?" she said.
"Yeah," he said. "I know." He was prepared to take his punishment like a man.
Then she shook her head.
"And how was I to know that your not showing up at the banquet would actually be the highlight of my evening?" she said with a grim chuckle.
"Huh?" he said, momentarily clueless. But it was all beginning to come back to him—the bar, the rain, the ill-advised confession.
"Do you really think I make you a worse doctor, House?" she asked.
He sighed. Rubbed his eyes. Shit. . .
"I was drunk Cuddy. I didn't know what I was saying."
"Liar," she said.
"I'm pretty sure I was drunk. In fact, it's possible that I'm still drunk," he said.
"No. You're not lying about being drunk. You're lying about not knowing what you were saying. You always know what you're saying."
He looked into his coffee cup, as though he was staring down the barrel of a gun. He remained quiet for a long time.
"So what if it's true?" he said finally.
"So what if it's true?" she snapped. "That I make you a worse doctor? Don't you think that's just a little insulting, House?"
"No," he said. "It's not an insult. It's a compliment."
"Oh, this ought to be good."
"I finally love something more than I love the puzzle," he said, looking at her.
With that, her defensive body posture softened a bit.
"But we're supposed to make each other better, remember?" she said. "That was the plan."
"You do make me better, Cuddy," he said sincerely. "You make me a better man."
"Please," she said, rolling her eyes.
But he had obviously said enough to satisfy her. She got up from the table, kissed the top of his head.
"I gotta go," she said. "I'll tell your team you'll be in after lunch."
######
Later that day, Wilson wandered into House's office, handed him a large cup of coffee.
"Why does everyone keep giving me coffee?" House asked.
"Because we saw you last night. You were so drunk that I woke up with a hangover."
House opened the lid to the coffee and took a sip. He made a face and spit it into his trashcan.
"How many times have I told you that coffee shouldn't have any flavor other than coffee?" he said.
"It's crème de cacao," Wilson said. "It's delicious. If you won't drink it, I will."
House handed him back the cup.
"Enjoy," he said.
"How did it go with Cuddy?"
"It went great. She totally understood and wasn't angry at all."
"Really?"
"No, of course not. She was barely talking to me this morning."
"Shocker," Wilson said.
"She thinks I'm irresponsible."
"That's because you are irresponsible, House."
"I need her to know that she can count on me. What should I do?"
"I think you should go home, sober up, get a good night's rest and throw yourself on her mercy in the morning," he said. "Oh no wait, it's too late! Because you brilliantly went with Option B: Stagger to her house in the middle of the night in a semi-incoherent state and drunkenly tell her that she's why all your patients are dead."
"Very cute, Wilson. You done?"
Wilson shrugged. Took a swig of the coffee. Looked down at it with some disgust. House actually had a point . . .
"The problem is, House, trust has to be earned. Over time. With consistency and patience. Two things you don't exactly excel at."
"It's true. Patience and consistency aren't really my strong points," House admitted. He buried his face in his hands.
"No, but they are Cuddy's," Wilson said. "Now if only Cuddy was more like you," he joked. "Then it could be a lifetime of broken commitments and immediate gratification for the both of you."
House looked up from his hands.
"That's actually really good advice, Wilson," he said.
"I didn't give you any advice," Wilson said nervously.
But House was already plotting his next move.
######
A week later, Cuddy was getting ready to leave for a medical conference in Chicago when House showed up unexpectedly at her door, wearing jeans and his leather motorcycle jacket.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I'm giving you a ride to the airport," he said. "This is House version 2.0, remember? Responsible boyfriend guy."
"I don't need a ride to the airport. The hospital arranged for a limo. It should be here in 5 minutes."
"Oh," he said, looking at his watch. "And what about Rachel?"
"She's with my mother, House. I've got everything under control."
"You always do," he said, with some admiration.
"What about you?" she said, looking up at him affectionately. "You going to survive three whole days without me?"
"Absolutely. I have the pizza delivery guy and my hookers on speed dial," he said.
Cuddy shot him a look.
"Just kidding. It's the Chinese food delivery guy."
She laughed. He was impossible.
He put his arms around her.
"Don't go," he whispered in her ear, kind of walking her back into the house as they embraced. "Blow off the conference and let's spend the weekend together—just the two of us."
He gave her a kiss.
"House, you tempt me," she said, meaning it. "But I have to go. The hospital paid for the hotel and the conference. They expect me to go, take copious notes, and file a report when I get back."
