The Rose
This is a little story I cooked up based on the events of Joy and The Itch.
Rated: PG-13, so my journal is once again fun for the whole family!
Disclaimer: I am merely borrowing these characters for a group date.
She was pretty sure that James Wilson was about to kiss her.
This was strange for two reasons. First, they were standing not 20 feet away from the spot where, only three days ago, she had kissed his best friend Gregory House.
And second, it was Wilson, whom she’d always seen as a brotherly figure, actually more like a gal pal than a potential kissing partner.
But there he was, looking hopeful and maybe a little drunk, saying things like “I’m so glad we did this” and “This was really nice.”
And then he was leaning in and. . . well, he was kissing her.
It was a perfectly respectable kiss. Soft, sweet-romantic even. But he didn’t smell like leather and laundry soap and motorcycle exhaust. And he didn’t make every molecule in her body vibrate, as though her nerve endings were on fire. And the world didn’t seem to fall off its axis, as it had three nights earlier.
It was just a kiss.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Wilson said, smiling.
Uh oh, did he want to come in, too?
But no, he was backing away from the door.
“See you on Monday, Cuddy.”
“Good night, Wilson.”
He did a little Gene Kelly-esque jig on his way to his Volvo. Then he waved. She watched him pull away.
She went inside-still careful to avoid the room that was supposed to be the nursery-put on a nightgown and lay awake thinking about the kiss.
House’s kiss, that is.
Here’s why she agreed to go out with Wilson.
For starters, House was being a stubborn ass. He refused to acknowledge that there was anything between them. She had gone to his office in good faith, wanting to talk about the kiss and what it meant, and he had brushed her off, acted like it was a minor and regrettable mistake-a stubbed toe, a parking ticket.
Even more than that, her feelings for House scared the shit of out her. She liked to be in control, but when she was with House, she felt completely unmoored. He made her do reckless, stupid, impulsive things. Of all the bad romantic decisions she had made in her life-and Lord knows, she’d made lots of them-dating House would undoubtedly be the worst.
And then there was Wilson.
Yes, his declaration of having “feelings” for her certainly came out of the blue- but it almost seemed like a sign from the dating gods. Here was exactly the kind of guy she was supposed to be with-handsome, smart, decent (and Jewish!). And he was asking her out-offering her a neat alternative to the misanthropic, tortured, son-of-a-bitch she was currently craving.
But when House had kissed her, he didn’t seem like a son-of-a-bitch: He had been both tender and strong; needy and supportive. And in that moment when desire had overtaken her, he did the gallant thing and pulled back- left her to grieve on your own.
She shook off the thought. It just made so much more sense to be with Wilson.
She would will it so.
House came into her office on Monday, a slightly self-satisfied smile playing at his lips.
“My kiss has driven women to do many things,” he started.
Oh great.
“To tattoo my name on their ass. To write tortured love sonnets in my honor. To join a convent to protect what’s left of their fallen virtue . . . But this is the first time my kiss has driven a woman straight into the arms of Dr. James Wilson.”
She looked up at him dryly.
“Oh, so now you acknowledge that we kissed?”
“I always acknowledged that we kissed, Cuddy. I just said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And you still don’t?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said.
“Then there’s nothing left to say.”
“Except you need to tell me why me kissing you resulted in you dating Wilson.”
“I didn’t go on a date with Wilson because you kissed me,” she said.
“Oh no. Of course not. Strictly a coincidence that 3 days after our ill-advised lip lock, you decide to date my best friend.”
“I went on a date with Wilson because he asked,” Cuddy said.
House opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then stopped. He left her office.
There was a second date with Wilson. Conversation, which usually flowed so easily between them, was strained at times-mostly because they had agreed not to talk about House (turns out, without House to obsess over, they didn’t really have that much in common). Then, there was another kiss at the doorway-this more of a mini makeout session, with some junior-high level petting involved. Cuddy enjoyed it, for what it was worth.
And once again, she went to bed dreaming of House.
The phone rang, at about 12:30 that night.
“James Wilson please,” said a formal voice.
“He’s not here, House-and you know it.”
“Oh, wasn’t tonight your second date? I figured there’d be a sleepover. Wilson, don’t be shy. Come to the phone!”
“Stop shouting, House.”
He was quiet for a bit.
“What are you wearing?” he asked finally.
“A slanket,” she deadpanned.
“And under the slanket?”
“A burkah.”
“This is actually turning me on, Cuddy.”
“I’m hanging up now House.”
“But don’t you want to know how I’d like to play hide the Koran?”
