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"You're thinking about Cuddy, aren't you?" Wilson's steady voice brought House out of his thoughts. It was a Monday. Wilson had returned from his conference the previous day.
"What, was my erection that obvious?" House countered, still staring off into space.
"Can I ask you something, House?" Wilson sat down at the chair adjacent to House's office desk. House paused a moment, before putting his gaze on his only real friend in this world.
"Why did you write that letter?" Wilson asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice slightly; since House had threatened the euthanize him in his sleep if he told anyone.
House heaved a breath of air in annoyance, becoming serious. He rubbed his hands over his face, and then looked closely at Wilson, "I crashed a car into her house. I don't think Hallmark has a card for that."
Wilson leaned back, scrutinizing the situation. After a few seconds, he came up with his resolve, "You wanted closure."
House pursed his lips, and sat up straighter. "If I agree with you, will you get your pathetic ass out of my office?"
Wilson stood up and retreated back to the doorway of House's office. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry," he said as he left. House muttered under his breath, thinking about Cuddy, "Me too."
Dr. Lisa Cuddy,
I never liked writing letters. But I didn't think an e-mail or phone call was appropriate. I'm trying to write this for you, though. Not for me. I'm trying to care for someone else, for once. I'm not claiming to be changed. Prison didn't change me. But I am able to look at things differently, now; look at people and situations differently. It's thanks to you, of course.
Cuddy, you're an amazing woman. And I can safely say that even if you didn't have the best ass in all of New Jersey (and probably New York), I would still be in love with you. I guess I'll always be in love with you. And I'm sorry for all that I've put you through. It would be a lie for my apology to go along the moronic lines of: I didn't know what I was thinking that day I drove into your house. Because I do know what I was thinking, I haven't forgotten. I'm just a dumbass.
Cuddy, you are the most incredible woman I've ever known. And until the day I die, you're always gonna be the most incredible woman (with the finest ass) I've ever known.
Good God, this is a pathetic letter. Wilson must be rubbing off on me (I mean that in a non-sexual way.) But, I did mean what I said about you, and me. It's all true.
I'm not good at this, so before I screw this up any more than I already have, I'll sign off. If you ever need anything, and you somehow find yourself to trust me, I'll drop whatever I'm doing and limp over. I hope the best for you and Rachel.
Keep that ass firm,
House.
Cuddy stared at his name for a long time. Scrawled but deliberate; the 'H' in careful connection with 'o' and the rest of his name becoming a series of bumps and scratches and loops across the paper. As Cuddy stood up from the curb, she realized that she was crying hysterically.
Inside, she curled up on her couch and lay there; sleepless and clutching the letter in her hand. She honestly didn't know what to make of the letter.
Cuddy sighed loudly, breaking the stiff silence in her livingroom. She thought for awhile.
That bastard could have killed her. That bastard could have killed Rachel. That bastard could have killed Wilson. That bastard ruined her house in New Jersey. She loved that house. Rachel grew up in that house.
But Cuddy soon came to realize that, really, she couldn't care less about that house.
All she wanted, was House back.