new chapter, where, as promised, it's all about finding out about how House deals with Cuddy's absence...

** CHAPTER 28 **

The first day without her went by quite fast as House and his team had to start the differential on their new patient.

It was a thirty-eight-year-old man presenting with fever, joint pain, and irritable bowel syndrome. Taub had proposed colon cancer. Thirteen had optimistically opted for a minor, food poisoning. And Kutner had happily jumped on the auto-immune disease solution, suggesting carcinoid syndrome. To rule out, or confirm, one of those wild guesses, House had ordered a full series of tests and, as the results kept coming back negative for everything, he'd been busy enough not to care about anything else and focus exclusively on the case as the hours went by one after the other.

It was exactly what House needed not to think about Cuddy too much. He needed to keep his mind busy as much as possible and he hoped it would last long enough because during the first night without her, as he was still in a semi-sleep, he'd found himself searching for her body under the sheets and when he'd opened his eyes and seen his arms stretched out to the empty pillow next to him he'd barely been able to repress the violent urge to punch himself in the face.

"Damn bewitching pain in the ass!" he'd thought then. "With her zesty body, and her beautiful, steel-blue eyes, and her pink lips smiling at you… and her hips sensually rocking when you're…" Yes. She wouldn't let him sleep, even when she wasn't here! He'd rubbed his forehead angrily.

House wasn't prepared for how it made him feel. Not that fast, and certainly not that intensely. But God only knows that he'd been wanting her, badly, and for so long. He'd always chased her, and she'd always been his consenting prey. They wanted this to happen. And now that he had her, she was his and he was… No, House! This is bullshit! He'd sworn he would never go there again. He had, once, and he perfectly knew the results. He couldn't live through that again. Not anymore.

Lying on his back with his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling in the darkness of the room, House had thought about, struggled against, the rush of feelings that were invading his brain, his chest, and his whole body. He'd rolled to his side and had nuzzled in the pillow. And it'd stricken him: Her scent was everywhere on the cloth.

Like a child would have held on to his security blanket, he'd grabbed the pillow and buried his face in it. He'd taken deep and long breaths to fill his nostrils with her intoxicating scent, the one he could smell in her hair and right there, behind her ear, in her neck where her skin felt so soft and delicate.

Then he'd realized what he was doing, as if he were floating in the room watching his body from above and witnessing the whole scene. He, like a stupid moron - like a stupid, prepubescent moron - was clinging to a piece of sheet to inhale the smell that her body had left in his bed! And he was doing it because he couldn't actually burry his face in her skin for real. He couldn't do that because she wasn't there and, because she wasn't there, he couldn't sleep. That simple statement had sent him into utter confusion.

Fortunately, though, the next morning – the first, real, full day without her – House hadn't had time to think much about her as he'd focused on his medical priorities instead. However, sometimes, when one of his ducklings had suggested some terribly rare disease leading to consider the terribly risky treatment that would fit, he'd occasionally pictured himself bursting in her office to beg for clearance on a crazy procedure, and he'd imagined her smiling before she would have tried to say 'no' to him and then, they'd have pretended to argue until she'd have said 'yes'. It'd have made him feel so alive. He'd probably have wished to make love to her right there and then…

So, to fight those distracting images of Lisa Cuddy that kept popping into his mind, he'd kept on ordering tests, after tests, after tests: Tests to rule out the results of the first tests and then, confirm the ruling out of the previous tests, and so on, until his brain was emptied, and left with nothing but images of chemical protein chains and molecules.

The second night, he'd tried a totally different strategy. She wasn't here? Fine! He might as well enjoy that as an opportunity to do a bunch of absolutely useless, boyish things, like, slouch down in his couch and drink beers while watching some games. He would yell at his TV, and burp, or leave crumbles of chips everywhere on the couch without a care in the world! And that's exactly what he'd done.

But after the first hour and an umpteenth beer, it'd felt awkwardly pointless: There he was, in his living room, seated in front of the TV with his legs stretched on the coffee table, watching a rather good game and yet, he was still feeling alone and miserable all the same. He'd turned the TV off and limped to his piano. The pain was back in his leg, so he'd sat on the piano bench and had rubbed his thigh with his head bowed down, accepting the pain as a sign of fate.

"Ok, she's not here and it hurts, I get it! And so, what? How does that make anything in my life feel any different?" he'd inwardly berated himself. Geez, confused feelings again, and more struggling. He'd popped two Vicodin out of his bottle of pills and had swallowed them dry before placing his hands above the piano keys and the music that'd come under his fingers was blues: Longing and whining, old blues in which he could feel his own blue devils echoing in the emptiness of his home.

# # # # #

The second day, House entered the conference room at an unusually early hour. So early that it made the whole team jump in utter surprise when they saw him limp inside the room and go straight to the coffee machine.

"Mornin'," he grumbled, pouring himself a full cup of black liquid.

"Wow, you're early!" Kutner exclaimed with his typical, childish bluntness.

"Tell me something I don't already know just by looking at the time on my watch."

"Patient has bloody diarrhea," Foreman stated matter-of-factly.

