He was early, which was strange in and of itself.
He was sitting in the corner, drumming his fingers against the table nervously. He stood quickly when he saw her, almost knocking over two cups of coffee in the process.
"Thanks for seeing me, Cuddy," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He was wearing jeans and a pink shirt, untucked.
It was odd to see him like this—anxious, fumbling, unsure of himself.
"I don't have long," she said, sliding in across from him.
"Oh, me neither," he joked. "I've got plans. Big, big plans."
She didn't smile.
He slid one of the coffees across the table to her. "I got you your usual," he said. "Skim latte. Extra foam. No sugar."
"Thanks," she said.
He shook some sugar into his own coffee, stirred it, and took a sip.
"Soooo," he said. "Where to begin?"
She shrugged a shoulder.
"You go first," she said.
"How's Rachel?"
"She's fine."
"Fine? Could you perhaps be even more vague? C'mon, Cuddy. Who are her friends? What's her favorite video game? Does she still think Crocs are the height of fashion? Can I see a picture?"
"She's fine," Cuddy repeated, tersely.
He got it, bowed his head.
"Okay, what can we talk about then?" he said.
"You said you wanted to talk to me and I'm here," Cuddy said. "So go ahead, spill your guts."
"It's so easy to open up when you create such a nurturing environment for confession," he muttered.
"Then I'll leave," she said, standing up.
She was still following the script. And, thankfully, so was he—he just didn't know it.
"No!" he said, the slightest bit of desperation creeping into his voice. "Stay. . . I'm sorry. I'm screwing this up, just like I screw everything up. Please. Sit back down. . .stay."
He looked at her beseechingly.
She sat.
"You know I was out of my mind on drugs that day, right?" he said softly, scratching his head. "I didn't know what I was doing. That's no excuse. But it's true. I was. . . crazed. I snapped."
"You could've killed people," she said.
She wanted to add: "Did you know Rachel was in the house?"—but decided it was too forced. Let him talk some more. Let him tie his own noose.
"I hate myself," he said. "You know that, right?"
"You've always hated yourself."
"It used to be more of a love/hate relationship," he said, with a tiny smile. "Now it's more hate/hate. But this is helping. . ."
"What is?"
"Seeing you. Talking to you. I'm just so grateful that . . ."
"This is nothing," Cuddy said. "It's coffee."
"It's more than I deserve."
They looked at each other.
Then she took a sip of her latte.
"So," she said. "Tell me about jail. Was it horrible?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager.
"Yes," he said, plainly. "Turns out the men in there are not such nice guys. Criminals, even."
He looked for a smile, an acknowledgement of the joke, anything. She remained stony-faced.
"For the most part, I stuck to myself," he continued, chewing on his coffee stirrer. "Everyone has a job. Mostly manual labor, which, of course, we gimps aren't very good at. So they put me in the laundry room. You haven't lived til you've cleaned the soiled shorts of a 350 pound Samoan gang member. It was. . .humbling."
"Go on," she said.
"Like I said, I stuck to myself. I had one friend. This guy Walter. We played chess. But he was so dumb I had to forfeit my queen at the beginning of every game just to give him a fighting chance."
Then he looked at Cuddy: "Giving up my queen seemed somehow appropriate."
Give me a break, Cuddy thought. He's not going to charm me that easily.
"You said you got beat up?"
"All the time," House said. "The thing is, Neo Nazis don't have a finely tuned appreciation for sarcasm. Make a note of that. I lost a tooth, cracked a rib, got a couple of concussions. One time, they beat me with my own cane. That was fun."
She involuntarily cringed at the thought of House being beaten with his own cane.
He looked at her sincerely: "I welcomed the pain, Cuddy. Really I did."
"So what else?" she said.
"That new doctor on my team?" House said. "Not Harry Potter, the other one. She used to work in the prison clinic. A debutante do-gooder, helping the little people. I rescued her from her intellectual purgatory."
"You're a real fucking hero," Cuddy said.
"I didn't mean it that way," House said.
"I don't like hearing about your great new team," she said. "Is that so hard for you to understand? I'm extremely resentful of the fact that I had to completely uproot my life and you still have everything, House. Are you even capable of seeing how unfair that is?"
"But I don't have everything. . ." he muttered.
"You have your team. Your job. Your prestige. Your best friend."
"But I don't have you," he said.
