Author's Note:

So this might be my most controversial fic yet!

Some of you might love it. Some of you might hate it.

It takes place after Fall From Grace.

The Dominika in this story is the Season 7 version, not the Season 8 retcon where she turned into this delightful, winsome creature who makes knishes out of a truck.

I love the idea of House being cruel to Cuddy but only because he's so badly hurt and trying to protect himself. I've written a variation on this tons of times, from Overheard, to The Jar to Riding a Bike. This is the first one that also involves hate sex. LOL.

To me, House and Cuddy have so much passion coursing between them, they need to express it any way possible.

Anyway, hope you like this (or at least don't hate it). Your feedback, as always, is really appreciated. xo, ATD

The morning after House's sham of a wedding to Dominika, he rode into Cuddy's office on that damn scooter of his.

"What are you doing here?" she said icily. "I thought you'd be on your honeymoon—some place as classy as the bride: Coney Island maybe? Or perhaps a Chuck E Cheese?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"We didn't need a honeymoon," he said. "She gave me a honeymoon's worth of pleasure on our wedding night."

Cuddy scowled, but didn't take the bait.

"What do you want, House?" she said, wearily.

But of course, he wouldn't let it go.

"I missed you after the ceremony," he said. "Why'd you have to leave so soon?"

"Because I wasn't enjoying myself," she said.

"Jealousy never is fun," he said, shaking his head sadly. Then he quipped: "Or attractive. You looked like shit last night."

Cuddy grit her teeth.

"I wasn't jealous," she said. "I felt sick. I was choking on all the hypocrisy in the air."

"Ha, there is nothing hypocritical about my arrangement with Dominika. It's pure. Honest. Now what you and I had—now that was hypocritical."

She couldn't resist—among the many traits that she and House shared was insatiable curiosity.

"What was hypocritical about our relationship?" she said.

"What wasn't?" he said, doing a little spin on his scooter. "You pretended to accept me as I was, when all you really wanted to do was change me. I pretended to be domesticated, when we both know I was bored to tears."

There were few sensations less pleasant than having an angry Gregory House sniping at you. As she had once said to Wilson, he knew just where to poke the stick.

She sighed. Reminded herself that she could handle him. She'd spent the better part of the last decade handling him.

"What do you want House?" she repeated.

"Spinal nerve biopsy," he said.

"Absolutely! Can I administer it myself?"

He smiled, in a touché kind of way.

"Not for me, for my patient."

"Gimme the file. I'll get back to you in a few hours."

"Okay. I gotta go home for a little afternoon delight anyway," he said.

He handed her the file, turned around on his toy and left.

Cuddy closed her eyes, then walked into her private bathroom, looked at the mirror, and repeated the mantra she had been telling herself for the past week.

"He will not get to you, he will not get to you, he will not get to you. . ."


"Dr. Cuddy, we have a problem."

It was Donny, the head of security.

"What problem?"

Of course, she already had a sneaking hunch who the source of the problem was.

"Dr. House parked his car in the emergency lane in front of the hospital."


"How long?"

"It's still there now. Should we have it towed?"

"Yes," she said firmly. Then she caught herself: "But just tow it to Lot B, okay? I'll tell House where to find it once he's had a good panic."

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy."

Three hours later, House was in her office.

"Where the fuck is it?" he bellowed.

"Is what, House? You're going to have to be more specific. Your patient file? Your stapler? Your compassion for the human race?"

"Where's my car Cuddy?"

"I had it towed," she said breezily.

"You did not," he said.

"Indeed I did. It was parked an emergency lane," she said.

"My leg is an emergency."

Cuddy looked at House, as though confused.

"We're not rushing you into surgery. You're not screaming in agony. Therefore, it is not an emergency."

"I'm screaming on the inside," he said.

"You and me both," she muttered under her breath.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing. . .Look, House, you can't park there. That's the lane for dropping off patients into the ER."

"Those patients get carried in on gurneys. I have to walk on a mangled limb."

"Where's your scooter?"

"It's not a scooter. It's a $7,000 Segway. And . . . Dominika wrecked it."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"We were attempting a move I like to call the Ukrainian Whirligig—never mind. Probably better you don't know. . ."

"I couldn't agree more. . ."

"You know, towing my car is not going to make the hurt go away, Cuddy," he said.