She hung up.
It was all so easy for him when the stakes were low, she thought. All flirtation and banter and innuendo. But the minute he had felt something-and she was sure of it; they had both felt something real that night-he had to retreat, to revert back to his old games. He was once again a boy pulling her pigtail in the playground.
At least James Wilson was an adult.
Wilson walked into his office the next day to find House at his desk, rummaging through his drawers, possibly looking for food.
“So you haven’t hit that yet, huh?” House asked, swiveling in Wilson’s chair.
Wilson was forced to sit in the chair across from him, where his patients usually sat.
“If by ‘hit’ you mean have sex and ‘that’ you mean, Cuddy. No I haven’t ‘hit that’ yet. We’re taking our time.”
“Taking our time. The last refuge of the guy who can’t get laid.”
“I haven’t even tried to have sex with her, House.”
“I noticed. No condoms in the desk. . .”
Wilson glared at him. “I don’t see how that’s at all relevant.”
“True,” House said. “Because she practically has a flashing neon sign on her back: I’d rather be kissing House. I’d rather be kissing House.”
“But she’s not kissing you, is she?” Wilson said pointedly. “She’s kissing me,”
House tried to play it cool.
“Has there been any boob gropage?”
“I’m not going to discuss this with you, House.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“I think I know when a woman is into me. And Lisa Cuddy is into me.”
“Care to put a little wager on that?”
Wilson narrowed his eyes.
“What kind of wager?”
“When’s your next date with Cuddy?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Dinner?”
“Uh huh. . .” he said cautiously. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to show up on that date. And I bet you $500 she leaves with me.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why? We can be like dating gladiators.” He put on a deep movie trailer voice: “Two men enter the date, only one man leaves. . .uh, with Cuddy.”
“Cuddy is not piece of property we can dual over.”
“No, of course not, she’s an intelligent, independent woman-more than capable of making up her own mind.”
“And she already chose me,” Wilson said.
“Or did she?” House said archly. “I never actually asked her out.”
“So ask her out.”
“But this will be so much more fun.” He gave Wilson a sly smile. “Unless, of course, you’re chicken.”
Wilson folded his arms, considered it. They were naturally competitive-like brothers, really-and the whole who-does-Cuddy-like-more thing had always been a particular point of contention.
“Now. . . when you say, ‘leaves with me’-no tricks. No fake medical emergencies. No fire alarms,” Wilson said.
House grinned. The fact that a negotiation had begun was a good sign.
“Nope. She’ll leave with me because, as we’ve established, she craves my bod.”
“And once she does pick me, you’ll leave us alone?”
“It would only be fair,” House said.
“Deal,” Wilson said, holding out his hand to shake. “I just hope you can handle the disappointment when Cuddy rejects you.”
“I think I can handle it, Wilson.”
Wilson and Cuddy had already ordered dinner and were sharing their hummus appetizer when House arrived at the restaurant, wearing a tuxedo, no less, and holding a long-stemmed rose.
She was surprised to see him, but had learned long ago to take every ridiculous thing he did in stride.
“House, what are you doing here?” she asked wearily. “Medical review board fines forcing you to moonlight as a singing waiter?”
“So Wilson didn’t tell you?”
Cuddy shot a look at Wilson. “You knew he was coming tonight?”
Wilson looked down at the table, immediately regretting his decision. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he muttered.
“I’m joining you on your date!” House said cheerfully. They were at a table for two, so House squeezed into the tight booth space between Cuddy and the wall. He was practically on her lap. He dramatically placed the rose in the center of the table.
“Isn’t this cozy?” he said, putting his arm around her.
“No, actually it isn’t,” she said, wriggling away from him and rising. “I’m out of here.”
“Cuddy, don’t leave,” Wilson said. “This was my fault. I’ll leave.”
“Great idea!” House said.
In unison, Cuddy and Wilson both said: “We’re staying.”
Cuddy sat back down.
“What’s with the rose, House?”
“Don’t pretend you’ve never watched The Bachelorette.”
“No need to pretend. I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s a reality TV show,” Wilson said helpfully.
“At the end of the date, you present one of us with the rose and that’s the person you would like to spend an evening with in the fantasy suite,” House said.
“The fantasy suite?” Cuddy rolled her eyes.
“Well, we don’t actually have a fantasy suite. But that’s what we’ll be nicknaming your bedroom after tonight-if you know what I mean.” He winked broadly.
Cuddy wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed by House’s little game. She was leaning toward annoyed.
“And what if I don’t want to give either of you the rose?”
