Hope
It was subtle, but she noticed the difference right away. House had looked like complete hell in the months since their breakup, but today his hair was more-or-less combed, his face was somewhat groomed, and even his shirt was slightly ironed.
“House, you’re almost. . .kempt!” Cuddy said, shocked. “Is there a medical ethics board review you didn’t tell me about?”
“Just got back from a trip to the day spa,” he said.
“Last I checked, hookers didn’t actually iron your shirts,” she said.
“Then you must be going to the wrong hookers.”
He was wielding his latest insane request-to biopsy the brain of a perfectly healthy 13-year-old girl to determine what was ailing her twin sister-but she needed to get to the bottom of his appearance first.
“Funeral?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Traffic court?”
Nope.
“Hot first date?” she joked.
“Something like that,” House said.
She looked at him. He wasn’t smiling.
“You’re serious.”
“As a bottle of Bordeaux and two orders of steak frites.”
“Your taking her to Chez Felix?” she asked, hurt. It used to be one of their favorite places to go.
“Her idea,” he said, by way of apology.
“Wow, House, that’s . . . great,” she tried to sound chipper.
“I know,” he said. “I think the Damaged Goods stamp on my forehead might actually be receding.”
She knew that he had no idea how this news would make her feel. His logic, as always, was unassailable: Cuddy didn’t want him for herself. Therefore, she couldn’t possibly be jealous that he had a date.
If only it were that easy.
“Have fun,” she said, trying to will herself to mean it. “You deserve it, House.”
“And my biopsy?”
“Not a chance.”
She went to Wilson’s office immediately after he left.
“House has a date?” she said, her voice slightly accusatory.
“I knew there was something that was completely none of your business that I forgot to tell you!” he said.
She ignored him.
“With an actual person? Not a prostitute or mail order bride?”
“An actual, adult, functional woman,” he replied. “The wonders never cease.”
“Where did they meet?”
She still couldn’t wrap her mind around any of this.
“At an NA meeting,” he said.
“Now I know you’re lying!” Cuddy said, snorting. “House wouldn’t be caught dead at one those things.”
“House had a come-to-Jesus moment,” Wilson said. “Only, uh, without the Jesus part. He looked in the mirror and decided he needed to stop with the self-pitying and the self-loathing and the pining and take his life into his own hands.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Gregory House?”
“You know Cuddy, in a way, your dumping him might’ve been the best thing to ever happen to him.”
“Oh gee, thanks, Wilson.”
“What I mean is, he hit rock bottom and then it made him. . . take stock.”
“But NA meetings? With the whole higher power thing? That’s a pretty huge leap, even for House.”
“When they say give yourself over to a higher power, he just thinks of himself.”
“Now THAT sounds like the House we know and love,” she chuckled, adding tentatively: “And the girl?”
“Her name is Hope and she’s-you’re going to laugh-a psychiatrist.”
This didn’t make Cuddy laugh at all. In fact, it made her feel worse. Somehow, House cavorting with hookers and strippers didn’t bother her. But a professional? An M.D.? A fellow addict, who shared his pain, understood what he was going through? She felt a sudden need to sit down.
Wilson, almost the opposite of House when it came to picking up subtle personal cues, looked at her gently:
“You okay?”
“I’m. . .fine.”
“So I’m not detecting a note of jealousy in your voice?”
There was no point in lying to Wilson. “More like a whole symphony,” she admitted.
“Cuddy. It’s been six months. Did you think he was never going to date again?”
Yes. In fact, that’s exactly what she thought.
“Of course not,” she lied.
“Well, there you go.”
And it was shallow, but she had to know:
“Is she pretty?”
“Actually, Cuddy, she looks a little bit like you.”
That night, driving home, she played over day’s events in her head.
She knew she was being childish. After all, Wilson was right. House had every right to date. She was the one who had dumped him. It was the height of selfishness to think that if she couldn’t have him nobody else could.
But what if he really was fixing himself? What if this Hope woman was getting the best of House when she had patiently suffered for over a decade with the “damaged goods”? If House really was getting his act together, shouldn’t she be the one to reap the rewards?