"Thank you brown-nose!" House said derisively. "And, of course, you know that when I say brown it has nothing to do with the color of your skin."

Foreman rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair to hide his discomfort.

"Ok so, bloody diarrhea, what does it say?" House asked with a heavy sigh, already feeling it was going to be a very long day.

"Addison's Disease?" Thirteen suggested.

"Hormone panel shows the cortisol's level is normal," Taub answered, flipping through the file's pages.

"Amebiasis?" Kutner proposed.

House raised an eyebrow at the mention of the disease: Boring, but with a train of tests to confirm. He'd found his bone to chew for the rest of the day.

"We've already tested the stool for parasites. And there's none," Foreman said, crushing his hopes. "Could be Crohn's Disease. White blood cells count shows severe anemia."

"Ok! Let's try this," House exclaimed rubbing his forehead with his thumb. "Do a colonoscopy to confirm."

The four doctors stood up at his call, gathering all the tests results on the glass table and walked out, leaving House alone in the room looking thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Let's try this! That's actually what he'd just said. Try this?… God, you're pathetic! Bowing his head, House cupped his face in one hand, and griped his cane's handle tighter with the other.

Coming from the hallway, he suddenly heard the sound of clicking high heels on the tiled floor. He promptly straightened up and looked to the side through the glass wall of the office, unconsciously holding his breath. And then he saw her: A young nurse, in her twenties, quite curvy and with a nice swinging walk. She was attractive. There was no denying that. So why did he feel so disappointed at the sight of her silhouette striding down the hallway? It couldn't be because he'd stupidly hoped it'd be someone else, right? Someone whose image was now vividly imprinted in his brain and whom he'd stupidly pictured passing by his office with an incredible smile on her beautiful face…

# # # # # #

Wilson was eating a sandwich in his office, concentrating on his afternoon patient's files.

It'd been a few days since he'd last bumped into House somewhere and it felt quite strange. Even in the cafeteria, Wilson had experienced the puzzling feeling of being able to eat the whole content of his tray and it'd made him realize that, in some way, he'd picked up the bad habit of ordering twice the amount of what he could actually eat himself.

The irony had made him smile but, most of all, he'd thought that there was also a refreshing idea lying behind it. Not about the food, though, but about the fact that House had now reached a point where he didn't need to lean on him as much as he had in the past. Wilson saw it as a good sign. In truth, despite the undeniable sincerity that defined his friendship with the diagnostician, he also knew that he'd often been his friend's soul's cane. So, he was happy, as much as relieved, to be no longer needed as urgently as he'd have been in the past, back in those dark and miserable days in his friend's life.

Wilson was lost deep in thought when he was jolted back to reality by the sudden sound of his office door being slammed open. He raised his head to see House standing in front of him, pouting at him with a lost puppy face. Wilson shook his head and tried not to jump too fast to an easy, bad conclusion but opted for the neutral approach instead.

"House! For God's sake, can't you just knock like any normal, well-mannered person would do?

"I'm not well-mannered."

"You're not normal."

"Normal's overrated."

"Normal would be at least a good start."

House took a deep breath and a slight devilish smile flickered across his lips. He limped to the couch and sat down, at the edge of the seat. With his hands crossed atop his cane's handle and his cane between his legs, he rested his chin on his hands and sighed.

"So?" Wilson said, urging his friend to talk with a now-can-we-get-to-the-point? look on his face.

"How are you doing today?" House mumbled unconvincingly, his chin still resting on his cane.

"Wow!" Wilson answered, bewildered, even a bit concerned. "Something bad happened. What is it?"

House raised an eyebrow, faking disbelief.

"Come on House! You never ask me how I'm doing. You don't give a crap about how I'm doing! I've barely even seen you lately-"

House straightened up a little and wiggled with self-assurance.

"Ooh, poor Wilson, are we jealous, now?" he teased.

Wilson's mouth dropped open at the sassy comment, but he soon regained composure and shot back.

"Not at all. You see, sometimes friendship can be about something other than oneself. Truth is, I'm actually happy for you. But I'm not sure you're mature enough to understand the concept."

House sighed heavily and turned his head toward the window, stubbornly keeping silent.

"So, what's up?" Wilson asked again, plopping down in his chair, and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "You're stuck at a dead end with your patient, and you need me to help you figure out what's killing him?"

"If Amber were still alive, do you think you two would still be together?" House suddenly inquired, completely out of the blue.

Wilson was literally taken aback by this most unexpected query. Then he felt a pang of sadness clutch his heart at the mention of his dead girlfriend. He looked House right in the eyes, searching for a reason why he would bring up the subject.

"I can't be with Amber. She's dead. And thank you for bringing up that painful memory, by the way," he spat sarcastically.

"Oh c'mon!" House exclaimed. "Don't tell me you've never asked yourself the question!"

"I don't know. It's pointless anyway, but-" He stopped, searching for the right words, as the pain hit him harder and harder. "I guess, yes. At least, that's what I would've wished."

"How do you know?"

Wilson sighed heavily. Where was this leading anyway?

"I don't know," he said getting angry. "Amber's dead. And we shouldn't have this conversation."