"You didn't have me to begin with—remember? We had broken up. We were moving on."
"You were moving on," House said.
"And you couldn't handle that."
"Apparently not."
They were quiet.
"What about now?" she said, mostly because curiosity had gotten the best of her. "Are you seeing anyone?"
"Like, romantically?" he said, almost laughing at the thought.
"Yes."
"Not unless you count that one time I dropped the soap in prison."
He looked up—again she didn't seem to appreciate his joke.
"No, I'm not seeing anyone," he said. "Are. . . you?"
"None of your business."
"I know," he said. "You're right. Your life is your business. I have no right to ask."
She looked at her watch.
"Unfortunately, House, I really do need to go."
"No!" he said. "We're not done yet. There's so much more I want to say."
She stood up, looked at him, allowing her face to soften, to give him false hope.
"Maybe we can have dinner one night later this week?" she said.
He was so eager he practically jumped out of his chair.
"I'd love that. Name the night. Name the place. Name the time. I'll be there."
"I'll call you," she said.
And she walked out of the coffee shop, feeling his eyes burning through the back of her neck.
#####
Cuddy had never expected to feel guilty.
Scared, maybe. Angry, for sure. Nervous about screwing up the tape. But not guilty.
It was so easy to demonize House from afar after all the unforgivable things he had done.
But to see him sitting across from her at the coffee shop, looking so vulnerable, so hopeful, so . . .in love with her (still, she realized. . .probably always)—she couldn't help but to feel a surprising pang of guilt. She was entrapping a man she had once loved.
"You still with me?"
She looked up.
She was having lunch at a seedy little diner in Trenton with Tritter. He had been blathering on about New Jersey wire laws—or something.
He was wolfing down a bacon cheeseburger. She was picking at a cobb salad.
This was the other reason she felt guilty—because she was aligning herself with Tritter, a bully, a menace, a man she had once loathed.
"I'm with you," she said.
"I listened to the tape," he said. "You did great." Then he smiled. "What did I tell you? Like taking candy from a baby. You've got him eating out of the palm of your hand."
She shrugged.
His smile turned malicious, as it tended to do.
"I can't wait til he finds out you're faking it." he said. "That you'd rather stab yourself in the eye with hot pokers than spend another second with him. It's going to crush him." He laughed. "I wish I could be there to witness that moment."
"You really hate him," Cuddy said.
"Almost as much as you do, sweetheart," he said, with a smirk. Then he added: "I do have one question, though. You had him—when he was talking about the crash. That was your opening. Why didn't you ask him about Rachel then? Why didn't you ask whether he knew Rachel was in the house?"
"I. . . didn't want it to seem too rehearsed," she said hastily. "Too much like an interrogation."
After coffee with House, she had asked herself the same question. A fleeting thought had crossed her mind—maybe she wasn't ready to be done with her undercover work yet. Maybe she actually wanted to spend more time with him.
"Probably wise," Tritter said, polishing off the last bite of his burger and nodding. "Although, he'd confess to anything to spend more time with you. He'd confess to the Kennedy assassination if it meant you'd give him the time of day."
"I'm not trying to force a false confession," Cuddy said, testily. "I just want the truth."
"Of course," Tritter said. "The truth."
He pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and began picking at his teeth.
"You know, " he said, musingly, "the man is guilty of many crimes. Maybe you can get him to confess to forging prescriptions, performing illegal medical procedures—I dunno—jaywalking. We could really throw the book at him."
"I'm just doing this for one reason," Cuddy said. "To get justice for my daughter. That's it. That's why I'm wearing the wire."
"You have principles," he said. "I like that about you."
Cuddy speared a cherry tomato off her plate with her fork, said nothing.
"I will say this: Dr. House and I do have one thing in common," Tritter said. His voice had grown curiously silky.
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Our admiration for you."
And he gave her something of a leer.
"Thank you," she said, in a tone that suggested she wasn't interested. But Tritter was too arrogant to pick up on it.
"I've always thought you were a beautiful, classy lady," he said, looking her up and down.
"Thank you," she repeated, coldly.
He reached across the table, took her hand, which she immediately yanked away.
Again, he didn't seem to notice, or care.
"Maybe when this is all done, you and I can have dinner. There's this great little Italian place that. . ."
"Not interested," Cuddy said quickly.
"No?" he said, raising his eyebrow. "Why not?"
