The morning of Wilson's wedding to Sonia, Cuddy was in the hotel bathroom, putting on makeup and Brett was in the room laying out his outfit: Khaki pants, white shirt, blue blazer. The man was nothing if not predictable.
"Brett," Cuddy said, attempting to keep her voice casual. "I just wanted go over some more things about House."
Part of her didn't want to talk about House at all, but experience told her that meeting House for the first time required a little prep work.
"I know, I know. He's Wilson's best man and I'm not allowed to hit him," said Brett, with a grin, buttoning his shirt.
Brett wasn't the kind of guy to feel threatened by his wife's ex boyfriend, or any man for that matter. He was a master of the universe type—a former high school lacrosse star who married (and later divorced) the homecoming queen, graduated at the top of Duke law school, had two beautiful daughters, and went on to become a powerful judge. He was 50, but in great shape—still jogged and played racquetball and golf. And, of course, he had recently landed the lovely Lisa Cuddy.
"It's just that he can, you know, come on a little strong sometimes," Cuddy said.
"Strong? How so?" He fastened his belt, ran his hair through his thick, graying hair, regarded himself in the mirror.
"Let me put it this way: He doesn't have a track record of being particularly polite to the significant others of his exes."
Her mind flashed to House's treatment of Lucas. And then of course, there was poor, unsuspecting lube guy. Not to mention the stories that Stacy had told her about House and Mark. . .
Brett actually knew a fair amount about House and Cuddy. He knew that they had worked together and dated for almost a year; he knew about the crash, and even about House's jail time (Cuddy had blamed the whole thing, accurately to some extent, on House's drug addiction).
He didn't, of course, know that his new bride had slept with House a mere two months before their wedding. Cuddy liked to be honest with him—but she wasn't on sodium pentathol.
"I'm sure I can handle him," Brett said confidently.
Cuddy examined her eyeliner in a magnified mirror.
"No one can handle him." Except me, she thought. "Trust me on this."
"So remind me again why I can't deck the guy?"
"Because I asked you not to."
"Oh yeah. Right."
"Look, all I'm asking is that you don't take the bait. No matter how rude or condescending House is, just brush it off. Take the high road. Can you do that for me?"
Brett came into the bathroom, stood next to her.
"Whatever you say, honey," he said, kissing Cuddy on the cheek.
"Thank you," she said.
And she took a deep, anxious breath that she hoped her husband didn't notice.
The first time Cuddy saw him was when he limped down the aisle and stood next to Wilson at the altar.
It was a casual resort wedding—in Sanibel Island, FL. The groomsmen all wore tan linen pants and blazers and white shirts. House-plus-linen meant he was even more rumpled than usual. Wilson wore the same outfit but his suit had a vest—and he managed to look smart and crisp.
House slumped a bit, like an antsy teenager. He stood next to Wilson, the ring jammed conspicuously in his pocket.
He sought out Cuddy in the crowd, gave a small smile.
She smiled back, and subtly gestured for for him to stop slouching.
He stood straight—and a for a second, she got a perverse, inexplicable thrill: He still obeys me. He still turns to me for cues.
Brett saw her looking at House and grabbed onto her hand possessively.
"That him?" he asked.
"Yes," Cuddy said.
The ceremony ended and people wandered to their tables.
She'd already taken note of the seating chart. Wilson, of course, was too smart to put House and Cuddy at the same table. House was sitting with Chase and Foreman and a few of the other doctors from PPTH. (No Annie. She'd have to look into that.) Cuddy and Brett got stuck at an odds-and-ends type table that included Wilson's aunt, his next door neighbors, and the woman who groomed his cat.
She watched House out of the corner of her eye. He was clearly giving Chase grief about something. In the past year or so, House seemed to have gotten some of his old swagger back. He wasn't quite the extravagantly self-confident jerk she had once known, but he wasn't the self-loathing, guilt-riddled shell of a man just out of prison, either. He was somewhere in between—like old House with a little extra sadness around the edges.
As she was thinking this, House clinked at his champagne glass, and stood to make his best man's toast.
"There are a few things in this life you can depend on," House started. "Death, taxes, and another James Wilson wedding."
Wilson gave a comedic shrug. He was expecting this.
"I'd say it's an honor and a thrill to be the best man, but Wilson actually only has four friends. It was simply my turn in line."
The guests laughed comfortably. Unlike Cuddy, most of them didn't know how capable House was of crossing the line.
House now raised his glass in Sonia's direction.
"Sonia you look lovely today. Of course, he only marries the pretty ones. He sleeps with all of them—but he only marries the pretty ones."
For the first time, the laughs got a little anxious.
