(A/N: The line Cuddy recalls is from the novel Altered States, by Paddy Chayefsky.)

September 15th

Lisa gave up any further attempt at sleep by 3 a.m. Even through the air conditioning she could feel the hot night outside, as it tried to push through the walls of her home. With a sigh she rose and padded into the kitchen, and paused only once to check on Rachel.

A cursory inspection of the fridge yielded nothing but formula, salad, a lone wine cooler and half a tub of organic margarine. The freezer wasn't much better—a container of mint chocolate chip coconut milk ice cream, veggie burger patties, a bag of peas. She took out the ice cream, snagged a spoon from the drawer and opened the lid. A thick layer of frost lay over the contents. She scraped off some of the ice crystals and dug out a chunk of desiccated ice cream. It tasted like freezer-burned toothpaste. She spat the mouthful into the sink and threw the rest of the container away.

She ended up outside on the porch swing with the wine cooler. It was still sultry even at this early hour, but at least the air was fresh. A slight breeze rustled leaves; the neighbor's bug zapper did in yet another foolish moth. Lisa rolled the bottle across her forehead and let the chilly beads of condensation trickle over her skin. They felt a bit like tears. She pushed the image away. I've had enough of crying, she told herself, and knew it wasn't true.

Wonder what House is doing right now, she thought after a while. Sleeping, I hope. Her inner voice fell silent for a moment. Then, Wish he was here with me. The idea was ludicrous; he hated porch swings and would never consent to sit so close to her, or to anyone for that matter. But she couldn't resist the thought of the two of them together, his long thigh pressed to hers, his arm around her shoulders–

"Get a grip," she muttered, and took a long swallow of wine cooler. Somewhere down the street a dog barked and whined. She gave the swing a little push as her big toe dug into the rough concrete for leverage. There had been one time when she and House had been close, a lot closer than just a seat on a porch swing. She hadn't fully opened that memory in years, though it stood between the two of them every time they met.

Oh, what the hell, she thought after she'd dithered for a moment or two. Why not take a stroll down memory lane? She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, then let her mind drift.

("C'mon, Cuddy! If you don't go to this party everyone's gonna know you're a nerd for sure." Claire folded her arms. "And I'm tired of being picked on because of you."

Lisa turned a page and gave her roommate a vague glance. "I've got a test tomorrow."

"So what? You can cram in the morning." Claire smoothed a carefully feathered wing of thick blonde hair. "Tri Beta's buying the booze."

"I'm not going." Lisa put her pen down and took a sip of Coke. She wasn't about to tell this idiot she had her own standards where parties were concerned, and rush-week mixers at some second-rate frat house were not even on her radar. "Don't forget your key. I'm not getting up to let you in again."

"I heard that weird guy's gonna be there," Claire said in what she obviously considered her best persuasive tone. "You know, the one you think is cute."

"I don't think he's cute!" Lisa spilled some Coke on her book and rubbed at it with her sleeve. "He's a jerk! He tripped me in the library and put gum in my hair!"

"So he's a jerk." Claire shrugged. "Why not get some revenge? Pee in his beer or something."

Lisa sighed and pushed an unruly tress behind her ear. She glared at her roomie. Maybe it wasn't too late to request a change of residence. It was only early October, but she was already tired of living with a party hog who didn't seem to understand pre-meds had to spend nearly every possible moment studying. It wasn't that she didn't like parties, and everything that went with them; she just liked the idea of a medical degree more. "Okay, fine. If I go for an hour, will you leave me alone?"

"Cool!" Claire was all smiles. "Change into something nice," her scornful gaze rejected the rumpled tee shirt and jeans Lisa had on. "I'll do your hair. Come ON, we're gonna be late!"

It was well past the start of festivities when they walked through Fraternity Row to the house where the mixer was being held. Brightly colored leaves obscured the sidewalk; the air was crisp and cool. Fall had finally arrived in Ann Arbor, and it was as intoxicating as fine wine. Lisa found she wanted to break away from the noise and crowds ahead and walk into the darkness by herself, as she had often done when troubled or lonely. She resisted the urge and followed Claire, while she pushed away a vague sense of apprehension.

When they arrived at the house the party was already in full swing. Lisa looked at the crush of students and felt her stomach tighten. She was no good at gatherings of any kind, never had been; she hated the small talk and social niceties, it was a task nearly as tedious as her grandmother's cooking lessons, conducted mostly in Yiddish with a lot of clucks and tsks and raised eyebrows . . . Lisa smoothed the front of her blouse and wished she hadn't agreed to this. It would end in disaster of some kind, she knew it.

The rooms were wall to wall people; most of them shouted over the music. Someone had decided to test the stereo's capacity with Billy Squier's 'Stroke Me' cranked to the max. Pungent marijuana smoke drifted through the hall; in a corner several people crowded around a coffee table with a mirror. There were a dozen lines of powder laid out on it. Several of the partygoers passed around a small vial. None of it surprised her in the least; pot, coke and poppers had been in common and casual use at her high school.

"We came to dance!" A sorority girl confronted one of the boys clustered by the stereo. "All you guys ever listen to is this crap!" She pouted. "How about the B-52s or the Police?" The boy rolled his eyes.

"I hate that shit," he said, but he began to dig through the rack of LPs and 45s by the turntable. "If I find something to play, will you dance with me?"

"Come on," Claire said. She towed Lisa through the crowd and headed for the kitchen. "He'll be at the poker game."

"I'm not walking in there!" Lisa pulled her hand free. "This was a mistake. I'm going back to the dorm."

"You are such a dork," Claire snapped. "Just take a look, that's all you have to do!"

