That night, she had a sex dream about House.
He snuck into her hotel room and crawled into bed with her and methodically, wordlessly took off her clothing.
"We shouldn't," she whispered, feeling helpless and vulnerable and aroused.
"Shhh. Shhh," he kept saying, as he caressed and kissed every inch of her body. "It's okay . . . It's okay. . .I'm already dead."
She woke up hot and bothered with the sheets bunched between her legs.
She tried to make excuses: They were spending a lot of time in close quarters. Things had been very emotional—it was natural to have these feelings under times of extreme stress. The vibrations and straddling motion of the motorcycle would naturally make her. . .
Ugh.
She got up, got a glass of water, looked in the mirror.
"Lisa, you're such an idiot," she said out loud.
And somehow, she managed to fall back asleep.
Three hours later, she made her way downstairs, to the same rundown restaurant from the night before. If anything, it looked seedier in the daylight—as though it hadn't been redecorated (or properly cleaned) since 1974.
Wilson was already at a table, drinking coffee out of a chipped brown mug.
"Hi," she said. "Feeling better today?"
He smiled guiltily.
"Yeah," he said. "Sorry about my little diva moment last night."
"You're entitled to as many diva moments as you like," she said.
"Thanks."
"So you and House talked?"
"Yeah" Wilson said. "Actually, he told me what a self-pitying asshole I was being. . ."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Which was exactly what I needed to hear," he continued.
Men were so funny, Cuddy thought. They communicated their love in such unusual ways.
"Did he, uh, say anything about me?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
Wilson cocked an eyebrow.
"No but he did give me a note to pass you in homeroom," he said.
"Very funny," she said. Then she looked around the room. "So where is Prince Charming anyway? Still sound asleep?"
"Actually, no. He was gone when I woke up. Not quite sure where he is."
"Huh," she said. "That's unusual. I wonder where he could've gone?"
"I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. I wouldn't get too worried."
"I wasn't worried, just curious."
He grinned at her, in a knowing sort of way.
"What?" she said, defensively.
"It just seems like you two are getting closer—again."
"I wouldn't necessarily say that," she said.
"Uh huh."
She closed her eyes.
"Oh fuck it—I had a sex dream about him last night," she blurted out, putting her head in her hands.
"Sex dream about who?" House said, slipping into the booth beside her.
Jesus, did the man hover and wait for the maximum shameful moment before he emerged?
"I was just telling Wilson about a movie I was watching on Pay-Per-View last night," she improvised.
"Cuddy, you don't need to watch those movies," he said. "I'm always just a phone call away."
"It wasn't. . . I wasn't . . ."
She felt her face flush.
"So where were you this morning anyway?" Wilson asked House.
Saved by Dr. Wilson.
"Taking care of some John Buck stuff," House said with a shrug. Then he turned back to Cuddy: "So was it the one with the pizza delivery guy we used to watch or the one in the girls' dorm room?"
#####
Since Wilson had nothing on his "Kick the Bucket List" they just decided to ride and see where the day took them.
They found a museum of Freaks and Oddities, where there were alien fetuses in boxes and taxidermied cyclops cats and photographs of bearded ladies and pinheads.
House and Wilson loved it, but Cuddy thought it was gross and fake.
Then they got a bottle of wine and some sandwiches and found a clearing along the side of the road for a picnic.
A woman walked by with a gorgeous Golden Retriever and Cuddy ran over to say hi and pet the dog. When she looked up, she saw House staring at her. He looked away.
House was being weird—weirder than usual, even. He kept sneaking off to make phone calls—"John Buck stuff," he called it—and she felt like he was hiding something. But then again, when wasn't House hiding something?
They played darts at a bar and ended up spending a long time with the proprietor, who seemed lonely and bought them beers and gave them complimentary beer steins, which they took to be polite and, as soon as they were out of eyeshot, promptly threw away.
Cuddy and Wilson wanted to spend the night at the Jacksonville Inn, which looked nice, but House insisted that they drive a little further down the road, to a hotel called the Manor Resort.
They arrived at around 6:30. The plan was for Cuddy to meet the boys in their room at 8, at which point they would go out for dinner.
"Maybe not the hotel restaurant this time, huh?" Cuddy said. "Someplace nice."
"You got it, boss," Wilson said.