"I mean," House insisted, raising a determined face toward Wilson, "how do you know when you've found the right person? How did you know with Amber?"

Wilson furrowed his brow and studied his friend quizzically. Then he averted his eyes and sighed heavily.

"I guess we, I mean, it felt good… being with her."

House intensely peered at Wilson and, finally acknowledging the pain he was causing him, silently nodded, a sorry smile flickering across his face. Wilson looked at him and slightly shook his head as if to say I'm fine, I know you didn't mean to hurt me intentionally and House looked away, staring absent-mindedly outside the window.

"You already know that yourself," Wilson said, trying to change the subject and trying to bring his friend back to reality. "You knew Stacy was the right woman for you."

House turned his head to face Wilson again and frowned, intrigued. That wasn't the kind of comment he expected from his friend. He squinted at him, trying to decipher his goal.

"Stacy jumped me before I had the chance to say no," he answered with an ironic smile. "Then I guess it's all a question of men's weakness."

"A weakness that lasts five years? You can't really call it a weakness anymore. Sounds more like masochism!"

House grinned at his friend, but he still looked puzzled and uneasy. And Wilson perfectly knew why. The moment House had asked him about the right person, he'd understood what it was all about. Whom it was about. Because it'd always been about House and his obsessive need to label everything. And no matter how hurtful and blunt he could be sometimes, Wilson knew he only did that out of pain and confusion. And what could possibly confuse him more than Cuddy right now?

"Anyway, turned out Stacy wasn't the one after all," House muttered under his breath, staring down at the carpet.

Wilson should have rightfully been the one feeling hurt and miserable, considering they'd just evoked his dead girlfriend, who could have been his one, and yet, he still felt almost sorry for his friend then.

"Why are you really here, House?" he asked wearily. "Are you questioning your feelings for Cuddy?"

At the mention of her name, it took House less than a second to practically jump off of the couch. He theatrically walked toward his friend's desk with a perfectly faked shock look.

"Huh, feelings? Who said anything about feelings here?" he exclaimed, leaning over the desk.

Wilson slid lower in his chair and raised his palm in front of his chest.

"Not me!" he said, repressing a smile.

House caught that smile and the friendly mockery lying under it. He straightened himself and tried to put on a detached face.

"You're annoying you know," he deadpanned.

"You're a jerk."

"Your favorite jerk."

"And hers too."

"For completely different reasons, obviously."

"You know there's a word for that thing you're talking about," Wilson commented, amused.

"You mean sex?"

"Actually, I was thinking about something deeper. A four-letter word, starting with an 'L'?"

"Oh, you mean lust? Yeah, that one works, too!" House joked.

Wilson puffed, dismayed by the deliberate stubbornness of his friend.

"House, you miss her. Just accept the damn feeling! It could be good for you, you know. You're experiencing feelings of longing-"

"Longing? Give me a break!"

"Why are you afraid, then?"

"Doh. Should be! Wishing Cruella to come back haunting the hospital hallways is scary, don't you think?"

"Fine. Deflect! But House, you know it changes nothing about the fact that, right now, you're like a poor soul wandering in misery without her!"

House shrugged and conspicuously rolled his eyes. Conversation was over and there would be no more direct allusions made about her. That's what that look meant. House seemed to have regained some energy out of their impromptu verbal ping pong, though, or at least, he seemed to be less tense. Wilson studied him with an almost fatherly fondness.

"When is she coming back, by the way?"

"Tomorrow," House answered without missing a beat.

"Wanna come crash on my couch tonight?" Wilson asked, with a knowing smile.

House's eyebrows flew up in surprise. Not because of Wilson's offer, but because of the fact that he didn't have to spell it out to his friend for him to understand what he needed. And he liked that. He smiled.

"Only if I get to choose the program." he replied with deliberate offhandedness, "Because there's no way we're going to watch your fluffy telenovelas instead of Monster Truck Night!"

"Ok. But you bring the beers."

House didn't even bother answering and was already out of the room before Wilson had finished his last sentence.

Lisa Cuddy: a bold, forbidden, wild and risky choice. She had everything to turn House's rebel side on. She was probably the only woman that could stand up to him and stomach his rudeness without being crushed into small pieces. She was a challenge. And because she had the power to even defeat House sometimes, she was more than a challenge, she was a mystery. And there was nothing that House loved more than a good mystery because whenever he was confronted with one, he had the irrepressible urge to solve it and find out what was hidden underneath.

Wilson had observed them as a bystander, squabbling, bickering, and bantering for years. And if any of the two had dared to pretend that it was just a game, he'd have never bought that lame excuse. Not then, and even less now. They had feelings for each other. One would have to be blind not to see it.

Wilson cradled his chin in his hand and huffed, amused at the thought.

A/N

I want to say thank you so much for your reviews... you can't imagine how deeply touched I am by your comments about the way I'm handling this story, not to mention how proud you make me feel, knowing that you think my attempts at staying faithful and true to the characters aren't too lame! So, again, really: THANK YOU!

what's in the next chapter? Ha, surprise, surprise…

until then, enjoy yourself and be happy ~ maya