She hadn't felt the slightest bit threatened in the presence of the man who ran his car through her dining room. Suddenly, right now, with this cop, she felt a bit on edge.
"I need a reason not to be interested?" she said, cautiously.
"I just think maybe your internal compass needs a bit of recalibration," he said. "You date a low-life like House, but won't give an honorable man like me a shot."
Gregory House is worth a hundred of you, she thought, but didn't say. Then she castigated herself for even feeling that way.
"Let's just keep this professional," she said.
Tritter nodded.
"Probably wise," he said, adding with a grin: "For now."
He gestured to the waitress for the check.
"So what's next?" he said.
"House and I are having dinner on Friday night," Cuddy said.
"Perfect," he said. "He probably thinks he's going to get laid—excuse my French."
Then he added: "But be careful. If you get any sense that he's onto you, get the hell out of there. He can be a very dangerous man, as we both know."
"Yeah," Cuddy said, biting her lip. "Dangerous."
######
She had somehow managed to convince Wilson to go for a run with her.
He was barely able to keep up. He was huffing and puffing.
"You really need to work out more, Wilson," she admonished.
"What do you think I'm doing now?" he said, panting.
Then he held up his hand.
"Wait," he said. "I need a moment." He bent over, put his hands on his knees, caught his breath.
Cuddy jogged in place, watching him.
He looked up.
"So?" he said.
"So what?" she said.
"When were you planning on getting around to telling me about House," he said.
"Of course," Cuddy said. "The real reason you agreed to go on this run."
"He told me he's having dinner with you on Friday," Wilson said.
"That's true," Cuddy admitted. A part of her wanted to tell Wilson about the wire, but she couldn't. For one thing, he was liable to tell House. Also, he would probably judge her harshly.
"What happened to, 'he's a horrible man who deserves a life of misery?'" he said, with a knowing smirk.
"Rest time is over, Wilson," she said, and began to sprint away.
With an exasperated sigh, he followed her.
"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine," he said, managing to keep astride. "But just know you've made House very happy."
"He told you that?" she said, skeptically.
"Not in so many words," Wilson said. "But it's all over his face. It's like a giant weight is off his shoulders. I actually heard him whistling the other day."
"Yes," Cuddy said. "Anytime House whistles it's clearly because of me."
"That's actually true," Wilson said, side-stepping a dead squirrel on the path. "Gross," he said.
"So what made you change your mind about him?" he said.
"I haven't changed my mind," Cuddy said. "I'm just letting him say his piece."
"Good for you," Wilson said. "Underneath all that sarcasm and bluster, he's a good man, Cuddy. You've always known that."
"Have I?" she said.
"Yes, you have. And you also know that he never stopped loving you and Rachel."
"He sure has a funny way of showing it," she said.
And she sprinted ahead, leaving James Wilson in her dust.
#####
House had combed his hair. He was wearing a freshly pressed short, untucked again, as he had sensed some disapproval on her part of his new clothing routine. And he was wearing the aftershave she had bought him a few Christmases ago.
"You see, aftershave is for men who shave," he had teased, when she gave him the gift.
"I like the way it smells," she retorted.
"It makes me smell like a club promoter on the Jersey Shore," he said.
"Are you going to refuse to wear the gift I bought you?" she said, pretending to pout.
"Of course not," he had said, slapping the aftershave on his face. "Just not in public."
And she had playfully hit him, just as he pulled her in close for a kiss.
Now, when he stood up, she could smell the spicy, musky scent wafting off him. She thought about the moment, tonight, when he was getting dressed, when he chose to put on the aftershave—imagined him standing in his bathroom, with the bottle in his hands, remembering that night.
She was unexpectedly touched.
He took her in—white blouse, red pencil skirt, black stiletto pumps, her hair hanging in loose waves down to her shoulders. (Recording device fastened with surgical tape to her right breast.)
"I can't get over how beautiful you look," he said, sitting back down.
She blinked at him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was not me hitting on you. That was just a statement of fact."
"You don't have to apologize for thinking I look beautiful," she said.
"Good," he said. "Because if I did, I'd be apologizing all the time."
She tried to suppress a smile.
They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine—and managed some successful small talk.
He was barely eating, though, kept swirling his mashed potatoes with his fork, like a child.
Finally, he said:
"I've been thinking about our conversation the other day."
"Oh yeah?" Cuddy said.
"Yeah. And I decided something: If my continued employment at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital makes you upset, I'll quit."