More than anything else, she just felt hurt. She’d gone on a few dates since she and House had split-hell, she’d been engaged to marry a man right up until the day they got together-but she knew he was, and would always be, her one true love. There would be other men, other lovers-but House was it. And maybe this meant that he didn’t feel the same way.
“Get a grip, Lisa,” she said out loud into the car. “It’s just one date. You act like he’s marrying this woman!”
But it was more than one date. House started seeing Hope regularly. Worse still, he was in an annoyingly good mood. He was still House, of course-rude, bullying, capable of reducing someone to the fetal position with a single, well-placed barb-but there was a noticable difference. His rough edges seemed smoothed out. She actually caught him smiling once-at Taub!
She tried to be happy for him, but the happier he was, the more miserable she felt.
About a month after Hope and House began dating, Cuddy finally got to lay eyes on her.
“House’s new girlfriend is here,” one of the nurses had told her breathlessly.
“Where?”
“They’re having lunch in the cafeteria.”
She bolted to the cafeteria, then collected herself at the door, got a tray, tried not to stare.
She was about Cuddy’s age. Petite, with pale skin, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Her dark brown hair was cut into a stylish, chin-length shag. She wore tall shiny black leather boots, an artfully tangled scarf, and a form-fitting gray skirt. God, is she prettier than me?
But the thing that freaked Cuddy out most was not the fact that this woman was pretty. That was to be expected. It was how relaxed House seemed in her presence. He wasn’t performing, he wasn’t looking over his shoulder to see if Cuddy (or anyone else) was watching them-he seemed totally at ease.
Was he ever that relaxed around me? she wondered. Did I allow him to be that relaxed?
She nibbled feebly at her salad, feeling sorry for herself.
Hope and House finished their lunch.
“I’ll see you tonight?” she heard Hope say to him.
“Absolutely,” House replied with a grin.
She leaned in, gave him a slight kiss on the lips.
Cuddy turned away.
“Thanks for lunch, Hope,” he said.
He calls her by her first name.
Cuddy started doing things she wasn’t completely proud of: Calling him on nights when she knew he had a date and filibustering over the phone on some arcane medical point. Making him work late. Insisting that he submit his insurance forms on time.
What was she trying to do? Punish him? Keep him away from Hope? Pick a fight? She didn’t know. She just knew that couldn’t help herself.
And he, much to her incredible annoyance, put up very little resistance. She wanted to get a rise out of him-even a flash of anger would show that he still cared. But he was acquiescing to her, submitting calmly to her every whim.
Did he feel sorry for her because he was with Hope and she was all alone? She shook off the thought. But the alternative was even worse: He was simply in a good mood because he was happy.
One Sunday afternoon, just back from the supermarket, she rifled through her purse for her keys and they were nowhere to be found. She put down her bags and sat Rachel on the curb and kept looking. Still no keys. She called her sister but her voicemail picked up. Her mother was on a cruise in Aruba. She had no choice. She had to call House.
“Do you still have the keys to my house?” she asked him, explaining the situation.
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
In the background, she heard a somewhat angry female voice: “Jesus Greg. She says jump, you say, ‘How high?’”
He showed up half an hour later, greeted Rachel by ruffling her hair.
“Hey kid,” he said.
“House!” Rachel said, happily hugging his legs.
“I’m sooo sorry, House,” Cuddy said. “I think I interrupted something?”
“Picnic with Hope,” he shrugged. “No biggie.”
“Oh God, sorry,” she repeated.
He deftly pulled her key off his key ring-should she read into the fact that he still had her key on his ring?-and handed it to her.
She opened the door. Rachel ran in. Charged toward the play room.
“Can I least offer you a drink?” Cuddy said.
He hesitated.
“No, I should probably get back to Hope,” he said.
“Oh, okay, sure. Thanks again for coming so quickly.”
He looked her straight in the eye.
“Anytime Cuddy.”
A week later was the annual PPTH fundraising event. It was a big night for Cuddy. She was wearing a navy blue, sequined dress that hugged her body to perfection. If nothing else, she was going to look good tonight.
She was in heavy schmooze mode all night-dancing with board members, charming donors, glad-handing doctors and their significant others. It was the kind of black tie event that House usually avoided like the plague, so she was surprised when he arrived. Much to her disappointment, he was with Hope.