Cuddy went to her room, showered, changed into the only nice outfit she had—her mourner's dress. For the funeral, she had worn it with a tasteful scarf. Without the scarf, it had a plunging neckline and could actually be described as sexy. She put on a pair of pumps, some red lipstick, and headed down the hallway.
She knocked on their door.
Both her boys looked good—Wilson was wearing a blue shirt and grey trousers. House was wearing a tuxedo jacket (God knows where he'd gotten it), a white shirt, and jeans.
"Shall we?" Wilson said, holding out his arm, which Cuddy took.
"One sec," House said, nervously. "I, uh, forgot to floss."
Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a look.
He was gone for a long time, then came out of the bathroom, looking antsy.
"Has anyone seen my watch?" he said.
"House, you're wearing your watch," Wilson said.
"Oh," House said.
He bit his lip, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"I gotta pee," he said.
"House, what's going on?" Cuddy said, folding her arms.
"Nothing," House said. "It's the body's natural process where the bladder is full and must void itself of all—."
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
Wilson opened it.
It was two men in tuxedoes, rolling food carts.
"Room service," they said.
"We didn't order any. . ."
"Right here!" House said, gesturing next to the bed.
There were several platters on the carts.
House opened them, with a flourish.
"Les voila!" he said. "Jambalaya! Crawfish! Gumbo! And we've got some andouille sausage, some dirty rice, and some blackened catfish."
Wilson's mouth dropped open.
"Where did all this stuff come from?"
"I hired a chef from the best Cajun restaurant in town," House said. Then he whistled loudly, through two fingers. And in through the door burst a Zydeco band—a guitar, an accordion, a drum, and a violin—and a bunch of busty young women in half shirts, wielding beads and noisemakers and party hats. Then another room service guy came, with a whole bar on wheels.
"If Wilson can't go Mardi Gras, Mardi Gras will come to Wilson!" House said.
Wilson started laughing.
"House, you're insane!" he said gleefully.
But he allowed the girls to drape dozens of beads over his head and he grabbed a bottle of rum and began to dance with them as the band broke into "Tipitina."
Cuddy walked up to House.
"How on earth did you pull this off?" she said, impressed.
"So-called John Buck stuff was actually Operation Hotel Mardi Gras," House said, rubbing his hands together as he stood over the bar cart. "I make a mean Hurricane. Want one?"
"Okay," she said. She watched him pour the rum and grenadine and ice into a glass—naturally, he made it strong.
"And what are we going to do when the other guests start complaining about the noise?" she asked.
"Invite them in of course!" House said, handing her the drink. "And I already bribed the concierge at the front desk. Anyone who even thinks of complaining is going to get a major guilt trip about a dying man's wish."
"I gotta hand it to you," she said. "You've out done yourself."
"Thank you," he said, giving a little bow.
They looked over at Wilson. One of the party girls—Cuddy wasn't going to even ask where House procured them—was feeding him jambalaya as he danced.
"He looks happy, right?" House said.
#####
Several hours later, the hotel room was crammed with people.
House had grabbed an extra guitar and was jamming with the band, and Wilson, already quite drunk and a little sleepy, was dancing with Cuddy.
Wilson gave her a quick spin and dipped her. Then he staggered backwards.
"I gotta take a breather," he said, wiping some sweat from his brow. "House, put down that damn guitar and dance with your ex."
House looked up hopefully.
Cuddy smiled, in an inviting sort of way.
He quickly put down the guitar, took her hand.
The band, perhaps mindful of House's leg, switched to a ballad —"Tell it Like It is" by the Neville Brothers.
He pulled her close. He was a little sweaty and his body musk almost made her weak in the knees. He smelled like sex to her.
They didn't talk, just danced—sometimes she rested her head on his chest and sometimes she stared into his eyes.
They weren't kissing—and House's hands remained politely around her waist, never migrating below her skirtline, but everyone in the small room could sense the heat they generated.
"Get a room, you two," one of the Mardi Gras girls said, then giggled. "I mean, a different room."
Eventually, the booze was all drunk and the band packed up and Wilson, House, and Cuddy sat on the bed together, side by side, watching as the party cleared out.
"Wow," said Wilson. "That was. . .the best night of my life. I don't know what to say. Thank you."
"Don't get carried away, Wilson," House said. "It was just a party."
But he looked down at the floor and swallowed hard.
Cuddy rubbed House's shoulder, smiled at him.
"I should go," she said finally.