"'Have to do'?" Lisa gave Claire a narrow stare as suspicion bloomed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Claire peered into the kitchen. "He's here," she said. "See for yourself."

Lisa stayed where she was. "This is a setup, isn't it?" Humiliation burned through to indignant fury. "So what's next, I get a bucket of water dumped on my head, or the doorknob has Vaseline on it? I bet the toilet's Saran-wrapped too." She turned on her heel and pushed blindly through the hallway, uncaring who she trampled. As she entered the living room a song began to play, one she recognized from her younger sister's Stones collection; Julia had bought several albums in an attempt to impress a potential boyfriend with her musical knowledge, even though she hated Sixties rock. A chorus of desultory cheers and boos greeted the change of music, but most people began to dance. Trapped for the moment, Lisa stared at the door and tried to figure out a way to get to through the mass of bodies.

Later she could never be quite sure what made her turn around. A sense of presence, of warmth, a warning—maybe all three, maybe something else. But turn she did, and there he stood: lean, lanky, dressed in the grad student's uniform of faded concert tee shirt, jeans and sneaks. His blue eyes were bright in a bony face just short of handsome. She looked down, ashamed of her impulsive flight and angry at him for the roil of emotion within her. When she started to turn away, he caught her hand in his. It was so unexpected she jumped and swung her gaze upward in astonishment. His fingers were long and rough with calluses on the tips, his palms cool and dry, but she felt his pulse speed up. Slowly he backed her into the hall, his gaze steady on hers. Some dim part of her brain heard the song in the background, scratchy and raucous but compelling. "Let's spend the night together . . . now I need you more than ever . . ."

He stared at her, something not quite defiance or a dare or even amusement in those fierce, brilliant eyes. She couldn't believe he actually wanted to take her upstairs—and he did, she knew it as surely as she knew two-thirds of the people in the house were stoned out of their gourds. She should be furious with him, should march out the door in righteous anger, but the feel of that big hand on hers seemed to melt away her resistance.

She didn't remember much of what came next; the words of the song trailed after them into the darkness. He chose a door and pushed it open. By some miracle the room was empty. Her mind barely registered that fact before she was kissed, and very thoroughly too. He tasted of beer and tobacco and something spicy; it suited him. Her hands crept to the nape of his neck. He had guy hair, a shock of coarse thick waves that made her toes curl with pleasure. His hands were already beneath her blouse, intent on the removal of her bra. Wow, fast worker was her last coherent thought.

Later she would recall the rest of that first time in lightning flashes: a fiery mouth on hers, hot breath on her breast, a harsh, triumphant growl as he entered her. She struggled to do more than simply hang on; her hands clutched his shoulders as they bucked and writhed together. For the first time she wasn't in control of the situation. She'd always chosen guys who would respect her wishes, bring her to orgasm first and make breakfast the next morning. House had been utterly different, as opposite her usual partner as night was from day.)

It was like being harpooned by a raging monk, Cuddy thought, and smiled at the line she'd stolen from a book she'd read the summer before college. She rocked the porch swing with another little push from her foot. And he surprised me, even after I had him pegged as a selfish asshole.

(He came long before she ever had a chance. She pushed her face into the pillow as he groaned and thrust and shrank. When he moved off her she rolled on her side, intent on escape. So it was just a stupid prank after all, she thought, and gasped when he gripped her arms and pulled her back under him.

"No," he said. She stared at him, bewildered and deeply hurt and now a little afraid. His touch grew gentle as his hands slid over her skin. "Stay," he whispered, and lowered his head to kiss her, a tender, lengthy exploration that left them both breathless. He nuzzled her throat; his mouth slid lower, and then lower. His fingers stroked her belly, moved to the join of her thighs. She tensed as he parted folds of hot, moist flesh and found her clitoris, still engorged and throbbing. His teeth grazed her right nipple as he rolled her between thumb and forefinger. When she felt the first tremors of climax he rubbed those callused fingertips over her center, brought her to the brink and paused.

"Please," she moaned, and lifted her hips. She heard him chuckle as he pushed her over the edge, but she didn't care, swept up in a silent explosion of sweetness. He didn't stop, though, just used those long fingers to move her past the first orgasm and into another so powerful she cried out, unable to contain the pleasure as it flooded every cell of her body. Slowly she came back to earth, felt him stroke her skin. Vaguely she was aware he had nudged her thighs apart. When he slid inside her she knew a nebulous sort of amazement that he was hard again so quickly, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the pleasure that began anew, built on the climax she'd just barely survived.)

After the third time neither one of us could stand, let alone walk. Cuddy smiled a little. But I woke up alone. No surprises there. She had slipped away in the early hours, tiptoed past couples and passed-out partyers, and made it back to the dorm unnoticed. Not that everyone didn't know what had happened; apparently House bragged about his conquest to anyone who would listen. She pretended it didn't matter and presented a casual front to those who ridiculed her for her bad taste in men. Still, she had expected him to ignore her, or at least act like she didn't exist once the thrill of victory faded. And yet he hadn't—not exactly. For the rest of the year she'd been pranked, usually when she least expected it. But the nature of the jokes had changed; there was a caress within the petty meanness. A dozen dissected fetal pigs filled her backpack, along with a single long-stemmed rose; her meal pass disappeared for a week, then reappeared completely used up, stapled to a bag filled with one dozen of a local bakery's plate-sized oatmeal-raisin cookies.

Of course they all had a bite taken out of them. Cuddy set down her empty bottle and stretched a bit. The prick. Hope it gave him a bellyache. She listened to the creak of the swing, the sigh of the wind in the trees. God, House. What did you do to yourself that they won't let me see you? She bit her lip. Please hang on. Please.

'Let's Spend the Night Together,' the Rolling Stones