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"A ha, so you admit you're hurt!"

She shook her head, lost the sarcasm for the briefest second.

"I never said I wasn't hurt, House."

But he didn't respond in kind.

"Should've thought of that before you dumped me," he said. "Hard to see me with someone else, isn't it?"

"Hard to see you in so much pain," she said.

He was momentarily taken aback. He swallowed. Then put back on his game face.

"I've never been happier in my life," he said. "I'm finally with a real woman. Not some control-freak, cold-hearted bitch."

He will not get to you, he will not get to you, he will not get to you. . .

"Good for you, House."

"Where's my car Cuddy?"

"I don't know. . .try the city impound lot."

"You're a real bitch, you know that?"

"So you just said."

"If there's so much as a nick on my car, I'm suing you, the hospital, and the State of New Jersey!"

She rolled her eyes.

"Don't get your jockstrap in a twist, House. The car is in Lot B. But next time, I really will have it impounded."

He sneered at her and she sneered back.

Then he left.


She had delayed the ruling on the spinal nerve biopsy, telling him to search for alternate options.

Finally, she called him and flat out said no.

He came storming into her office.

"Don't punish the patient because you're mad at me!" he said.

"Oh yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. You know me so well."

"Why else wouldn't you approve this?" he said, brandishing the file angrily.

"Because it's insane, premature—and a test."

"What kind of test?"

"A test to see if I'll let you get away with it."

"I knew it! I knew you'd find a way to make this all about you."

"You're right House. None of this has anything to do with me. The scooter . . ."


"The Segway. The Monster Truck. The model airplanes. The Ukrainian whore. . ."

"Licensed cosmetologist!"

"All completely unrelated to our breakup."

"Don't flatter yourself. I told you, you tried to neuter me. Now I'm free. For the first time in three years, I'm just being the real me!"

"I liked the old you better," she said.

"Of course you did. . .That guy was a pussy. Wrapped around your perfectly manicured little finger. You flatter yourself into thinking you're the caring one, Cuddy. But you really just want your guy to bend over and take it. Which is why you'll always be alone."

"Fuck you, House."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it, Cuddy?"

"That you're an asshole?"

"That you're a castrating bitch," he said.

On impulse, she slapped him, hard, across the face.

He staggered back, hurt, more emotionally than physically.

She took in his shocked face, then surprised herself by grabbing him and kissing him, hard, on the mouth.

He was paralyzed for a second, then kissed back, shoving his tongue in her mouth, tugging at her clothes, desperate to feel flesh on flesh.

"Lock the door," she breathed.

He ran to the door as quickly as she'd ever seen him move, locked it. When he came back, they continued to grope and claw at each other—slamming against walls, knocking into filing cabinets and chairs, scratching and ripping at each other's clothes. There was blood trickling from House's lip where she had bit him hard and a red mark on his face from where she'd slapped him.

They'd been rough together before, but nothing like this—this was something new—raw, carnal, loveless.

House bent her over the desk—papers flew off, a leather pencil holder toppled over—and began to fuck her. He grinded against her, roughly massaging her breasts, and grunting loudly—and when she came, instead of purring his name, like she would sometimes do, or telling him that she loved him, she let out a forceful, "Fuck you!"

He still had one hand on her breast and one arm across her stomach and he had fallen heavily against her, his bare chest touching her back, breathing hotly into her neck. He stayed perfectly still, not daring to move.

"Get the fuck off me, House," she said.

He closed his eyes tightly.

"With pleasure, Cuddy," he said.

He pulled up his pants, buttoned his shirt, looked at her expectantly for a second and left.

Her office looked like a bomb had exploded. She tried to straighten up a bit, then went into the bathroom, once again stared at herself in the mirror.

Her hair was wild, frizzy. There was a hickey on her neck. Her bra had been crudely pushed aside and her shirt was torn open. (Later, she'd attempt—futilely—to mend it with a needle and thread.)

What the fuck was that? she thought.

She knew two things: That she felt totally dirty, used. And that she wanted to do it again.


They started having sex all over the hospital. In empty exam rooms. In closets. In the nurse's lounge.

It always began the same way—with a rip-roaring fight. It always ended with Cuddy's orgasm. (Sometimes House's too, but that was secondary. This was about getting her off.)