He looked at her. Puppy dog eyes. What did he want? An invitation back to her room? Of course she was tempted—but it just wasn't possible.
She gave Wilson a kiss goodnight, on the cheek. And then she gave House a kiss—and he found her mouth, just for the briefest second, just a whisper of tongue, and even that tiny kiss shot straight between her legs.
She had to get the hell out of there.
"Goodnight," she said.
Wilson showed her to the door. When he opened it, a very pretty red-headed woman, late 30s or so, was standing in the hallway.
"Crap," the woman said, peering in. "Did I miss the party?"
"Well yeah," Wilson said, wide-eyed. "But we can still crack open the mini bar."
"Cool," she said.
######
An hour later, Cuddy was ready for bed but first decided to get some ice from the icemaker down the hall.
When she passed Wilson and House's room, she saw House sitting in front of the door, his long legs spread out in front of him, his jacket and cane next to him on the floor, several strings of Mardi Gras beads still dangling from his neck.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked. "Did you lock yourself out?"
He looked up, startled. He had been half asleep.
"Wilson's in there with the redhead," he said.
"Really?" she said.
"Yup."
"Go Wilson."
House smiled.
"So what's your plan," Cuddy said. "To sit out here all night?"
"If that's what it takes," said House. "It'll be 4 am before he gets to first base."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "You can come crash in my room with me."
He looked surprised.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"But you have a single room."
"We can share the bed."
"We can?"
"Just to sleep House. Just to sleep."
He grabbed his cane, stood up eagerly.
"What else?" he said.
#####
House didn't know what to make of it.
When Cuddy emerged from the bathroom, she wasn't wearing the sensible flannel pajama bottoms and tank from the other night, but a fairly skimpy nightgown. Not one of her sexiest, but nothing to sneeze at. It barely made it to her thighs and was just silky and clingy enough that he could fully make out the outline of her body.
Did she want him to make a pass? Or was the plan just to slowly torture him?
He decided he wasn't going to make a move on her unless she asked. No, unless she demanded. (Okay, maybe just asked.)
As for Cuddy, she had convinced herself that she was merely wearing the short nightie to prove to him just how little she was thinking of sex. No need to cover up. There was obviously nothing sexual between them.
(When it came to House, she had a PhD in denial.)
House had taken off his jeans and shirt and the beads and was just wearing a white tee and boxer shorts.
She climbed into bed beside him.
"Good night, House," she said.
"Good night, Cuddy," he said—as if he was going to get a wink of sleep.
But unlike him, Cuddy was an easy, comfortable sleeper. Within minutes, she was out.
House lay stiffly beside her, listening to her breathe, trying not to think about the thin layer of silky fabric that was all that stood between him and naked Cuddy.
She shifted a bit in her sleep, made a murmuring noise, and before he knew what had happened, she was sort of scissoring him—one leg draped over his waist, her other leg almost tucked underneath him, her back slightly arched and her ass elevated—as if begging to be stroked and fondled.
"Shit," he said into the dark.
He hopefully checked to see if she was awake—maybe this was that invitation he craved. But no, she was sound asleep. It was an unfortunate accident—or an old habit of spooning him that apparently died hard.
His hand sort of hovered in the air, not quite sure where to land. It seemed so badly to want to gravitate to her ass, it was like he didn't know where else to put it.
Finally, he placed it, stiffly, on the bed.
He squirmed a bit—her leg was now pressing on his groin. His boner was getting out of hand.
Oh Christ.
Even in the darkness, he could see her breasts, luscious and smooth, where her nightie gapped. He wanted to fondle them, he wanted to suck on them—he wanted to lick her nipples hard.
Gah!
He couldn't spend the night like this.
"Cuddy," he whispered. He didn't intend to truly wake her up—just enough so that she'd change her position.
"Mmmm-hmmm," she said.
And she shifted her weight—but in the wrong direction—further onto him.
Now, she was practically right on top of him—her head buried in his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest, her legs straddling him.
He was a man, not a saint. He couldn't help himself. He allowed himself the slightest feel of her ass, with both hands, lightly, over the fabric of her nightie.
My god her ass felt so gooooood.
With his eyes closed, and trying to keep his breathing even, he reached under the nightie, and slipped his fingers under the lace of her panties. His hand was touching the fleshiest part of her ass, and he wanted to go further, to keep exploring all that was now forbidden to him.