"Just fake it," he said, kissing her again. "I'll help."
"I want to. . . but I can't," she said, extricating herself from his embrace.
He gave her a pathetic look.
"Don't sulk," she said. "I'll be home in three days. . . just try not to get into too much trouble."
"Yes, ma'am."
#######
The medical conference was exactly the same as every single other one she'd attended: A few big shot famous doctors and their slobbering sycophants, a lot of dull cocktail parties hosted by pharmaceutical reps, a handful of (usually married) doctors hitting on her, at least one ignoramus who assumed she worked for a Dean of Medicine, and so on.
At least the hotel was nice—it was one of those grand historic Chicago hotels that old time gangsters used to stay in—but she missed House.
Things had been a little shaky between them since the awards banquet, but she had to admit it, when she was around other doctors—other people for that matter—she was struck by how boring they were in comparison to him. With House, there was, quite literally, never a dull moment.
Case in point: Right now, she was attending the first of the day's mind-numbing lineup of seminars—this one was about aging Baby Boomers and the growing strains on Medicare.
The speaker, a skinny, meticulous looking man with black hair, pale skin, and a shiny round baldspot, was almost comically boring. He spoke in the droning monotone of adults in a Peanuts cartoon. She stifled a yawn.
"Wake up, Dr. Cuddy," she heard a voice say. She looked up. House!
"Do you mind?" he said, rearranging the seats until there was an empty chair next to her.
"House! What are you doing here?" she whispered, not able to contain her glee.
"If the mountain can't come to Mohammad, Mohammad must go to the . . medical conference," he said.
There were a few "shhhhs" from the doctors who surrounded them.
House gave Cuddy a mock stern face. "Quiet, Dr. Cuddy," he said.
She smiled. She felt almost giddy that he had just shown up like this.
They both made a great show of trying to listen to the lecture. House even took out a notebook and pen.
He finally sighed loudly. "What size bed do we have?" he whispered, shifting his chair a few inches closer to her.
"King," she said back, giggling a little. "And a jacuzzi."
"Oh. My. Gawd."
A few more doctors gave them dirty looks.
House made a face at them, put his finger to his lips.
He tried to listen some more but got fidgety. He leaned back in his chair, almost tipping over. Popped back up quickly.
He stared at the speaker with his mouth open. "How do you think he gets his bald spot so round?" he mused. "Do you think he uses a compass?"
Cuddy swatted him. Tried, again, to focus on the lecture.
House yawned, started drawing circles on his notepad.
"Guess what I'm thinking of right now?" he whispered.
"What?" she whispered back.
"Your nipples."
She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.
"I can draw them by memory, wanna see?"
"Umm, no thank you."
He stared at her, in that brazen way of his.
"Let's blow this clam bake and go fire up the jacuzzi," he whispered in her ear.
She shook her head at him. He put his hand on her inner thigh.
"House!" she scolded, perhaps a little too loudly. Because at that moment, the lecturer stopped talking and glared at them.
"Uh oh," House said to Cuddy. "We're in trouble."
"Can I help you two with something?"
"No, we're good," House said, giving him a fist of solidarity. "You just keep on droning."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you are incredibly boring?" House said. "I mean, seriously. You're like Ambien in human form."
"I've never had any complaints," the lecturer sputtered.
"Yeah. . .and that's why, this guy is updating his fantasy football team," House said, gesturing to one member of the audience.
"And this woman is doing a rather elaborate sketch of that plant behind you," he said, pointing to woman in a business suit. "Nice leaf detail, by the way."
"Thank you," the woman said, then put down her pen guiltily.
"And this guy is texting his. . .mistress?"
The offending texter gave him a stunned look.
"You were smiling way too much for it to have been your wife," House explained.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, doctor," the speaker said. "That is, if you even really are a doctor."
"If you insist," House said, standing up. "And by the way, your math was wrong. If Baby Boomers are turning 65 at a rate of 5.1 million a year and if Medicare is losing $1.2 billion a year, then we will have run out of money for Medicare in the year 2019, not 2025 as you incorrectly stated. But thanks for playing."
He turned to Cuddy, held out his hand.
She looked back at House, looked at the conference-issued notepad in her hand, looked up at the dais, where the speaker was still standing with his arms folded.
"Yeah, you stink!" she said with a kind of girlish tentativeness, as though tasting rebellion for the very first time.
Laughing, she grabbed House's hand and they bolted out of the lecture hall together.
######