He looked at her unblinkingly.
"That's not necessary, House," she said.
"It is necessary, if it gives you any sort of peace of mind," he said.
"My peace of mind went out the door the day you drove your car into my house," she said.
He closed his eyes.
"Tell me what to do here, Cuddy," he said. "Tell me what to do to make things better for you."
"I'm not sure there is anything you can do," she said.
He looked down at his plate, staring at it, still not eating.
"I used to have nightmares," he said finally.
So did Rachel, Cuddy thought.
"When I first got to prison, I had these horrible nightmares. I would wake up screaming. I dreamt that I had hurt you. That I had hurt Rachel."
"But Rachel wasn't home," Cuddy said. "You couldn't have hurt her."
"Thank God," House said.
Cuddy tried to keep her face still.
"Did you know that Rachel was at my mother's?" she said.
"Cuddy, I told you. I was stoned out of my skull that night. I didn't know my own first name. . ."
She had what she needed. She could get up from the table and leave right now. But she didn't.
"I thought about offing myself," he said quietly. "More than once, actually. It wouldn't have been that hard. I told you, I worked laundry detail. I could've hung myself with bed sheets."
"Jesus House."
The specificity of that detail sent a chill down her spine.
"But I didn't," he said, giving a weak smile.
"Why not?" she said.
"Because it's the coward's way out."
"You are many things, Gregory House. A coward is not one of them."
"Of course I'm a coward," he said. "Look at me. Working my same damn job at the same damn hospital. I'm unfit for the real world. I'm not like you, Cuddy. I can't adapt. I can't handle any sort of change."
"I didn't choose to change my life," Cuddy said, pointedly.
"No," House said. "But you did what was best for yourself and your child. Some may have seen it as running away, but I saw it as the exact opposite. I saw it as courageous, Cuddy. You have the strength to do what is necessary. I admire that about you so much. I always have."
She had a sudden urge to reach across the table and give him a hug.
"Finish your steak," she said instead. "You're too skinny."
He looked at her like she was his savior. Then he cut himself a forkful of steak, put it slowly in his mouth and began to chew.
#####
She didn't intend to go back to his place.
And she didn't intend to drink his wine and sit on his couch and listen to him play the piano with her eyes closed, like she used to, when they first began dating. (Every once in a while, she would open her eyes and see him looking at her, from the piano bench.)
And she didn't intend to show him a video of Rachel's L'il Superstars dance performance.
And she didn't intend to feel anything when he said, "I haven't been this happy in three years."
And she didn't intend to start kissing him—her hands on his jaw, her tongue in his mouth. (He was right about the aftershave, by the way. His own natural musk was better. But tonight, the aftershave smelled like a declaration of love.)
She didn't intend to do any of those things. But she couldn't help it.
And he was kissing her and caressing her and he kept saying, "Oh my God" over and over again. Because even though Gregory House didn't believe in God, he did believe in the church of Lisa Cuddy.
She knew that she wanted him: Because he was willing to quit his job to give her peace of mind. Because he used to have screaming nightmares about hurting her when he was in prison. Because he watched that video of Rachel doing clumsy pirouettes and arabesques like it was the goddamned Cirque de Soleil.
She began digging into the skin of his chest and shoulders with her nails and unbuttoning his shirt and biting his neck, and she felt his erection against her thigh and it was an intoxicating turn-on.
And then . . . she remembered that she was wearing a fucking wire.
"Shit!" she said, popping up from the couch.
"What!" he said, startled, staring at her.
"I. . .need to use the bathroom," she said.
He laughed, relieved.
"You know where it is," he said. "Even though I hate to let you out of my sight."
"I'll be right back," she promised.
She went into the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the water, so he wouldn't get suspicious.
She took off her shirt, pulled back her bra and yanked off the wire. It hurt. The imprint of the tape and the wire left a red mark on her skin. She hoped House would be too aroused to ask about it.
She would call the DA tomorrow, tell him to call off the investigation. Tonight, she didn't want to think about Tritter, who had possibly already heard House's confession (and, oh God, the moans she was making as she and House got physical on the couch). All she wanted was to be with House—the man she loved. The man she had never stopped loving.
And then, she looked up and, with a start, realized that House was standing in the bathroom doorway.
"Jesus House. You scared the shit out of me."
"What the hell is that?" he growled.
To be continued . . .