Cuddy had never experienced anything like this before—it was pure carnality, uninhibited lust. She couldn't explain it. She didn't want to.

She was a woman who always followed the rules. Always did what was right, what was expected. And this brazen violation of every single rule somehow excited her, empowered her.

A few weeks after she and House first started having sex—okay, the proper term was fucking—they found themselves, as they often did, in front of a disciplinary committee

House had revived a briefly dead patient who had signed a DNR: The guy was quite alive now; hell, he was out playing tennis—but it was still a censure-worthy act.

As usual, House and Cuddy sat side by side, across from the members of the committee. As usual, the committee did most of the talking. When their side needed to be represented, Cuddy took over. (House was a wiseass who hated authority. But he was too smart to mess with his medical license.)

Right now, Dr. Packer, the head of the committee, was droning on about the binding nature of the DNR form.

And Cuddy stealthily reached under table, grabbed House's hand, and placed it on her inner thigh.

He looked at her, confused. She was staring straight ahead, tapping a pencil on the table.

He hesitated—could she possibly? He continued to search her face for a clue. There was none. He moved his fingers farther up her thigh. Still nothing.

His fingers migrated under her panties, playing with the elastic.

Her face didn't change.

Trying to contain his own breath, he slipped his fingers inside her.

No reaction.

He was mesmerized.

He kept his own body as still as possible, and slowly moved his fingers in and out of her.

She wouldn't look at him, kept staring straight ahead, occasionally nodding at one of Packer's points.

She was wet.

He continued to touch her, the way he knew she liked it, teasing her clit.

He was dying. But she was totally composed.

The signs of her arousal were barely perceptible: Her pupils were dilated, there was a slight flush growing in her cheeks, she ever-so-slightly licked her lips.

He kept working on her—she was getting closer. She began biting on the pencil, then almost sucking on it—but her face was still inscrutable. Watching her self-control, her power: his own erection was so huge, he felt like he could lift the table.

Finally, her muscles contracted around his fingers and she let out a tiny, almost inaudible gasp.

The committee looked at her.

"Sorry," she said. "I felt a chill."

And they continued their meeting.

The committee issued a $20,000 fine and put House on probation, again—and House began to follow Cuddy back to her office.

"Why are you following me?" she said.

"Because that was amazing. . .you were. . ."

"I was what?" she said, impatiently.

"I want to fuck you so bad right now," he whispered, not even attempting to conceal his desperation.

"You can't always get what you want, House."


He was slumped in the couch in Wilson's office, pouting.

"What's wrong House?"


"So you just came into my office to sit and pout and. . .not talk about it? Because you could do that in your office, too."

"It's Cuddy," House admitted finally.

"Shocker. What about her?"

"She hates my guts."

Wilson gave his friend a compassionate look.

"She doesn't hate your guts, House. You guys just broke up a month ago. Give it some time."

"No. Trust me, it's hate. But on the bright side, at least I'm getting laid."

Wilson furrowed his brow.

"I thought you told me you and Dominika weren't sleeping together."

"We're not," House said.

"Then who?"

"Cuddy," House said. But he wasn't bragging. He seemed depressed about it.

"Wait. . .what?"

"Hate-fucking, Wilson. It's a thing."

Wilson looked stunned.

"How did this even start?"

"We were having a fight in her office and the next thing you knew, an episode of Man Vs. Wild broke out."

"Wow. That's huge."

"Hey! That's what. . ."

" . . she said," Wilson finished, rolling his eyes. Then he contemplated House. "How does this make you feel?"

"Gee, Wilson, that Psych 101 class is really paying off."

"I'm serious."

"Well, the sex is hot as hell, needless to say. But I'm feeling a little. . ."

"A little what?"

House looked at his feet. This was an awkward confession for a guy to make.


"Because you want more than sex."

"I just want her to like me again."

"Maybe the whole marrying a Russian whore. . ."

"Ukrainian cosmetologist," House said, wearily.

". . .wasn't the best way to get back into her good graces."

"It got me back between her legs," House said.

Wilson gave him a disgusted look.

House shrugged, "It's true," he said.

"Cuddy thinks you and Dominika are sleeping together," Wilson said.

"I know," House said.

"Why would she think such a thing?"

"Because I told her we were."