The funeral would not have been a hoax, he decided. He would die right here, in a hotel bed, from pent up sexual desire.
And then, in the dark—like some answer to a prayer he was too stubborn to even make—she grabbed his cock.
"Cuddy," he breathed.
Please be awake, please be awake, please be awake. . .
No answer.
"You awake?" he asked.
"I sure hope so," she said, stroking him.
He released a long, overdue groan.
"I thought I was dreaming," he said.
"This actually was the dream I had last night," she said.
He had managed to pull off her panties now and his fingers slid between her legs. The touch of her hot wet folds, the feel of her own desire—it was almost too much for him.
"Cuddddddddy," he breathed. "I want you so bad."
"Then fuck me, John Buck," she whispered in his ear
"Thank God," he said.
And he kissed her—roughly, ravenously—as she guided him inside her.
#####
After that he was able to fall asleep, a little. When he woke up, he was relieved to discover that she was still in his arms.
He didn't want to let go and he didn't want her to wake up, either. He feared that she would regret what happened and pull away.
It had obviously been some heady combination of alcohol, sleep-induced inhibition, and their mutual giddiness over the success of the party that led to the sex—but was it really what she wanted?
She opened her eyes, looked at him.
"Hi," she said, sleepily.
He wanted a recording of her morning voice. He wanted to hear that sleepy, sex-sated voice every morning for the rest of his life.
"Hi," he said back.
"Mmmm you feel good," she said, snuggling a little closer.
He exhaled a little bit.
"So do you," he said.
He kissed her lightly on the lips.
"Thank you so much for last night," he said.
"No, thank you." She gave a little sexy smile.
"Can it . . .. happen again?" he asked, kissing her again.
"What? Now?.
"Not now. . .although I could. . ."
"Yeah, I can tell," she said, looking down at the tented sheet.
"But I mean, ever again."
"It'll be tricky, with you being dead and all."
"I'm serious, Cuddy."
She looked thoughtful for a second.
"What day is today?" she asked.
"Monday," he said.
"So I have four more days on this God forsaken road trip," she said. "That means we can have sex. . .at least twelve more times."
#####
They went down to the hotel restaurant, which was much nicer than that crappy one in Georgia.
Wilson was nowhere to be found.
They sat, ordered coffee, told the waiter they were waiting for a friend—or maybe two.
Finally, Wilson showed up, still wearing the outfit from last night, unshaven again (at Cuddy's behest, he had jettisoned the House look on the second day of the trip), his hair sticking up in creative directions. He was alone.
"Mornin'," he said.
"Where's Rita Hayworth?" House asked.
"She had to go," Wilson said.
"But you had fun?" House said, raising an eyebrow.
"It was amazing," Wilson said dreamily. "We talked all night."
"The sad thing is, I actually believe you," House said.
Wilson leaned back in his chair, smirked at them.
"What about you? You two look awfully proud of yourselves this morning."
House and Cuddy exchanged a look.
"I crashed in her room. . ."
"He slept in my bed. . ."
"Yeah, we slept together. . ."
"He means, we. . ."
"I mean I . . ."
"Say no more," Wilson said, chuckling.
"So what was her name?" House said quickly, trying to change the subject.
"Laura," Wilson said. "She's incredible. . .she just quit her job as a high school English teacher and she's joining the Peace Corps in Uganda in six months—and I'm going to. . .join her."
House and Cuddy's mouths dropped open.
"I'm going to try the chemo again," Wilson said.
They stared at him, in shock.
"Last night, I was able to cross two items off my Kick the Bucket List: Mardi Gras and, maybe, possibly, fall in love."
House smiled in fond exasperation, shook his head.
"I'm not saying I'm in love with Laura. I'm just saying I could fall in love with Laura. And all that happened in one night! One night! Thanks to you two."
"Don't look at me," said Cuddy. "That was all House."
"The point is, I just realized that you two are so precious to me and that every day is so precious and I should fight for as many days as possible, because, well. . .you never know."
"No," Cuddy said, trying not to cry. "You don't."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," House said.
"So. . .where do we begin?" Wilson said.
"It just so happens that we have an excellent oncology department in my hospital in Chicago," Cuddy said.
"To Chicago it is then," House said. "If we start after breakfast, we can be there in three days."
"What about your rental car, back in Jersey?" Wilson said.
"Oh Wilson," said Cuddy. "Live a little."
THE END