House scratched at the stubble on his chin. Glanced at Cuddy.
"You know, I only met Sonia once, when she and Wilson came to visit me in Baltimore," he continued. "And I noticed something pretty remarkable during that visit. Wilson was actually relaxed."
There were a few knowing chuckles in the crowd.
"Yes, those of you who know Wilson know how truly astounding this is. Wilson sleeps nervously. But he was smiling, he was laughing. He even kicked off his shoes at one point—okay, he had a second pair of shoes underneath, but still. This was a big step."
A huge laugh. House completely had the crowd in the palm of his hand. The bastard is a good public speaker when he puts his mind to it, Cuddy thought, recalling the countless times he had dodged giving talks when he worked for her.
"My point is, the reason James Wilson is taking this leap—again—is because he found someone who makes him so happy he simply couldn't let her get away. Also, he saw the way I was looking at her and figured if he didn't marry her, I probably would. . ." He raised his glass high. "To the happy couple!"
There were raised glasses, cheers, and applause. Wilson walked over to House, gave him a playful punch in the arm and then a hug. It was so cute to see them like that, Cuddy thought.
House's eyes sought out Cuddy again. She nodded at him approvingly, smiled. And he gave a proud little bow.
At some point, she knew, she was going to have to introduce them. She tried to strategize. When would be the best time to do it? Later, when she'd had a few more drinks? Or should she do it now, quickly, like ripping off a Band-aid?
House made the choice for her. As the dessert course came around, he limped over to her table.
"Hi," he said, kissing Cuddy on the cheek, casual as you please. The last time Gregory House had been this close to her, he had his face between her legs. She felt her own face get hot.
He held out his hand for Brett. "Greg House," he said.
"Brett Alston," Brett said, shaking back. "Nice toast."
"Thank you. As Dr. Cuddy knows, I just love giving a speech."
"Dr. Cuddy-Alston," Brett corrected.
Uh oh. Here we go.
But instead of offering up some sarcastic quip, House merely said, "Oh yes. Congratulations on the wedding. I'm happy for you two."
"Thank you, Greg," Brett said. He looked at Cuddy: This is the guy you were warning me about?
"You got to hand it to Wilson," House said. "Four weddings. The eternal optimist."
Brett laughed. "I think those crazy kids just might make it work."
There was a bit of strained small talk—about the band (so-so, they all agreed), about Brett's golf game that morning (he shot a respectable 104), about where Rachel was (Disney Land with Julia and her family)—Cuddy tried to keep up but she was pretty much in shock.
"I gotta go," House said finally. "The way Foreman's eyeing my mousse is making me nervous."
He said goodbye to them both and shuffled away.
"Wow. So rude," Brett said, teasing her. "Thanks for the warning."
She wasn't amused.
"Trust me, that was totally out of character," she said.
"Don't sulk," he said. "Here, taste my mousse." He brought his spoon to her lips. "One bite's not going to kill you."
An hour later, she got a text:
Out back. 15 mins.
She felt that familiar jolt–excitement, anxiety, guilt.
"I'm going to the ladies room," she said to her husband. "Be right back."
He was leaning against a tree near a dumpster behind the kitchen.
When he saw her, he didn't hesitate. Pulled her toward him, kissed her greedily. She closed her eyes, melted into his arms—yielding. She was always yielding to Dr. Gregory House.
"Stop!" she said, pushing him away—more angry at herself than at House. "I can't. . .I'm married now"
"I know," he said. "I saw the wedding announcement in the NY Times."
He gave her an amused look. "That's certainly a mighty fine husband you've got there, Dr. Cuddy."
She deflected his sarcasm.
"Don't knock Brett. He's a great guy. I wouldn't go so far as to say you'd like him, but most people do."
"What's not to like?" House said seriously. "He's a winner. He practically oozes success. People like to be around somebody like that."
He was clearly contrasting Brett with himself.
"Plus, he looks like he came out of the womb wearing a perfectly tailored onesie," House added.
"And you," Cuddy teased, affectionately smoothing his shirt with her hands. "Are a mess."
House looked down, almost accusingly, at her hands. She pulled them away.
"I guess I need a woman in my life," he mumbled.
"So Annie?" she asked.
"Who?"
"The girl you were living with, as recently as 6 months ago?"
"Oh, her," he grinned. "Didn't work out. Turns out, she had very big shoes to fill."
They both looked at the ground.
A minute later, two resort staffers—young guys wearing white smocks and do-rags—came out of the kitchen for a smoke. House put his fingers to his lips, pulled Cuddy toward him a bit, shielding her with his body. They watched them quietly from behind the tree until the men left.