"And why would you do a dumb thing like that?"

"I don't know, Wilson. You have an above average IQ—barely. You figure it out."

"To make her jealous," Wilson said.

"Yeah. . ."

"And to punish her."

"Give that man a prize."

"Maybe if you told her the truth. . ."

"What? And lose the only bit of power I've got?"

"This isn't about power, House. It's about love."

"Oh Wilson, you're so naïve."


A few days later, House wandered down to Cuddy's office, trying to figure out what fight to pick to get her hot and bothered enough to jump him.

"I wanna dig up another dead guy," he said.

She had been deep in thought. When she looked up, her eyes were rimmed with red.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing," she said.

He stepped toward her.

"Cuddy, what is it? You've obviously been crying."

She hastily wiped her eyes.

"None of your business, House."

"Is everything okay? Is it Rachel?"

"It's not Rachel, House. She's fine. Spit out whatever idiotic reason it is you're in my office so we can get to the part where you leave."

"Maybe I can help," he said.

"My aunt was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer," she said. "You gonna help me with that?"

"Aunt Joan?"

"Yes. . ."

"I'm so sorry, Cuddy. Do you want me to look at her scans?"

"No, House. It's stage 4 breast cancer. It is what it is. She's possibly dying."

He walked up to her, put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She flinched.

He retracted his hand.

"I just want to comfort you, Cuddy."

She scowled at him.

"You're the last person on earth I take comfort from, House," she said.


A few nights later, House was working alone in his office and Cuddy swung by.

"Take off your pants," she said, with a bit of a leer.

"No," House said.

She gave him a somewhat dirty smile.

"You want me to take them off for you?" she said, stepping toward him.

"No," he said. "I don't want you to. . .I can't do this anymore."

The smile dissolved from her face.

"You've got to be shitting me," she said.

"I'm not."

"You don't want to fuck me?" He took note of her voice: Stunned, but not hurt.

He closed his eyes.

"Of course I do," he said.

"Then what's the problem? Take your clothes off."

"I want more," he said.

"What? Companionship? Intimacy? Loooove?. . Talk to your wife, House."

"I don't want to talk to her," he said.

"Pity," Cuddy said. "Because she's all you've got."

"I have you," he said.

"No, you don't," she said.

"I want to have you."

"You did. And then you fucked it up. . . " She hesitated. "We both did."

"Give us a second chance."

"No way," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't love you anymore."

"Yes you do," he said.

"No House," she said. "I don't."

"What's this all been about then?" he said. "The screaming matches? The slap? The sex?"

"It's been about. . . two people scratching an itch."

"C'mon Cuddy," he said, getting up, limping toward her. "It's about more than that and you know it."

"I disagree."

"It's about passion. It's always been about passion."

"You're reading too much into it," she said, avoiding eye contact.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

He looked at her.

"I've never stopped loving you," he said.

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"I know."

He touched her arm. This time, she didn't flinch.

She'd been so tough, so closed off—so determined to not let him in. But with his touch, the sincerity in his voice, the wall she'd so carefully put up, brick by brick, was beginning to crumble.

"Why'd you marry her, House?" she said, lamely.

"To hurt you," he replied.

The honesty of his words caught them both by surprise.

"Then why'd you fuck her?"

"I didn't."


"No, I haven't touched her. I mean. . .we kissed, once, on our wedding night. But I couldn't go through with it. There's only one woman I want to be with."

"You haven't slept with her?" She didn't want her voice to sound so hopeful, relieved—but she couldn't help herself.


"If you're lying to me. . ."

"Cuddy, I swear. Please—you're driving me crazy. I don't want this. I don't just want a part of you. I want the whole you. I want to talk to you without yelling. I want to be the one who comforts you when you're upset. I want to make love to you face-to-face again."

She closed her eyes.

"I want those things too…" she admitted.

He put his arms around her, bent toward her.

"Please take me back," he whispered.

"I'm scared," she said.

"Me too," he said.

"I can't make any promises," she said.

"Don't make promises. Just say maybe."

She looked up at him. His eyes were wide.

"Maybe," she said.

"You've made me the happiest guy in the world," he said. He took her face in his hands, kissed her gently.

Then he announced brightly: "I'm ready to take my pants off now!"

And Cuddy laughed.