It’s their coming out party, she thought grimly.
Indeed, they sat at the table with House’s team, looking all couply, and even slow danced together, to Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.” Hope whispered something in House’s ear as they danced; he smiled.
She needed a drink.
At the bar, a man sidled up to her. It wasn’t that crowded, and he was so close she could feel his breath on her neck
“Soda water and lime for me. And the lady will have a dry vodka martini,” the man said.
House.
“Jesus, she drinks the same drink I do?” Cuddy asked, incredulous.
He laughed.
“This martini is for you. Hope is in NA with me. The craziest we get is a little clam juice in our virgin Mary.”
She felt sheepish. “Of course.”
He handed her the drink. They clinked glasses.
He looked, as always, impeccable in his tux. Damn, the man did wear clothes well.
“Having fun?” he asked.
“Tonight is more work than pleasure,” she admitted. “But it’s okay. You?”
“Yeah, great time.”
There was a long silence.
“You look gorgeous,” he said, taking her in.
“Thanks,” she replied. “So . . . does Hope.”
It wasn’t what she meant to say but it was empirically true. Hope was wearing an effortless little black dress that would make Coco Chanel proud.
“You want to meet her?” he asked.
“I’ll pass,” Cuddy said, rolling her eyes a little.
“That reminds me,” he said, an afterthought. “Another soda water please?”
The bartender handed House his second drink.
“See you later?” he said hopefully, and disappeared back into the crowd.
Maybe it was liquid courage, maybe it was his nearness, the way he looked when he told her she looked gorgeous. Maybe it was the fact that he had tended to her needs, her drink, before Hope’s-but Cuddy did something completely crazy later that night.
She followed House into the men’s room.
Mercifully, there was nobody else in the bathroom. She locked the door behind them.
“Cuddy, what are you doing?” he asked, his face flushing.
“I don’t know. What am I doing?” she answered.
And that was all the encouragement he needed. He moved toward her, slamming her against the bathroom wall, kissing her hungrily.
He unzipped her dress, yanked it off. It was a $4,000 dress but she was too turned on to even worry about damaging it.
He lifted her slip, kissing her inner thigh, her stomach, her breasts. She was a buffet table and he was a man who hadn’t eaten in months.
“Oh, Christ, Cuddy,” he moaned. “You feel so good. You feel so good.”
She undid his belt, reached for him, and he was inside her. They both gasped-from pleasure, from surprise, from the intensity of their mutual desire.
When they finished, his leg gave out a bit and he slid down the bathroom wall, his tie undone, his chest scratched, looking spent.
“Wow, what was that?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Cuddy replied.
“Whatever it was, it was. . . thank you.”
There was banging on the door. They suddenly realized it had been going on for quite some time now.
“Hey, everything okay in there? Some of us gotta go.”
“Sorry! Explosive diarrhea, I’ll be right out,” House said, shrugging at her with a “that was the best I could come up with” look.
“I’ll go first,” he said, buttoning his shirt but abandoning the bow tie as a lost cause. He left it dangling open around his neck. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. The secret code will be: ‘The coast is clear.’”
“Got it,” she said, grinned.
“Can we do this again?” he asked. “Or was this some sort of tuxedo fetish that you have? Either way, I own this tux, so we’re good to go.”
“I guess playing hard to get is pretty much out of the question for me at that point,” she admitted.
He winked and slipped out the door.
As she lay in bed that night, she didn’t know how to feel. Exhilarated, horny, and a little guilty, too. What the hell was that? House had a girlfriend. It was wrong. But it felt so good. He wanted her. She wanted him. Their chemistry was.. . undeniable. She realized that she was on a high. A House high.
He’s my vicodin, she thought. But she didn’t want to submit to a higher power. She wanted more of her drug.
They started doing it all over the hospital. In a locked exam room; in a storage closet, in the back seat of her car in the garage. (They had sat in the car under the pretense of “talking.” In five minutes, she was giving him a blow job in the front seat. Five minutes after that, they had climbed in the back, laid out her emergency blanket and were going at it like two horny teenagers.)
As for House, he seemed perpetually grateful, in awe. He kept thanking her. One time, after a quickie in the bathroom in her office, she said, “What the hell are we doing House?” He put a finger to her lips. It was like he didn’t want to break the spell.