"So how's married life?" House finally asked, letting her go.
"It's good," she said. She felt her response wasn't enthusiastic enough. "Really good," she amended.
"Good to hear," he said.
"To be honest, I didn't expect you to be so . . .cordial to Brett," Cuddy admitted.
"I'm full of surprises."
"Yes you are."
As they talked, House had untucked Cuddy's shirt and was now beginning to roll his finger tantalizing along the waistline of her skirt.
"Stop it, House," she said, unconvincingly.
He withdrew his hand. Then took hers. Intertwined their fingers.
"I'm sorry," he said.
He looked at her—his large eyes searching for more clues. She looked back, trying to convey resolve. Not pulling it off. Her face was slack with desire.
He brought her hand to his lips, then kissed the back of her wrist. He kissed her arm and leaned in and very gently kissed her neck.
"I'm sorry," he said again
He kissed her cheek.
"I'm sorry."
He tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth, gently, just a graze—then kissed it.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Now he kissed her full on the mouth again—and she kissed him back, unable to control herself.
"Fuck!" she said, pushing him off. "Brett is right inside."
"I know," he said again. Then, imploringly: "Come see me tonight. Meet me on the beach."
"House, I can't."
"Why not? I'm staying in room 2150. It has a private entrance onto the beach." He whispered in her ear: "Cuddy, I need you."
"My husband needs me," she said.
"He already has you."
She sighed.
"Call me at 10:15," she said. "Then hang up. I'll see if I can get away."
They got back to the hotel room around 10 pm, after dinner at a local seafood house.
Brett flopped on the bed.
"Long day," he said, stretching luxuriously.
"I know," she said, lying next to him. "But the wedding was nice, huh?"
"Not as nice as ours," he said.
"Sonia looked absolutely lovely," Cuddy said.
"Not as lovely as you looked," Brett replied.
He smiled, kissed her on the mouth. Did he want sex?
No, he had flipped on the TV and found Sportscenter. He was just being sweet. Brett's sexual appetite was more than healthy for a man his age, but he didn't have quite the enthusiasm or stamina that House had.
Yet another area where House and I are completely compatible, she thought.
Cuddy vaguely watched the channel—something to do with the Top 10 plays of the day; she really couldn't care less about sports—and anxiously glanced at the clock.
10:17.
Maybe he forgot to call. . .that thought filled her with a strange combination of relief and dread.
A minute later, though, her phone did ring. She answered it.
"Beach behind room 2150," he whispered. And hung up.
"Oh really?" she said into the dead phone. "Isn't there a medic on staff at the resort? Oh, I see. And did you call 911? Okay , I understand. . .I'll be right there."
Brett looked at her, concerned.
"Everything okay?"
"It's Sonia's sister," Cuddy lied. "She was hyperventilating and having chest pain. They think it was a panic attack, but they want me to come examine her."
Sonia's sister, in fact, was not only healthy as a horse but as laid back as her big sis—and about as likely to have a panic attack as the Dalai Llama. And one lie begets another, Cuddy thought.
"There are, like, 50 doctors at this wedding. You're the only one who can examine her?" Brett said.
"She knows me. She feels comfortable with me," Cuddy explained. She hadn't lied like this since she was a teenager sneaking out to be with her boyfriend. An apt analogy, she realized.
"Oh," Brett said. He yawned broadly. "You want me to come with you?"
"No, I'm good. They're just a few buildings over . .."
"And you're sure you're not sneaking out to be with that asshole ex boyfriend of yours?" Brett cracked.
"Why would you even say that?" she said, hoping she didn't sound overly alarmed.
"Whoa, I'm just kidding," he said. "Didn't mean to touch a nerve."
"You didn't," she said. "I just. . .worry that you might be jealous."
"Me? Jealous of an ex-con, ex-junkie with a limp? I don't think so."
"Brett!"
"Sorry," he said, genuinely feeling bad. "I didn't mean it like that. But no, I assure you I'm not jealous."
He kissed her quickly on the lips.
"Don't wait up," she said.
What kind of woman leaves her brand new husband alone in a hotel room to sneak off to have sex with her ex boyfriend?
An addict, that's who, she thought. You can be sober for 20 years, but one drink and you're back off the wagon. In her case, 5 minutes in House's presence in a parking lot behind a dumpster and she was craving her next fix.
I love my husband, I love my husband, she kept telling herself. But she continued to walk, as though compelled by planetary forces, toward his suite.
He was on the private beach, as promised, still wearing his outfit from the wedding, but barefoot, with the pants rolled up. He had a blanket slung over his shoulder.
She noticed it.