“Bad for ratings,” House said.
He was loving every minute of this.
Cuddy turned to Wilson: “You shmuck. How did you possibly agree to this?”
Wilson decided to be honest, even if it was in front of House.
“I just thought it was about time we aired things out,” he said.
“Aired what out?” she asked.
“Your real feelings-for both of us,” he said, twisting his napkin into knots.
Cuddy finally got it.
“You think I’m only dating you to make House jealous,” she said.
“The thought did cross my mind.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said, taking his hand. But was it true? She didn’t even know for sure herself.
House looked down at their clasped hands, ignored them.
He took a gulp from Cuddy’s glass of wine.
“Garçon!” he yelled.
The waiter came over to the table, asked if the gentleman was staying for dinner.
“Yes,” House said, looking at Wilson devilishly. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
She had to slap House’s hand away from her thigh three times during dinner, but they managed to make it through their entrees.
Before coffee and dessert, she excused herself to go to the bathroom.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“Me too!” House said, popping up after her.
Wilson rolled his eyes.
“Very subtle, House,” he said.
The bathrooms were in the back of the restaurant, down a dark, narrow corridor. In the corridor, was a small alcove of sorts-big enough for a phone booth, which may very well have been its former purpose-and that’s where House was hiding when he grabbed Cuddy by the arm. He pulled her inside.
He had taken off his jacket and loosened his bow tie, which dangled around his neck. Of course, he looked gorgeous.
“Hey!” she said-equal parts turned on and irritated.
The space was so small that their bodies touched.
“What do you want, House?” she asked, although it was pretty damn obvious.
“Can we stop it already with the games?” he said. He had a look on his face like she was a giant slice of cake that he wanted to devour for dessert.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” Cuddy said.
“I just mean, someone’s going to get hurt,” House said, leaning in. “And his name rhymes with Mames Bilson.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, moving in to kiss her. “But with good reason.”
She pushed him off-flattening him against the wall.
“Hands off, House!” she said.
“Damn, you’re hot when you’re angry,” he said, grabbing her again. This time she let him kiss her, and his hands managed to untuck her blouse, reach the bare skin of her waist. He hadn’t touched her like that in 20 years. She involuntarily shivered, but pulled away.
“Tell me you want me,” she ordered, her eyes flashing.
“I want you,” he whispered, meeting her gaze.
“Tell me you’ve never desired a woman more,” she said.
“I’ve never desired a woman more,” he groaned, kissing her neck and then her lips. But as his tongue began to eagerly explore her mouth-and she began to feel that familiar sensation, like she was Alice falling into Wonderland-she put two hands on his chest, and once again pushed him off.
“Tell me that our kiss the other night meant something to you,” she said defiantly.
“It meant a lot to . . . certain parts of my anatomy,” he said, looking down at his pants.
“Not good enough, House.”
She stepped out of the alcove, into the corridor, breaking the spell.
“Oh, and just FYI: It’s probably not good restaurant etiquette for you to go back to the table with a giant boner in your pants.”
“Thanks for your concern,” he said.
When House got back to the table, Cuddy and Wilson were asking for the check.
“No need to continue with this charade,” Cuddy said, her eyes trained on House. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
She picked up the rose.
“James Wilson, will you accept this rose?”
Wilson looked flattered, abashed, triumphant.
“I will,” he said.
House got up angrily from the table. His own game had backfired horribly on him.
“Screw you, Cuddy,” he said.
He stormed off.
“Couldn’t you have waited until after he paid his share of the bill before you did that?” Wilson said. It was a feeble attempt at a joke.
“No, I couldn’t,” Cuddy said, watching House leave.
“You think he’s going to be okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” she said. “This isn’t about me. This is about him not liking to lose at anything.”
“You sure about that?” Wilson said.
“Yes,” Cuddy said. But of course she wasn’t sure about that-or anything.
For the first time since they’d begun dating, Cuddy invited Wilson in. They sat next to each other on the couch. Cuddy offered Wilson some coffee, which she was currently brewing.
“Thanks for picking me,” he said, moving in to kiss her.
“You’re welcome,” she said with a smile, kissing him back.
They went through the motions a bit-some kissing, some groping, even some unbuttoning of clothing. Wilson actually managed to fondle the upper left corner of Cuddy’s breast.
It was right about this moment that they both hesitated. Cuddy popped open one eye, stopped mid-kiss.
“You’re thinking about House!” she accused.
“So are you!” he accused back.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted, with a sheepish shrug.
“We suck,” Wilson said.