That night, she lay in bed, positively buzzing at the thought of him. She couldn’t wait until tomorrow. She got in her car and drove to his place, hoping against hope that he was home and that Hope wasn’t there.
But just as she was about to get out of her car, House’s car pulled into an empty spot. He was with Hope. They were carrying leftovers from a restaurant. They walked together into his apartment, not talking, their arms lightly touching.
Watching them, Cuddy thought that they had the quiet, uncomplicated ease of a married couple.
She waited for them to go inside, and drove off.
“Oh Wilson, what have I done?” she said, collapsing into a chair in his office.
“Switched medical supply carriers?”
She looked up at him warily.
“You don’t know?”
“I’m always the last to know anything.”
“I’ve been . . .seeing House.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Seeing him?”
“Sleeping with him,” she admitted.
“But I just saw him with Hope last night.”
He looked befuddled, in a way that only Wilson could look.
“I guess we’re having an affair,” she said. She put her head in her hands, “Oh God, I’m Hester Prynne.”
“Cuddy, this is bad.”
“I know,” she said, peeking up guiltily from her hands.
“House has finally found some peace and you’re . . . messing with him.”
“That’s not what I mean to do, Wilson. I just can’t stay away from him. I can’t help myself.”
“You gotta try, Cuddy. What you’re doing is wrong. And you know it.”
Here was the thing about Wilson, the most important thing: He loved his best friend and would do anything in his power to see him happy. That was why, all those months ago, he had tried so hard to get Cuddy to take House back. And now he wanted Cuddy to back off.
Because Hope makes him happy, she thought, repeating the phrase like a mantra.
Because Hope makes him happy.
That night, she wrote House a note on her favorite stationery:
Dear House-
I’m writing this letter because we can’t see each other any more. It’s going to be hard, but I think we both know it’s the right thing to do.
You are building a life with Hope and I’m just complicating things and getting in the way.
You know that old Hallmark card saying, “If you love someone, set them free?” That’s what I’m doing here. I love you enough to set you free.
I never want to get in the way of your happiness, House. Because your happiness honestly means the world to me.
Yours always,
Lisa
She came in early and slipped the note under a patient file on his desk. She felt sad, but resolute, almost martyr-like. She was doing the right thing. She was the Joan of Arc of illicit office romance.
By design, she avoided House all day at work. That night, there was a banging on her door. There is a subtle difference between a door being banged by a fist and a door being banging by a cane. Cuddy knew it all too well.
He was holding her letter, brandishing it angrily like a subpoena.
“You’re a moron,” he said.
She was genuinely affronted.
“What?” she said.
“You’re a moron,” he said, stepping into the house uninvited.
“Are you drunk?” she said, peering at him.
But unlike the last time he had shown up unannounced at her house in the night, he was stone-cold sober.
“You think you’re making some kind of sacrifice,” he said. “For what?”
“For. . .you and Hope,” she stammered.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you love her.”
“Says who?”
She thought that one over for a second. “Wilson?”
“Wilson?!” He laughed, not completely kindly. “You stupid, stupid girl. I’m not in love with Hope.”
“You’re not?” She felt her lower lip begin to tremble.
“No, Cuddy. I’m in love with you.”
“But you guys seemed so happy together,” she protested.
“Hope is. . .fine. Nice. We get along okay. I like her.”
“But you’re in NA together!”
It suddenly seemed like a very stupid thing to say.
Now he was looking at her, his blue eyes so piercing, they seemed to have X-ray power.
“Cuddy, what part of ‘I will always choose you?’ didn’t you understand?” he said, his voice softening.
She couldn’t believe that he remembered what he had said that night. He’d been so drunk. But of course, he was House. He forgot nothing.
She started to cry.
“I just thought you had moved on,” she said. “I was letting you go.”
“I will never move on from you,” he said, moving toward her, kissing her tear. “Never.”
“I can’t move on either,” she said.
Her head leaned on his chest, her tears now mixed with relief, joy, and just a little bit of fear.
“I guess I choose you, too,” she said, realizing that it was true. “I’ll always choose you, too.”
“Then it looks like we’re stuck with each other.”