"Just so you know, I haven't decided if I'm sleeping with you yet," she said firmly.
"Neither have I," he said, with a smirk.
He held out his hand: "Care to limp along the beach, my lady?"
"You sure your leg's going to be okay?" she asked.
"As long as you're not expecting any beach volleyball action," he replied. "All other action, I am more than willing to supply."
She looked around nervously.
"What if someone sees us?"
"Like who?"
"Like Wilson and Sonia," she said.
"I'm pretty sure they're otherwise occupied."
"What about the other wedding guests? Half of them are staying at this resort."
"So what?" he said. "None of them know Brett. And they wouldn't rat us out anyway."
She hesitated.
"Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look by the moonlight, Dr. Cuddy?" he said.
"Dr. Cuddy-Alston," she corrected.
"Never!" he said.
She laughed, despite herself.
"I wish I could quit you, Dr. House," she said, and took his extended hand.
They found a nice spot about half a mile away—far enough from the main hotel to feel safe. House lay out the blanket, pulled a flask out of his inside jacket pocket, took a swig. Offered it to her.
"Wow. You sure know how to romance a lady," she joked.
"I had to plan on the fly," he said defensively. "The next time we have a late-night picnic, I promise a Chateauneuf de Pape."
She took a gulp. It was some kind of strong whiskey. The liquid warmed her, helped her relax.
He lay on his back, she lay on her stomach, her head propped up on her elbows.
"This is nice," she said.
"Yeah," he agreed. "It is."
They were quiet for a second.
"So do I get to kiss you yet?" he asked impatiently.
"Okay, one kiss."
He leaned in, touched her chin, kissed her gently, just the smallest amount of tongue.
Why did he have to be such a good kisser?
She closed her eyes.
"God, what is wrong with me?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said, rubbing her back.
He had a cocky look on his face that all but said, "Can we stop pretending that we're not going to have sex now?"
"I'm not just married House. I'm a newlywed."
"Mazel tov."
"I'm not supposed to even think about cheating."
"Then don't think about it," he said.
If only it were that easy.
"But it's wrong," she said weakly.
"Look Cuddy, if I'm lucky I see you, what, 2 or 3 times a year?" he said. "Brett gets all the rest of the days. I really don't see how this is such a betrayal."
Ah, Gregory House and his unassailable logic.
She reached into his inside pocket, pulled out the flask, took another gulp. She wanted to be numbed enough that she didn't feel the guilt.
"C'mere," she said, unable to even keep up the pretense of resistance, grabbing him by the collar. He smiled, leaned over, kissed her again. She was more into it this time—the kiss had a little heat.
"One more kiss like that, Cuddy, and there's no turning back," he said.
"I know," she said, and involuntarily shuddered.
"You cold?" he asked. He took off his jacket, put it over her shoulders.
"Why cover me when we both know that you're about to uncover me?" she said.
"Oh, we both know that, do we?" He looked inordinately pleased with himself.
She grinned, that sexy Lisa Cuddy grin of hers. "Yes."
They were both so into the moment, they didn't notice the shadowy figure approaching them on the beach.
"Looks like I had reason to be jealous," a male voice said.
Cuddy looked up, stunned.
"Brett!" she said.
"Shit," House muttered.
He was dressed like he was going for a late night jog on the beach—a gray T-shirt with the word Duke emblazoned on the front, red shorts. He had his arms folded.
"Sorry if I interrupted something intimate," he said.
"You followed me here?" accused Cuddy. The classic refuge of the guilty—deflecting blame.
"Not at first," Brett said. "But the more I thought about it, it just didn't sit right. The minute I mentioned House, you freaked out. So I decided to go for a jog, see what I saw. And here we all are."
"Nothing happened," House said.
"Shut up, House," Brett said. "This is between me and my wife."
"I'm sorry," Cuddy said. She got up off the blanket—went to grab Brett's arm. He pulled away.
"House is right. Nothing happened," she pleaded.
"Don't lie, Lisa," he said. "I saw you two kiss."
"One kiss," Cuddy said. "It was just one innocent kiss." It was hopeless and she knew it.
"Well, guess what?" Brett spat out. "Congratulations. You get what you want. You can spend the rest of your life with your damaged goods boyfriend here. I want a fucking divorce."
He stormed away angrily.
"Brett!" she yelled, running after him. Her voice had an edge of desperation: "Brett!"
House watched her run after her husband—holding her sandals in her hand. She didn't turn back to say goodbye, or even acknowledge him. She just ran after Brett until she disappeared into the black night.
He sighed, took a long swig from the flask she had dropped on the blanket, lay back.
"Shit," he said again.