“Big time,” Cuddy said.
They were now side by side, both sitting straight up, feeling a little silly.
“I think we are destined, James Wilson, to be lifelong friends,” Cuddy said.
“And to spend the majority of our friendship discussing House,” Wilson agreed.
She leaned over, gave him a warm kiss on the cheek and a hug.
“You still want that coffee?” she asked.
“Is it decaf?” he asked.
“Of course”-and she went into the kitchen to retrieve it.
Wilson and Cuddy decided not to tell House that they had broken up. They figured his ego needed a little more deflating.
And House actually did pay Wilson the 500 he owed him, although he did it in rupees-the equivalent of about 10 U.S. dollars. He was also, if possible, more surly than usual. Word around the hospital was: Avoid House, he’s in a mood.
About a week after their doomed little dinner-for-three, Cuddy was sitting in her favorite chair at home and happened to glance out the front window. She could swear she saw a motorcycle-House’s motorcycle-drive by her place, slow down, and keep driving. She shook it off. She must’ve been seeing things.
But around the same time the next night, she looked out her window again and the bike was back. This time she was sure it was House-she had made a point to note his bike’s make (Honda) and color (orange) in the hospital parking lot.
He was back again the following night.
The next day after work, she followed him as he walked toward the elevator. He noticed her behind him and sped up. Of course, he was easy to catch-she often wondered how many conversations House would’ve successfully dodged had he not been saddled with that limp.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were following me,” he said, pressing the button for the garage.
“That’s because I am following you,” she said.
“Why?”
“I want to talk.”
“My office hours are 12:45 to 1 pm, Tuesdays and every other Thursday. Please make an appointment with Taub.”
They had arrived at the garage and he was limping quickly toward his motorcycle. He clearly didn’t want to talk to her.
“House. Wilson and I aren’t together any more,” she said.
He stopped. That got his attention.
“You don’t say,” he said. He still had a slightly testy edge to his voice.
“Yes. We decided we’re better as friends.”
“Shocker.”
He had pulled his helmet off the back of the bike and was undoing the chin strap.
“Did I ever tell you the story about Little Billy Sullivan?” Cuddy asked.
“Don’t you want to tell your good buddy Wilson about Little Billy Sullivan?” he said. “I’m sure he’d love to hear all about him.”
“No. I want to tell you. You see, Little Billy Sullivan lived around the block from me when I was growing up. When we were about 12, he developed this huge crush on me. He used to ride his bike past my house several times a day, but he never mustered up the nerve to knock on my door.”
House rested his helmet against the seat, looked at her.
“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” he said, but the edge was gone from his voice.
“The thing was, if only he had knocked on my door, I would’ve invited him up to my room. I might’ve even given him a kiss. You see, I liked him.”
“Pre-teen hussy,” he said.
She refused to let him get a rise out of her. “Why do you think Billy never knocked on my door, House?” she probed.
With the tip of his motorcycle boot, House kicked at an oil stain under his bike.
“Maybe he was scared,” he said quietly.
“Scared of what?”
“Change.”
This wasn’t the answer she had expected.
“Not all change is bad, House,” she said. “Sometimes things change for the better.”
“Maybe Billy was comfortable in his misery,” House said. “Uh, assuming that Billy was miserable.”
“But maybe he’d have been less miserable if he’d taken a chance,” she said. She felt certain that they were having some sort of breakthrough.
“Or he could’ve gotten hurt,” House replied. He looked at her now, his blue eyes widening. He was so rarely sincere that her heart positively ached for him.
“I don’t think he was going to get hurt. The truth is, I’d had feeling for Billy since…pre-school.”
“Feelings?” he asked.
“Yeah, feelings,” she said, biting her lip.
He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Oh,” he said.
“So that’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“It was a good story, Cuddy.” And he got on his bike and drove off.
About 10 pm, roughly the same time he’d driven past her house the past few nights, she heard the roar of House’s motorcycle. This time, for the first time, he cut the engine.
He got off the bike, walked to her door. Hesitated for a long time until he rang the bell.
She answered it.
“There was no Billy Sullivan, was there?” he said.
She smiled. “No.”
“And you and Wilson, you never. . .”
“God no!” she said.
House reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a rose. The flower was slightly crumpled and the stem was bent in half.
He held it toward her.
“Lisa Cuddy, will you accept this rose?”
She pulled him inside, gave him a long kiss. He smelled of leather and laundry soap and exhaust fumes and the feel of his lips on hers made her weak in the knees.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” House said, and followed her to the fantasy suite.